[Roger the Chapman 05] - Eve of Saint Hyacinth

Kate Sedley was born in Bristol and educated at The Red Maids' School, Westbury-on-Trym. She is married, has a son and daughter, and one granddaughter. THE HANGED MAN is her third detective novel and follows DEATH AND THE CHAPMAN and THE PLYMOUTH CLOAK ('compares well to Ellis Peters' Brother Cadfael tales' Publishers Weekly).

Also by Kate Sedley

Death and the Chapman
 

The Plymouth Cloak

The Hanged Man

The Holy Innocents

The Eve of St. Hyacinth

Kate Sedley

Copyright © 1995 Kate Sedley

The right of Kate Sedley to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in 1995 by HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING

First published in paperback in 1996 by HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING

10987654321

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN 0 7472 4930 X

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berks

HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING A division of Hodder Headline PLC 338 Euston Road London NW13BH

The Eve of St. Hyacinth

Chapter One

It was the eighth of June, the Eve of the Feast of Saint Columba, and in less than seventy-two hours it would be the longest day of the year, when the bright, dewy mornings and the seemingly endless evenings made it a pleasure to be on the road.

I had set out from Totnes at the beginning of May in that year of Our Lord 1475, and spent the intervening weeks selling my wares in as many hamlets and villages along the south coast of England as I was able to reach in comfort, without the expense of hiring a local guide. Such men were apt to overcharge for their services and, for all I know, still do. But I am old now, in my seventieth year, and no longer stray far from my native Wells. Almost half a century ago, however, I was young and vigorous, six feet tall and strongly built, and had chosen the freedom of a pedlar's life in preference to entering the Benedictine Order, which had been the dearest wish of my dead mother's heart.

But I had been made to pay a price for flouting her wishes. On four occasions during the past few years God had used my talent for unravelling mysteries to bring to justice a number of villains who might otherwise have escaped the consequences of their evil deeds. After the last unpleasantness, in the town of Totnes, I had argued with God that enough was enough; I had paid my debt to both Him and my mother for abandoning the religious life. But my experience of the Almighty is that He has a deaf ear, which He conveniently turns towards those He does not desire to hear; and attempting to thwart Him by an act of defiance is worse than useless. As was soon to be proved to me yet again.

My act of defiance this time had been the decision, after leaving Devon, to go to London, with no other object in view than to indulge myself in the pleasures of the capital.

Conscience told me that I should return to Bristol, where my widowed mother-in-law lived with my motherless daughter, little Elizabeth, six months old. But instead, at Exeter, I had found a trustworthy friar - at least, I judged him to be trustworthy, although I could not help recalling the saying that 'friars and fiends are but little asunder' - who was travelling northwards, and entrusted to him a sum of money, along with Margaret Walker's direction in the weavers' quarter of the city.

'Commend me most heartily to her. Say that I promise to be with her before the beginning of winter and ask her to give my child a kiss from its loving father.' And I had added a generous bonus for the friar's own use.

He had nodded merely, taking it for granted that my journey to London was necessitated by the need to earn more money in a lean and hungry year, when taxes had been raised to help fund King Edward's proposed invasion of France, for which the levies were even then massing in Kent. (I had met many men on the march during the past two months and most were bound for Canterbury or its neighbourhood.)

Increasing my fortune, however, was not my main object in going to London and I felt a stab of guilt in deceiving not only the friar, but my mother-in-law as well; for the holy man would undoubtedly pass on his own conclusions with the other messages I had given him for Margaret Walker.

But the truth was that a goodly sum of money had been pressed on me before I quit Totnes, in gratitude for all that I had done, and for once in my life I was plump in the pocket. No, my reason for visiting the capital was purely a whim; a desire to experience once more its numerous fleshpots and, on this occasion, with a little loose change jingling in my purse.

All the same, I had not disdained making what extra I could during my journey and had proceeded at a leisurely pace, with the result that, on this eighth day of June, as the summer solstice approached, I had just spent a profitable morning in the port of Southampton, and was now, at ten o'clock, thinking about my dinner. As I walked along High Street, away from the quayside and its huddle of dwellings, my nose scented the rich aroma of pig's trotters and gravy, causing my stomach to rumble hungrily. I was always hungry in those days and no matter when, or how much, I had last eaten, I was forever ready for more. I had a big frame and it demanded constant nourishment.

