The Prodigal Son

Five

I swore fluently, while Hercules licked my face and stared at me with wide, questioning eyes full of doggy devotion.

‘It’s all right, lad,’ I assured him, reaching for my cudgel and levering myself to my feet. ‘The pain will pass in a minute or two.’

I spoke with more optimism than I felt, but even as I did so, I realized that, whatever damage I had done, here was the answer to my prayer. Whether true or feigned, I could plead a twisted ankle as an excuse to beg shelter for at least a night or two — perhaps more — at Croxcombe Manor.

To begin with, the pain was excruciating, particularly traversing rough, heavily wooded ground. Twice, I had to sit down on a fallen log and put my head between my knees to prevent myself from losing consciousness; but after a while the initial agony subsided into a dull, throbbing ache and I was able to hobble along without resting too often. Eventually I staggered into a clearing where yet another charcoal burner was tending his turf-covered fire of coppiced wood. His hut inevitably stood nearby, for the fire has to be kept smouldering for four or five days and needs constant attention every hour or two, both day and night, when charcoal is being formed. (I was enough of a country boy to be familiar with the process.)

He glanced up as I approached, alerted to my presence by the inquisitive sniffing of Hercules around his knees, and rose slowly and stiffly to greet me.

‘Thou’s hurt thee leg, Chapman,’ he observed, not without a modicum of satisfaction; for, from the way he rubbed the small of his back, he seemed to be no stranger to pain himself.

It was difficult to guess his age, his face was so weather-beaten. Yet in spite of its leathery appearance, there was an underlying pallor from his being continuously in the shade of the trees. Somehow, at some time, he had broken his rather prominent nose (or someone had broken it for him) and the rheumy eyes were grey, like the smoke from one of his fires. In spite of the August heat, he wore a woollen hood close about his face, with a badly scorched liripipe, a heavy frieze tunic, and breeches cross-gartered in the ancient Saxon fashion. There was a rough and ready air about him, but he appeared friendly enough.

‘I caught my foot in a rabbit hole,’ I explained, and nodded towards his hut. ‘Could you spare me a drink of water?’

‘I c’n do better nor that,’ he grunted. ‘Does thee fancy some ale?’

I did, of course, and said so, thankfully; whereupon he relieved me of my pack and beckoned me towards his hut. The sparsely furnished interior — a table, a lamp, a stool and a rough grey blanket covering a bed of bracken — suggested a bachelor existence, for most women will make an effort to soften Spartan surroundings (a jug of wild flowers or a few scraps of brightly coloured fabric of their own weaving).

‘You live alone,’ I said, not bothering to make it a question.

‘Always have done, always will. Sit thee down, then.’ And my new acquaintance indicated the stool, adding, ‘Don’t believe in women. They bugger things up for a man. Th’art married, I can tell.’

‘So people keep saying,’ I snapped, bending down to rub my afflicted ankle, while Hercules went snuffling after rats, which he seemed to think were making their home among the charcoal burner’s bedding.

‘Good dog! Good dog!’ my companion encouraged him. ‘They’m in there somewhere. They do sometimes bite me of a night when I’m asleep. But they be God’s creatures, too, I s’pose. They got to live.’ With which philosophical utterance, he took a couple of horn beakers from a shelf above the doorway and disappeared outside again. When he came back, he had filled them full and brimming over from a barrel that he presumably kept out of doors where it was cooler. I guessed, also, that he must keep it uncovered, for the ale tasted of smoke and a few other suspicious flavours like old leaves and dead animals. I couldn’t help wondering how many woodland creatures, like the late Duke of Clarence in his butt of malmsey, had drowned in drink. I sipped cautiously.

‘How’st thy ankle?’ the man asked after a momentary silence. ‘Thou c’nst remain here the night if thou wishes.’

‘I’m hoping to get to Croxcombe Manor. Do you know of it? Is it far?’

He chuckled as though I had said something amusing. ‘No, it ain’t far. About a furlong or so beyond them trees.’ He jerked his head towards the open door and the woods beyond. ‘This is Bellknapp land th’art on.’

‘You know the family then?’ I asked excitedly.

‘I know of them. Not to speak to, thee understands. I pay my dues for coppicing these woods to Master Kilsby, the bailiff. I don’t have no truck with family.’

I gave him a knowing wink. (Well, that’s what it was meant to be.) ‘I daresay you know most of the gossip about them, though.’

