The Midsummer Rose

Nine

For the next ten days I schooled myself to follow my own advice; to keep my nose clean and not to meddle in matters that were not my concern.

But they were my concern. I had been assaulted, nearly murdered, and the two women responsible were living quietly in the next street, going about their business, the model of two well-respected citizens. Still, as I say, I taught myself to ignore their existence; and on those occasions when it was impossible to do so, I touched my forelock with all the humility that was expected of a humble pedlar whose material good fortune had in no way enhanced his social status. (And he had better not forget it!)

All the same, it lifted my spirits to note the inconspicuous, but assiduous attention being paid to the Avenel household by Richard Manifold. It was heart-warming to remember the number of times in the past few days that I had met him either sauntering up or meandering down Broad Street, apparently looking at nothing in particular, but in actual fact keeping a close watch on the comings and goings in Alderman Weaver’s old house. And once, I ran into — literally — a heavily disguised Timothy Plummer on the corner of Broad Street and Corn Street. Well, he thought he was heavily disguised. I recognized him instantly. I apologized for stepping on his foot; he glared and called me a name I prefer to forget, but I remained faithful to my promise and pretended we were strangers. But I had no doubt as to his purpose in being there: he was observing the Avenel house on the opposite side of the street.

Fortunately for my peace of mind, I had other things to think about. We were approaching Midsummer Eve and Midsummer’s Day, with all their attendant jollifications.

On June 22nd, the day before Midsummer Eve, the rose sellers were out in force on the streets of Bristol, peddling their overblown wares. But, as I had told Jack Nym, the Midsummer Rose needs to be a flower of simple proportions. The outcome of ‘He loves me, He loves me not’ should never be left to chance. In the past it had not worried Adela when I brought her a dog rose from the hedgerow. Last year, it was true, she had mischievously started off with ‘He loves me not’, thus altering the desired resolution, but she had done so laughingly, teasingly, and had been prepared to demonstrate her affection afterwards. This year, however, I was not so sure of her reaction to any overture on my part. We seemed to be drifting further apart with each passing day, while our nights, when we weren’t sleeping, were spent in a constant passage at arms, with me attacking, she defending. In the past, I would have taken my troubles to Burl Hodge and received sound advice in return, but Burl’s jealousy had come between us. We were no longer friends.

Instead, I found myself confiding in, of all people, Luke Prettywood.

June 22nd that year, as I remember, was extremely hot, with a hint of thunder in the air. I had had a long, tiring day and was making my way homewards through the broad meadows below the castle, carrying, as well as my almost empty pack, a bedraggled and tattered-looking bunch of dog roses. As I sat down for a well-earned rest on the banks of the Frome, Luke Prettywood arrived. He was in charge of a handcart laden with barrels and pulled by half a dozen stout and sweating young apprentices. These youths set to work filling the barrels with water from the river, while Luke sat down beside me and watched their labours with the malevolent enjoyment of the foreman.

‘What’s going on?’ I enquired.

Luke grinned. ‘It’s the city’s Great Red Book again, isn’t it? Bristol brewers ain’t allowed to draw water from the public conduits for fear of upsetting the supply to our beloved private citizens, who might not be able to wash, or even take a bath, as often as they’d like.’ He roared with laughter. ‘So we take water from the Frome. It’s what gives Bristol beer its special taste.’ He regarded me with interest. ‘What’s wrong? You look like you’ve lost a shilling and picked up a groat.’ He added shrewdly, ‘The wife I’d guess, by all the signs.’

‘What makes you say that?’

He smiled the insouciant smile of the carefree bachelor. ‘When men look as glum as you do, it’s never anything else.’

‘Never?’

‘Well, hardly ever. Want to tell me about it? The lads’ll be some time yet.’ And he shouted a word of encouragement to the toiling apprentices. They glowered at him in return.

I hardly knew him. I should have said nothing. But I needed to unburden myself to someone. When I’d finished, he nodded understandingly.

