The Weaver's Inheritance (16 page)

In these circumstances, my life was reduced to getting through each day as best I could, with no spare time to pursue my promise to assist in the mystery of Clement Weaver.

‘When my mother-in-law is well again and the better weather comes and I can travel abroad once more,’ I assured Mistress Burnett, meeting her by the High Cross one bleak morning in late February, ‘then you may be certain that I shall resume my enquiries.’

Her nostrils were pinched, her lips blue with cold and she was shivering uncontrollably in spite of her fur-lined cloak, but she paused politely to hear me out. ‘I understand,’ she said, adding that she had no expectations from me as matters stood at present. Greatly daring, I asked her how her father was faring in these icy conditions, only to be fixed with a basilisk stare. ‘I neither know nor care,’ was the embittered answer.

‘And Master Burnett,’ I continued hastily, ‘has he quite recovered from the attack?’

‘He is perfectly himself again, thank you, Chapman,’ she said and walked on down High Street. After a few paces, however, she stopped and glanced over her shoulder. ‘But I shall expect to see you, and hear of your plans, when it grows warmer and Mistress Walker has regained her strength.’

I reassured her for a second time, and went on my way along Broad Street and across the Frome Bridge to Lewin’s Mead, to see if Adela had enough wood chopped to last her for the next few days. It was no surprise to discover Richard Manifold there, for he was to be found visiting the cottage as often as not. I had become inured to his constant presence, and no longer resented it as I had done in the beginning. Nothing had been made by him or his fellow officers, or even by the sheriff himself, of the secret hiding place under the floor and the silk threads caught on the iron bar which lifted the flagstone. They had all settled it in their minds that the murderer of Imelda Bracegirdle was a chance thief who was unlikely ever to be brought to justice; not, that was, unless some other villain, jealous of his friend’s sudden wealth, revealed his name and whereabouts to those in authority. As for the unknown’s knowledge of the hiding place, Richard Manifold had argued that those kind of secrets were bound to reach somebody’s ears eventually. So interest in the mystery had gradually dwindled from being a nine days’ wonder to being no wonder at all, and by the beginning of March the killing was rarely mentioned.

I saw Irwin Peto once or twice around the town, and a couple of times drinking in the New Inn, but for the most part he kept within doors and the shelter of the Alderman’s house, not even emerging for the great Candlemas procession. He needed no further excuses, of course, for this shadowy existence than the atrocious weather and his own impaired health; and I guessed he was relying on the fact that by the time spring arrived, people would have grown so used to the idea of Clement Weaver still being alive that all speculation concerning him would have ceased. I should have liked to speak to him again, but in spite of calling at the Broad Street house on several occasions to sell my goods, I saw neither hide nor hair of him, nor heard even a distant echo of his voice. I had the impression that Dame Pernelle had been told to confine me to the kitchen quarters, so that there was little danger of our meeting. I had served my purpose by confirming to the doting Alderman that the young man’s story of his survival could be true.

By the beginning of April Margaret was fully recovered, putting the lethargy of the past six weeks or so firmly behind her and bustling about the cottage as though she had never been sick, in full command once more of her own domain and resentful of any interference, however well-intentioned. Neighbours were discouraged from doing anything other than enquiring after her health, and I was given to understand that, during the day at least, my absence was preferred to my presence. I was only too happy to oblige; and now that I was a free man again, I could turn my thoughts to Alison and William Burnett and my promise to them.

A sudden thaw, mid-March, had brought heavy flooding in its wake, causing the Friars’ cistern to overflow and several of the pipes conveying the water to Saint John’s Conduit to burst, but it had also been the harbinger of sunnier, milder weather. By the beginning of April, trees were a haze of green, primroses starred the woods with constellations of creamy-yellow blossoms, and purple-veined, honey-scented white violets trembled at the ends of their fragile stalks. Wild arum was starting to thrust its hooded head above the earth, dwarfing the wood sorrel and ground ivy, while along the river banks, the marsh marigolds’ great golden cups were reflected in the rippling water. And as the hardships of winter receded and the balmier weather of spring brought the long-delayed promise of summer, my dreams were once again haunted by a vision of two blue eyes set in a delicate, tragic face, surrounded by an aureole of pale, corn-coloured hair.

‘Can you and Elizabeth manage without me for a night or two?’ I asked Margaret one morning at breakfast.

