The Prodigal Son

Seven

I was taking advantage of her, and I knew it. Talking to a stranger, she had been betrayed into making a confidence which, with someone she knew, she would have guarded against. She had had no idea of any personal interest on my part in Jenny Applegarth’s murder, although I had admitted to Bristol’s general concern over the fate of John Wedmore and the lack of a charge against him.

She turned to look at me, her little face sharp with suspicion. ‘Why do you want to meet Ronan?’

I searched for a reasonable explanation.

‘I like mysteries,’ I offered at last, rather lamely. ‘I’m curious to know if this young man at present in the Bristol bridewell is truly the John Jericho who disappeared six years ago, or if Dame Audrea and your husband could possibly be mistaken. If your brother did indeed see John Jericho in flight on the night of his escape, there might be something he could tell me, some small piece of information, that could give me a clue to the truth.’

‘I don’t see how.’ Rose was defensive.

I didn’t really see how, either, but where murder is involved, I have always worked on the principle that no scrap of information is too trivial for consideration. Ronan Bignell might well have nothing to impart worth the telling, but I knew I couldn’t afford to ignore an opportunity so fortuitously dropped into my lap. But persuading his sister to introduce us was going to take all my charm and tact.

I sat up straight again on our rustic seat, removing the barrier of my arm and thus allowing Rose room enough to nestle close once more if she so wished. She didn’t wish; in fact, she edged in the opposite direction. She no longer trusted me. In her eyes, I had somehow tricked her into revealing a secret about her brother and was now prepared to use it as blackmail. I had to reassure her.

‘Look,’ I said urgently, ‘of course I won’t breathe a word of what you’ve just told me. I give you my solemn promise. It’s just that if I could speak to your brother, I’d be most grateful.’

She hesitated, glancing sideways at me. I assumed my most trustworthy expression with a hint of soulfulness thrown in. Well, that was what I intended, but I probably looked just plain constipated, because Rose burst out laughing.

‘All right,’ she conceded, her faith in me partially restored. ‘Dame Audrea has given me permission to visit my father’s shop in Wells tomorrow morning. Edward will be busy, as I told you, and one of the outdoor servants was going to accompany me. But if you offer to be my escort, I don’t suppose any objection will be raised.’ She eyed my ankle, suddenly doubtful. ‘If you can walk so far, that is.’

‘Oh, a night’s rest will work wonders,’ I answered confidently. ‘And if you’ll be so kind as to moderate your normal fleetness of foot to my stumbling gait, I’ve no doubt we shall do extremely well.’

‘You do sound pompous sometimes,’ she giggled.

So much for trying to impress!

‘In any case, my dog will hold us up,’ I warned her. ‘He’s unable to pass a rabbit hole without investigation. I must take him with us if you don’t mind. At the moment, he’s asleep in the kitchen, worn out after our day’s exertions. But by tomorrow he will have fully recovered and be raring to go.’

‘I like dogs,’ Rose assured me. ‘I’d like one of my own, but Ned won’t let me have one. He says if Dame Audrea lets us have our own cottage, maybe then I can. But at present we just have a room like all the others.’

‘Mistress Micheldever!’ exclaimed a hearty voice behind us, and I turned my head to see Anthony Bellknapp walking across the grass towards us. His eyes twinkled. ‘And my “old” friend, the chapman. I wondered where you’d both got to. You’re a sly dog, Roger, monopolizing the only pretty female for miles around.’ He sat down on Rose’s other side, and I waited for him to make the obvious comment. He did. ‘A rose between two thorns,’ he announced with all the panache of one making an original remark.

I concealed a smile, but I could see Rose was impressed. But she would have been impressed even if he’d said nothing more than ‘good evening’. He was not only a man and passably good looking, he was also surrounded by an aura of romance and mystery; the prodigal son returned out of the blue to claim his inheritance.

‘Oh, Master Bellknapp!’ she breathed ecstatically. My nose was quite put out of joint.

‘Anthony,’ he insisted. ‘You must call me Anthony. After all, you’re my receiver’s wife.’ He raised one of her hands to his lips and gallantly kissed it; but I didn’t need any of my mother’s extraordinary powers of the ‘sight’ to know that, if he had his way, matters weren’t going to rest there. I wondered idly just how long it would take him to coax this particular little rosebud into his bed. And within the next half-hour, I could see the same thought gradually dawning on Edward Micheldever as he watched Anthony’s attentions to his wife.

