The Prodigal Son

Ten

At his words, I felt a sudden surge of relief, but it was short-lived, because I immediately wondered why I should feel that way. It didn’t really alter a thing. At least, not what I desperately needed to prove; that John Jericho and my half-brother were two different people. Indeed, in some ways it suggested the opposite, for why would the page have been making enquiries about the Actons?

His description, too, that the landlord had given me — small and dark, like a Welshman — tallied with John Wedmore’s appearance. My father, whom he so closely resembled, had often been mistaken, so my mother had told me, for one of our neighbours across the Severn.

I swallowed what was left of my cider, then asked my companion, ‘I suppose there’s no chance that you can recall more exactly when this was? What year?’

He shook his head. ‘Long time agone, I know that.’ He puckered his brow and thought hard for several seconds before indicating his grandson, who was asleep again, curled up on the far end of the bench. ‘’E weren’t that old, but ’e were walkin’, I do remember that.’

‘How old is he now?’

The landlord shrugged. ‘Don’ rightly know. His parents — my daughter and her husband — left him with me when ’e were just months old and never came back. I never did know what became o’ them. Made what enquiries I could, but never got no answers. They just vanished. Somebody did for ’em, I reckon. Outlaws or some such.’ He sighed. ‘It’s a common enough story.’

I nodded sympathetically. Many English roads were still not safe to travel unless you were well armed or were part of a company. I was all right. I was big and strong and always carried a stout cudgel. But even so, as a family man, I wondered sometimes if I took too many risks. I should stick to the highways rather than the byways, as Adela was constantly telling me.

I glanced at the boy, trying to assess for myself how old he was, but failed. He could be anywhere from nine to eleven or even twelve years old, depending on his size in relation to his age.

Regretfully, I rose to my feet and once again whistled to Hercules.

‘I must be going,’ I said, ‘if I’m to get back to Croxcombe in time for supper. Thank you for all your help.’

He seemed disappointed that I was leaving so soon and offered me food, which I politely declined. I mounted the donkey and said my farewells.

Hercules was beginning to flag so I rode slowly. I didn’t have much option, in any case. Neddy, too, was showing signs of mutiny at being worked so hard. I don’t suppose he had ever previously been asked to go any further than Wells and then return to the manor.

So what, I asked myself, as I once more jogged eastward towards Croxcombe, had I learned? And the honest answer had to be nothing of any moment. I was still unable to prove that Dame Audrea’s accusation against my half-brother was a case of mistaken identity, although I had received confirmation of his former history from the Actons. That was something, as up until then, I had had to take his story on trust. But I had nothing that would clear his name. What I needed to discover urgently, if I could, was what had become of the real John Jericho after his murderous spree. And so far, the only sighting of him had been by Ronan Bignell and his friends in Croxcombe woods on the night of the killing, staggering drunkenly around and being sick. After which, he had vanished into thin air.

The donkey had by now slowed to a reluctant amble, allowing me plenty of time to think. So I started where I should have begun, instead of dashing off to Wells with my usual impetuosity, and with no more plan of action than my two-year-old son, Adam, had when he climbed on top of a cupboard without any thought as to how to get down. If I had been John Jericho, carrying a sack of stolen goods, what would I have done? More importantly, where would I have made for?

The obvious answer to the first question, as Ronan Bignell had suggested, was that I would have laid up by day and travelled by night, using the most untrodden paths and least known tracks and risking the chance of being waylaid by robbers and outlaws. But just suppose he had been waylaid, in possession of his spoils! His body might well have been rotting in some unmarked forest grave for the past six years and would never be found … It was more than a possibility, but I couldn’t afford to think like that, not if I were to save my half-brother’s neck from a hangman’s noose. So, on to the second question. Where would he have made for?

The nearest city where he wasn’t known seemed to be the only sensible answer; a place where he could dispose of his spoils to those who could turn plate and jewels into money. But there was a snag to that reasoning. John Jericho had been a young boy and, as far as I could gather, unversed in the ways of crime until he succumbed to a momentary temptation while his master and mistress were away from home. In a strange city, he would have had no idea whom to contact in order to make a clandestine sale. There would have been posses of sheriff’s men out looking for him in all directions, and the last thing he would have wished to do would have been to attract attention to himself. A boy with a sack might have been just a lad trying to run away to sea, carrying his belongings, whereas people would have remembered instantly a boy trying to sell what to any discerning person looked like stolen goods …

Run away to sea! Of course! John Jericho would surely have made for the nearest port and made his escape … to where? To Ireland was the most probable answer. And that meant Bristol, with its undercover slave trade that was supposed to have been wiped out centuries ago, but still throve with the connivance of both Bristolians and Dubliners.

