The Prodigal Son

Three

‘Audrea Bellknapp is a cousin on my mother’s side of the family, several times removed. What her maiden name was, I have no idea and can hardly believe it relevant to anything you might wish to know. Suffice it to say that ever since I can remember she has been first the wife, then the widow of Cornelius Bellknapp of Croxcombe Manor. This, I understand, although I have never visited it, lies a mile or so from Wells, at the foot of the Mendips.

‘I have met Cornelius, in the days when he used to accompany his wife to Saint James’s fair, and, if I’m honest, I didn’t much care for him. A very serious man, strict in his ways and expecting everyone else to be the same; judging people by his own limited perception of right and wrong. A man who lacked — now, how shall I put it? A man who lacked the gift of laughter. Yes, I think that describes him perfectly. But he suited Audrea, who is herself a woman without a sense of humour.

‘Cornelius did not, however, get on with the elder of their two sons. According to my cousin, Anthony was nothing but trouble from an early age.’ John Foster grimaced sympathetically. ‘I imagine the poor young fellow was simply a normal, mischievous little boy, but one who was punished and reprimanded so often for what was nothing more than high spirits that he grew up at loggerheads with both parents, but particularly with his father. Audrea was inclined to blame, at least partially, the boy’s nurse, Jenny Applegarth, the wife of her steward, who doted on the child, and was thought to have encouraged his rebellious attitude.’

‘Isn’t that the woman who was murdered?’ I interrupted.

The alderman nodded. ‘It is. She was, I believe, stabbed to death while trying to foil a robbery by my cousin’s page, this John Jericho you’ve heard mentioned.’

‘The young man Dame Bellknapp accuses Master Wedmore of being.’

‘Quite so. But to return to my history. Anthony Bellknapp was some ten or eleven years old — I think I’m right in saying that — on the way to manhood, at any rate — when another son, Simon, was born, and who, for some unfathomable reason, immediately became the darling of both mother and father.’ My informant sniffed disparagingly. ‘He accompanied his mother to the fair last year and Audrea brought him with her when she paid us a visit. The vagaries of the human heart are hard to define, Master Chapman. I thought him a mean-minded, petulant youth, with little interest in anyone or anything beyond himself and his own interests. However,’ the alderman added hurriedly, ‘maybe I’m being unfair to him. He wasn’t here above an hour, and it’s difficult to make a judgement in so short a time.’

‘Did Mistress Foster and your children feel the same way about him?’

‘My son wasn’t present, but … Yes, yes! I have to admit that my wife and daughter shared my opinion. But again, I digress. Where was I?’

‘The birth of Simon Bellknapp.’

‘Indeed. Well, his arrival, and the fact that he could do no wrong in his parents’ eyes, only made matters worse between Anthony and his father. Eventually, about eight years ago, things came to a head. There was a terrible quarrel between the two, during the course of which it seems Anthony drew his dagger and attacked Cornelius. I gathered from my cousin’s account that he did no actual harm to his father, but the assault was serious enough for the young man to be sent packing and told in no uncertain terms never to set foot in the house again.’

‘What happened to him?’ I asked curiously.

The alderman shrugged. ‘No one knows. He’s never been seen from that day to this. Nor has there been any word as to his whereabouts. At the end, when Cornelius was dying — he died the year before last — I think he might have been glad to have some news of his elder son. At least, that was the impression my cousin gave me. And he refused to disinherit Anthony completely. Audrea tells me that everything is left to her until either Simon reaches his eighteenth birthday (when the manor will pass to him entirely) or until Anthony reappears, whichever is the sooner, when everything goes to him.’ My informant tut-tutted disapprovingly. ‘A most foolish way of carrying on, if you want my opinion. It leaves young Simon for the next three years not knowing where he stands; uncertain of his future. Much as I dislike the boy, it’s unjust to my way of thinking.’ John Foster took a deep breath and stretched his arms above his head. ‘So there you are, my dear sir. That’s the history of the Bellknapps insofar as I know it. A very incomplete history, I’m sure, but I’m afraid I can do no better.’

‘Can you tell me anything about the robbery and murder, sir?’

The alderman shook his head. ‘No more than you probably know already. My cousin’s young page tried to steal the family silver, was discovered by Jenny Applegarth and he killed her. He disappeared the same night, vanishing without trace. Until, perhaps, now. But if you want more details on that score, you’ll have to approach my cousin herself. Or someone of her household.’

‘Is she still in Bristol?’

