The Prodigal Son

Twelve

Unfortuantely, although I pressed Master Bignell to say more, and although Anthony, overhearing our conversation, turned his head to add his entreaties to mine, the butcher was unable to say anything further, or to elucidate what exactly it was that he remembered. He could only repeat that, now he had been forced to recollect the incident, he could recall the faint sense of recognition he had experienced, but which, at the time, he had dismissed as nonsensical.

‘And still do,’ he concluded robustly. ‘He was just a horseman riding by, on his way home after curfew. I’m a fool to have you believe otherwise.’

I was unable to get anything else from him; and as it became obvious that he wished me to drop the subject, I did so. I couldn’t help wondering, though, why he had so suddenly shied away from the subject, but suspected that he might not want to upset his host with further talk of Jenny Applegarth’s murder. Anthony’s stricken look suggested that talking about it still had the power to distress him.

Once indoors, Edward Micheldever excused himself as having work to finish, and went off to the counting-house, not altogether happily, but plainly confident that Anthony would not dare to pay court to his wife with her parents and brother present. And to some extent, he was right; although Anthony’s proposal that we should while away the hours until dinnertime by playing board games, meant that he could seat himself next to Rose, gradually edging his stool nearer to hers as each game progressed.

A servant was despatched to search for the various diversions Anthony remembered from his childhood and eventually returned weighed down with boards and dice and counters which, as bidden, he piled up on the dais table of the great hall, the remainder of the trestles having been cleared to one side while the floor was swept and fresh rushes laid. Master and Mistress Bignell declined taking part, content, they said, to watch the rest of us amusing ourselves, as befitted young people. So Ronan and I sat opposite Anthony and Rose and played ‘tables’, a game involving as much luck as skill, the throw of the dice largely determining how quickly one couple could clear their opponents’ counters from the board. Anthony and Rose won after a certain amount of cheating on the part of our host, a fact that enabled him to squeeze his partner’s shoulders and give her a triumphal, but brotherly, peck on the cheek. (I saw Rose glance nervously at her parents, but they seemed to see nothing amiss with this gesture of disinterested affection.)

We then played merrills, a game variously known as three men’s morris or, in its more complicated form, nine men’s morris, and yet again Ronan and I were defeated. We did, however, manage to win at fox-and-geese, but when we all threw for ourselves at raffle, Anthony won hands down. But as he insisted on playing with his own dice, which he produced from his pocket, I couldn’t help wondering if they were loaded. I noticed the same gleam of suspicion in Ronan’s eyes, and I thought he was about to say something when a diversion was created by the sudden and breathless arrival of the chaplain.

‘M-Master An-Anthony! Playing g-games on th-the Sabbath! N-no! It w-won’t d-do, you know!’

‘You p-p-p-prosy old f-f-f-fool!’ Anthony mocked, looking furious. ‘I’m master here now, and I’ll do just as I like. And don’t you forget it!’

I could see that Sir Henry was trembling and that his knuckles had whitened where his hands were so tightly clasped together, but he bravely stood his ground.

‘I-it’s n-not r-right,’ he said, his stammer becoming more pronounced than ever. ‘You sh-should be r-reading the Scriptures.’

Anthony leapt to his feet. ‘You stupid old man! Go away and leave me alone!’ He seized a heavy wooden box, full of chessmen, and heaved it with all his might at the chaplain. But it missed its target, felling instead the steward who, with two servants, had entered the hall unobserved in order to oversee the preparations for dinner. It caught George Applegarth on his right forearm, knocking him to the ground.

Immediately, Anthony was all contrition, vaulting over the table and jumping from the dais.

‘George!’ he exclaimed in horror. ‘I haven’t hurt you, have I? Holy Virgin! You haven’t broken that arm again, have you? Can you move it? Tell me you’re all right.’

‘I’m winded, that’s all,’ the steward gasped, struggling to sit up. ‘I daresay I’ll have a bruise as big as a plate, but otherwise there’s no harm done that I can tell.’

‘Th-that w-was meant for m-me,’ the chaplain quavered. ‘Y-you m-might have k-killed me.’

Dame Audrea swept into the hall, attracted by the disturbance, demanding to know what was the matter and followed by Simon, still looking extremely pale.

She was promptly informed of the trouble by Sir Henry.