I was in the wrong place. I should be at home making my enquiries. And yet it was highly unlikely that anyone would remember anything after six years. And there were always so many other ships from all parts of the trading world anchored along the Backs or the banks of the Frome that John Jericho could be anywhere. I had to face it. There was as much hope of finding him now as there was of man learning to fly (although some mad fools had tried even that).

I suddenly felt deeply depressed as I realized I was up against an almost insoluble problem. And yet I had to try to find an answer to it. If I could avoid it, I wouldn’t let any innocent man go to the gallows, let alone my own flesh and blood, and as I skirted Wells and rode towards Croxcombe, I debated what was the best course to take next. Should I return to Bristol on the offchance that I might pick up a clue to the missing page’s whereabouts? Or should I remain where I was as long as I could in the hope of persuading Dame Audrea that she was mistaken in her identification? Perhaps, after all, persuading the steward to persuade her might be the better way. Maybe it was time to declare my interest and tell George Applegarth the truth. He was my natural ally. I nodded to myself. I had made up my mind.

‘Gee up, Ned,’ I adjured the donkey. He rightly ignored me and proceeded at his own stately pace.

As we ambled across the bridge spanning the moat, it was apparent that something was amiss. I could hear a woman crying, loud, noisy sobs bordering on hysteria. Someone else was shouting and there was a flurry of activity that had nothing to do with domestic matters like the laying and serving of supper. (And I was starving.)

Hercules made straight for the kitchens with all the ease and assurance of one certain of his welcome. (That dog had a talent for ingratiating himself with almost anyone.) I conducted Neddy back to the stables and handed him over to a groom, who intimated that it was not his job to look after donkeys and suggested I take the animal to the paddock. I did my idiot’s smile and ignored him.

‘What’s the fuss about?’ I asked, jerking my head in the direction of the house.

The man shrugged. ‘It’s been going on all afternoon. So far as I can gather, it started with a right old set-to between Master Anthony and the receiver. Word has it that Master Micheldever as good as accused our new master of having designs on Rose’s virtue.’ He snorted derisively. ‘That wouldn’t be hard. She even gives me the glad eye, and as you can see, I’m no beauty. Not that I’m saying there’s any malice in the girl. There ain’t. She’s just one of those who can’t help herself. Anyway, where was I?’

‘A set-to between the receiver and Master Bellknapp.’

‘Oh, ah! Came to blows apparently. Dame Audrea and Chaplain tried to separate them and got a mouthful of abuse from Master Anthony for their pains. Especially Sir Henry. Cook told me it was pitiful to see the poor old fellow lashed by Master’s tongue. Stammering idiot, something about not worth his bed and board, limping old fool who could barely climb the pulpit stairs and so on and so on. All this time, Rose — Mistress Micheldever, I suppose I should say — was having hysterics, and eventually Master turns on her and yells at her to hold her noise. Says he can’t stand snivelling women. Mind you, Cook says Rose was so shocked, because no one had ever spoken to her that way before, she couldn’t make a sound for about ten minutes or more. Then Master Simon arrives on the scene with Bailiff and that leads to more fisticuffs between the brothers, while Master Kilsby, he’s patting Dame Audrea’s hand like he’s Saint George and she’s the maid being threatened by the dragon. So Master Anthony, he just knocks Simon aside and lands a hefty punch on Bailiff’s nose and the man starts to bleed all down the front of Dame Audrea’s gown. She lets out a squawk and clips his ear, telling him to be more careful.’ The groom began to laugh immoderately, rocking to and fro on his heels and holding his side. ‘Lord! Lord! I wish I’d seen it all! But I’d taken Mistress’s horse to the blacksmith to be reshod. Just my luck to miss a scene like that. It’s quietened down a lot now.’

Just my luck, too, it seemed. I made my way towards the house and entered the hall, where a couple of servants were righting a trestle table and a bench before hauling them and others into the middle of the floor ready for the evening meal. The housekeeper, Mistress Wychbold, was passing through, hurrying towards the stairs and carrying a bowl of steaming, herb-scented water, several clean cloths draped over one arm, presumably on her way to administer to the afflicted. Rose was still crying somewhere, but the noisy sobs had diminished to a wail and had now almost ceased. The main combatants had vanished, but would no doubt reappear at suppertime, trying, as people do in those circumstances, to look unconcerned or as if they had got the best of the argument.

