The Wicked Winter

Chapter Four

Dame Judith drew herself up to her full height — not an easy thing to do whilst sitting down, but the old lady managed to give that impression — and said coldly, 'Bet brought this chapman to see me. She thought I might wish to purchase some of his goods.'

'Bet has no right to think,' was the terse response as the mistress of the house advanced further into the room.

The Widow Lynom was indeed, as the miller's wife had said, a fine woman with a high, broad forehead, slate-blue eyes, a long and impressively straight nose and a full, voluptuous mouth. In spite of this there was a hardness about the features which, to my mind at least, prevented her from being truly handsome. She wore a red woollen gown trimmed with squirrel fur at neck and wrists, and caught around her waist by a green leather belt studded with jewels. Her slender fingers were heavily beringed, but of the red hair, which might or might not be dyed with alkanet, there was no sign, all being concealed beneath a hood of fine, crisp lawn. Her skin was carefully whitened, her lips stained with a salve made from the distillation of strawberry juice — I was by now growing wise in the wiles and deceptions of women — and she carried herself well, as befitted someone born to command. Yet nothing could disguise the fact that she would never see forty again. Nevertheless, I could guess her attraction for any man tied to a sober and pious wife, however young. There was a raffish gleam in the blue eyes which suggested that she would not be niggardly with her sexual favours.

'Oh, I'm fully aware that you'd deny me anything that gives me pleasure,' Dame Judith snapped, her bony cheeks growing pink with outrage. 'Fortunately I have a few friends left in the household.' She turned to me. 'You needn't think I was treated like this when my son was alive. Then I was accorded all the respect that is my due.'

The widow sighed and tapped one leather-shod foot in exasperation.

'Don't be mendacious, Mother! You know very well that no one denies you anything you wish. We wouldn't be so foolish, knowing the tantrums we'd be subjected to if you were thwarted.'

'Tantrums is it?' Dame Judith was fairly spitting with annoyance. 'I'd have you know, Chapman, that I'm one of the most reasonable, sweet-tempered women living, but what I have to endure would try the patience of a saint!' The widow raised her eyes ceiling-wards and appeared to be praying for strength, but her mother-in-law ignored her. 'For one thing, why am I forced to remove up here every morning instead of being allowed to stay downstairs in the parlour, where I can at least look out of the window and watch who's passing on the road? Not,' she grumbled, 'that there's much traffic at this time of year. The only people I saw today were a holy man and a carter with a load of tree trunks bound for the sawmill. Oh yes, and the blacksmith, accompanied by a young girl muffled to the eyes and who looked to me as if she were keeping a tryst of some sort with him.' The old woman's sharp nose quivered. 'I must get Bet to discover if he's courting. But who could it be from hereabouts?' She tittered. 'Aren't I a nosy old woman?'

'You're brought up here to the solar, Mother,' the Widow Lynom interrupted forcefully, 'for that very reason; to stop you sitting with the parlour shutters wide open and catching your death of cold. In the summer you may stop there as long as you wish, and well you know it, so don't pretend that I ill treat you.' For the first time since entering the room she turned to look at me properly, and her forbidding gaze softened slightly. 'Well, Chapman, as you're here, you can show us both what you have to sell. We don't often get pedlars around in the depth of winter. You must be a hardy young fellow to be on the road in January.'

Dame Judith let out an unpleasant cackle. 'You've discovered he's both young and good-looking, have you, Ursula'? You want to be careful, my girl! What if Sir Hugh found out that you've a wandering eye?'

Her daughter-in-law flushed scarlet. 'I don't know what you're talking about, Mother. What has it to do with Sir Hugh, pray? He has a wife of his own to look after.'

The older woman sniffed derisively. 'Little Mistress Good and Saintly. Well, he's not likely to have any worries concerning her on that head. But he'd do well to look to his own conduct — and to that of his precious son — if he wants to escape trouble in his household. Jeanette Cederwell's not one to brook misconduct lightly.'

Contrary to all expectations, I began to feel sorry for Ursula Lynom, so much the victim of her mother-in-law's scathing tongue. I tried to divert the old lady's attention.

'I didn't think, from what I've been told, that Lady Cederwell is old enough to have a grown son.'

'Lord bless you, he ain't her child! Jeanette's only two years older than Maurice. No, no! He's the son of Sir Hugh's first wife, who died when he was born.' Dame Judith leaned back in her chair and smiled expansively, delighted with the a chance to gossip. 'We all thought Sir Hugh was going to remain a widower for life — or until such time as he could gain his heart's desire.' Here, she stole a sideways glance at her daughter-in-law, but the widow began to examine my goods with exaggerated care. The dame continued, 'But then, nigh on six years ago, he went up country to visit a cousin of his who lives in the neighbourhood of Gloucester, and came back married to a child young enough to be his daughter; a wool heiress recently orphaned. The old woman's smile broadened into a malicious grin. 'Wealthy, but not so wealthy as Ursula here became when my poor son, Anthony, died two years later.' She threw up her head and gave a high-pitched whinny of mirth.