‘I doubt it. She’s not a woman who approves of inns, and the journey to Croxcombe can easily be achieved in a little over three hours on horseback at this time of year, when the roads are dry and the days longer. I imagine her departure from the city was delayed following her accusation against this unfortunate young fellow — Wedmore? Is that the name? — but, even so, she could still most likely have been home before nightfall. I’d own myself surprised if she were still here, but you could make enquiries. Sergeant Manifold will probably be able to tell you. He must know what arrangements have been made.’

I thanked my host for his time and patience and, although I didn’t mention it, his civility. Here, at least, was one resident of Small Street who seemed not to resent having me and mine as his neighbours; and, indeed, he accompanied me to the street door just as if I had been a person of consequence, offering me his hand in farewell.

‘I hope you can get at the truth of this affair, my friend. If this young man is who my cousin claims him to be, then he deserves to pay the penalty for his crime. I met Jenny Applegarth many years ago, and can tell you that she was a good woman. If, on the other hand, this fellow is not the missing page, he must go free. What was it the late Sir John Fortescue said? Better that twenty guilty men should be found innocent than that one innocent man should be found guilty? Something like that. My memory’s not all that it should be.’

I thanked him again. He adjured me to visit the beauties of the Rhineland if it were ever in my power to do so, and we parted the best of friends; he, presumably, to continue checking his newly delivered consignment of salt, I in search of Richard Manifold.

I ran him to earth eventually in Redcliffe, where he, Jack Gload and Pete Littleman had been despatched to quell a minor apprentices’ riot in one of the weaving sheds. Everything was under control by the time I arrived, and the two ringleaders were being marched away for a spell in the stocks, so he was perfectly willing to stop and chat (particularly as it turned out Adela had just that afternoon invited him to supper). He gave his prisoners into the heavy-handed charge of his henchmen and walked with me down to the wharves where we could look at the ships riding at anchor, the cranes unloading their various cargoes, and where we could admire the bright summer morning, the clouds high and thin, the sharp, salt tang of the sea borne up river on the faintest of breezes, the shadows ruffling the surface of the water in patterns of grey and gold.

‘So what did Master Wedmore want with you?’ Richard enquired, adding before I could reply, ‘As if I couldn’t guess! Heard about you, has he? Your wonderful reputation as a solver of mysteries come to his ears?’ Even in his present mellow mood he couldn’t resist the jibe. ‘Wants you to help him, does he?’

I nodded. ‘He has asked for my assistance, yes.’ I had no intention of mentioning the blood tie between us. For the present that would remain a secret known only to my half-brother, myself and, in due course, Adela. I had never kept anything from her during our married life. If she had any advice, she would give it and I might even follow it. I had the greatest respect for her opinions.

‘And what do you intend, then? Is there anything you can do?’

‘There might be. I’ve already called on Alderman Foster to learn something about this Dame Bellknapp. He’s a distant kinsman of hers.’

‘You’ve called on John Foster?’ Richard was frankly incredulous. ‘You had the temerity …?’

‘He was extremely pleasant and told me all I wanted to know,’ I interrupted. ‘Or as much as he could. I’m his neighbour, after all.’

‘You’re his neighbour on sufferance, because Mistress Ford left you the old Herepath house. However, I’ve always thought him a tolerant sort of man. One of the richest men in Bristol, for all he lives so modestly. Does a lot of charitable works.’ There was a brief silence while we both watched the sunlight dancing on the river; then Richard asked again, ‘So what do you intend to do? Why did you want to speak to me?’

‘Alderman Foster’s of the opinion that Dame Bellknapp would have returned to Wells yesterday if she could. Did she?’ My companion nodded. ‘In that case,’ I went on, ‘what about Master Wedmore? What happens to him?’

‘It’s been agreed that we hold him for thirty days. If, at the end of that time, Dame Bellknapp has not returned to the city with evidence or witnesses to corroborate her accusation against him, then he will be released.’

‘Thirty days!’ I exclaimed in disgust. ‘You’re going to keep that poor boy locked up for thirty days while some vindictive old crone browbeats her dependents into backing up her story? If he were-’

Richard sighed wearily. ‘I know! I know! If he were the son of a belted earl, or even of a city alderman, it would be different. Of course it would. Grow up, for heaven’s sake, Roger! See the world for what it is, not as you think it ought to be. And, furthermore, Dame Bellknapp is not a crone. A little long in the tooth, perhaps — I doubt she’ll see forty again — but a handsome woman for all that.’

‘I can see she’s won you over,’ I accused him furiously, and stormed off home without giving him a chance to answer.