‘Avoiding children is always a problem,’ he acknowledged with the world-weary air of a man twice his age. ‘I’m not married myself, but as you know I’m not celibate, either.’ He gave me a nudge and a wink before fishing in the leather pouch attached to his belt. ‘Ever seen one of these?’ He held out his hand.

On his palm lay what appeared to be a sheath for a knife blade, except that it was made from very fine skin or, more likely, a membrane. A calf’s or pig’s bladder, I reckoned after a closer inspection. I had heard about these things, but had never seen one. All the same, I could guess its function by its shape. I also knew that generally they were for use only by the nobility, and not for the likes of Luke Prettywood or me. The proliferation of peasant stock was necessary for the successful running of the country. Who else would perform menial tasks, or be sent as common foot soldiers in time of war?

I asked Luke where he’d got it and how much it had cost.

He grinned. ‘There’s an apothecary that makes them. For a price, naturally. He has a shop near the castle, on the corner of the Pithay and Gropecunt Lane.’ Handy for the brothels, then. ‘Funny little humpbacked fellow called Witherspoon.’

Witherspoon! An apothecary with a shop near the castle! I really should have to take myself in hand. Goody Tallboys had told me of Witherspoon, and I had forgotten all about him. Of course, I had promised Timothy Plummer and, more importantly, Adela, not to pursue any enquiries that might have to do with the events at Rownham Passage. But this was different. I needed to visit the apothecary, I told myself, on a personal matter.

‘Does it work?’ I asked. ‘Or wouldn’t you know?’

Luke chuckled. ‘Oh, I know all right.’

I quirked an eyebrow. ‘Mistress Avenel?’

The chuckle slid into a self-conscious laugh. ‘Now why should you think that?’

‘I saw the pair of you in the crypt of Saint Giles that day. Besides, it’s general gossip.’

He looked uneasy. ‘Master Avenel knows nothing, I’ll swear.’

The apprentices had finished filling the barrels and loading them back on to the handcart, and were now taking their ease on the river bank. I lowered my voice to a whisper.

‘Then you and the fair Marianne had better be more careful.’

Luke gnawed his thumb, looking troubled. ‘You wouldn’t say anything to Master Avenel, would you, chapman?’

‘Of course not!’ I exclaimed, revolted by the very idea of myself in the role of informer. ‘You and the lady aren’t planning anything foolish, are you?’

He gave what was meant to sound like an amused, man-of-the-world laugh, but which sounded somewhat hollow to my ears.

‘No, no! In truth, I rather fancy that maid-companion of Mistress Alefounder. And I rather think she favours me.’

‘A very beautiful woman,’ I agreed, subduing an impulse to punch him on the nose. I saw my opening. ‘Do you see much of her and Mistress Alefounder?’

‘Mistress Alefounder calls in at the brewery now and then. Her late husband was Master Alefounder’s nephew, you know.’

I nodded. ‘And what do you think of her? There are rumours that she and her brother are loyal to the Lancastrian faction.’

Luke Prettywood shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know about that. I’m not interested in politics, myself. Although, now you mention it, I did hear Master Gregory the other day telling her to guard her tongue, and he wouldn’t have that sort of seditious talk in his brewery.’

‘And Mistress Hollyns?’

He looked puzzled. ‘What about her?’ He had already forgotten his vaunted interest in Rowena and was pulling petals off a daisy like any lovelorn youth. ‘She loves me! She loves me not! She loves me …’

I remembered my wilting dog roses and proffered one.

‘It’s Midsummer’s Day the day after tomorrow,’ I reminded him. ‘An occasion for the women to play at that game.’

He turned up his nose at my offering and glanced over at the apprentices, two of whom had fallen asleep. ‘Time we were getting back,’ he said, jumping to his feet. ‘I hope things go well for you at home, chapman.’

‘And you take care!’ I warned him, but he merely laughed.