‘He won’t be satisfied until he’s crippled the lot of us!’ Simon declared shrilly.

‘It certainly would appear so,’ Dame Audrea agreed, her patrician features a mask of disdain. She turned on her elder son and said in a low, furious voice, ‘Haven’t you more pride than to behave like a lout in front of guests? What Master and Mistress Bignell must think of you I shouldn’t care to guess.’ She glanced over her shoulder at George Applegarth. ‘Are you all right, Master Steward?’

He tenderly felt his right arm and then nodded. ‘All seems well, Mistress. No bones broken.’

‘Well, you’re lucky,’ Simon snarled. ‘Mother, can’t you make him go away again? Why doesn’t somebody get rid of the bastard? If I had the use of both arms, I’d do it myself.’

The Bignells looked, if it were possible, more shocked than before, and Dame Audrea said hastily, ‘That will do, Simon! I’ll have none of that wild talk, if you please.’ She waved a hand at one of the servants and then indicated the jumble of games on the top table. ‘Clear these things away and prepare the hall for dinner. George, I will oversee the laying of the trestles if you wish to retire to your chamber and rest your arm.’

‘What a fuss about nothing!’ Anthony exclaimed angrily, aware of having lost face in front of Rose, who had retreated to her parents’ side, looking frightened. ‘George is made of sterner stuff than to complain about a little bruise, aren’t you, my friend?’ And he embraced George Applegarth’s shoulders, giving them an affectionate squeeze.

The steward smiled faintly. ‘I’ve said, I’ll do well enough. There’s no call for anyone to worry. Now, you two men’ — he nodded at the servants — ‘get the tables set up. Dame Audrea, if you and Master Simon will just get out of the way …’

Dame Audrea moved towards the Bignells, no doubt with the idea of making light — or as light as she could — of an ugly family scene, but Simon stayed where he was, his features contorted with hatred.

‘I meant what I said,’ he shouted at his brother. ‘In God’s Name, I wish someone would kill you!’

No sooner had he spoken than there was a vivid flash of lightning, followed by an ear-splitting clap of thunder. The flames of two candles, standing in a wall niche, were suddenly extinguished. Rose Micheldever gave a little sigh and fainted.

It was one of those summer storms that seemingly comes out of nowhere, is fierce in its intensity while it lasts, but then is gone, leaving the world a cleaner, fresher and greener place.

The clouds must have gathered since we came indoors, and I realized that the hall had indeed been growing darker for some time, unnoticed as we became absorbed in our games. Nor had we been aware of the beat of the rain as it drummed against the sides of the house. The crash of the thunder had scared us all.

There was general consternation as we all moved towards Rose, supported by her father’s arm and looking almost as pale as Simon. But whereas he was obviously in genuine pain from his broken arm, it occurred to me that Rose’s swoon was more for effect than because she had been genuinely frightened. I didn’t doubt that she had sustained a momentary shock, but it was not until Anthony had wrested her from Master Bignell’s arms, carried her bodily to the armchair on the dais and forced wine down her throat that her eyes fluttered open and she gave a tremulous smile.

‘Wh-where am I?’

Her mother came fussing up on her other side, frowning at the sight of Anthony chafing her daughter’s hands and raising one of them to his lips in a tender salute. Unhappily Edward Micheldever saw it, too, as he entered the hall, summoned from the counting-house by a servant who had informed him that his wife was ill.

‘Leave her alone, all of you,’ he said brusquely, approaching the dais and mounting the steps. But although he included everyone in his displeasure, it was at Anthony that he directed his gaze. ‘Let her alone,’ he repeated, pulling Rose roughly to her feet. ‘If you feel unwell, girl, go and lie down.’

‘Oh, what a kind and considerate husband!’ Anthony sneered, glancing from the Bignells to Rose and back to the receiver. ‘You could surely have done better for your daughter than that oaf, Master Butcher! I only wish I’d been here when she became of marriageable age.’

I heard the steward, standing just behind me, suck in his breath. George Applegarth knew as well as I did the sort of mischief Anthony was up to; the seeds of dissatisfaction he was sowing in the Bignells’ minds that the marriage they had arranged for Rose was not, perhaps, as advantageous as they had once thought it. As for Edward Micheldever, his expression indicated only too clearly that he shared Simon’s sentiments concerning the ultimate fate of the prodigal. If looks could have killed, Anthony would have dropped dead on the spot.