I rapidly reassessed my ideas of Sir Hugh Cederwell. I realised now that he must be roughly the same age as Ursula Lynom.

'That will do now, Mother.' The younger woman turned away abruptly. 'Buy what you want from the chapman and then you must sleep for half an hour before your dinner.'

'I'm not a child to be ordered around,' Dame Judith snapped. She added spitefully, 'I was mistress in this house long before you.'

Ursula Lynom sighed. 'A fact of which you are never tired of reminding me. Nevertheless, you will do well to remember that it is I who am in charge here now.' There was the slightest undertone of menace, and I saw the old lady suddenly wither and withdraw into herself. My sympathies, which had been in a constant state of flux, somersaulted back to her. I should have known, though, that she was fully capable of standing up for herself.

After only a momentary silence, she counter-attacked with, 'Sir Hugh must have left early this morning. I hadn't expected to see you until noon.'

Colour once more tinged the widow's cheeks, but she answered calmly, 'We had completed our business. He has advised me against buying the extra land to the south of the eastern pasture.'

Dame Judith let out a sound like the hoot of an owl.

'Business, she says! There's only one kind of business you and Hugh Cederwell carry on, and it's got nothing to do with land south, north or west of the eastern pasture!' And while her daughter-in-law struggled to find her breath, the older woman continued, 'A pretty hash the pair of you have made of your lives between you. When he and Anthony went a-courting you, twenty-odd years and more ago, you chose my lad, even though it was plain to everyone but yourself that you were in love with Hugh. And as for him, he's as big a fool as you are. Having lost his own wife after only a year of marriage, he waits fifteen more in the hope that you might one day be free, only to shackle himself to a child almost young enough to be his daughter, a mere twenty-two months before Anthony succumbs to a putrid fever. Bunglers, both of you!'

The widow's face was by now scarlet with rage, and I couldn't altogether blame her. Dame Judith should not have aired the family linen before a passing stranger, as Mistress Lynom now roundly told her.

'You're a prattling, meddling, evil old shrew who deserves a ducking! How dare you discuss my affairs like this in front of a pedlar! You have a loose tongue, and one day it will get you into serious trouble.' She bent down, breathing hard and short, advancing her congested face to within an inch of the older woman's. 'It could even be the death of you, so be careful.' I must have made an inarticulate sound of protest, for the widow straightened herself abruptly, realising how her words might be interpreted. 'What I mean is,' she floundered, 'you can't gossip about people without making enemies, and sitting by that open window of a morning you see too much of your neighbours' business.'

It was a lame apology for her threatening attitude and had no relevance to Dame Judith's recent revelations. The old lady looked cowed, however, and seemed anxious to make her peace.

'I know, I know,' she mumbled. 'My tongue runs away with me at times. But the chapman won't pass on what he's heard, will you, lad? You don't appear to me to be the chattering kind.'

'Mistress Lynom's affairs are none of mine,' I answered briskly. 'I promise I shan't repeat anything you've said.'

'There you are, Ursula,' her mother-in-law pleaded. 'I can recognise a good man when I see one, so you'll let him stop and talk to me for a while, won't you? You know how starved of company and news of the outside world we are during the winter months.'

I could tell from the expression on Ursula Lynom's face that she would have liked to order me off the manor at once, but she was sensible enough to see that such conduct might antagonise me into breaking my word. So she said, with as much grace as she could muster, 'You're welcome to remain with my mother-in-law for a little, Chapman, and afterwards you may go to the kitchen and tell Jane Cook to give you some dinner.' Her eyes strayed to the goods displayed on the top of the coffer, coming to rest on a set of silver buttons, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. One long, slender hand reached out and fingered them. 'They're beautiful. I'll have them whatever their price. You may go to the counting-house when you've finished here and collect your money.' The door of the solar closed behind her and Dame Judith let out a sigh of relief.

'She'll give those buttons to Hugh Cederwell,' she mourned, and then, in childlike fashion, clapped a scrawny hand over her mouth. 'There I go again. She's right to be angry with me, you know, although I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of admitting it. My tongue does run away with me, but gossiping's my only pleasure nowadays. It's hard, Chapman, being a dependant in a house where you once wore the keys at your belt and had the running of it all.'