‘Thou couldst say that.’ He finished his ale and smacked his lips with a relish I was far from sharing. I continued to sip heroically, trying to ignore a certain pungent aftertaste that lingered on my tongue.

‘All the same, perhaps I can give you some news concerning the Bellknapps that you might not yet have heard,’ I said, and proceeded to inform him of my previous evening’s encounter with Anthony Bellknapp.

When I’d concluded, he sat staring at me, his mouth wide open, ale coursing down his chin. Gradually, a slow smile broke across his face, eventually becoming a chuckle before flowering into a full-bodied roar of laughter, as he sat on the beaten-earth floor, rocking himself to and fro in a fit of uncontrollable mirth.

‘Oh, that does my heart good!’ he managed to gasp at last. ‘That’ll teach Master Simon a lesson! That’ll put his nose out of joint, the cocky, bad-mannered little bastard that he is! Oh my! Oh my! Thou’s sure, Chapman? Th’art not making it up?’

I shook my head. ‘No, on my honour. I’m glad to have afforded you some pleasure in return for your hospitality.’ I surreptitiously poured the rest of my ale on to the ground. ‘You’re not fond of the younger Bellknapp brother, I fear.’

‘No one is. Spoilt from his cradle, that one.’

‘You’ve known him a long time?’

‘All his miserable life. I’ve been coppicing these woods nigh on thirty years, although I weren’t so old when I started. I was nought but a boy when my father — he were called Hamo Gough, same as me — died and I took over the charcoal burning to support my mother. She’s long dead now, God rest her!’

‘You know all about the robbery and murder, then, at Croxcombe Manor six years ago?’

There was a sudden lull in the conversation, and I could sense my new friend’s reluctance to proceed. He eyed me warily for several seconds, almost as though he suspected me of knowing more than I was admitting to.

‘Oh aye, I remember it,’ he finally conceded. ‘Everyone in these here parts knows about it. It was the talk of the neighbourhood.’

‘The landlord of the alehouse where I stayed last night told me about it,’ I said. ‘It intrigued me. Did you ever set eyes on the young page who was responsible? What was his name, now? Something strange.’

‘John Jericho,’ my companion answered gruffly.

‘Ah, yes. That’s it. An odd name, wouldn’t you agree? Do you think it was his own?’

‘Never thought anything about it,’ my companion answered. There was something defensive in his attitude that I could not understand.

‘Did you know him?’ I enquired, trying to sound offhand.

‘Saw him about when I went to the house to take them wood for the fires.’

‘Did you like him?’

‘I told thee, I never thought of ’im. No reason to. Didn’t push ’imself forward. Quiet little fellow. Not the sort thou’d expect t’ murder a woman. No, nor rob anyone, neither.’

‘It couldn’t possibly have been anyone else?’

The charcoal burner stared at me as if I were mad. ‘There weren’t ever any doubt about that. If it weren’t the page, why did he run away and why hasn’t ’e been seen since? Oh, no, ’e done it all right, I’d stake my life on that.’

He spoke with a conviction that puzzled me; a conviction that suggested he might know more than he was telling. Coupled with his previous insistence that he was unfamiliar with this John Jericho, I found it a little odd to say the least. On the other hand, was I allowing my imagination to run away with me, as I was so often accused of doing?

As though suddenly afraid that he had said too much or too little, or simply that his perfectly innocent remarks might have been misconstrued, Hamo Gough jumped to his feet, spilling the dregs of his ale on the ground.

‘This won’t do,’ he muttered. ‘Got to attend to my fire. Sit thou there until thee can stand on thy foot again, then thou can be off. If thou stays a while at Croxcombe, maybe I’ll be seeing thee now and then.’

It was a clear dismissal and I had no choice but to remove myself and Hercules from his hut. He had offered hospitality to the injured stranger within his gates, but now he wanted me gone. Something had made him uneasy. I just wished that I knew what it was.

I found that my ankle was indeed considerably less painful when I stood up than I had expected, but I wasn’t about to admit the fact to anyone. I needed an excuse to stay at Croxcombe Manor for as long as possible, so I shouldered my pack once more and hobbled out of the hut, leaning heavily on my cudgel. The charcoal burner took his leave of me with, I felt, a distinct air of relief. By the time Hercules and I quit the clearing, he was crouched once again over his fire.

