[Roger the Chapman 05] - Eve of Saint Hyacinth (4 page)

She looked up as Jennet ushered me into the room and Iaid aside her embroidery. Her face, a moment ago so discontented, was suddenly wreathed in smiles. She had, I noticed, the most engaging dimple.

'Chapman!' she exclaimed, clapping her hands together and seeming a little taken aback, as people so often were, by my size and youthfulness. She laughed uncertainly.

‘GoodnessI How tall you are. Pray sit down, there, in that chair opposite, or you'll quite overwhelm me. Now,' she went on a trifle breathlessly, 'what do you have in your pack?'

For the third time that day I emptied its contents and laid them out for inspection. Lady Wardroper carefully scrutinized every item, but I could see that her eyes were drawn back time and again to the violet leather gloves. At last she put out a hand and fingered them.

'They're not new,' I informed her quickly, before she had time to make the point herself. 'You'll note that the left thumb is somewhat rubbed on the tip.'

She gave me a smile. 'I had noticed, and wondered if you'd be honest enough to tell me, especially as the mark is so slight. So how did you come to acquire them?' When she had listened to my story she nodded understandingly.

'Many people have felt the pinch of raised taxation this year, I know. Happily, Sir Cedric - my husband - has been able to weather the storm without any fear of drowning, but others less fortunate than we are have been unable to keep their heads above water.' She studied me thoughtfully.

'You look an honest fellow so I trust you gave this poor gentlewoman a fair price?' I named the sum and she seemed satisfied. 'More than sufficient. Very well! What will you ask of me, if I decide to buy?'

We haggled a little, but in the end she professed herself happy to accede to my price. She rang the small bell at her elbow and, when Jennet appeared, instructed her to conduct me to the counting-house and tell the treasurer to pay me. And while I put the rest of my goods back into my pack Lady Wardroper picked up the gloves and put them on, holding her hands away from her so that she could admire the effect. At the same time she hummed a snatch of song, finally breaking into verse with the words, 'It is the end. No matter what is said, I must love.' She gave me a coquettish glance and asked, 'Do you like music, chapman?' adding regretfully, 'I know no man who does.'
 

'Unhappily, my lady, I've no ear for it at all, but the words sounded ... sad,' I finished lamely, unable to offer any greater appreciation.

She laughed. 'It's beautiful. French. A Trouvère song and, as you say, rather sad. It's called
C'est la fin
, and if accompanied by the Breton bombardt, very affecting.'
 

When the door had closed between us Jennet let out a snort of laughter. 'Full of airs and graces, she is! You'd think she'd be past all that nonsense at her age, wouldn't you?’

‘How old is Lady Wardroper?' I asked, mildly curious.

Jennet tossed her head. 'With a son of seventeen years she can't be that young, can she? It stands to reason. Besides, you can see it by the wrinkles on her neck and the backs of her hands. Mind you, I don't say she was much more'n sixteen when Master Matthew was born. Or so I've been told. I'm too young to remember.'

'But Sir Cedric's much older?'

'By twenty-five year I'd reckon. He dotes on her, but strangely enough he don't get on that well with Master Matthew.' She led me down a narrow, twisting stair to a small, dark landing at the back of the house. 'And yet,' Jennet went on, 'the young Master's the spit and image of his mother. To look at, anyway. And he seems to have her sunny, happy-go-lucky nature. Not that I've seen that much of him, mind you. Only these past few months since he returned from up-country. Somewhere near Leicester.'
 

'So I was told,' I answered. 'But I suppose what appeals in the wife doesn't necessarily recommend the son. Sir Cedric probably hoped that his only child would be more in his own mould than his mother's.'

'That's possible,' Jennet agreed, coming to a halt a foot or two distant from a curtained archway. 'The Master's a bluff, hard-drinking man who would wish his son to be the same.' She indicated the leather curtain. 'Through there's the counting-house.' She laid a hand on my sleeve. 'It's getting late. Do you need a bed for the night? I could persuade Cook, I dare say, to find you a corner in the kitchen.'