I barged into the kitchen, where Adela was seated at the table with Nicholas and Elizabeth, trying to teach them their numbers and letters, took off my boots and threw them across the room. My spirits lifted a little, however, when I realized that my former mother-in-law was no longer present.

Adela relieved the children of their hornbooks, patted them on the head and told them to run along. ‘Your father’s present mood is unfit for your little eyes and ears.’ They needed no second bidding, and after casting me a leery glance, disappeared upstairs, where they were soon to be heard charging around like Hannibal and all his elephants. ‘Well? What’s the matter?’ she demanded.

I told her, calming down as I did so, soothed by her presence and by that rare ability of hers to listen without interrupting. But even when I’d finished, she still said nothing for a full minute, one hand pressed to her mouth, while she assimilated the most important part of my story.

At last she asked, ‘And you’re certain, sweetheart, that this John Wedmore isn’t lying? That he is your father’s son? Your half-brother?’

‘I have no doubt whatsoever. I knew he reminded me of someone the moment he walked into the Green Lattis. He’s my father, as I remember him, to the life. And other memories confirm the truth of what he says. He’s blood of my blood, I’m sure of it.’

She took a deep, trembling breath. ‘Then you must help him. Of course you must. You have no choice in the matter. You … You don’t think he could be who this Dame Bellknapp says he is?’

‘He swears he was in Ireland at the time of the murder. I see no reason to disbelieve him, and until I do …’ I let the sentence hang.

‘In which case,’ Adela said quietly, ‘if you believe him innocent, then you must do your best to prove him so.’

I sighed, drawing her up into my arms and holding her tightly. ‘It’ll mean going to Croxcombe Manor,’ I said. ‘I can’t tell how long I might be away. I’ll take my pack, of course. The journey will take me the better part of two days; longer if I stop at the intervening villages to do some selling. Here!’ I let her go and emptied the contents of my purse on the kitchen table. ‘Is that enough to keep you and the children while I’m away?’

Adela counted out the coins and nodded. ‘A week perhaps, if I’m careful.’ She added reproachfully, ‘You haven’t been very busy these past few days.’

‘I know.’ I was contrite. ‘I’ll take Hercules with me. He’ll be one less mouth to feed.’

‘Oh, you’ll certainly take Hercules with you,’ Adela answered cheerfully. ‘I had no intention of keeping him here with me. Three children are hard enough work for any woman.’

‘A good job it isn’t four, then,’ I said without thinking.

The moment I’d spoken, I could have bitten out my tongue. How, I asked myself, could I have been so crass, so cruel? It was only a little over four months since our baby daughter had died within a few days of her birth, leaving Adela totally devastated. One glance at her face told me that my mindless remark had done more than reopen a wound still raw and bleeding; it had confirmed her in the belief that, far from sharing her grief, I had been relieved to be spared the extra responsibility of another dependent. Moreover, I had a daughter, Elizabeth. Adela wanted one who was truly her own.

‘Sweetheart!’ I gasped, trying to take her back into my arms. ‘Forgive me! I wasn’t thinking.’

‘No,’ she answered in a flat voice that chilled me to the bone. She didn’t repulse my embrace, but endured it in a way that was more indicative of her lacerated feelings than any storm of abuse would have been.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered. ‘I didn’t mean it.’ I kissed her passionately on her unresisting mouth.

She raised one hand and stroked my cheek. ‘I know you didn’t. It doesn’t matter.’ But of course we both knew that it did. She gently pushed me away. ‘I must prepare the evening meal. Richard’s coming to supper.’

‘So he told me.’ And then, because I knew I was in the wrong, and because I hated myself for having hurt her, I added unkindly, ‘I’m sure he’d be only too pleased to advance you any money you might need while I’m gone. And, incidentally, I’d rather you didn’t say anything to him about my going to Croxcombe Manor. If he doesn’t see me for a week or two, he’ll just think I’ve gone on my travels.’

‘I’m not in the habit of discussing our affairs with Sergeant Manifold,’ my wife replied coldly, turning away to ladle water from the water-barrel into a pan, which she set to boil on the fire. ‘And I certainly shouldn’t dream of borrowing money from him. If necessary, I’d go to Margaret.’ She watched me pull on my boots again. ‘Where are you going now?’

‘To the bridewell to tell Master Wedmore … to tell my brother,’ I corrected myself self-consciously, ‘not to worry if he doesn’t hear from me for a while.’

Adela reached up and took a bunch of dried sage from its nail on the wall before turning to regard me curiously, insult and injury both forgotten in that open-handed, generous way of hers.