I found Croxcombe Manor quite easily, as Hamo Gough had assured me I should. As the woodland thinned, I came into open pastureland and the foothills of the Mendips sloped away to the Somerset levels around Wells and Glastonbury; blue-rimmed distances hazy with summer heat. A cluster of cottages round a pond, whose glassy surface mirrored my laboured progress, were the only habitations I passed until I reached the manor house surrounded by its moat, its tiled roof immediately indicative of the fact that here lived a family of wealth and substance. The house itself stood at the centre of other buildings, chapel, brewhouse, wash-house, bakehouse, windmill and dovecote. A couple of swans sailed regally on the moat and pigeons disturbed the air with a constant flurry of wings. Geese and poultry pecked for food in the dirt at the back of the house, and as I made my way to the kitchens, I found not only a commodious stable, but also various other enclosures for sheep, pigs and cows. This was, indeed, an inheritance worth having, and I couldn’t help wondering, in spite of the increased pain in my left leg, how Simon Bellknapp was bearing up under the blow of his elder brother’s unexpected homecoming.

The kitchen door stood wide open, as most do during the summer weather, but whereas the chatter of cook and attendant maids is usually little more than a subdued hum while they are working, on this occasion, the noise was like that of a flock of starlings whose peace had been disturbed by a slingshot in their midst. I didn’t need to ask myself why.

I rapped as loudly as I could on the door, but it was not until my third knock that anyone heard me. Then, gradually, silence filled the kitchen as all heads were turned slowly in my direction. The clacking tongues were stilled and the last ragged murmurings died away as one of the maids — a big, red-faced country girl — came forward to greet me.

‘It’s only a chapman,’ she informed the others, and gave me a welcoming grin. ‘Come away in, Master. I daresay there’s a few things we’re all in need of.’

I put on my best limp and most agonized expression. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve twisted my ankle,’ I groaned. ‘I tripped over a rabbit hole.’

They were good-hearted girls and immediately all sympathy, one dragging forward a stool for me to sit on, another running to the water-barrel to bring me a drink, a third attending to Hercules, whose imitation of a dog in the final throes of exhaustion never failed to win him ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of compassion from any females present. Even the cook left her pastry-making to come and pet him.

‘Have you come far?’ one of the girls asked me. ‘I’ve not seen you round these parts before.’

‘Bristol,’ I said, dragging off my pack. ‘Here!’ I pushed it towards them. ‘Have a look inside and see if there’s anything you want.’

The cook shook her head. ‘We daren’t stop at the moment, Chapman. We’ve supper to prepare and it had better be good. There’s enough trouble in the household at present without presenting the mistress and Master Simon with a burnt offering.’

‘Or Master Anthony,’ one of the girls said with a kind of gasp that was half laughter, half consternation.

So the gentleman had arrived! ‘Perhaps the lady of the house, or her maid, would like to inspect the contents of my pack,’ I suggested, ‘if you haven’t time at present. I’ve a pair of Spanish gloves and a length of Nottingham lace that might interest Dame Bellknapp.’

‘You know where you are, then?’ the cook queried sharply. ‘In spite of coming from Bristol.’

‘I was born in Wells,’ I said, as though that explained everything. ‘Do you think Dame Audrea would be interested in my wares?’

‘Normally, yes,’ the woman admitted. ‘But there’s been an upset today and she’s other things to think about.’ One of the maids giggled and was immediately frowned down. ‘That’ll do, Betsy. Get on with those vegetables. I shall want them for the pot in a minute.’

I wondered fleetingly why it was that kitchen maids all seemed to be named Betsy or Bess, but asked instead, ‘Then could I see the steward? With this ankle, I shall need a bed for tonight at least, maybe longer. If he’d allow me to sleep in a corner of the kitchen, or even the stable, for however long it needs to heal, I’d be grateful.’

There was another giggle, this time from all the girls, who nudged one another as they looked me over approvingly. (In those days I was still a handsome fellow, though I say so myself. Taller than most men and blond, like my Anglo-Saxon mother. My father had owed his appearance to his Welsh ancestry; looks he had passed on to his bastard son, my half-brother.) Nor was the cook immune to my physical charms — all right! I was a conceited oaf, I admit it freely, but it doesn’t make it any the less true — and after a moment’s consideration, while she pummelled her pastry into submission, she instructed the girl called Betsy to go and find Master Applegarth.

The girl returned after a minute or two to say that the steward had agreed to see me in his room. Admonishing Hercules to remain where he was and to guard my pack, I got to my feet with exaggerated difficulty and followed her out of the kitchen and along a passage to a door at the end. Having knocked, she then lifted the latch and pushed me inside.