I decided to go in search of the steward.

He was in his room, and bade me enter when I knocked.

‘Ah, Master Chapman!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come in, come in. I understand from Master Anthony that you rode over to Wedmore in search of some old friends. Were you successful? Did you find them?’

‘I did. And have missed some excitement here, so I’ve been told.’

George Applegarth frowned, his long, thin face puckered in a look of distaste.

‘If you think physical violence and the unnecessary abuse of an old man exciting, yes, I suppose you have.’

It was the nearest I had heard him come to expressing disapproval of Anthony Bellknapp’s behaviour.

I raised my eyebrows. ‘You regret that the prodigal has returned?’

‘No, no! I didn’t say that. In many ways I’m very pleased to see him. It’s only right that if he’s alive, he should get what’s due to him. But there’s little doubt that his homecoming has had disastrous consequences. He was always …’ The steward broke off abruptly, suddenly recollecting to whom he was speaking. I was the stranger within the gates; a common pedlar. He should not be discussing the Bellknapps with me. ‘Do you wish to see me? What can I do for you?’ He added drily, ‘You appear to be walking far more easily than you were doing this morning.’

I smiled and admitted, ‘My ankle was never as badly injured as I’ve been making out.’ It was obvious from his slight look of contempt that he had already guessed as much. I hurried on, ‘I’d like to talk to you, if you’re willing to listen, but only if you’ll promise to keep my confidence.’

He hesitated for a moment, running one hand through his thinning grey hair. Then, coming to a decision, he nodded and waved me to the window seat, turning the armchair to face me and sitting down.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘It’s about the young man accused by Dame Audrea of being John Jericho. The man at present held in the Bristol bridewell.’

The steward looked startled. Whatever he had expected me to say, it plainly hadn’t been that.

‘What about him?’

‘Do you think he’s the missing page? You don’t, do you?’ George Applegarth hesitated in a way that made me suddenly uneasy, and I added urgently, ‘Sergeant Manifold told me that you didn’t.’

The steward, elbows resting on the arms of his chair, put his hands together and looked at me over the tips of his steepled fingers.

‘What’s this young man to you?’ he enquired at length.

‘He’s my half-brother. The half-brother I’ve only just discovered that I have.’ And I explained the circumstances of my and John Wedmore’s meeting.

‘And you believe his story?’

‘I’m convinced of it. I wouldn’t have said that I remembered what my father looked like very clearly — he died when I was four years old — but as soon as John said he was his son, I could recall his features instantly. In fact I’d been trying for days to think who it was John reminded me of. From the first moment of seeing him, he was familiar.’

‘And where does Master Wedmore — is that correct? — say he was six years ago, at the time of the murder?’

‘In Ireland, near Waterford.’ And I repeated my half-brother’s past history.

My companion nodded slowly, watching me narrowly but saying nothing, while I grew more uneasy by the second. At last, however, he lowered his hands and spread them wide, like a man discarding secrecy in favour of openness and honesty.

‘Your half-brother’s innocent,’ he said firmly. ‘There’s not a shred of doubt in my mind about that.’

‘But can you convince Dame Audrea?’ I asked, leaning forward and almost tumbling off the window seat in my eagerness.

He smiled wryly. ‘I don’t know. She’s an extremely hard woman to convince to the contrary once she’s made her mind up about anything.’

‘But you must,’ I cried, forgetting myself in my concern for my half-brother’s welfare. ‘Mistress Micheldever has already implied that her husband might be thinking of endorsing Dame Audrea’s claim. In return for a suitable bribe, of course,’ I added bitterly.

The steward looked grave. ‘I’d advise you not to go around making that sort of accusation, Master Chapman. Dame Audrea doesn’t bribe her servants. If Master Receiver thinks that he might do himself some good by pleasing the mistress, that’s an entirely different matter, and not for me to comment on.’

‘But surely you can’t think it right to allow an innocent man to suffer for a crime he didn’t commit. And you’ve just said that you’re convinced of my half-brother’s innocence.’

George Applegarth grimaced. ‘Calm yourself, lad. I’ll find a way of persuading Dame Audrea to see sense.’

I regarded him doubtfully. ‘Do you think you can?’

He laughed and got to his feet. ‘I can but try. Meantime, I see no good reason for you to remain at Croxcombe. Go back to Bristol. Tomorrow. Leave the matter in my hands. What did you think you could achieve by coming here, anyway?’