Rose was dragged reluctantly away by her irate husband, the discontented droop of her rosebud mouth showing that she had overplayed her hand, pretending to be worse than she was. Anthony knew it, too, and gave a crack of unseemly laughter as she was bundled through the door leading to the private quarters of the house. He was enjoying himself; and, to my great surprise, just before she disappeared from view, I saw Rose glance back at him in dawning comprehension, as if the scales had suddenly fallen from her eyes.

She did not reappear for dinner, but at ten o’clock, the rest of us sat down to yet another uncomfortable meal. Our host had been telling nothing less than the truth when he said he had grovelled to the cook and been forgiven, for she had plainly put forth her best efforts with a first course of broiled venison steaks in oyster sauce and a side dish of chicken stuffed with grapes, followed by pears stewed in wine syrup and a sweet curd flan. Had there been only the food to consider, it could have been a highly enjoyable occasion, but too much raw emotion was poisoning the atmosphere to make for good digestion. Dame Audrea and the three Bignells made stilted conversation, trying to pretend that nothing untoward had happened; Simon pushed the meat around his plate and glowered at his elder brother; Edward Micheldever, although showing a hearty appetite, looked sullen; the chaplain was still upset; Bailiff Kilsby, with the threat of imminent dismissal hanging over his head, was silent and morose; while Jonathan Slye, the chamberlain, staring malevolently at Anthony whenever he thought that young man wasn’t looking, did little to detract from the general air of gloom. What gaiety there was, was generated by the lower servants, who seemed undisturbed by the quarrels and carryings-on of their betters.

Only Anthony, among those at the top table, appeared to be enjoying himself, eating greedily and occasionally smiling to himself in a way consciously intended to aggravate anyone foolish enough to display an interest in him. As this included everyone except his mother and the steward, both of whom studiously ignored him, he could be said to have achieved his object.

It was still raining, but less heavily than it had been when the storm first broke. Indeed, gleams of sunlight were beginning to pierce the clouds and make patterns among the rushes. One of the servants, under Dame Audrea’s direction, pushed the shutters wide again, allowing the air to flow into the hall. As everyone rose from table, the Bignells began to mutter about taking their leave. Anthony made no effort to detain them.

‘You must see Rose first,’ Dame Audrea said, and offered to conduct them to the Micheldevers’ chamber.

Her words were interrupted by the arrival of a lay brother from the cathedral, seeking hospitality. The main track to Wells, he explained, was flooded and a narrow plank bridge across a stream had been washed away by the violence of the recent storm. He himself was on horseback and would be able to continue his journey later, when the waters had subsided a little, by using the ford a mile or so upstream, but he would advise anyone on foot to delay their journey until tomorrow. The man having delivered and been thanked for his warning, George Applegarth conducted him to the kitchens, where a meal would be found for him from the remains of our own.

This news, I could see, left the Bellknapps in a quandary; whether to offer the butcher and his family horses from their stables or invite them to remain at Croxcombe for the night. The two donkeys would hardly be able to carry the three of them, and horseflesh was precious; too precious to entrust to comparative strangers in the dangers of a swollen stream.

I watched these considerations flit across Anthony’s face as he silently deliberated the problem, but it seemed to me there was more going on behind that polite façade than was immediately obvious. In the end, he came to a sudden decision.

‘You must stay the night, Master Bignell, you and your family. Mother, will you see that the guest chamber is prepared?’

Dame Audrea flushed at this casual command, for all that it was framed in the shape of a question, but Mistress Bignell was too busy expressing their thanks to notice her host’s rudeness.

‘For you must know, Master Bellknapp, that Thomas has never learned to swim, and has a great dread of water in general, and floods in particular. Why, walking here this morning, he found it quite an ordeal to walk across that narrow bridge, for there’s no rail to it, and his balance isn’t what it was, is it my dear?’

The butcher reluctantly agreed, although he plainly would have preferred his wife to be less forthright about his limitations. Nevertheless, he, too, thanked the Bellknapps for their proffered hospitality. Only Ronan appeared less than happy with the prospect of a day spent on his best behaviour instead of being able to sneak away for some Sunday fun with his friends.