Anthony had come to inform us that he had, after all, prevailed upon his mother to ask the mummers to sing for their supper, and to preside over the entertainment. I don’t know what pressure he had put on Dame Audrea, or how many harsh words had accompanied the confrontation, but the lady had eventually been recalled to a sense of her obligations as a hostess and agreed to put aside family animosity until after the guests’ departure the following morning. On our return to the hall, Rose and I found the trestles and benches stacked along the walls, and only three chairs remaining on the dais. Four stools had been placed for the two monks, the royal messenger and the Bath merchant, who had been haled back from their beds, but everyone else either had to find a seat on the floor or perch uncomfortably on the sideways-ended trestles. Everyone else, that is, with the exception of Rose, who was swept along by Anthony on to the dais where he ordered Simon to give up his chair to her.

The boy naturally refused, whereupon his brother promptly seized him by the scruff of the neck and sent him sprawling on the floor.

‘Mistress Micheldever shall be our Queen of Revels,’ Anthony announced to the astonished company, while Rose simply looked distressed at the turn events had taken, glancing anxiously towards her husband.

The receiver, glowering furiously, was making for the dais to reclaim his wife when Anthony roared with laughter and imperiously waved him aside.

‘Good God, sir! Can’t you take a bit of fun? I should think any man would be pleased to see his wife so honoured.’ He smiled at Rose. ‘Sit down, my dear, sit down! Steward, tell the servers to bring some wine and beakers, and we’ll all drink to the Queen of Revels’s health. Let the toast be to youth and beauty!’

Simon had by this time picked himself up from the floor and was about to launch himself at his brother when a sharp word from his mother checked him. I wasn’t close enough to hear what she said, but it was obvious that Dame Audrea was not prepared to parade the family disarray in public and could only sit out the hours until bedtime with the best grace she could muster. The same applied to Edward Micheldever, who was forced to look on as Rose, still shaken, but with her confidence beginning to return, spent the evening as the not-so-reluctant object of Anthony’s attentions.

The mummers were better than I had expected, miming the stories of Abraham and Isaac, Cain and Abel with sufficient skill to capture the attention of an audience whose thoughts had every incentive to stray. (Even the Bath merchant and the King’s messenger couldn’t help but be intrigued by that other drama enacted on the dais, and had plainly been as agog with curiosity as the brothers from Glastonbury.) This was followed by a juggler who entertained us with a dexterity that kept at least seven or eight coloured balls in the air at once and drew gasps of admiration from the watchers, and the show concluded with a one-man band on his pipe and tabor while the rest of the company danced a vigorous estampie from eastern France. By which time, the hour was pretty well advanced, the evening shadows lengthening, the candles, cressets and wall torches flickering low in their holders. A few shreds of daylight still vied with the flames, but Dame Audrea stood up, took a determined leave of her visitors, passing them over to the care of her chamberlain and steward, and retired from the hall.

With her departure, there was a concerted movement as George Applegarth and Jonathan Slye ushered the guests to bed. The cook took charge of the mummers and led them away to the kitchen, while Edward Micheldever, with a face like a thunder-cloud, leapt on to the dais to reclaim his wife. At the same moment, Simon Bellknapp surprised his brother by stealing up behind him and locking an arm around Anthony’s neck with such force that the older man’s head cracked loudly against the back of his chair. His grip tightened as Anthony clawed at the strangling arm.

‘You bastard!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll kill you! Just see if I don’t!’

I would have limped to Anthony’s assistance, but was too slow. Several servers and the bailiff were ahead of me, Reginald Kilsby’s burly form well to the fore as he tugged Simon’s arm free of his brother’s throat.

He hissed, ‘Don’t be such a bloody fool! You can achieve nothing by this.’ I had by now managed to scramble on to the dais myself, and was close enough to catch his following words uttered in almost a whisper. ‘Leave it to your mother and me.’

I doubted if anyone else had heard them. They were all making too much noise. Anthony was cursing and swearing and trying to get at his brother but being hampered by both Edward Micheldever and the chaplain, whose high, fluting voice was begging, ‘D-d-don’t, Ma-Master Anthony. D-don’t!’

Anthony’s fury bubbled over. ‘D-don’t?’ he mimicked. ‘D-don’t? You bleating old bellwether, let me go! At once, d’you hear me? That murderous little pimp just tried to kill me! I’m going to wring his neck before the hangman does it for him.’

The chaplain coloured painfully, but, to his credit, he refused to release his grip on Anthony’s wrists, while the receiver tightened his hold on the upper arms. At this point, the steward and chamberlain returning to the hall, George Applegarth immediately took charge.