‘I don’t know,’ I admitted miserably. ‘I suppose I was hoping to find out something about the real John Jericho that would prove he couldn’t possibly be my half-brother. That he had some distinguishing feature that the other doesn’t have.’ I sighed. ‘Unfortunately, every description of him seems to tally with John’s appearance.’

‘Well, what else did you expect?’ the steward demanded impatiently. ‘If they didn’t bear some resemblance to one another, Dame Audrea would never have accused your half-brother of being her former page. It stands to reason.’

When he put it like that, I supposed it did, and it made me feel somewhat foolish. But I couldn’t have sat still and done nothing, and what else had there been for me to do? All the same, as Master Applegarth had pointed out, I really should now be returning home to Adela and the children. Could I trust him, though, to do his best to change Dame Audrea’s mind? Strangely, I had a feeling that I could.

‘What do you think became of John Jericho after he ran away?’ I asked suddenly, as I, too, stood up, dwarfing the steward with my girth and height.

‘I–I don’t know,’ George Applegarth admitted. ‘I …’ He shrugged his shoulders.

‘You must have thought about it,’ I insisted.

‘Well … Yes … I suppose I have.’ He must have noted my cynical expression, because he added apologetically, ‘The truth is, I haven’t wanted to think about him. After Jenny was killed, I didn’t want to think about the murder for a long time. I blame myself for not being there when she needed me most. I’d protected her all our lives, from the time we first met when she was a pretty lass of sixteen.’ The grey eyes clouded as he looked back into the past. ‘And she was a pretty girl; the prettiest I’d ever seen. Oh, she grew stout in middle age, but to me she was always beautiful. I loved her with all my heart.’ The simple declaration affected me unbearably and I would have stopped him from saying more, but he was already speaking. ‘So, you see, I tried to push the happenings of that night to the back of my mind. But you can accept my solemn word, Chapman, that it would give me no satisfaction to have the wrong man punished for that heinous crime.’

‘And you do believe that my half-brother is the wrong man?’

‘I feel sure of it.’

‘Why? What makes you so certain?’ I was arguing against myself now, but I needed reassurance of the steward’s good faith.

He shrugged. ‘I can’t say. I just know in my bones that the man in the Bristol bridewell is not the man who murdered my Jenny.’ Seeing my disappointment, he smiled ruefully. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t say more than that. You were hoping for better.’

I didn’t deny it; but as the cook, or one of her minions, was now banging loudly on the back of a skillet with a wooden spoon to announce that supper was ready, and shouting, ‘All good folk to table!’ I had to take my leave. The steward, too, was suddenly in a hurry to take up his position in the hall and ensure that everything was in order. Whatever the state of warfare in the house at large, George Applegarth would continue to do his duty conscientiously. He was that kind of man.

I thanked him most sincerely for his time and patience, and in return received his promise that he would do his utmost to convince Dame Audrea of John Wedmore’s innocence. Then he seized his wand of office and preceded me into the hall.

Fortunately, there were no guests this afternoon (apart from myself) requiring a meal or a night’s shelter. I say fortunately, because it was obvious, from the moment I set eyes on the row of sullen faces ranged along the far side of the high table, that however sunny the weather outside, it was going to be exceedingly stormy indoors. As there were no visitors, the officers of the household dined with the family on the dais, and George Applegarth ushered me to a stool at the far right end of the trestle, beside Rose Micheldever. It was plain that she had been crying, but as the receiver’s basilisk glance was fixed on me from the moment I sat down, I refrained from speaking to my unhappy young neighbour, let alone commiserating with her. It was while I was returning Edward Micheldever’s stare with as much composure as I could muster, that I noticed the central chair, with its beautifully carved arms and red velvet cushion, was occupied not by Anthony, but by Simon Bellknapp. On his right hand sat his mother, Dame Audrea’s aristocratic features a stony mask, betraying by not so much as the twitch of an eyebrow or the flutter of an eyelash that she knew this to be an affront to her still absent elder son.

But the steward knew it, and I saw him bend over the back of the chair and mutter something in Simon’s ear.

‘Nonsense!’ was the loud reply. ‘I’m the rightful master here. Tell him, Mother! We intend to have my father’s will overset. We shall appeal directly to the King, if necessary. Anthony’s not coming back here, thinking he can claim my inheritance. My father intended Croxcombe for me, whatever he wrote in his will.’