He had good reason. The day dragged. Rose recovered sufficiently to join her family, walking with them by the moat, attending yet another of the chaplain’s sermons, preached in the chapel at midday, or chatting quietly to her mother, sitting on a bench in the sunshine watching the swans. The board games that had passed the time so pleasantly between breakfast and dinner were not suggested again. Indeed, Anthony disappeared for the rest of the day, taking Humphrey Attleborough with him, so I rescued Hercules from the kitchen and took him for another walk in Croxcombe woods in the hope of encountering Hamo Gough once more. But he, also, was making himself scarce. His hut stood empty, the fire smouldered away unattended and there was no sign of him anywhere in the area surrounding Hangman’s Oak. The pit he had been digging in the morning had been hastily filled in and the spade left propped against the tree; but although I called several times, the charcoal burner, whether he heard me or not, failed to materialize.

I contemplated the ground around the oak and prodded it with my cudgel, but in spite of the rain, it was too well protected under the trees to have more than a surface softness. Hercules assisted me to the best of his ability, snuffling and rootling at the base of the tree, scrabbling furiously with his paws until, suddenly tiring of what seemed to be a pointless exercise, he sidled off about his own concerns. Eventually I, too, got bored, stretched my length on the damp woodland floor and was almost immediately asleep …

It was one of those dreams that I experience from time to time, when I’m aware that I am dreaming and can watch myself almost as an onlooker, detached and impersonal. I know the dream is trying to tell me something and that it will be up to my waking self to discover what it is. In this instance, I was back in the hall of Croxcombe Manor, but it was night-time and dark. There was moonlight seeping in around the frames of the shutters and, at first, I thought I was alone. Then I had a growing feeling that someone was there with me; I gradually became conscious of a woman’s shadowy figure standing slightly behind me. I couldn’t see her face and was unable to turn my head to do so. But in spite of this, I knew who she was without being told. I knew that she was Jenny Applegarth.

She remained motionless for what seemed like an age, before suddenly staggering backwards and falling to the floor, as if she had been struck by some unseen hand. I attempted to go to her aid, although I knew perfectly well that I couldn’t move, being chained by the rules of my dream to the spot where I stood. But then the steward was kneeling beside her — in spite of the fact that I had neither seen nor heard him enter the hall — his right arm in a sling. With his left hand, he was shaking her by one shoulder, but as he opened his mouth to speak, the scene dissolved and reformed, becoming George Applegarth’s private chamber. Anthony Bellknapp was questioning the steward about Jenny’s murder. He was going on and on, while all his questions were parried with a stubborn politeness that hid a deep and inexpressible sadness, seeing which, I stepped forward to intervene … And was at once wide awake, looking up into the branches of the oak, while Hercules blew hotly in my left ear and licked my face, indicating that he had finished his business and was ready to move on.

‘What is it? No more rabbits around here that you haven’t scared shitless?’ I asked, heaving myself to my feet and all the time trying desperately to hang on to the rags of my dream. But although it took no great effort to recall it in total, I was at a loss how to interpret it, so stored it away in my memory to think about later when Hercules wasn’t threatening to trip me up with his silly antics. I seized my cudgel and began walking back along the half-hidden track that led eventually to the edge of Croxcombe woods.

As we approached the clearing where Hamo Gough had his hut, I could see him crouched over his fire, feeding in more twigs and bits of coppiced timber from a basket on the ground, and which he had evidently collected during the course of the day. I was just going to hail him, when another man emerged from the trees opposite, calling his name. In the ordinary course of events, there would have been nothing in this to surprise me: there must have been plenty of people in the neighbourhood who knew the charcoal burner well enough to exchange greetings with him. But what pulled me up short and made me grab Hercules with a terse injunction to be quiet — he always understands when I’m in earnest, and I could feel him quivering with silent excitement under my arm — was the fact that the newcomer was the ‘lay brother’ from Glastonbury who had warned us all of the effects of the storm on the road to Wells.

He was chuckling over this now with Hamo. ‘That storm was a godsend. Although I don’t doubt I’d have thought of some other reason if I’d had to. So, who is it’s so anxious to keep the Bignells at the manor for the night? And why?’

‘None o’ thy business,’ Hamo grunted. ‘Thee’s done thy part.’ He fished in the greasy pouch hanging from his equally unsavoury belt and produced some coins. I could hear them jingle as he passed them over, dropping them one by one into the other’s outstretched palm. ‘It’s never a good idea,’ he added, ‘to enquire too closely into Bellknapp affairs.’