'I should be very grateful,' I told her, smiling. 'I had hoped that I might find a billet here. And if you could speak for me...'

'Consider it as good as done,' Jennet replied demurely.

Chapter Three

At cockcrow the following morning, I sat up quietly on the pile of straw which had been allocated to me in the still warm kitchen and glanced down at the figure lying beside me.

Jennet remained asleep, the long lashes making two half-moons of reddish gold on her creamy cheeks. Her hair, of the same colour as the lashes and now unbound, streamed across the makeshift pillow of my pack, almost concealing her face. One softly rounded arm was thrown clear of the rough grey blanket which covered us both, and which she had brought with her from the truckle-bed she had abandoned in her mistress's antechamber.

It had been no surprise when, in the small hours of the chilly June morning, Jennet had crept into the kitchen and snuggled down by my side. Her glances, the previous evening, had half-promised such a visit and she knew that the kitchen would be occupied by no one but myself. No other traveller had disturbed Chilworth's peace that day and she had herself informed me that the cook, kitchen-maids and pot-boy had sleeping quarters in the main hall, in company with the rest of the servants.

I observed her in silence some moments longer, then touched her gently on the shoulder. She was awake on the instant, tossing back the blanket and sitting up to hug her knees. The mane of hair acted as a cloak, but the swelling curves of her limbs and breasts were visible through the tangled tresses.

'You must go,' I whispered reluctantly and nodded towards the cracks of light around the shutters. 'Some of the servants are already stirring. I can hear them.' I leaned across and kissed her willing lips. 'And it's almost time for me to be on my way.'

Jennet sighed, got up and draped herself in the blanket.

She stood looking down at me, a slight smile touching the full, sensuous mouth, a sparkle in the grey-green eyes.

Then she winked, hitched the blanket more firmly around her and padded across to the door, her bare feet slapping on the flagstones.

Left alone, I dressed quickly and went outside to the courtyard pump, splashing my face and hands with the icy water. By the time I returned to the kitchen, two of the maids had made their appearance, yawning and rubbing the sleep from their leaden eyes. I cajoled one of them into boiling water for me to shave with, having first agreed to work the bellows and blow some life into last night's embers, smouldering on the hearth. The second girl, without inducement, said that if I liked she would make me gruel and fry a collop of bacon to go with it, an offer which I gratefully accepted. I was still eating when the cook arrived, but she merely nodded in my direction, making no comment other than that she trusted I'd soon be off, as she didn't want me under her feet any longer than was necessary°

'I'm away this minute,' I assured her cheerfully, shovelling the last of the bacon into my mouth and pulling on my jerkin. 'It looks as if it'll be a fine day and I don't want to waste it.'

'Where are you heading for?' she asked, tying on her apron and wielding a massive ladle.

'Today, Winchester. But eventually London.' She gave a throaty chuckle. 'They say the streets there are paved with gold, but I doubt it's like any other place, mostly horse-shit.'

'True enough,' I laughed. 'And dead dogs and rotting garbage and fly-blown muck. Pigs running amok when they've no right to be within city limits and various other contraventions of the law.'

'And murder,' she suggested. 'I dare say there's plenty of that.'

'Oh yes,' I agreed. 'There's always wickedness of that sort even in the smallest town.' I had spoken with more bitterness than I intended and the cook glanced sharply at me. I went on quickly, 'Is there another path to the Winchester road from here, or must I go back the way I came and return to the ford?'

'Ay, there is another path,' she conceded. 'It's a track well known to local people and you'll probably find it easily enough if you follow my directions.' She accompanied me to the kitchen door and stood looking out at the hazy morning, where the sun was just beginning to penetrate the mist. Somewhere to our right a large bird, a wood pigeon perhaps, clattered through the branches of the trees. The cook gestured with her ladle. 'When you go from here return to the stream and continue eastwards. Just after leaving demesne lands you'll come to a woodsman's cottage at the junction of another track, running north and bearing westwards. It's a well-trodden path and, if you keep to it, it will join the Winchester road some mile or two south of the town.'