‘Oh, I can look after myself,’ he assured me, waving a hand in farewell.

I hoped he was right. As for me, I threw away the almost dead dog roses and decided that this Midsummer’s Day I would live dangerously and buy Adela a rose from a street seller, waiting with baited breath while she denuded it of petals. ‘He loves me! He loves me not!’ The answer would be unknown to both of us.

But now I had another visit to make before returning home.

It would have been easy to miss the entrance to the apothecary’s shop on the corner of Gropecunt Lane, so discreet was it. Indeed, I walked the entire length of the street without noticing it, and it was only on the return journey, steadfastly ignoring the invitations of the madams seated at the doors of their respective whorehouses, that I found it, just where Luke Prettywood had told me it would be.

The shop was as dark and dingy inside as it was outside, the light which filtered through a single, dirty window augmented merely by two miserable tallow candles standing on the counter. There was a peculiar smell about the place, too, like a very old, very dead rat. I gagged and wished I still had my roses.

Once my eyes had adjusted to the gloom, I was aware of being watched. A small man, about half my height, with a bowed back and a disfiguring hump, was regarding me from behind the counter with a pair of bright, shrewd eyes. When he spoke, his voice was low and cultured. Not at all what I had expected.

‘Did you want something, young man?’

‘Er … Master James Witherspoon?’

‘No. I’m Silas Witherspoon. James was my father. He’s been dead these fifteen years. What would you be wanting with him?’

‘Ah! Well … Nothing really. Not if he’s dead, that is. But you may be able to help me.’

I approached the counter. The unpleasant aroma became stronger. Silas Witherspoon saw me wrinkle my nose and laughed.

‘I’m boiling up my winter remedy for chilblains. A rather evil-smelling concoction of different fungi which, when it cools, is very much more efficacious than spiders’ webs. Not so cheap, of course,’ he added with a smile, ‘but it works faster. Can I persuade you to buy some? No? Ah well! It is rather difficult to think of winter in this heat, I agree. So! As I say, my father’s dead, but if I can be of any assistance …’

I hesitated for a second, then asked, ‘Are you the present owner of the old “murder” house at Rownham Passage?’

‘I am.’ He frowned. ‘This is most strange, you know. That place has been like a millstone around the neck of both my father and myself. No one has wanted to know about in half a century. Now you are the third person to enquire about it in the past few weeks.’

‘The third? Who was the first?’

‘I’m afraid I not at liberty to tell you that. I was sworn to secrecy.’

‘Then let me guess. Was it Master Avenel of Broad Street?’

He looked disconcerted. ‘I … No … I mean, I can’t say. I told you, I promised secrecy.’

‘That means yes then. What did Master Avenel want with the house? Did he want to rent it? How long for?’

‘Please! I’ve explained. I can tell you nothing.’

‘Did it have to do with a woman? A man? Or both?’ I persisted.

‘Both,’ the apothecary answered involuntarily, then bit his lip. ‘Damnation! Look, will you please go away! I’ve already said too much.’

‘But not enough.’ I rested my elbows on the dusty counter. ‘All right! Who was the other person asking about the house at Rownham Passage?’

Silas Witherspoon sighed. ‘I don’t know. And that’s the truth. A little fellow, not a great deal taller than myself. He’s not from hereabouts, judging by his speech. London, I reckon. He had a thin, straggly beard that he kept fingering, as though unused to finding it on his chin, and a pair of those “scissor” spectacles that you perch on the bridge of your nose. They kept falling off.’ Timothy Plummer, master of disguise! It could be no other! ‘He was dressed like an out-of-work wool comber, but had a gold ring set with a very fine agate stone.’ Typical!

‘And what did he want to know?’ I asked, adding with heavy sarcasm, ‘Or are you sworn to secrecy about that, as well?’

‘No.’ Silas Witherspoon gave me a blinding smile that transformed his ugly little face into something close to beauty. ‘But I don’t suppose he could foresee that some long-nosed pedlar would be making enquiries about him, or he, too, might have instructed me to hold my tongue.’