I found myself in a decent-sized chamber, furnished with a bed, chair, stool, a plain but stout oak coffer for clothes, two brass candlesticks holding what were obviously the finest wax candles and, on the window seat, several cushions covered in a blue and yellow weave that matched the bed-hangings; a feminine touch that reminded me the steward had once been married to the murdered nurse.

George Applegarth himself was, at first glance, an undistinguished-looking man of middling height, somewhere around his fiftieth year, I reckoned, with thinning hair, originally brown, but now greying, and a long, thin face with a narrow, hawk-like nose and pallid lips. The sort of face, I thought, that could be seen in a crowd and forgotten almost at once — until, that is, I met his eyes. They were grey; not the washed-out blue that sometimes passes for that colour, but a deep, definite slate-grey, and the kindest I had ever met, in which humour, sadness and a love of his fellow man all seemed to mingle.

Seeing my plight, he motioned me to sit down, inviting me to take not the stool, but the carved armchair that had to be his own personal seat. I immediately felt guilty that I was deceiving him as to the severity of my injury, but consoled myself with the thought that it was necessary; that this was not a man who would wish to see an innocent person punished for something he did not do. Just for a moment, I was tempted to take him into my confidence and explain the real reason for my presence at Croxcombe Manor. After all, he had seen my half-brother when he had accompanied Dame Audrea to Bristol, but had so far refused to identify him as the missing John Jericho. But second thoughts prompted caution. If he was close to his mistress, duty might urge him to confide in her.

‘Now, Chapman,’ he smiled, ‘I understand you’re looking for a bed for the night.’

‘I’ve injured my ankle, Master Steward, as you see. I was hoping I might rest up here for a day or two. A corner of the kitchen, close to the fire, would suit my dog and me admirably. And we wouldn’t make ourselves a nuisance during the day.’ I was about to add the words, ‘I promise,’ but thought better of them. There was no need to lie more than I had to.

‘You have a dog?’ he queried, suddenly doubtful. ‘Does he chase geese or poultry?’

‘Not as long as I have him under control.’

The steward smiled faintly. ‘And how often is that?’

‘He mostly does as I bid him. He’s not a bad dog, and will generally come at my call.’

‘Mmm … Very well. I should be reluctant to deny you shelter while you’re crippled.’ The thin face was full of kindly concern. ‘And I feel sure, in the circumstances, that Dame Audrea will have no objection. We often give food and shelter to more than a single pedlar here, at Croxcombe. However, I must confess that today is not the best of days …’ His voice tailed off and he drew a deep breath. ‘But that’s not your concern, and my mistress may well have need of something from your pack. So, yes, you may stay here until your ankle heals. But unless summoned by Dame Audrea, remain in the kitchen quarters.’

I thanked him and rose to go, but as I did so, the door of the room burst unceremoniously open and Anthony Bellknapp strode in.

‘George,’ he was beginning, then stopped short, staring at me. ‘By all that’s holy!’ he exclaimed. ‘Fancy finding you here! You’re the chapman I met last night at the alehouse.’

I acknowledged the fact, and was starting to explain my present predicament when we were joined by a youth of about fifteen or sixteen years of age who I immediately recognized from Alderman Foster’s description as the younger Bellknapp brother. The same mouth which, in Anthony, curled up at the corners, expressed only anger and discontent in Simon. And from the lines running from nostrils to chin — far too deeply engraved for a boy of his age — I guessed his usual expression to be sulky. But at the moment, it was positively murderous.

‘I thought I’d find you here,’ he jeered, seizing his brother by the shoulder and forcing him round to face him. ‘I thought you’d be looking for friends! Nobody else wants you here, but of course for Jenny’s sake, her husband is bound to stand by her darling boy!’ He began to shout. ‘Why have you come back? Why? Why couldn’t you have been dead, like we thought you? You bastard! You bastard!’

Simon had his brother by the throat, shaking him backwards and forwards, showing surprising tenacity and force for such a slender young man. Indeed, it took all the steward’s and Anthony Bellknapp’s combined strength, together with whatever small help I was able to give them, to loosen his grip. Anthony fell back gasping, clutching his neck.

