The Wicked Winter

Chapter Ten

The chaplain flushed slightly.

'Did I call her that? Yes, yes, so I did. And if I'm honest, it's as a daughter, a real daughter, that I've always thought of her. I've never had any family of my own, you see.' He picked up the spoon and began to drink the broth, already feeling a little happier simply by talking about what was obviously a subject dear to his heart. 'I had no brothers or sisters and my father died before I was born. My mother survived for only a short time after I entered the priesthood. Nor did I have any other kinsfolk in my village.'

'Where was that?' I asked as he paused to swallow another mouthful.

'Amongst the Cotswold hills. Sheep,' he added succinctly.

I nodded. I knew what he meant. The best wool in England, in the whole of western Europe, is still spun today from the fleeces of Cotswold sheep. It has brought great riches to our region.

'Go on,' I urged him.

'When I was twenty-four years of age, I went to be chaplain to Lady Cederwell's father, Master Walter Empryngham, near the village of Chipping Campden. (He was a sheep farmer, one of the wealthiest in the district.) That same year — it was the year that the present king's father, the Duke of York, was named Protector when poor King Henry went mad — Jeanette was born. Mistress Empryngham died of milk fever about six weeks later. Jeanette was her only child, and Master Walter's only legitmiate child. Because of that, everyone expected him, after a suitable period, to marry again, but he never did. He remained faithful to his lady's memory.'

'Gerard was Master Empryngham's bastard son?' The priest grunted assent, scraping the last of the broth from the bowl. 'He was four years old when his half-sister was born, and I was told that he'd lived in his father's household since the age of one, a twelve-month before Master Walter got wed. The mother, by all accounts, was a daughter of one of the local cottars, a respectable man who'd have nothing more to do with her once she got herself pregnant, nor with her son. She also died in childbirth — it's a chancy business for women, poor souls — ' I thought silently of Lillis ' — so Master Walter decided to take responsibility for the boy and had him raised, as I say, in his household.'

'What sort of status did Gerard enjoy'?'

The chaplain shrugged, blowing his nose again in his piece of linen and plumping up his pillows so that he could lean back more comfortably against them.

'It was rather a strange position thinking about it now, although it didn't particularly strike me so then. Sometimes Master Walter treated him like a son, and at others as one of the underlings.' Father Godyer pursed his thin lips judiciously. 'I suppose the best way to describe Gerard's treatment by Master Walter, as by everyone else, was as a highly privileged servant who mostly got away with things, but occasionally was forcibly reminded of his place.'

'In other words, the sort of treatment that is bound, sooner or later, to breed bitterness and resentment.'

When he had finished sneezing, the chaplain nodded.

'I think the lad did feel in some sort aggrieved, but he was wise enough not to show it openly. He liked the perquisites attendant on his position as an Empryngham albeit a left-handed one — too much to risk offending Master Walter. And to give Master Walter his due, he did have a genuine affection for the lad.'

I grimaced. 'So you had a father who was fond of his son, and a son who was fond of what his father could give him. Am I right?'

It was the chaplain's turn to draw down the corners of his mouth. 'I'm afraid so. But it was you, yourself, who suggested that Gerard had small cause to be grateful. Dogs which are fondled one minute and kicked the next never grow into loving animals. Moreover, bastard children are always in an unenviable position, particularly those who are both male and older than the heir. But — and here is the contradictory element in the story — Gerard worshipped his little half-sister. Not,' he added with a sentimental sigh, 'that it was surprising. Jeanette was a sweet and pretty child who grew into an even sweeter and lovely young girl.' There was a long pause before Father Godyer went on, almost inaudibly, 'Too sweet and lovely for her own good.'

I waited, but when he seemed disinclined to continue, I prompted, 'Why do you say that?' He made no answer, so I changed the subject, asking, 'Was she always inclined to the religious life?'

This obtained an immediate response. 'From her earliest years she was extremely spiritual, and was never happier than on her knees, either in church or at her prie-dieu.' The chaplain must have seen something in my face, for his own immediately assumed a sour, closed expression· 'You find that strange, Chapman?'

'Somewhat,' I admitted. 'Children should surely have their fair share of naughtiness and of mischief-making.'

'Why? There are those people on this earth who are born to be better than the rest of us, to do God's work, and we should thank the Virgin and all the saints for them.' The rheumy eyes grew dreamy. 'Jeanette's own favourite saint was Alphege. She dedicated her chapel in the Saxon tower to him.'