I agreed that indeed it must be, and placed several items which I thought she might like immediately in front of her, in order to distract her mind from its woes. In the end, she bought a pair of enamelled girdle tags and a length of fine lace, but that was all, suddenly losing interest in the proceedings. Like all old people she tired swiftly and easily, falling asleep without warning. Quietly, so as not to disturb her, I packed away the rest of my wares, took what had been purchased downstairs to the counting-house, where the household treasurer paid me my dues, and then made my way back to the kitchen.

'Where do you go from here?' Bet asked as we finished the stewed mutton and apple pasties which made up the lesser servants' dinner. (The chickens had been served in the dining hall, leaving the tantalising smell of onions and sage and cinnamon to linger on in the kitchen.)

'l hope to get as far as Cederwell Manor, where I shall beg a fireside corner for the night. How far would you reckon it to be from here?'

'Two mile. Maybe more,' Bet said with a stifled giggle. 'An hour's good walking.'

The other three kitchen-maids and the pot-boy were also suppressing sniggers which the mention of Cederwell Manor had prompted, one eye on the cook as if fearful that she might admonish them. But although she failed to join in their general merriment, she did no more than remain aloof.

'You'd better get started as soon as you've eaten, Chapman,' she advised. 'It'll take you more'n an hour at a steady pace, and the ground's treacherous at this season. Moreover, snow's been threatening all day and I reckon it'll start to fall before evening.' She went to the kitchen door and stared out. 'Sky's full of it. Grey as a shroud. When it does come, it's going to be heavy.'

'How do I get there? To Cederwell Manor?'

'Where'd you come from? North from Woodspring? This is the Woodspring road.'

I shook my head. 'No, south from the main pack-horse track which runs along the high ground from Bristol to the mouth of the Severn.'

Jane Cook came back and sat down again at the kitchen table.

'Then retrace your steps to the junction of the two roads and turn westwards when you get there. Keep walking and you're bound, sooner or later, to arrive at the manor. But a word of warning.' She cupped her chin in her hands. 'Don't ask for Lady Cederwell. She'll not be interested in any fripperies you might be hoping to sell. I'm told she wears a plain wooden cross on a string about her neck and that is her only adornment. As for household necessaries, you might as well deal directly with Sir Hugh's housekeeper, Phillipa Talke, who's run the manor for him since Master Maurice was born and left motherless, the poor little lamb.' Bet sucked her fingers clean of the last vestiges of food.

'My cousin, Audrey Lambspringe — who's maid to Lady Cederwell,' she added for my benefit, ' — says Mistress Talke was hoping to marry Sir Hugh herself one day.' Jane Cook snorted but, somewhat to my surprise, did not discourage this idle chatter. But then she, too, I supposed, must find winter in such an isolated homestead as dull as everyone else.

One of the other kitchen-maids observed with a giggle, 'She's waited a mighty long time then with nothin' t' show fer it. An' now 'e's married again.' She lowered her voice and glanced furtively over her shoulder to make sure that none of the upper servants was within earshot. 'An' what about our own mistress? If anythin' were to 'appen to Lady Cederwell, I reckon she'd 'ave first bite o' the cherry, not Mistress Talke.'

'She's 'avin' more'n 'er fair share o' bites already,' the pot-boy put in, reducing them all, including Jane Cook, to helpless laughter.

I decided it was time to be on my way if I was to arrive at Cederwell Manor before darkness fell, and which at that time of year descended in mid-afternoon. The female servants had chosen what they wanted from my pack before the meal, so there was nothing further to detain me. I therefore said my farewells and left. Passing the stables on my way out, I paused to glance inside, hoping to wish Hamon and Jasper goodbye, but they were nowhere to be seen. Nor, now I came to think of it, had they been at dinner. I reflected that perhaps they were permanently banned by Jane Cook from eating indoors because, as she had pointed out earlier, they smelled too much of horses. But as I was about to set foot on the drawbridge, I was forced to beat a hurried retreat in order to avoid Hamon, mounted on Jessamine, the raw-boned grey. Horse and rider came clattering across the wooden slats as though Old Scratch himself were after them, and both, by their appearance, in a lather. At the same moment, Jasper materialised from somewhere behind the stables, inquiring in a whisper, 'Did all go well?'

Hamon was already sliding from the saddle, tossing the mare's reins to his fellow groom as he did so.

'Here, stable her and rub her down. I must go speak to my lady.'

He ran towards the house, almost tripping over his feet in his hurry.

Jasper stared after him with a thoughtful look, which gradually settled into one of avid and ill-contained curiosity.

My own interest was also aroused and I turned back to speak to him.

