[Roger the Chapman 04] - The Holy Innocents (10 page)

'And after Mary was born, you returned to Devon, to live with Sir Jasper.'

Grizelda smiled. 'You speak with confidence: Jacinta seems to have told you a great deal. But yes, you're right. We came home, and I, for one, was glad. I disliked London, a dirty, noisy place. And more traffic crowding the roads in one day than you would see in six months in Totnes. For over a twelvemonth, we were settled and happy, and I had the maid, Bridget Prattle, to help with the care of the children. You met her grandam yesterday morning, at the hocking.'
 

'I recollect,' I said feelingly. 'What happened, then, to disturb you at the end of a year?'

'Sir Jasper died suddenly on Corpus Christi Eve. He was in the counting-house, talking to his clerk, when he just fell to the floor with a terrible groan and was taken up dead. Two months later, my own father died of a rheum, too much neglected, which turned to a fever and carried him off within a few days. I would have returned to the holding then, as my duty dictated, but Rosamund begged me to remain and continue to look after the children. They knew and loved me, she said, as I knew and loved them. And indeed, with all my partiality, I have to admit that she was not a good mother. She was by nature too indolent and selfish. 'So, I stayed. As you already know, I let Innes Woodsman run the holding for me in return for free lodging, and in this way, life continued for another two years. There were a number of suitors for Rosamund's hand during that time, as you would expect with such a wealthy young widow, especially one who, thanks to Master Thomas Cozin, was growing even richer. But none of them was successful. Not one was the man she wanted. And then in late summer, three years since, she decided to go to London to stay awhile with some former neighbours in Paternoster Row: a Ginèvre Napier and her husband, Gregory. Gregory Napier is a goldsmith with a shop in West Cheap, between Foster Lane and Gudrun Lane.'
 

'But you and the children did not go with her?'
 

'No. Rosamund had grown bored. She was restless for excitement, diversity. She said she was growing old before her time. It so happened, that August, that an elderly and respectable couple from the other side of the river, old friends of Sir Jasper, were travelling to London to visit their married daughter who lived in the Bread Street Ward, so Rosamund went with them. She was supposed to come back with them, also, three weeks later, but when Master Harrison and his goodwife called for her on the homeward journey, Rosamund told them that Ginèvre had urged her remain longer with her and her husband, and that she would make her own arrangements for returning to Totnes. That was the message they delivered, not without some distress, for I think they felt responsible for her. Nor did they care overmuch for Ginèvre Napier; I could tell, both by their manner and the way they talked about her. But there was nothing they could do. Rosamund was responsible to nobody but herself for her actions.'

Grizelda sighed, paused and then continued, 'She did not come home until October; the end, for it was only a day or so before All Hallows' Eve when she arrived in a splendid new wagonette, upholstered inside with velvet cushions, and with velvet curtains across the windows to keep out the cold.

She was not alone. There was a man with her. As she descended from the wagon, the children ran to greet her.

"My dearlings," she said, stooping to kiss them, "this is your new father, Mamma's new husband, Master Eudo Colet." '

There was a profound silence in the cottage, and I became aware once more of the birds singing in the trees outside. I could also hear the snorting and snuffling of a herd of pigs, as their owner drove them into the forest to root for beechmast and truffles. A man's voice called a greeting, to which Grizelda responded. Then the silence drifted back, deeper than before.

I had a vivid, mind's eye picture of the scene my companion had just conjured up for me; the wagonette drawing up to the door, the horses blowing steam in the cold, wintry air, the two children running excitedly to greet their mother, who had been absent for so many months and had now, at last, returned to them. I saw Rosamund - or, at least, the likeness I had created in my imagination - descend from the carriage and stoop for their embrace. And, behind her, making a leisurely descent, was the shadowy figure of an unknown man.

'What happened then?' I inquired at last.

'Nothing.' Grizelda spoke sharply. 'What could happen? She had married him, and he had the marriage lines to prove it. He was our new master, the children's stepfather. We had to accept it.'