‘But as he didn’t …’

‘He simply wanted to know the same as you. Had my house at Rownham Passage been let to anyone at any time in the past few weeks. I told him what I told you. I’m not at liberty to say.’

‘Did he ask about Master Avenel by name?’

‘He did. And got the same answer.’

Well, Timothy was no fool. Like me, he could work out how many beans made five. And unlike me, with his superior knowledge of what was going on, he could complete the picture.

‘I’m sorry,’ Silas Witherspoon added, without much sign of regret, ‘that I can’t be of greater assistance. Are you desirous of hiring the house yourself, perhaps?’

‘No, no! Heaven forfend!’ I replied, rather more rudely than I’d intended. ‘I do have reasons for asking about it, but I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge them.’ He gave his lopsided smile again, acknowledging a hit. ‘However,’ I went on uncomfortably, ‘there is something else I understand you might be able to help me with.’

I glanced over my shoulder to make certain that no one had entered the shop behind me, then leaned even further forward across the counter.

‘Indeed?’ he queried, but there was an expression in his eyes that told me he already guessed what I was going to say.

I explained my present domestic predicament as quickly as I could in a sort of embarrassed mumble. ‘So you see,’ I concluded, ‘neither my wife nor I wish for another child for some while yet. Maybe not for a considerable time. I’ve seen a sample of … of your work. The … the sheath. I wondered if you … er … would make one for me?’

‘I can make you one, certainly,’ he agreed. ‘But they are not easy to sew. It will cost you a lot of money.’

‘How much?’

He named a sum that would normally have kept me and my family in food for a week or more. I thought about it, but only for a moment. Unknown to Adela, I had a small store of money which I had salted away for emergencies. The question was, could this count as an emergency? I decided that it could.

‘Very well,’ I agreed. ‘I’ll pay on receipt.’

‘That’s understood. Do you require small, medium or large?’

‘Large, naturally,’ I said, affronted.

‘I thought you might,’ was the enigmatic response. ‘When it’s ready, do you want it sent? Or will you collect it?’

‘Oh, I’ll collect it,’ I answered hurriedly.

‘This day next week, then.’ He half turned towards a rickety shelf behind him, on which reposed what seemed to be a small stack of parchment, curling at the edges.

‘I have a very good love manual, if you should need one. It contains splendid advice from a number of well known people. Arnoldus de Villanova, for example, writing in the last century, advises a lover to always be sensitive to his woman’s needs, and suggests only caressing her breasts while she sleeps, to save her embarrassment.’ What a spoilsport! ‘Then, in our own time, the eminent physician, Anthonis Guainerius, recommends men should kiss with “sweet sucking of lips”.’ I could go along with that. ‘And Hildegard of Bingen describes making love like “a stag thirsting for the fountain, the lover racing swiftly to his mate, and she to him. She like a threshing floor, pounded by his many strokes and brought to heat when the grains are threshed inside her”.’

I croaked, ‘Hildegard of Bingen? Are you sure?’

Silas was emphatic. ‘Oh, yes. She didn’t just write sacred music and verse, you know.’

Obviously not! But it left me wondering what on earth they got up to in those foreign nunneries three and a half centuries ago.

‘Well, do you want it?’ The apothecary lifted the folio off the shelf and, holding it by its rotting laces, shook it free of dust and dead flies.

I refused as politely as I could. Silas looked disappointed and returned it to its former resting place.

‘That’s up to you. But I think you’d have found it useful. I’ll see you in a week’s time, then.’

I tottered out into the brilliant sunshine and the stench of the summer streets.

I went home, confident that the weight of my purse would guarantee me the warmest of welcomes. Not that Adela was mercenary, you understand, but with the midsummer festivities almost upon us, there were bound to be extra expenses. But although I received a kiss and several words of commendation for my day’s efforts, there was a hint of coolness in Adela’s general attitude that I found difficult to explain.