'Your friend seems in a mighty rush,' I said. 'Where's he come from?'

The groom started a little at the sound of my voice.

'Where's Hamon been?' I repeated.

Jasper hesitated, then shrugged. 'I know where he's supposed to have been; to Cederwell Manor with a present for Sir Hugh. He was sent there by my lady just on the dinner hour. At least that was the excuse.'

'What do you mean, the excuse?' I asked him.

Jasper blinked once or twice in confusion before again lifting his shoulders.

'I meant nothing by it. I was just talking for talking's sake, the way you do sometimes.' He looked me up and down. 'Hadn't you best be going? It'll be dusk pretty soon.' I agreed, but reluctantly. My nose, like Dame Judith's, was twitching with the desire to know more, but there was no way that I could reasonably stay. And then suddenly I realised that the answer to the mystery might well lie at Cederwell Manor, if that was indeed where Hamon had been … But of course that was where he had been! Ursula Lynom had sent him after Sir Hugh with the silver and mother-of-pearl buttons. They were a gift for him, just as her mother-in-law had predicted they would be. I bade my companion a cheery 'God be with ye!' and set out once more on my way.

Leafless trees, like so many hobgoblins, crouched against the leaden-grey sky and every now and again a snowflake floated down, to lie for a moment before gradually dissolving into the iron-hard ground. But soon they would begin to pitch.

The snowstorm which had threatened for the past few days was now upon us and I must get into shelter before the hours of darkness. I quickened my step, my pack considerably lighter than when I set out from Bristol two weeks earlier.

I reached the end of the Woodspring road and the junction with the main pack-horse track almost before I realised it, my mind busy with the events of the day since leaving Ulnoth's dwelling that same morning. And, upon that thought, I found myself once again drawing abreast of the boulder house. On impulse, I stooped and went inside, calling out, 'Ulnoth!'

For a few seconds, standing there blinking in the gloom, I could not see him, and had just decided that he must have gone to attend to his snares when a slight shuffling noise sounded from the furthest corner.

'Ulnoth!' I repeated.

He crawled forward. 'Chapman,' he said with such a note of relief in his voice that I immediately grew suspicious.

'Who did you think it was? Have you had another visitor?'

He shook his head a little too vigorously. 'No. No. Ulnoth frightened.'

'Why? If no one's been here, who or what is there to be scared of? Have you seen something from your doorway?'

'No, no! Nothing.'

I suspected him of lying. Clearly something or someone had upset him, but however hard I probed, he refused to say any more. I did what I could to calm him, settling him in the farthest recess of the house, in the embrasure cut into the bank, and gave him some water. When he stopped trembling I offered, 'I'll stay with you if you wish. Spend the night here.'

But he did not want this, giving me a shove which almost caused me to lose my balance. For the second time I realised that he was stronger than he looked.

'Go. You go,' he muttered.

'Very well, I shall. I must be on my way at once if I'm to reach Cederwell Manor before dark.'

Suddenly, he started to moan, rocking backwards and forwards and muttering to himself, 'Death. Death. Death.'

'What about death?' I demanded. And then, when he did not answer, 'Whose death, Ulnoth? What are you trying to tell me?'

But not another word could I prise from him however long and patiently I tried. At last, when he turned his back to me, hunching in on himself, I realised that I could ill afford to waste more time. I squeezed his thin shoulder and gently called his name, but still getting no response I left.

Straightening to my full height outside the entrance I paused for a moment, wondering if I ought to return and press him further as to his meaning; but, several flakes of snow settling just at that moment amid the folds of my cloak, I decided that I must go forward without more delay. Ulnoth had made it plain that he did not want my company.

By the end of what I calculated to be another hour, and when I judged that Cederwell Manor must soon be coming into view, it was snowing with a gentle persistence that might not in itself have boded ill, but for a freshening wind blowing in from the sea. Every moment the smell of salt and fish grew stronger, and I knew that I must be very close by now to the Severn estuary. The land on the left-hand side of the track, which had originally fallen steeply away, was levelling out with each succeeding furlong of ground I covered, while on my right, the cliffs now soared above me. This was partly due to the fact that the track, which followed the high ground all the way from Bristol, was descending towards the shore.

Thick brakes of scrub had begun to replace the wind-bitten trees.

Then, in front of me, I saw the outhouses and barn of the manor, above which rose the chimneys of the house itself, nestling back against the face of the towering cliff behind it.

Turning my head I noted, some hundred yards or so to the left and standing well clear of the homestead, a round tower, three, or maybe four, storeys high.

And on the path ahead of me walked a solitary figure who, although his back was towards me, was immediately recognisable.