I felt this to be appropriate. Aelfheah, to give him his Saxon and not his Norman name, had been Archbishop of Canterbury under King Ethelred Unraed, and had suffered martyrdom at the hands of the invading Danes; an uncompromising man who had led a bleak life, and met an even bleaker death unflinchingly, secure in the righteousness of his faith. And not for the first time, I knew a pang of envy for such certainty, but as usual I kept these thoughts to myself. I have always had one sort of courage, but not the kind to suffer the tortures of the damned for what I believe in. But there again, I have never been absolutely sure what that is.

'How did Master Empryngham get along with his daughter?' I inquired·

Father Godyer was shaken by a spasm of coughing. When it subsided, he said, 'He had little to do with her, being a girl. He passed her over to the women of the household and left her upbringing in their charge. Such masculine affection as there was in her life came from Gerard and from me.' He hastened to add, 'I was her confessor, her spiritual adviser, you understand. Whatever paternal feelings I had for her were … were in that capacity.'

I removed the tray from his knees and placed it on the floor beside the bed.

'Naturally. Did Master Empryngham show no interest in her at all?'

The chaplain screwed up his face. 'She was his child. His heir. He was careful to ensure that she had everything in life which should rightfully be hers, but he found her extreme piety difficult to fathom.' He flung up a hand, the back covered in a tracery of fine blue veins. 'You must not run away with the idea that Master Walter was not a devoted son of Holy Church, but there are those people who find saintliness hard to cope with.'

I restrained myself from agreeing too vehemently, letting him ramble on in the hope that he would eventually return to that point in his discourse which had so intrigued me: why he thought that Jeanette Empryngham had been too sweet and lovely for her own good. At the age of sixteen, it appeared, she had declared her intention of never marrying. She would be no bride but the bride of Christ.

'What happened,' I asked, 'to make her change her mind?'

The chaplain's face darkened and his bloodless lips set in a hard, thin line. For a moment, I thought my curiosity was about to be thwarted a second time, but then he said baldly, 'She was raped.'

Even I was shocked into silence. At last I said, 'Who was the villain?'

'One of her father's shepherds. I can't recall his name, if I ever knew it. Jeanette used, on occasions, to walk up to the pastures when the flocks were out to graze. She loved the hills. This fellow must have lusted after her in his heart for some while until, one day, he could no longer control himself.'

'No one was with her?'

'It was her father's land. Why should she fear for her safety? The shepherds were her friends.'

'What happened to the man?'

'He ran away. What else could he do? He must have been terrified by the consequences of his crime, once he had slaked his desire and come to his senses. Of course, Master Walter raised the hue and cry. Every able-bodied man for miles around went after the blackguard, but sad to say, he cheated the gallows. He was found after two days. He had been set upon and killed by outlaws, who left his body to rot in a ditch. Justice had been done, but the damage he had wrought could not be undone.'

'Yet, surely,' I urged, 'Lady Cederwell's decision to enter a convent could only have been reinforced by what had happened to her. Who prevented this, and why? Was it her father's doing?'

The chaplain shook his head. 'No, no! Just the opposite. Master Walter now saw it as the only solution for Jeanette. Who, after all, would want to marry spoiled goods?'

'So?'

'It was the girl herself who refused to take the veil. She saw her presence as defiling any sisterhood that she might enter, and therefore renounced all intention of becoming a nun. Master Walter was furious. He began to see her as a permanent burden upon his resources, the spinster daughter always at home. Moreover, the effect of her ordeal upon Jeanette was to make her spend even more time praying and fasting, locked away long hours together from all those around her, until, I am sorry to say, most of the household lost patience with her. In the end, there were only Gerard and myself to whom she could turn for sympathy and understanding.'

The miserable little room had grown so icy cold, that I was beginning to shiver. I was too intrigued by the chaplain's story, however, to return just yet to the warmth of the kitchen.

Instead, I picked up his rusty black cassock, which had been thrown down on top of a chest when he took to his bed, and wrapped myself in it. Father Godyer raised no objection.

'But Master Empryngham's fears obviously proved to be ill founded,' I said. 'Someone did offer for his daughter's hand. When and how did Sir Hugh happen to meet her?'

'About a year later, he was in the neighbourhood of Gloucester, visiting a cousin.' (I recollected that Dame Judith had told me as much.) 'And from there, he rode north with his kinsman to visit a mutual friend who lived near Chipping Campden. This friend, in his turn, was a friend of Master Walter, and so Sir Hugh and my lady met. It was within a month of their first encounter that my master suddenly died, failing down in some kind of fit while he was at supper one afternoon, and from which he never recovered. He lingered for a couple of days, but we all knew he'd been touched by death. He knew it himself, and in his dying hours laid two commands upon Jeanette. The first was to take care of Gerard, even though he was, by now, married and in his twenty-first year, and the second was to accept Sir Hugh's offer of marriage, should he make one.'