‘I should think so,’ my mother-in-law answered drily. ‘We’ve managed without you for years. Why should it be any different now? I’m fully recovered.’ She eyed me thoughtfully across the table. ‘When you say a night or two…’

I tried not to look guilty. ‘Maybe a week. I have to go to Frome on business for Mistress Burnett. The Alderman’s cousin-by-marriage lives at Keyford.’ I knew I must sound self-conscious when I said the last word.

Happily for me, the name of the village meant nothing to Margaret, for I had made light of the events of last summer when recounting them to her after returning home. Indeed, I doubted if my story had lodged in her memory for the length of time that it had taken me to tell; and I had not dwelt on the fact that I had delayed my return still further in order to escort Rowena Honeyman from Keynsham to her aunt’s house at Keyford, for fear of giving myself away. For until I had set eyes on this beautiful girl, robbed of her father in such a painful and tragic fashion, I had never believed in love at first sight, nor had I had much interest in romances and the great lovers of history; Tristan and Isolde, Lancelot and Guinevere, Abelard and Eloise. Now, however, their stories were meat and drink to me. I lived, when left to myself, on what seemed a higher plane than the rest of my unfortunate fellow beings; I dreamed of doing impossible feats of chivalry which would win me the love and adoration of this lovely creature. In short, I was behaving like the most callow of youths, although at the age of twenty-four I should have known better.

Over six months had passed since I had last clapped eyes on the lady, and I hoped that sufficient time had elapsed for her to have put behind her the sad circumstances of our first and, so far, only meeting. If the coincidence of Baldwin Lightfoot also living in Keyford had not occurred, I should soon have made an excuse to visit the village. As it was, I could, with a clear conscience, combine my own most fervent desires with my promise to the Burnetts; and I set out at the beginning of April, in the direction of Frome, with a light heart and a spring in my step.

*   *   *

I have already written, earlier in this history, that while I was to play no active part in the political events which were unfolding in the country at large, I was, nevertheless, to be a close spectator and to have an intimate knowledge of them, simply because I chanced to be in the right place at the right moment. I had been at Tewkesbury in January, where I had learned from my old friend, Timothy Plummer, of what were thought to be the Duke of Clarence’s marital intentions, now that both his wife and Charles of Burgundy were dead; but after reaching Bristol, the gossip had gradually faded from my mind, there having been too many, and more personal, matters to absorb my attention. And as I approached Keyford on a seemingly quiet and uneventful morning, some three days after leaving home, nothing could have been further from my expectations than to witness another chapter in this sorry saga of royal brother versus royal brother.

My chosen route had eventually brought me out on to the high ground south-west of the old Saxon settlement of Frome, where the village of Keyford looks down on its larger neighbour. I had spent the previous night very comfortably on the kitchen floor of Nunney Castle, where I had begged admission just as it had been growing dark. Sir John Poulet, its present tenant, was from home, at his principal seat of Basing, in Hampshire, and the servants left to man the castle in his frequent absences had welcomed me in with open arms, glad of a fresh face and voice to break the monotony of existence. This morning, I had been up betimes and, fortunately for me, so had the cook. I had been feasted on buttered eggs, wheaten – not oaten – cakes and small beer flavoured with honey and cinnamon. Long before sun-up, I was walking steadily north-east to Keyford which I reached round about midday, having stopped for my dinner at a wayside cottage, where the goodwife, as well as feeding me, had also bought some things from my pack. Added to all this, I had the prospect of seeing Rowena Honeyman again. Small wonder then that I was whistling as I approached the huddle of houses whose roofs I could just make out ahead of me.

‘You’re very cheerful, Roger,’ a voice said reproachfully out of this seemingly empty landscape.

I nearly jumped out of my skin and whirled around, raising my cudgel, ready to strike.

‘For God’s sake, softly, man! Softly!’ urged the voice, which I now recognised as that belonging to Timothy Plummer.

A moment later, I saw him sitting beneath an ancient oak, some of whose branches reached out to spread across the road.

‘By the Virgin, you gave me a fright,’ I protested, clambering up a little knoll to join him and throwing myself down by his side. ‘What on earth brings you to this part of the world?’

‘You’re a great gawky fellow,’ he complained, forced to shift himself so that I could lean my back against the tree trunk. ‘What did your mother have in her milk to make you so big?’