Difficult, that is, until she said frostily, ‘She’s been waiting to see you. I’ve put her in the parlour. I’ll bring you both in a drink.’

‘Who’s waiting to see me?’ I asked. But suddenly I could guess. My wife’s chilly demeanour suggested only one name.

‘Mistress Hollyns. She called about half an hour ago. I told her I didn’t know how long you’d be, but she insisted on staying in the hope of your early return.’ Adela gave a small, tight smile. ‘It seems she’s in luck.’

‘I didn’t ask her to call,’ I protested.

‘No?’

The monosyllable conveyed a world of disbelief. I could see that it would take time and skill to appease my wife and convince her of the truth. But my first priority was to get rid of Rowena.

The parlour was a smaller, snugger room than the hall, but both were considerably less well furnished than when the house had belonged to Edward Herepath. In the hall, the only thing of any opulence was the big, open hearth with its intricately carved stone mantel, picked out in shades of red and blue paint. Otherwise the room remained empty. But for the parlour we had managed to buy a carved armchair — second-hand — and rescued a flat-lidded linen chest from the central drain in High Street, where it had been thrown to rot along with the maggot-infested meat and decaying vegetables. Some people have always had more money than sense. Adela had brightened up both pieces with hand-woven green and yellow tapestries, and made sure that the floor rushes were changed daily. The broad window seat was clean, but bare. I could still remember a time when it had been adorned with velvet cushions, and when the floor had boasted rugs, not reeds.

As I entered, Rowena rose from her perch on the very edge of the chair and made me a slight, formal curtsey. She gave no indication that we had ever met before, either in the distant or the more recent past.

‘Master Chapman?’ she asked.

My patience snapped. ‘You know very well who I am. I was talking to you only the ten days or so ago. You didn’t seem to have any difficulty recognizing me then.’

The colour surged up beneath the delicate skin.

‘I … I’m sorry,’ she stammered. ‘I didn’t … I mean …’ She broke off and, to my horror, the blue eyes brimmed with tears.

‘No! I’m sorry,’ I apologized. ‘Forgive me! That was unpardonably rude. Please …’ Almost without realizing what I was doing, I stepped towards her and embraced her gently. ‘Don’t cry,’ I murmured.

It was inevitable that Adela should walk into the parlour at that precise moment, carrying a tray with two beakers of her elderflower wine.

I stood there like the miserable fool I was, knocked sideways by the realization that I had just put my marriage in jeopardy, and that my long-dreamed-of ambition to hold Rowena Honeyman — Hollyns — in my arms meant absolutely nothing to me now that I had finally achieved it.

Adela made no comment. She put the tray down on top of the chest and left, closing the parlour door quietly behind her. She hadn’t looked directly at me or our visitor, but she could not have avoided seeing us, nevertheless.

Rowena angrily released herself and refused my offer of refreshment. She had stopped crying, and now had her emotions well under control. I didn’t delude myself for a second that I was responsible for her unhappiness, but undoubtedly my abruptness had been the immediate cause of her distress.

‘So? What can I do for you, Mistress Hollyns?’ I asked, motioning her to take a seat again.

She declined, standing stiff and straight beside the chair, one hand resting lightly on its arm.

‘I am here merely as an envoy for Mistress Alefounder,’ she said. ‘She would be pleased if you would call on her this evening, sometime after supper and before curfew. She feels she owes you an explanation.’

‘And you? Do you feel that you owe me an explanation, also?’

She stared. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

I sneered. ‘Not so honest as your mistress, eh? Very well! Tell Mistress Alefounder I’ll wait upon her after supper, between five and six o’clock, at Master Avenel’s house in Broad Street.’

There seemed nothing more to be said, so I escorted her to the street door and stood watching as she turned in the direction of Bell Lane. Then I went back inside and made my way to the kitchen in search of Adela.