The town's butchers' and poulterers' shops bordered that stretch of High Street just north of Saint Lawrence's Church, although one or two were to be found in the alleyways and courtyards which opened between the houses. Southampton was as busy then as it presumably still is today and was always full of sailors, both native and foreign. The streets - and very bad streets they were, with broken paving stones and holes in the road to trip up the unwary - echoed with a babel of different tongues and there was much jostling and pushing from the various tradesmen as they vied for custom in front of their booths. I have seen unwilling customers lifted bodily off their feet and forcibly carried to the opposite side of the road by an over-zealous shopkeeper, determined on making a sale.

Not that I ever suffered any such treatment. Even the most foolhardy would not dare to harass me. One glance at my height and girth and they all turned away with a shrug, content to let well alone.

The gabled ends of many of the houses faced on to High Street, with small courtyards to the side and rear, an arrangement which formed narrow passages between them.

And it was along one of these, close to the public latrine, that my nose led me in search of food. It did not deceive me. Twenty paces in, set at right angles to its neighbours, was a butcher's shop which also, judging by the number of people sitting around outside busily eating, sold some of its wares already cooked. The smell of pig's trotters was overwhelming, although mixed with it was the equally delicious scent of freshly baked pies and pasties and the mouth-watering aroma of newly boiled tripe. A large trestle table displayed various cuts of meat, which two thrifty housewives were carefully prodding before making up their minds to buy, watched by the butcher, who occasionally offered his expert advice.

He was a large, jolly man, as those of his calling so often are, although I have never quite understood the reason why. Behind him, suspended from hooks set in the ceiling of the covered booth, hung the eviscerated carcasses of a pig and a sheep, not long slaughtered and still dripping blood. The trotters, then, would be fresh and tasty. I went forward to the trestle, where the goodwives continued to haggle over their purchases, and lowered my pack to the ground. The butcher's round, weather-beaten face split into a grin and the hazel eyes kindled with laughter as he eyed me up and down.

'And what can I do for a big fellow like you?' he demanded good-naturedly. 'That belly of yours takes a deal of filling, I'll be bound!'

'I can smell trotters and gravy,' I answered. 'A bowlful wouldn't come amiss.'

He chuckled. ‘I’ll lay it wouldn't. If you go to the back of the booth you'll find my cottage. Knock at the door and my wife will attend to you.' He turned to the two women, a shade of impatience creeping into his tone. 'Goodies, if you prod that meat any more it won't be fit for man nor beast. Make up your minds, now. What'll it be?'

There was laughter and a good deal of chaff from the other diners as the women refused to be hurried and retorted in kind, but I was too hungry to stop to listen. I picked up my pack and did as the butcher instructed me, making my way to the back of the shop, where a timber-framed cottage stood with its door wide open and the hole in its thatch belching forth steam. This was the source of all the tantalizing smells which had been teasing my nostrils for the past fifteen minutes; where the boiling and baking was done by the butcher's wife.

In reply to my shout she appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a coarse sacking apron.

'And what can I do for you, my lad?' she asked.

She was as small as her husband was large, with delicate, bird-like features and soft brown eyes which regarded me straitly before shifting to my pack, which I had once again placed at my feet.

'A bowl of pig's trotters with gravy,' I answered, but for the moment she ignored my order.

'You're a chapman,' she observed. 'Now there's a lucky chance. I've just broken my last good needle and I've also run out of thread. Can you help?'

'Willingly. I've both in my pack. Shall we do barter?'
 

She smiled. 'Why not? I'll get you your victuals first, however, for you look half starved. Then you can show me what you're hawking. You might as well come in and eat in the house; then, when you've finished, we can complete our business.'

I was somewhat reluctant to obey, it being a fine, sunny morning, and I should have preferred to remain out of doors, chatting to my fellow diners, but I could tell that the goodwife wanted to keep me under her eye until I had completed my side of the bargain. I therefore followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the table close to the oven, which was set in the wall behind me.

Two big cauldrons bubbled over the fire on the central hearth, one of which contained the pig's trotters. My hostess ladled some of these on to a wooden platter and set it in front of me, before sinking down on the bench at my side and wiping her forehead on the back of her hand.

'Have you come far?' she asked.

I spoke with my mouth full. 'This morning, from the other side of the River Test.' I swallowed and continued less thickly, 'But I've walked here from Devon.'
 

'You're not from those parts, though,' she murmured, cocking her head to one side like a knowing sparrow. 'Nor hereabouts, either. North'ards a bit, I'd say. Somerset, perhaps.'

'l was born in Wells, but my home is now in Bristol.' She nodded in satisfaction. 'I can usually tell. Although we had a travelling minstrel stop here some weeks back who came from Yorkshire. Now that speech I couldn't recognize.' She added, 'Are you married? Do you have children?'

'I was married,' I said, 'but my wife died in childbirth. I have a daughter, Elizabeth, nearly six months old. My mother-in-law takes care of her for me.'