When he could at last find his voice, he rasped, ‘I’ve come home to claim my rightful inheritance, and none too soon, by the looks of things. You haven’t changed one jot, my dear little brother. Just the same obnoxious brat that you always were.’ He had sunk down upon the stool and was breathing heavily, but appeared to have his own temper under control in spite of his mauling. But then, suddenly and with absolutely no warning, he heaved himself to his feet with a roar of anger, grasped the unsuspecting Simon by his upper arms and fairly propelled him out through the door, speeding him on his way with a parting kick.

‘You mustn’t let him insult you, George,’ he said, sinking on to the stool again. ‘Nor Jenny.’ He took a shuddering breath, his eyes filling with tears as he reached out a hand to the steward. ‘George! Sweet Virgin! I’ve only just been told. About Jenny, I mean. My God, my God! How did it happen? A robbery, Mother says. All the pewter and silver taken, as well as some of her jewels.’

‘Yes. Six years ago just past.’ George Applegarth was standing very erect, a terrible, lost expression on his face, unconscious of Anthony’s outstretched hand. ‘I found her,’ he went on bleakly. ‘Stabbed through the heart, lying in a pool of her own blood.’

‘Don’t! Oh, don’t,’ the younger man groaned. ‘My dearest Jenny. And the villain who killed her — this page, John Jericho — has never been caught?’

‘Not yet. Although …’

‘Although …?’

‘Dame Audrea thinks she may have found him.’

Anthony was up off his stool in an instant. ‘She didn’t mention that! Tell me!’

They both seemed to have forgotten my presence, so I sat as still as possible, willing myself to be invisible, hardly daring even to breathe, while the steward recounted the recent events in Bristol, including his own doubts on the matter.

‘But why don’t you think this man they’ve arrested is John Jericho?’ Anthony demanded in obvious exasperation. ‘If Mother’s certain …’ It was plain that in his anger and horror over his old nurse’s murder, he wanted a scapegoat and wanted one fast. Dame Audrea’s word would be good enough for him.

But the steward shook his head stubbornly. ‘He’s not the man, Master Anthony. I agree that he could be young Jericho six years older; small, dark haired, blue eyed. But to my mind, there’s something that tells me he isn’t.’ He held up a hand. ‘Don’t ask me what, because I can’t tell you. I just know that the man in the bridewell at Bristol is not the man who killed my Jenny, whatever the mistress says.’

As though on cue, the door to the steward’s room was flung open once again and Dame Audrea entered with an imperious tread, followed by her younger son, wearing his most hard-done-by and aggrieved expression.

Dame Bellknapp was not a tall woman, being something under middling height, but her presence was commanding. It would have been impossible to ignore or overlook her, even if she didn’t speak; the essence of the woman pervaded every corner of the room. I doubted if she had ever been beautiful — her nose was too large and her chin too pointed — but she had a pair of fine clear blue eyes, dark, well-marked eyebrows and, like her sons, a full-lipped mouth that could, doubtless, express softness, but which, at the moment, was shut like a trap while she surveyed us. When at last it did open, it was to express outrage and disapproval.

‘What has been going on here, Master Steward? Simon tells me he was insulted and thrown out of your room. Please explain yourself.’

‘Let George alone,’ Anthony snapped, getting to his feet once more. ‘My precious brother did his best to throttle me. I was the one who threw him out. And I’ll remind you, Mother, that I’m the master here now. You and Simon will both do well to remember it.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Dame Audrea returned coldly. Her eyes fell upon me. ‘Who’s this?’

Before anyone else could answer for me, I dragged myself to my feet, making as great an effort of it as I could without overdoing it, and explained my presence. The lady was not impressed.

‘You may certainly sleep in the kitchen for a night or two until your ankle is better,’ she said, looking me over as if I were a cockroach she had just discovered in the linen closet. ‘We refuse no one in need at Croxcombe. But that is your place, not here in the steward’s room, listening to all our family affairs.’ She addressed George Applegarth. ‘You should know better, Master Steward, than to allow such a thing. I had more confidence in you. Go to the kitchen now, Chapman, and I’ll send my woman later to look over your wares.’

I gave her an ironic bow — well, I hoped it was ironic — and began to edge my way towards the door, limping as I went, when I was stopped by a hand on my arm.

‘Master Chapman and I are acquainted,’ Anthony Bellknapp announced. ‘In fact, we are old friends.’ The man was an accomplished liar, but I have to confess that I liked him none the less for that. ‘He is here,’ Anthony continued blandly, ‘at my invitation and as my guest. He will be housed and treated accordingly by all of you.’