I nodded, picturing the triangle of roads in my mind's eye, and foresaw no problem in discovering my way. The cook, however, was not so certain.

'The first league should present few difficulties. It's well worn and will lead you directly to a hermitage in the middle of the woods. But half a mile or so beyond that, be careful.

The main path thereabouts is not so easily discernible from several others which thread the denser woodland and you might get lost. It's happened to strangers on more than one occasion. Natives such as myself, who know the countryside well from childhood, never miss their way and nor should anyone else if they have been warned and keep their wits about them.' She tapped me on the arm. 'You seem a clever lad. Watch out for the signs and keep bearing nor'-westwards.'

I thanked her, humped my pack on to my shoulders and started out briskly. Although I glanced back several times, there was no sign of Jennet. I smiled reminiscently. We should probably never meet again, but just for a little while last night we had given each other pleasure and a gentle affection.

I was lost. Somehow, at some point, I had taken the wrong turning, and on reflection I thought I knew where that had been.

I had passed the hermitage, set within its neat patch of vegetable garden, a while ago, and proceeded along the track with confidence. After all, had the cook not called me a 'clever lad'? And had I not, in my heart of hearts, agreed with her? (And does it not say in Ecclesiasticus that pride is hateful before God and man?) It had been simple enough at first to recognize the lesser paths which began to lace the forest floor with their shady, criss-crossed lines, vanishing deep into a subaqueous gloom. But at last I arrived at a place where two tracks diverged with a stealth so subtle that it should have brought me to a halt while I considered which one to follow. Had I done so, I realized now, I should unhesitatingly have taken the narrower, left-hand path, whose distant prospect curved in a westerly direction and whose surface was beaten flatter than the one I chose.

Moreover, memory told me that the overhanging branches had been cut back by the sticks and crops and billhooks of former travellers anxious to ease their way through the crowding trees.

Instead, without even pausing to think - indeed, being deep in happy recollections of Jennet - I had selected the tougher but broader track which, after some quarter-mile, gradually dwindled to little more than a trail of trodden down grasses between encroaching brakes of elder and thrusting saplings. The trees arched and towered above my head, while sodden leaves, denied any hint of sun, squelched beneath my feet in a treacherous, slippery morass. Furthermore, I was moving inexorably, if almost imperceptibly, in an easterly direction, away from the junction with the Winchester road.

I cursed myself roundly for my foolishness and the uncaring arrogance which had led to my present predicament. Although predicament was perhaps too strong a word, for I had no serious doubt of being able to cut my way through the tangle of undergrowth to my left and rejoin the proper path whenever I chose. I decided, however, to follow the grassy trail for a little while longer, in the hope of finding another such animal track, which would save me the cost of torn hose and a snagged jerkin. Also, my bulky pack could prove a severe handicap in virgin territory, where untamed bramble thickets were as plentiful as the crop of pale blossoms that they at present carried.

Suddenly the trees drew back a little and I found myself in what had once been a small clearing, but was now knee deep in grass and flowers. And in the middle was an abandoned shrine, the niche where once its saint had stood hollow-eyed and empty. The cracked grey stones thrust above a smother of ivy like bones from broken skin and a tangle of loosestrife, succory and tansy pushed its way through holes and crevices in the crumbling mortar. I moved closer, trampling the long grass underfoot, slid the pack from my back and examined the shrine more carefully. There was no indication as to which saint it had been dedicated to, but I did have some idea as to why it had been so thoroughly forgotten. A swift reconnaissance of the surrounding area showed me humps and bumps in the turf, together with outcroppings of stone which suggested that there might once have been dwellings around the clearing. I suspected that this could have been the site of a small hamlet; probably over a hundred years ago, before the Great Plague devastated Europe in the middle of the preceding century, wiping out whole communities.