‘You’re right there,’ the second man agreed. ‘Anyway, thanks for thinking of me. As I said, the storm was a blessing in disguise, and claiming that the footbridge had been washed away was a cunning stroke, even if I say so myself. I suddenly remembered my lad, Dick — he’s a friend of Ronan Bignell’s — telling me that Thomas can’t swim.’

The charcoal burner turned back to his fire. ‘Thee owes me a favour, so don’t thee forget it.’

‘I shan’t.’ The ‘lay brother’ led his horse forward from where he had tethered it among the trees, mounted and, picking his careful way, disappeared along the woodland path.

Still clutching Hercules in a warning clasp and moving as silently as I could, I followed a circuitous route back to the main track and set out in the direction of Wells. Some three-quarters of an hour later, I had reached the spot where the plank bridge spanned the admittedly swollen stream, but there was no question of it having been washed away, nor was there much flooding of the stream itself; certainly nothing that would have deterred a person set on reaching home, where hose and shoes could be hung out to dry.

Slowly, I retraced my steps in the direction of Croxcombe, Hercules running happily alongside me. The rain clouds had completely vanished by now, leaving behind a landscape of unrelieved green, heavy and monotonous beneath the unrelenting heat of the afternoon sun. I was in a quandary. I knew that I should warn somebody that the Bignells had been deceived into passing the night at the manor, but who? Which one of its inhabitants had arranged it, and why? Which of them could I trust? Suppose I confided in the wrong person? There seemed to be only one option open to me: I had to inform everyone of what I knew.

Supper was already halfway through by the time I reached the manor again. The Bignells were at the high table in the company of their daughter and son-in-law, Dame Audrea, Anthony and Simon Bellknapp. A place had been kept for me at one of the lower trestles, but I ignored it, marching straight up to the dais where, addressing no one in particular, I told what I had overheard between Hamo Gough and the stranger in Croxcombe woods.

When I had finished, there was a disbelieving silence. It was Thomas Bignell who spoke first.

‘That’s nonsense!’ he exclaimed. ‘I recognized the lay brother who brought the news. His son, Dick, is a friend of Ronan’s.’

Ronan nodded. ‘Master Fossett wouldn’t play a trick like that. And anyway, why should he?’

There was a general murmur of agreement. ‘You’re having a joke with us, Master Chapman,’ Anthony accused me, leaning back in his chair and regarding me through narrowed eyes. ‘I wonder why.’

‘I am not joking,’ I protested indignantly. ‘I’ve walked as far as the footbridge and it’s still in place. It hasn’t been washed away. Someone in this house had deliberately set out to keep Master and Mistress Bignell at Croxcombe for the night. Don’t ask me why! I can’t hazard a guess.’

My sincerity was beginning to take effect, and everybody started to glance uneasily at everyone else until Anthony suddenly brought his fist crashing down on the table, rattling the plates and cups.

‘Whatever the purpose behind this stupid jest may be — if, that is, friend Roger is not enjoying a joke at our expense — then let me beg you, Master Bignell, to take no notice of it. Stay the night as we had planned. Rose and Edward will be pleased to have you here, and in any case the hour is now too advanced to set out for Wells on foot. Rest assured that no harm will come to you under my roof.’ As he accentuated the word my, he smiled mockingly at his mother and brother as if inviting them to challenge his authority. (Simon was about to do so, but I saw Dame Audrea give his sound arm a restraining squeeze.)

The Bignells were looking hesitant, as though not quite sure what to make of it all, and still half inclined to suspect me of making up the story.

‘Perhaps …’ Mistress Bignell began shyly, nudging her husband gently in the ribs, ‘perhaps if, after all, the bridge isn’t broken …’

‘I won’t hear of your leaving,’ Anthony said firmly. ‘I shall consider myself deeply insulted if you go. My mother, also.’

Dame Audrea had, perforce, to agree. She had her reputation for hospitality to consider.

‘Please stay,’ she said graciously to the Bignells. She eyed me with dislike. ‘I’m still not altogether convinced that this is not some sort of stupid jest on the pedlar’s part, but otherwise, I can only echo my son’s assurance that nothing untoward will happen to you under this roof. You will be perfectly safe.’