'But you didn't like him,' I said quietly, when she appeared reluctant to say anything further.

'I hated him from the first.' Her voice was low, but vehement.

'You must have had a reason,' I urged, after another silence.

Grizelda shifted on the bench, easing her back against the wall. She seemed to relax suddenly, as though relieved to be able to talk openly at last to a sympathetic stranger.

'But that was just the trouble. I had no good reason for the way I felt about Eudo Colet, except an instinctive mistrust of the man. There was something about him from the very start that made me sure he was of peasant stock. Oh, my bucko looked very fine in the rich clothes that undoubtedly Rosamund had bought for him. But he wasn't comfortable in them. He was unused to such finery and paraded it like a peacock, whereas a gentleman who always wore that kind of apparel would have thought nothing of it. And it was the same when he bestrode a horse. Oh, he could ride, but he had a heavy hand on the bridle and the bit tore at the animal's mouth. He had been used to sturdier animals, working beasts, not the mettlesome horseflesh in Rosamund's stables.'
 

'And you considered him an adventurer, after your cousin's money?'

'Yes. How was it possible for me to think otherwise? And neither Rosamund nor he would ever talk about his life before they met. What he was, where he came from remained a secret which only they shared. As I said earlier, not even Master Cozin could uncover anything concerning him, although he despatched two of his servants to London to make inquiries.

Rosamund was beside herself with fury when she found out, and it led to a breach of several months between them. But she needed Thomas to run her affairs, and when she discovered that he had been unsuccessful, she forgave him.'

'What about Master Cozin's brother, the attorney? Did he ever make any attempt to get at the truth?'

'He may have done. I think it most probable, but I never heard of it. Rosamund had ceased to confide in me. I'm afraid I had made my dislike of Eudo too plain. My belief is that she would have suggested I leave and return here to live, had I not been so useful to her with the children. She had no need to trouble her head about them while I was there to look after them. She was free to spend her time as she wished, with her husband.'

'And how did they seem together?'

'To begin with, all was well. She doted on him.' Again, Grizelda coloured faintly. 'Eudo Colet gave her.., what she wanted in a man. He provided.., what we were talking of just now. In that respect, he was everything that Henry Skelton was not. But as time went on, there were disagreements between them. For it was obvious to me that she was far fonder of him than he of her, which only served to confirm my suspicions that he had married her for her money. In those circumstances, it was natural that, on occasions, his eyes should stray towards other women. But,' Grizelda added grudgingly, 'I don't believe he deceived her in any bolder fashion.'

'And the children?' I asked. 'Was he kind to them?' She shrugged. 'Neither kind nor unkind. If he were forced to take notice of them, he was polite enough, but for the most part, like Rosamund, he ignored them. As long as I attended to all Mary's and Andrew's needs, there was no reason why their mother or Eudo should have much to do with them.'

I interposed here with a question I had been wanting to ask for sometime, because of a memory nagging at the back of my mind.

'What does he look like, this Eudo Colet?'

Orizelda considered, taking her time before answering. At length, she said, 'Dark of hair and general complexion. Eyes the colour of hazel nuts, a slightly crooked nose and full lips above a bushy, dark brown beard. A twelvemonth younger than Rosamund. Five years younger than me.'

'Then I've seen him!' I exclaimed triumphantly. 'Yesterday afternoon, early. I was returning to the town after eating my dinner down by St Peter's Quay, when I encountered this horseman near the Leper Hospital. He was mounted on a chestnut with pale mane and taft, but appeared uneasy in the handling of the animal. A bearded man, richly dressed.'
 

Grizelda nodded. 'Eudo, undoubtedly. Where was he going?'

'We didn't speak, but he was riding downhill, in the direction of the bridge.'

'Then he was returning to his lodgings. Since he quit the house, after the children's murder, he has been staying with Agatha Tenter and her mother.'