All eyes had been fixed on Simon during this outburst, and I, for one, had failed to notice his brother’s entrance through the door at the back of the dais. Humphrey Attleborough was with him, and man and master suddenly appeared, one on either side of Simon, each grasping an arm of the chair. At a nod from Anthony, they heaved it up to shoulder height — a considerable feat of strength — and pitched it, together with its occupant, over the table to crash on the floor below. Luckily, it missed the two trestles at which the servants were sitting, and splintered in the space between them.

There was a moment’s aghast silence and stillness before Simon let out a shriek. ‘You’ve broken my arm!’ Scrambling from the wreckage, he supported the useless member, his left, with his right hand, blood streaming from a cut over his left eye. Aided by one of the horrified servers, who had just entered the hall with the first course, he sank on to the end of the nearest bench, moaning and shaking with pain and fright. Dame Audrea, her face as white as the lace collar of her gown, swung round on her heel and dealt Anthony a blow across one cheek that ripped the skin from the bone. (The clawed setting of one of her rings must have caught him.)

‘Get out of this house now, tonight,’ she ordered, ‘or be prepared to take the consequences.’

Anthony, putting up a hand to staunch the blood trickling down his face, grinned insolently at her.

‘What consequences, Mother? I’m the master here and you know it.’

I could tell by her expression of frustrated rage that Dame Audrea did indeed know it. She had spoken at random, so angry, in spite of her display of self-control, that she was barely aware of what she was saying. She clenched her hand as though she would strike again, but then thought better of it and descended from the dais to attend to her afflicted younger son.

Mistress Wychbold, the housekeeper, was before her, sending a couple of maids scurrying to the medicine chest for a bag of powdered comfrey, splints and bandages, while a page was despatched to the kitchen for a bowl of warm water and with a request that someone make up a strong draught of lettuce and poppy juice to ease the patient’s pain. The rest of us, supper and our hunger forgotten, stood around quietly while the housekeeper and Dame Audrea skilfully made a poultice of the powdered comfrey and warm water and packed it inside two splints of oak wood, holding everything in place with bandages torn from what looked like an old white counterpane. Simon, who had lost consciousness during part of this procedure, revived enough to swallow the lettuce and poppy juice potion and to allow himself to be led away to his bedchamber, supported by his mother on one side and George Applegarth on the other. He had also recovered sufficiently to turn and hiss at Anthony as he passed him, ‘You’ll pay for this. Just see if you don’t. Even if I have to kill you with my own two hands.’

Dame Audrea said sharply, ‘That’s enough of such talk, Simon. You must rest for a week or so and your arm will soon be as good as new. I’d trust Matilda Wychbold’s skills with a lot more than a broken limb.’

Anthony suddenly stepped forward, blocking his brother’s slow progress.

‘Look, Sim’ — I guessed this to be a childhood shortening of Simon’s name, rusty from lack of use, judging by the awkward way it sat on the older man’s tongue — ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I’d forgotten the dais. It was stupid, I admit it. But you shouldn’t have usurped my place. You won’t be able to alter Father’s will, and if it’s legal, which it is, the King won’t help you to overset it.’

He might as well not have spoken. ‘I’ll get you for it,’ Simon panted, ‘and that man of yours. I’ll kill you both.’

‘That will do!’ his mother snapped and urged him forward, she and the steward half carrying, half dragging the injured boy from the hall. As the door closed behind them, there was another silence before Anthony gave a loud, forced laugh.

‘Well, where’s the food, then? Humphrey, find me another chair. Back to your places everyone, the entertainment’s over.’ He picked up a half-full goblet of wine that Simon had been drinking. ‘Mistress Micheldever, your very good health!’

Rose gave a frightened sob and ran out of the hall. Her husband, after giving one murderous glance at Anthony, followed her.

I saw the prodigal’s eyes narrow furiously. The Devil had him by the tail now and he was in a dangerous mood.

‘Then here’s to another fair lady.’ He raised the goblet higher. ‘The lovely Dorcas Slye and her handsome son.’ And he grinned at the outraged chamberlain. But the fool hadn’t finished yet. ‘T-t-t-to you, Sir Henry, my s-s-stuttering f-f-friend.’ He sat down abruptly as Humphrey brought another chair, looking round for further mischief, as though he was unable to stop himself. He wiped away a further trickle of blood from his cheek and looked at the bailiff. ‘By the way, Master Kilsby, tomorrow, you may take whatever money is owing to you and go. I no longer need you here. I’ll not have you as a stepfather. In fact,’ he added loudly, as Dame Audrea came back into the hall, ‘I’ll not stand for a stepfather at all. Widows should stay widows and honour their husbands’ memories. Now, everyone fall to. Your supper’s getting cold.’