‘You like having a half-brother,’ she said. ‘I can tell.’

I grinned sheepishly. ‘I’m getting used to the idea,’ I admitted. ‘If it turned out now that he was lying, and his likeness to my father was nothing more than coincidence, I think I’d feel …’

‘Bereft?’ Adela suggested.

I nodded.

I set out early the following morning, one of the first to pass through the Redcliffe Gate, taking with me my pack, my cudgel (my trusty ‘Plymouth cloak’) and my dog.

The latter was full of energy, which was more than I was, Adela and I having made up our differences overnight in the time-honoured manner, not once, but twice; with the result that although I was a happy man, I was also a tired one. My children had waved me goodbye with their usual indifference, Adam punching me in the belly — admittedly the only part of my anatomy he was able to reach — as a parting reminder that he was growing up and not to be trifled with. (As if I’d dare!) Elizabeth and Nicholas were too used to my departures to regard them as anything other than a normal part of life and therefore wasted no time on unnecessary hugs and kisses. They just reminded me, by the simple expedient of patting my scrip, that they would expect a present or two in it when I returned. That I might, one day, not return never crossed their minds, but Adela, as she always did, clung to me and begged me to take care.

As Hercules and I left the walled seclusion of the city behind us, the sun rising steadily to reveal an almost perfect August morning, my spirits revived, and I began to stride out in a manner better suited to the dog’s restless energy as he chased imaginary rabbits and rolled in the grass. The sky was almost colourless; inlets, rivers and creeks of palest blue flowed between sandbanks of cloud, while low on the horizon, the light was a dazzling transparency, shimmering with the first, faint warnings of noonday heat. I was where I liked most in the world to be; on the open road, on my own.

Well, when I say on my own I don’t mean it literally, of course. At that time of year, high summer, the main tracks were crowded; parties of jugglers and mummers travelling from house to house, offering entertainment; itinerant friars, preaching hell and damnation; pilgrims heading for Glastonbury; civic messengers; now and again a royal messenger full of his own importance; family parties going on visits of either duty or pleasure to other members of their kinfolk; and plenty of fellow pedlars taking advantage of the fine weather to be out and about, selling their wares. In fact, if I wanted to be by myself, I was forced into the byways and lesser known tracks, many of which would only be familiar to a native of the area, such as myself.

I may have lost a little custom this way, but not very much. There were plenty of small settlements — mostly charcoal burners and their families — where the womenfolk were glad of needles and thread, a new spoon, either horn or wooden, to replace a broken one, or a good plain buckle for a belt that had seen better days. As for Hercules, he was happy to make friends with every mangy cur who invited him to cock a leg on a favourite tree, or enter into hostilities with any dog sufficiently foolhardy to offer him offence. Altogether, our first day’s travel passed in a most satisfactory fashion, keeping us out of the blazing heat and putting enough money in my purse to justify the excursion even in Adela’s eyes.

By dusk of that first day, thanks to a ride of some miles in a friendly turf carrier’s cart, we had reached the banks of the meandering River Chew, and were directed by a local shepherd to an isolated, but by no means deserted hostelry some few hundred yards south of the main track. The landlord, a jolly, red-faced man by the name of Josiah Litton, welcomed me in, patted Hercules on the head, and, for an eminently reasonable charge, offered me the use for the night of a straw mattress on the stone floor, near the central fire. His only bedchamber, apart from his and his wife’s, was at present occupied by a certain Sir Damien Chauntermerle, an important local landowner on his way home after several weeks in London. I was assured that the knight’s squire and page would be joining me around the fire to sleep, so I need not be afraid of lacking company. (I groaned inwardly and prayed to the Virgin that neither of my companions snored. It would be bad enough with Hercules wheezing in my ear all night.)

The landlord then bustled about, bringing me a beaker of ale, bread, cheese and some of those small wild scallions, also known as buckrams or bear’s garlic. (They are best eaten in spring, when juicy and tender, but even late in the year as this was, they can make a decent meal with cheese if freshly picked.) Sir Damien, it transpired, had supped earlier in his chamber, and the page and squire had gone out to join the groom in the stables for a game or two of hazard.

‘Don’t suppose they’d object to a fourth,’ my host suggested, when I had finished my meal.

Tired as I was, the evening was still far too light to think of sleeping, and I should only be roused when my two companions came to bed. Hercules was happily gnawing on a mutton bone, with which the landlord had thoughtfully provided him, so I decided to take Master Litton’s hint, and went out to the stables.