'So Jacinta informed me. She seemed to find the fact significant.'

Grizelda's head reared up. 'Significant? In what way?'
 

'That she didn't make clear to me, but I should hazard a guess that she suspects some sort of affection between Master Colet and Agatha Tenter. You said yourself that he had a wandering eye. Might it not have ranged as far as the cook? After all, they were together, night and day, under the same roof-'

Grizelda bit her lip. 'I never saw sign of such an attachment, but that's not to say there mightn't have been one. Agatha's a year or so older than I, but not yet in her dotage.' She gave me a sly, sidelong glance, conscious of fishing for a compliment, and hurried on, 'A good-looking enough woman, too, if you like red hair and a buxom figure.'

I said nothing, only shook my head and grinned. Almost, but not quite, by accident, I shifted a little closer to Grizelda on the bench. After a momentary start, she made no effort to put more distance between us.

'I've made you lose the thread of your story with my interuptions,' I apologized. 'Your cousin's death in childbirth must have changed many things.'

'It did. Rosamund discovered she was pregnant in February of last year. The baby was due around Martinmas. Strangely, with both Andrew and Mary she had difficulty in carrying them, but easy births. With her third child, it was exactly the reverse. She was well and happy throughout the entire nine months, with Eudo dancing attendance on her every minute of the day. To give him his due, I have never seen a man more delighted at the prospect of becoming a father; although I could not rid myself of the nation that he saw the coming child as a means of silencing much of the rumour and gossip which, even after two years, still persisted about him. But then, at the last, it all went wrong, and be lost not only his son, but his wife, as well. However,' Grizelda continued cynically, 'Rosamund's death has left him a very rich man.'
 

'No more,' I pointed out, 'than he has been from the moment he married her and became her lord.'
 

Grizelda wrinkled her nose. 'I don't think he had truly accepted, until that moment, that everythinng she had was his; yet another proof to me that he was not of gentle birth. He was too easily overawed by the power of money and by people such as lawyers. But after Rosamund's death, all that changed. He began to realize just how wealthy he was.' Her pleasant features hardened. 'Unfortunately for him, the partnership between Sir Jasper and Thomas Cozin had, in law, been dissolved when the former died, but Thomas, out of the goodness of his heart, had continued to share the profits of the enterprise with his old friend's daughter. But hardly was the funeral over, and Rosamund laid to rest, than Thomas announced his intention of doing so no longer. And that,' Grizelda added, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, 'was when I began to be afraid for the safety of my charges.'

Chapter Seven

By now, the sun was high in the heavens, and the shadows which lay across the beaten-earth floor were shortening as it rose towards its zenith. It was growing warm; too warm for early April, experience having taught me that heat too soon in the year often presaged a wet and chilly summer. I was hungry, for it was past the hour of dinner, but I was too eager to hear the rest of Grizelda's story to interrupt her with a request for food. By good fortune, however, she thought of it herself, standing up and shaking out her skirt. She had on the same one of blue brocella that she had worn the previous day.

'It's time we ate,' she said firmly. 'I can offer you bread and cheese, apples and oatcakes, washed down with some more of my ale, to which you seem to have taken a liking.' I accepted gladly everything except the ale. She made a potent brew and I had drunk enough. My head was already beginning to swim. So she filled me a beaker of water from the barrel which stood outside the cottage door, and then suggested that we, too, go outside and warm ourselves in the sunshine. So we sat on a stone bench which ran the length of the south-facing wall, eating Grizelda's excellent home-baked bread flavoured with corncockle seeds, cheese, made from the milk of her cow, oatcakes sweetened with honey, and some small shrivelled apples from last autumn's gathering, given to her by a neighbour. The rainwater from the barrel was cool and refreshing; in dry spells, she told me, when the supply ran out, she was forced to haul her water up by bucket from the river.

'Hard work,' she grimaced, 'but, luckily, I'm strong. Even luckier, I've only had to do it twice since my return to the cottage in January.'