He nodded at Simon. ‘Go to your bedchamber, Master, and stay there. Your lady mother has had enough for one day, without you brawling with your brother all night. And the same goes for you, Master Anthony, and all the rest of you.’ He turned to a stout woman with an imposing bunch of keys dangling from her belt, and who must, therefore, be the housekeeper. ‘Mistress Wychbold and I will lock up and see all safe. Now, go!’

Anthony, his good humour seemingly restored, burst out laughing and clapped the steward on the shoulder.

‘George! You’re wasted as a mere household officer. You ought to be the one making sheep’s eyes at my mother, angling to be her husband. You’d be of far more use and support to her than that great lummox over there.’ And he waved a derogatory hand at Reginald Kilsby, who was standing with his arm about Simon’s shoulders. ‘Oh, you needn’t think I haven’t noticed, Master Bailiff,’ he mocked. ‘I’m neither a fool nor blind. I was watching you during supper and after. Well, let me tell you this!’ There was an ugly gleam now in Anthony’s eyes. ‘While I’m master at Croxcombe, I won’t be having you for a stepfather, you can make up your mind to that.’

I saw the bailiff’s free hand clench at his side, but he said nothing, merely urging Simon towards the door, muttering something in his ear. Anthony turned to me.

‘Master Chapman, if you’re ready, our bed awaits. With your permission, I’ll lead the way.’

With a sigh of relief, after a long day packed with incident, we both shed our clothes, pissed into the chamber-pot and rolled between clean sheets into the comfort of a goose-feather mattress. Anthony’s servant, Humphrey, picked up our discarded garments, placing them tidily on the lid of a chest, pulled the bed-curtains and retired to a truckle-bed in one corner of the room. Silence and darkness enveloped us.

Until that moment, I would have sworn that I was too tired to utter a word, or even to prop my eyelids open. But, perversely, I was suddenly wide awake. I turned my head on the pillow and looked at the muffled form beside me. Anthony was lying on his back, and I could see the white of the eye nearest to me. He, too, was awake and staring at the bed canopy overhead.

‘Why are you doing it?’ I asked. ‘Why are you set on antagonizing everyone?’ When he didn’t answer, I went on, ‘All right! I know it’s not my business, but I’m the curious type. I should have thought you’d need all the goodwill you can muster.’

Again, it seemed as if he wasn’t going to reply, and I was preparing to wriggle on to my side — my right, so as not to aggravate my injured left ankle — when my bedfellow gave a deep-throated chuckle.

‘Now, why should you think that? Surely the boot is on the other foot. Everyone at Croxcombe needs my goodwill. I’m the master here. They all have to dance to my tune, including my mother and brother. Besides, apart from George Applegarth, I don’t have a liking for any of them.’

‘Does that include Dame Audrea and Master Simon?’ I asked.

‘Most certainly.’ He also turned his head so as to look at me. ‘You’ve seen us together, and I’m sure a “curious type” like you will have pieced together something of my family history by this time. There’s no love lost between us. Indeed, my mother never had any love for me. She disliked me from birth: I don’t know why. But I owe her nothing.’

It being more or less what Alderman Foster had told me, there was really no answer that I could make.

‘It just seems a shame,’ I protested feebly, ‘that now you have at last returned home after all these years, there should be so much discord.’ He moved restlessly, so I changed the subject. ‘You’ve been in the eastern counties, I think you said. I’ve never seen those parts. What’s it like?’

‘Flat,’ was the brusque reply; then, relenting, my companion added, ‘It’s fen country mostly. I missed the hills and valleys of the west. In all the time I lived there, I only ever met the one west countryman.’

‘The one who told you your father had died? I seem to remember you said he has a sister who lives in Bristol.’

‘That’s right, he has. In fact, he, too, is a native of the city, for all he calls himself William of Worcester. His real name, he told me, is Botoner.’ The name was one I had heard mentioned recently, but I couldn’t immediately place it. Anthony continued, ‘As a matter of fact, when I encountered him, he was on his way to Bristol. First time he’d been back in years, but his brother-in-law died recently and there are family affairs that need his attention. And there was a tale about his brother-in-law’s brother. He’s missing at sea, I gathered. Looking for some island or other.’

Of course! Margaret Walker had mentioned that John Jay, the one who was dead, had married a woman called Botoner. I gave Anthony a brief history of the Jays. Extremely brief: I knew next to nothing about them.

‘What was this William Botoner, or William Worcester, doing so far from home?’ I enquired.