These were a couple of stalls at one side of the inn, the first containing a bony nag, plainly belonging to the premises; which meant that the thoroughbred next door had to be the property of Sir Damien Chauntermerle, even had the fact not been made self-evident by the three men seated amongst the straw, playing at dice.

I introduced myself and was immediately welcomed into the circle with the blunt hope that I had sufficient money to cover my losses. I answered cheerfully that I didn’t expect to lose, at which they all laughed so heartily that I insisted on inspecting the dice, suspecting them to be loaded. They had not been tampered with, however, and after several games of raffle and two of hazard, I realized that, in the groom, I was up against a master thrower, whose spin on the dice could produce an almost endless run of sixes. When I had lost more than I could afford, I at last called a halt, a move heartily endorsed by the squire and the, by now, nearly penniless page. The groom just grinned good-naturedly and gathered up his winnings. The rest of us leaned back against the bales of straw and reckoned up our losses, commiserating with each other as we did so.

I nodded towards the horse and the saddle of tooled leather, hung on a nail at the back of the stall. There was also a richly embroidered saddle blanket and some of the harness fittings looked to be of gold.

‘A wealthy man, your master,’ I commented.

The squire laughed and the other two gave knowing grins.

‘He is now,’ the former agreed. ‘But ten years ago, it was a different story. Poor as a church mouse, was our Sir Damien. Kewstoke Hall was falling into disrepair; the roof was leaking, the rats were gnawing away at the foundations, and those of us who stayed with him did so because our fathers had worked for his all their lives and it was our home as much as his. Still, he’s been a good master and not stinted those of us who remained since he became rich.’ The other two nodded their approval of his words.

‘How did that happen?’ I asked. ‘And where is Kewstoke Hall?’

‘Away to the north-west of here, near the coast. As to the upturn in his fortune, death and remarriage, my lad.’ The squire thumped me on the back, reiterating, ‘Death and remarriage. His first wife died and he got wedded again, only this time he was careful to marry money and, of course, youth. The first time, when he was young and feckless, was for love. The second time was for security and comfort.’

‘Who was the lucky — and presumably rich — young lady?’

‘As a matter of fact, the daughter of a widow who lives in these parts. Ursula Bellknapp of Croxcombe Manor.’

‘Bellknapp? Of Croxcombe Manor?’ I tried not to sound too interested. ‘Isn’t that somewhere near Wells?’

‘Not many miles distant, yes. Sir Damien was thinking of paying a visit there before returning home, so he could give Lady Chauntermerle an account of her mother’s health, but … but …’

‘He decided against it,’ said the page with a giggle.

‘They don’t get on?’ I suggested.

‘We-ell, let’s just say Dame Bellknapp can be — er — difficult,’ the groom smirked, rattling the dice and looking hopefully at the rest of us.

We hastily declined another game and scrambled to our feet, stretching and yawning and generally intimating that it was time for bed.

He called us cowards and spoilsports, but grinned good-naturedly and wished us goodnight. He was bedding down in the stable with his master’s precious horse.

The landlord had damped down the fire in the aleroom, but it was still giving out a comfortable heat. He appeared from his own chamber when he heard us come in, brought the three of us another beaker of ale apiece and waited until, wrapped in our cloaks, we were settled for the night. Hercules opened one bleary eye, gave me a look, then closed it again with a contented sigh.

The inn was stuffy in the August heat and one of the shutters had been opened to reveal the moon, like tarnished silver, rising over the shadowy trees. Somewhere an owl hooted, sharp and clear, against the more muffled drumbeat of advancing hooves …

I sat up abruptly, disturbing my companions.

‘Whassa matter …?’ the squire demanded indistinctly.

‘Listen!’ I hissed. ‘Someone on horseback, approaching the inn.’

The landlord had also heard it and came out of his chamber, followed by his goodwife, both of them clutching stout-looking staves. I reached for my cudgel just as a voice from outside shouted, ‘Ho there, landlord! Travellers! Open up, I say!’ There was a loud thumping on the door.

The landlord raised his eyebrows at the rest of us: he couldn’t afford to deny genuine trade. We grouped ourselves around him as he cautiously drew back the bolts.

He need not have worried. A perfectly respectable, well-dressed man of about my own age entered and courteously doffed his hat. Beyond the open door, in the moonlight, we could see an equally respectable-looking servant, holding his horse.

The stranger opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word, a shocked voice sounded behind us.

‘You! What in the name of God and all His saints are you doing here?’