The Saint John's Fern (19 page)

What I thought, with a sudden, excited lurch of my stomach, was that I had seen the same arrangement of those two letters a day or so ago, in a hat brooch with a pendant, teardrop pearl; an ornament that was now nestling deep in the belt-pouch at my waist.

I reached out and took hold of my companion’s hand, drawing it nearer to me, and my examination revealed that I had not been mistaken.

‘A fine jewel, indeed,’ I said, trying to keep my voice level. ‘Was it made for you? A present, perhaps?’

He hesitated before replying, and his eyes could not quite bring themselves to meet mine.

‘It … it belonged to my father,’ he stammered. ‘And his father before him. A family heirloom, in fact.’ He must have seen my expression of incredulity, because he flushed painfully and jerked his wrist free of my grasp. ‘It was given to my grandfather in thanks,’ he said, ‘by a gentleman to whom he had supplied some especially fine fruit for a special meal that he was giving. It so happened that their initials were the same.’

It must have sounded as lame an explanation to his own ears as it did to mine, and he looked even more uncomfortable than he had done hitherto. But, wisely, he decided that further embroidery of so improbable a story could only do more harm than good, and folded his lips together in defiant silence.

To his obvious relief, I made no attempt, for the time being at least, to press him further on the subject, and steered the conversation into less contentious waters. But although we chatted easily enough of this and that, and I was treated, inevitably, to his views on the present state of affairs between the King and his brother, the Duke of Clarence, my thoughts were busy elsewhere.

That the ring, like the hat brooch, had belonged to Beric Gifford, I had few doubts, but whereas I felt certain in my own mind that the latter had been accidentally lost, the thumb ring might well have been given to Bevis Godsey for a service rendered or to ensure his silence, or, in the absence of ready cash, in payment of a debt; and the coincidence of the two men’s initials being the same would make the gift that much more acceptable. But first, for my personal satisfaction, I had to make sure that Bevis Godsey’s story of his grandfather’s acquisition of the ring was false.

This, in the event, proved to be much easier than I had anticipated, for he was a man seemingly unused to lying, and, having made up the story on the spur of the moment in order to combat my patent disbelief, he had failed to lay any foundations in his memory for it. An hour and some several cups of ale later, I managed, by devious means, to bring the talk round to the subject of given names, and the predilection of most parents for having their male offspring christened after husband or father or grandfather, thus sowing confusion in nearly every family.

‘No doubt, you were so called for that reason,’ I added with apparent innocence. ‘Bevis is an uncommon name.’

‘It’s from an old Norman word, meaning “bull”,’ my companion said proudly. He went on, ‘My mother heard it somewhere or the other, and liked it. It was entirely her choice, and had nothing to do with either my father or grandfather. They were not so baptized.’

‘You surprise me,’ I lied.

Bevis shook his head reminiscently. ‘My father always complained that it was far too fancy a name. He and his father were both called John, which, he maintained, being the name of Our Lord’s most beloved disciple, was good enough for any man.’

He seemed completely unaware of the fact that he had just destroyed his explanation about how his family had acquired the thumb ring, and continued to smile at me, more than a little drunk by now, from the opposite side of the table.

To make assurance doubly sure, I said, ‘Your grandfather was a fruit grower, you say, as you are. Who was the gentleman he served?’

Again, no warning bells sounded in my companion’s sleepy head; no recollection, however hazy, of the story of the matching initials.

‘He was one of the very last of the Oxton family,’ he answered. ‘A distant kinsman, I believe, of the Oxtons who were Lords of the Manor of Modbury after the de Valletorts and before Champernownes.’

‘Ah, yes! I’ve heard of them.’ I rose and stretched my arms above my head. ‘I’m bone-weary. I think I’ll go to bed, if you’ve no objections?’

Bevis also got to his feet, having swallowed the dregs of his ale.

‘I’m ready to join you. I don’t think we shall see Brother Anselm tonight, after all, and it’s been a long day. I was abroad before first light this morning. Come with me, and I’ll show you where to sleep.’

I followed him into a neighbouring room, where two straw-filled mattresses had been laid side by side on the floor and covered with rough woollen blankets. Bevis and I appeared to be the only guests staying in the hostelry that night, for which mercy I was thankful.

I began pulling off my boots. ‘Which route did you travel today,’ I asked, ‘to get here?’