‘Oh, he’s lived in the eastern counties the greater part of his life. In fact, he regards them as his home, far more than Bristol. He’s quite an elderly man. Sixty. Sixty-five. He was secretary for years to a Sir John Fastolfe, who was quite an important man, it seems. Fought at Agincourt — Sir John I’m talking about — was made Lieutenant of Normandy, later Governor of Maine and Anjou. But then he was accused of cowardice when he retreated before the forces of the Great Whore, Joan, at Patay, so he returned home and concentrated on his English estates. I think that was when my informant went to work for him. Sir John was a very rich man by that time. Made a lot of money in the war. Mind, Master Worcester reckoned he’d always been pretty well breeched. Property in London, including the Boar’s Head tavern and other premises. And he built himself a castle somewhere in Norfolk. Not the sort of thing you and I would have the money for, friend.’

I laughed and agreed. ‘Does this William Worcester still work for him?’

‘Lord, no! I think Master Worcester said Sir John died more than twenty years ago. But then there was a lot of trouble connected with his will. Litigation with a family called Paston, in which he — Master Worcester, that is — was heavily involved for quite a long time. Don’t ask me what it was all about. He did try to explain, but I lost interest, I’m afraid. As you may imagine, I was far more concerned with what he’d told me about my father’s death and will, which, of course, was old history to him — over two years old — but was fresh news to me. I knew I had to get home as soon as possible and claim my inheritance. He suggested we rode as far as Bristol together, but I couldn’t wait. I didn’t want to be hampered by a fellow traveller. Particularly by one who’d let drop that his pet hobby was making notes and measuring the dimensions of every town and village that he passed through.’

‘Sweet Virgin! Really? He wasn’t pulling your leg?’

‘He showed me his notebooks, all scribbled in a kind of dog-Latin that would be murder to understand. He plans to map out the topography of Bristol, so he informed me, during the intervals between sorting out his sister’s affairs. Besides, he feels he ought to wait until there’s news of this missing ship belonging to her brother-in-law.’

This reminded me with a jolt of John Jay’s lost carvel, and the reason why my half-brother had come to Bristol in the first place. Had it not been for young Colin Wedmore joining the ship at Waterford, John would still be safely at home in Ireland and not imprisoned in the city’s bridewell. For a moment, I was tempted to be honest with my bedfellow about why I was at Croxcombe; to confess that my injured ankle was nothing like as bad as I was pretending and to ask his aid. He had been more than kind to me. True, it was for his own perverted ends — but I felt that I owed him the truth.

‘Master Bellknapp,’ I began, but an enormous, rumbling snore cut me short. Turning my head once again, I saw that Anthony was sound asleep, still lying on his back, mouth agape. Another mighty snore followed the first in quick succession. I sighed. I was in for an unquiet night.

It was worse than I had anticipated. I soon discovered that Humphrey Attleborough also snored in a sort of treble counterpoint to his master’s deeper tones. Moreover, Anthony was a restless sleeper, tossing and turning until the bedclothes were in a tangle that it was impossible to unravel. Not that I minded being exposed to the air: it had grown infernally hot inside the cocoon of bed-curtains and feather mattress, and the third time I woke in what seemed less than a few minutes — but was probably an hour or more — I could feel the sweat running down my back and the inside of my thighs. I slid quietly out of bed, parted the curtains and emerged thankfully into the cool of the room beyond. The shutters and casement had been opened slightly by the servant before he had retired to his truckle-bed, and moonlight filtered through, laying long stripes of light and shadow across the floor and across my naked body. I breathed in the scents of the nearby woods and heard the chime of a distant bell, borne faintly on a gentle breeze, ringing the hour of matins and lauds, so I knew it must be those witching hours of the night between twelve and dawn. I pushed the shutters and casement a little wider, taking care to make no noise which might disturb my sleeping companions. For a moment or two, I stared at the lacework pattern of trees and the moon, pinned like a brooch high on their shoulder, before a sudden movement attracted my attention and made me lower my gaze to the moat. Someone was standing beside it, on the near bank, apparently looking up at our bedchamber window; although I could not be sure about this, wrapped as the figure was in that ever useful garment, the all-enveloping cloak and hood. (With a sudden surge of irritation, I wished I had a gold noble for every time in the past few years that I had encountered this mysterious, cloaked man — or woman. It was getting monotonous.) As soon as the figure became aware of my scrutiny, it moved away, but whether its gait was male or female, it was at too great a distance for me to tell. I stared after its retreating back for as long as I could, but gained nothing except the shivers as the sweat dried on my clammy skin. Reluctantly, I half-closed the window again and went back to bed, pondering on who it might have been.