'Master Empryngham was fairly certain, then, that Sir Hugh wanted to marry her?'

'Oh yes! We all were. She was sixteen, young enough to be his daughter — indeed, we discovered later that he had a son of almost the same age — and I think that was the attraction for him. That and her money, especially when her father died and she inherited everything he had.'

I smiled. 'You're a cynic, Father.'

He hotly refuted the accusation. 'I am a realist. There is a world of difference.'

'Perhaps,' I acknowledged, unwilling to offend him. 'Pray continue. I don't need to ask if Lady Cederwell did as she was bidden.'

The chaplain was racked by yet another spasm of coughing. Then he went on, 'It was her father's dying wish, when he stood on the very brink of eternity. How could she' refuse to obey? I suspect, too, that she did not know what else to do. She was at a loss. She knew nothing of sheepfarming, and would have been at the mercy of her bailiff. Furthermore, she had no interest in the raising and welfare of sheep. So she accepted Sir Hugh's proposal with the one proviso that Gerard and his wife came south with her to Cederwell Manor, and were housed and cared for by her future husband.'

'Sir Hugh agreed?'

'Mmm… yes, but not readily. He was reluctant to have two more mouths to feed. He is not a generous man, as you might have gathered. But yes, he did agree. He had no choice if he wanted to marry her, for she would not have consented otherwise. Nor, I suppose, did he wish to be seen as a man who would ignore a father's dying request.'

'And why do you think he wanted to marry her? Was it only the fact that she was a wealthy heiress?'

The chaplain thought about this for a moment or two, giving several loud trumpet blasts into his handkerchief while he did so. At last he said, 'I confess I think that to have been his main consideration. She was also very young and pretty. But I believe, too, that he was intrigued by her — her — er circumstances. Like many men, he felt sure that Jeanette must have done something to encourage her attacker; that she must have led him on. He thought that, secretly, she was hotblooded and promiscuous, and what would have been a deterrent to many of his fellows, fascinated Sir Hugh.'

'But this was not the case?'

'Far from it. Indeed…' Father Godyer hesitated, a little uncomfortable and carefully picking his words. 'It is possible that Jeanette was in… in one respect, not a… a satisfactory wife to him.' He took a deep breath and speech flowed more freely. 'But having once taken her marriage vows, she was prepared to be a good and faithful helpmate.'

'And, in return, expected the same loyalty from Sir Hugh?'

The chaplain spread his thin arms. 'With her strong religious beliefs, she would expect no other. She was a child who knew nothing of the world.'

'Had never wanted to know,' I suggested. 'How soon did things begin to go wrong between them?'

Father Godyer gave a gusty sigh. 'They were never really right, and if my assumptions about Sir Hugh are correct, how could they have been? But they rubbed along tolerably for a couple of years — until Mistress Lynom's husband died. Everyone on the manor, except Jeanette, suspected, or maybe even knew for certain, that his relationship with the lady was more than simple friendship. But once Anthony Lynom was dead and buried, neither made much attempt at concealment. It became apparent even to my mistress that they were lovers.'

'This shocked her'?'

'Deeply. Not because she was jealous.' The chaplain gave a wry, shrewd smile. 'I think Sir Hugh might have made an effort to end the affair if that had been my lady's reason. No, no, but because it was a mortal sin. Because it was an affront to God for her husband to imperil his soul in such a manner. Many a time, she has implored me to speak to him; to beg him to see the error of his ways, but alas, Chapman, she appealed in vain. I may as well tell you, for you'll probably discover it for yourself, that I am morally a very weak man. My feet are made of clay. I could never risk upsetting Sir Hugh for fear of losing my place here. You can despise me if you like. I give you free leave.'

I laid one of my large hands over both his fragile ones as they lay clasped together on the shabby counterpane.

'I assure you that I have far too many frailties of my own to despise you for yours. But continue. Was this liaison between Sir Hugh and the Widow Lynom the reason why Lady Cederwell sent for Friar Simeon?'

The chaplain nodded. 'When word of his being in the district reached us, Jeanette became very excited. His reputation had preceded him by many weeks, and we all knew his views on immorality and carnal vice. She told me that if the friar failed to convince Sir Hugh of the error of his ways, she would suggest that he threaten both him and Mistress Lynom with excommunication.'

I did not put such a course of action past Brother Simeon.