And now, unexpectedly, he grew wary. In the flickering radiance of the candle that we had brought with us from the ale-room, I could see the sudden tension in his face. Those alarm bells which had failed to alert him twenty minutes since, were now ringing loudly.

‘Oh,’ he answered vaguely, ‘I kept to the usual paths. They’re safest.’

I remembered something he had mentioned earlier. ‘You said that you’ve left your cart on the mainland. What about your horse? Where is it stabled?’

‘It’s – er – it’s a handcart,’ he replied as casually as he could, but I heard the note of chagrin in his voice.

I mentally reassessed his position in the social scale, as he must have known I should. Bevis was not as well off as I had supposed. He did not own a horse, and it was therefore highly probable that neither his father nor his grandfather had done so either. This information made it even less likely that the latter, presented with a valuable gift such as the thumb ring, would not have sold it and turned it into money. I needed no further proof. I was totally convinced by now that the ring had been, until recently, the property of Beric Gifford. But where had Bevis met him, and under what circumstances?

Having stripped down to my shirt and hose, I lay down on one of the mattresses and pulled the blankets up around my chin. My companion did likewise and blew out the candle.

‘Did you sell your fruit in Modbury market before coming on to the island?’ I asked, hoping that my interest in his movement sounded offhanded enough to prevent suspicion. Bevis made a sort of grunting noise that I took for assent, so I continued, ‘I understand that there’s a house of some size between Modbury and the coast. I thought I might try to find it on my return journey tomorrow. The women of the household might be glad to buy from me. Do you know the place I mean?’

‘Valletort Manor,’ he answered reluctantly. ‘Yes, I know it. I’ve visited it once or twice in the past, but not today. I went nowhere near it today.’ And with this strangely overemphatic statement, my companion turned on his side, humping his back towards me, and would respond to no more of my questions on the subject. Within minutes, he was either fast asleep, or feigning to be so.

Although extremely weary, I lay awake a while longer thinking about the thumb ring and wondering how it came to be in Bevis Godsey’s possession. Even on such a short acquaintance, I did not believe him to be a thief, and anyway, how on earth would he have managed to pilfer it from off Beric Gifford’s hand? No, I felt certain that it had been given to him in payment for some service rendered, but what sort of service, I could not imagine.

But where and when had he met Beric? Bevis’s urgent denial that he had been anywhere near Valletort Manor today suggested the opposite to my already distrustful mind. Yet, if it had been within the manor pale that the two men had encountered one another, why had it been necessary for Beric to pay for any kind of favour with a valuable ornament, when he had easy access to his doting sister’s purse?

There might be an answer to that question, I eventually decided. If Bevis Godsey had not known who Beric was, had met him at a sufficient distance from Valletort Manor not to guess at his identity, then Beric had probably wished to keep him in the dark. A visit to the house and his return with money, could well have alerted Bevis to the truth, or, at the very least, made him curious. On the other hand, the initials in the ring would provide a clue as to Beric’s identity.

It was an unsatisfactory explanation, but then, the whole situation was as muddied as a village pond. For instance, what sort of favour was Bevis Godsey capable of rendering Beric Gifford that could not be performed by either Katherine Glover or Berenice? I had seen little of the former and even less of the latter, but for all that, both had struck me as being strong-minded women, perfectly able to carry through any task, however formidable, in the name of love.

But that was as far as I got in my deliberations that night, because sleep overtook me; and apart from a resolve to confront Bevis Godsey with my suspicions on the following day, I knew nothing else until morning.

*   *   *

I was awoken by the faint, sad crying of the gulls.

Suddenly alert and vigorous, I heaved myself off my mattress and threw wide the shutters, letting in the grey light of an early dawn. The stars were paling fast, some of them already snuffed out, and there was the damp, delicious smell of dew-drenched grass. The air was fresh and easy to breathe, and I could hear the eternal murmuring of the sea.

I turned to my companion, ready to rouse him to the delights of this brand-new day, only to find his mattress empty, the blankets neatly folded at the foot, himself nowhere to be seen. I scrambled into my clothes, snatched up my pack and cudgel and went in search of Geoffrey Shapwick at his cottage.