I lay awake for some time, remembering the steward’s warning to my sleeping (and still snoring) companion to watch his step, and Anthony’s childlike enjoyment in courting trouble by affronting almost everyone he could. But then, ignored as a child, banished as a young man from home and his parents’ affection, it was impossible that he should have turned out to be a saint. Indeed, he exhibited a far better character than I would probably have done in similar circumstances …

At this point I must have drifted off to sleep, because the next time I woke, I was conscious of having been dreaming for what seemed quite a long time. I tried to recall some of the dreams in case there was a nugget of gold among the dross, but soon realized they were that jumble of meaningless nonsense that comes after a tiring day and badly digested food, and is the product of a restless mind.

The cacophony of sound had abated a little on both sides of the bed-curtains, but was still enough to prevent me from falling asleep again with my usual ease. So, once more, I slipped out of bed and crossed to the window. It was not yet quite light, but the distant horizon was showing the merest rim of fire, the first, faint harbinger of approaching day. Humphrey Attleborough, with the abandon of youth, was sprawled half on, half off the truckle-bed, the covers pushed back, and displaying a set of manly equipment that might well frighten all but the most stout-hearted of maidens. It was obvious that he, too, was having dreams, but not of my sort. He would be remembering his with pleasure.

A slight sound sent me whirling round to face the door, where I could see that the latch was being very slowly and carefully lifted from the other side. For a second or so, I stood, transfixed. Then, limping slightly, I began to steal stealthily towards the corner where I should be concealed from the intruder’s view as he entered.

Unfortunately, Humphrey chose that moment of all others to fall out of bed completely, banging his head on the floor and yelling loudly enough to waken the dead. I tripped over his prostrate form and cannoned into the wall, stubbing one foot against the clothes chest as I did so and striking my head a blow that set my ears ringing and stars dancing before my eyes. Anthony Bellknapp, roused at last, erupted from behind the bed-curtains, demanding in outraged accents to know what in the Devil’s name was going on.

By the time we had sorted ourselves out, Humphrey and I had examined our various cuts and bruises and I had explained, not just about the lifting of the latch, but also about the figure I had seen earlier from the bedchamber window, there wasn’t a hope of discovering anyone still outside the door; although, of course, this didn’t prevent our looking. Like the idiots we undoubtedly appeared, we all three jostled out into the passageway, staring up and down its length but, naturally, finding no one. The wall torches had long since burned themselves out, and the darkness and silence were almost total.

Not for long, however. Various sounds — raised voices, the opening of doors, the striking of flint on steel — indicated that we had disturbed other members of the household. Dame Audrea’s voice, raised in annoyance to ask what was happening, sent Humphrey and me scurrying back into the bedchamber to hide our nakedness under the sheets. And after a moment’s hesitation, Anthony joined us, closing the door behind him.

A polite knock heralded the arrival of George Applegarth, dressed sedately in a rubbed brown velvet gown over his nightshift and a candle in its holder held high in one hand.

‘Master Anthony, your lady mother wishes to know the meaning of this disturbance.’

Anthony pushed the bed-curtains aside and looked his steward up and down. ‘Tell my lady mother,’ he drawled insolently, ‘to mind her own business. No, on second thoughts’ — he giggled — ‘tell her we were holding an orgy.’

The steward sighed and raised his eyebrows at me, inviting a sensible explanation. I thought Anthony would protest at this flouting of his orders, but he merely lay back against the pillows, still grinning, while I told George Applegarth of the night’s events. They seemed to upset him.

‘I warned you, Master,’ he said, addressing Anthony in the scolding tone of an old and privileged retainer, ‘to be careful. You’ve been home less than a day and you’ve already managed to antagonize all the most important members of the household. Be more conciliatory, do! Or some harm will befall you.’ He turned the light of the candle on me. ‘Did you get a good look at this cloaked figure? Did you recognize anything about it?’

I shook my head. ‘It was standing by the moat. Too far away for me to tell if it were a man or a woman, even. It could have been anyone.’

The steward pursed his lips. ‘If it was on this side of the moat, it most likely means that the person is from within the manor. The gates are locked at night and the moat’s deep and takes some swimming … Ah well! I’ll report to Dame Audrea that the boy here’ — he nodded in Humphrey’s direction — ‘was riding the night mare and fell out of bed. But I repeat my warning, Master Anthony. Take care. And keep your bedchamber door bolted at night. And you can wipe that silly smile off your face. I mean it when I say that you’re in great danger.’