To fanatics like himself and Lady Cederwell it would not matter that, if adultery were to be made an offence worthy of exile from the Church, there would be very few communicants left within it. Such people were prepared to take on all the world. But there was something else to which I needed an answer.

'What of Sir Hugh's son and Fulk Disney?' I asked.

A wary look entered Father Godyer's eyes. 'So? What of them?'

'They make no secret of the great friendship between them.'

'There have been great friendships between men throughout the ages. David and Jonathan. Damon and Pythias. Pylades and Orestes.'

'The second Edward and the Gascon, Piers Gaveston.'

The chaplain shot me a look through half-closed lids. 'I know nothing of that.'

Nor wish to know, I thought to myself. Adultery he could cope with, it was a common enough sin. But the vice of the ancient Greeks was unthinkable to a man of his timid nature, because, if once suspected, his calling would require him to root it out, bringing death in its train. But I did not doubt that Lady Cederwell would have known no such compunction.

Father Godyer also began to shiver. I urged him to lie down and cover himself with the blankets.

'You are still far from well. I'll see if I can procure a hot stone from the kitchen to put at your feet.' I moved closer and tucked the bedclothes around his shoulders.

He peered at me. 'Is that my cassock you're wearing?'

'Yes. I was so cold and this was on top of the chest. You watched me put it on and made no objection.'

'Oh, I don't object,' he assured me. 'You're welcome to it. I just couldn't see what it was, that's all. Keep it on if you like.'

I laughed. 'I'd meet with too many ribald remarks in the kitchen.' I unwound it and draped it across my arm. 'I'll take it with me, though. It'll do to wrap the hot stone in, unless one of the maids can find me some flannel.'

'You're very kind, my son. God bless you. Do you stay long on the manor?'

'Only until the tracks are passable. Will you remain as Sir Hugh's chaplain now that Lady Cederwell and her brother are dead?'

'If he wants me. Where else am I to go?' The pale blue eyes filled with tears. 'But it won't be the same. It won't be the same. I shall be very lonely.'

I patted his shoulder consolingly, then picked up the tray with the empty soup bowl on it and left the room. As I passed the open chapel door, Brother Simeon was just rising from his knees, so I stepped inside and made my obeisance to the crucifix above the altar. This was nothing like the one in the Saxon tower, being of silver and cedarwood, the face of the Christ peaceful, as though its owner were sleeping; a quiet, untroubled death, this, the crown of thorns resembling a halo rather than an instrument of torture. The wound in the side just showed above the loincloth, a faint dent in the silver.

Cruelty and barbarism were absent; you could look at it and feel only a gentle sorrow.

The altar itself was draped with a cloth embroidered in jewel-bright colours, vivid reds and greens and blues with, here and there, the rich glow of amber. The walls were painted with pictures of the saints; Saint George with his raised lance, about to slay the dragon, Saint Cecilia; playing the harp, Saint Erasmus being fed by a raven. There was also a stained glass window depicting the Virgin with the Christ child on her lap. Both faces were serene and happy, giving no hint of future agony.

'You've been closeted a while with our friend, the chaplain,' Brother Simeon remarked as we eased our way down the narrow stairs. 'Did he have anything worthwhile to say? I thought him a poor dab of a man. Small wonder that Lady Cederwell could get no help from that quarter.'

'He admits it himself. His lack of courage, I mean. But the poor man is afraid for his place with Sir Hugh. He's not young any more.'

The friar snorted contemptuously, but contented himself with asking, 'Did you glean any information from him?'

'I'll tell you later,' I said as we were, at that moment, entering the kitchen.

Here, all was fuss and bustle as before. My request that Father Godyer be given a heated stone for his feet met with scant favour, but eventually I was able to persuade Jenny Tonge to set one in the oven with the baking bread, until it was warmed right through. Then, swathing it in the cold cassock, I returned upstairs as I had promised. The chaplain was fast asleep, lying flat on his back, mouth open, loudly snoring. I lifted the covering bedclothes and slipped the stone under his feet.

As I again passed the chapel, it occurred to me that I had not said my prayers that morning. I went in and knelt before the altar, trying unsuccessfully to concentrate my thoughts on God. But Father Godyer's snores reverberated through the dividing wall, making this well-nigh impossible. As I raised my head and glanced around in desperation, I noticed what I had missed before, a confessional box in one comer, to the left of the window. I thought that perhaps God would not mind if I offered my devotions in its comparative peace and privacy, so I entered the penitent's cell and pulled the curtain closed behind me. But I had barely resumed my orisons when there was an interruption.

'In here,' said Sir Hugh's deep voice, and I heard the door close. 'No one will think of searching for us in the chapel.'