‘Bevis Godsey?’ he said, when I eventually ran him to earth on the hillside, driving the sheep from pen to pasture, in company with two of the brothers. ‘He left early, before it was light; as soon as the tide had receded enough to allow him to cross dryshod to the mainland. He asked me to give you his good wishes and to say that he had enjoyed your company. He was sorry he couldn’t stay until you woke, but he had urgent business at home and wanted to be there by midday.’

I cursed silently. If I had not slept so soundly, worn out by my long walk and the sea air, I might have been disturbed by Bevis’s stealthy rising, and been able to question him further about the ring. But at least, now, I felt sure that he had something to hide. Probably, waking with a clearer head, he had recalled our conversation of the previous night and realized that he had given the lie twice over to his original story. And he would guess that I had realized it, too. The only course, therefore, was flight before I tried to satisfy my curiosity with yet more questions.

I stripped off and waded into the sea to wash away yesterday’s dirt, then dressed again, cleaned my teeth with my willow bark and begged some of the monks’ fresh water, brought to the island in barrels, in which to shave. By this time, Geoffrey Shapwick had returned to his cottage and prepared me a breakfast of a couple of fried bacon collops between two hunks of coarse, oaten bread, washed down with yet more ale.

‘You’ll be on your way as well, I dare say,’ he remarked as I stuffed the last mouthful of bread and meat into my mouth and wiped my lips free of grease on the back of my hand. ‘Now that the tide’s out.’

I nodded, then, when able to speak, enquired thickly, ‘Bevis Godsey, does he come here often?’

‘About once a month,’ was the answer, thus confirming what Bevis himself had told me. ‘He brings us fresh fruit and such vegetables as we can’t grow ourselves on the island. He sells also to the fisherfolk along the shore.’

‘What about Valletort Manor?’ I asked. ‘Does he call there, do you know?’

Geoffrey Shapwick hunched his shoulders. ‘Probably. Now and then.’

‘Did he visit it yesterday, do you know?’ I persisted.

I was given an odd look for my pains. ‘If he did, he didn’t mention it to me, but he was talking to Brother Anselm for most of the time before you arrived. You’re an inquisitive fellow, I must say.’

‘I always have been,’ I answered cheerfully, humping my pack on to my back and preparing to take my leave. ‘God be with you, Master Shapwick. Where can I find Brother Anselm at this hour of the morning?’

‘He went up to Saint Michael’s chapel to douse the lamp for me, as I had your breakfast to see to. He might still be there. He doesn’t move very quickly nowadays.’

The chapel was very small – no more, I should guess, than some five paces long and four paces broad. Brother Anselm was indeed still there, staring out to sea through one of the windows set in the eastern wall.

‘I’ve come to take my leave of you, Brother,’ I said, ‘and thank you for your hospitality.’

‘I trust you were comfortable, my child.’ He patted my arm with an avuncular smile. ‘You passed a good night?’

‘I slept like a log,’ I assured him. ‘I had pleasant company, too, for the evening. Bevis Godsey,’ I added.

‘Ah yes! Bevis! A bit of a chatterer, but a good man, for all that. It was because he stayed talking to me that he was caught by the tide.’

‘He comes once a month, I understand, to bring you fresh fruit and vegetables.’

‘Yes. We have a few things from him, but not enough I’m afraid to make it worth his while to travel this distance, unless he had another reason to do so.’

‘And does he?’ I prompted.

‘Fortunately! He has kin amongst the fisherfolk. His mother was a member of one of the families hereabouts. And they are very clannish, very tightly knit communities, you know. They never lose touch with one another, not even when they go some miles away to live, as did Bevis’s mother, Susan Glover. Indeed you might say that the Glovers are the most clannish family of the lot.’

Chapter Fourteen

I walked back across the slowly widening causeway of sand that linked Burrow Island to the mainland at ebb tide. Above me, the gulls wheeled and called, or floated aimlessly like scraps of torn parchment, while oystercatchers and redshanks waded in the shallows, pecking hungrily at whatever flotsam had been thrown up by the sea. Ahead of me, thin grasses crested dunes that gave shelter to a cluster of slate-roofed cottages, built just above the high-water line. Boats lay upturned on rocks veined with yellow seaweed, fishing nets stretched across them to dry. And I knew that on the far side of the headland was another fishing community, larger, because more protected, than the one directly in my line of vision, where I could already see and hear signs of life. Smoke rose into the still air through the holes in the cottage roofs and early morning sounds threaded the silence.