‘Never mind that. You haven’t answered my question. What brings you here?’

‘Information,’ was the uninformative reply.

‘All right,’ I said, gathering up my cudgel and pack. ‘If you don’t want to tell me…’

He pushed me down again. ‘Don’t get offended.’ He nodded towards the sleepy houses, basking quietly in the sun, and I realised that from this vantage point, we could plainly see the whole of Keyford laid out before us. ‘It looks peaceful enough, doesn’t it? I’m beginning to wonder if I’m not here on a wild goose chase, after all.’

‘What are you expecting to happen?’ I asked curiously, adding, ‘Nothing much ever does here.’

The Duke of Gloucester’s Spy-Master rubbed the tip of his nose. ‘I don’t suppose much news of what’s been going on in the outside world has reached you in Bristol, has it? No, I thought not,’ he continued sourly, when I shook my head. ‘I never knew such a city for being so engrossed in its own petty affairs or in those of its immediate neighbours. The inhabitants always know more about Wales and Ireland than they ever do about London, let alone France.’

‘Tell me, then,’ I invited. ‘What
has
been happening in this great outside world of yours that’s so important?’

Timothy Plummer grimaced. ‘The Duke of Clarence, my boy! He’s what’s been happening.’

‘Brother George?’ I frowned. ‘I remember now that when we met in Tewkesbury, you told me that Duke Richard was afraid he’d offer for Mary of Burgundy’s hand in marriage … He didn’t, did he?’

‘Almost at once. And, of course, Dowager Duchess Margaret lent him all her support. But by God’s grace, and as Duke Richard had predicted she would, Mary refused him.’

‘But that wasn’t the end of the story?’

My companion shrugged. ‘Knowing Clarence, would you expect it to be?’

I reached into my pack and produced two apples that the goodwife had given me from her winter store, to sustain me during the remainder of my journey. I handed one to Timothy and we munched for a moment or two in silence.

‘I also seem to remember, ‘I said at last, ‘that at that same meeting, you prophesied Duke George would blame the Queen and her family if Duchess Mary did refuse him.’

Timothy took another bite of his apple and nodded gloomily. ‘Which is precisely what he has done. But then, you don’t need to be an astrologer to forecast Clarence’s reactions. All his life he’s been like a spoilt child, stamping its little feet and screaming, “Look at me! Look at me!’”

‘I know he’s always hated the Queen and the rest of the Woodvilles. But be fair! The marriage must have come as a nasty shock to him.’

‘It came as a nasty shock to everyone,’ snorted Timothy. ‘Duchess Cicely ranted and raved at the King for days, and even went so far as to hint at his bastardy. But it’s all a long time ago now; thirteen years since the wedding, and everyone has learned to make the best of it. Or, at least, to dissemble their feelings.’

‘Except the Duke of Clarence,’ I murmured. ‘So, what has he been up to?’

Timothy shrugged. ‘So far he’s contented himself with being as unpleasant as possible. He’s absented himself from court without the King’s permission on a number of occasions. Then, when he does deign to put in an appearance, he makes his Chief Taster taste every morsel of food and drop of drink before it passes his lips, the inference being, of course, that the Queen and her relations are trying to poison him. His manners, even towards his elder brother, are atrocious, while he treats Earl Rivers as though he isn’t there at all. Still, the King must take some share of the blame for that. His Highness put the cat among the pigeons as far as his brother-in-law’s concerned.’

I was intrigued. ‘What did he do?’

Timothy regarded me in exasperation.. ‘You really don’t hear anything down here in this western fastness, do you? Or is it simply that any news that doesn’t concern trade and market prices isn’t interesting to the people of Bristol?’

‘Just tell me a plain story,’ I begged. ‘I must move on soon.’

‘The King,’ Timothy explained, and grinned with sudden pleasure at the recollection, ‘offered Earl Rivers as England’s official candidate for the new Duchess of Burgundy’s hand. He guessed, naturally, that Mary would refuse Anthony Woodville – which she did, even more peremptorily than she had Clarence – but he knew how the offer would infuriate his brother, and I suppose he couldn’t resist cutting George down to size. The trouble is,’ my companion added, the grin fading, ‘there was an almighty row, and Duke Richard is being forced, as usual, to play piggy-in-the-middle. His health is suffering accordingly, and he looks thinner and more careworn than ever.’