[Roger the Chapman 04] - The Holy Innocents (23 page)

'Let me be!' I shouted over my shoulder.

Her steps faltered and stopped. As I rounded the bend in the street, I glanced back briefly. She was standing motionless, desolate, her arms fallen limply to her sides. Just for a moment, I felt an impulse to return, but I had my pride and I had been insulted. I carried on down the hill and passed through the East Gate without so much as a nod to the keeper.

The April afternoon was hot and the roads dusty from lack of rain. Behind me, the little town, high on its hill, sparkled like a jewel in the sunshine, and in a meadow which bordered the Dart, two lambs played, enjoying the unseasonal warmth.

In a walled garden, the gate stood open to reveal fruit trees, vegetables and sweet-smelling herbs. The sky was an unbroken blue, and a flock of starlings flew across the face of the sun, like a cloud of blown petals. Presently, I left the cultivated strips by the riverside and plunged into the woods, dark, yet glowing. Here and there, the dense leaf mould crackled with a scattering of last year's oak leaves, as yet unclaimed by the earth. All about me lay a forbidding hush, and tree trunks, overgrown with brambles, slowed my progress, bringing me at last to a halt.

With a shock, I realized that I had no idea where I was going.

For the last few miles, I had simply walked without any sense of purpose or direction. My one thought was to get as far away as possible from Totnes. Now, finally coming to my senses, I knew by the position of the sun that I must have been travelling north-westwards and would eventually arrive - if I returned to, and followed, the course of the river - at the great Cistercian abbey of Buckfast. If I reached there before nightfall, I could sleep in the guest-hall or, if it were full with more important travellers, in one of the abbey barns.

After walking some way further, I emerged into a broad ride where, to my right, I caught a distant gleam of water among the trees. I followed it to the river's edge, and found myself once again among the small settlements and holdings stretched along the banks of the Dart. A narrow ribbon of track threaded them all together, and I walked until I discovered a likely looking cottage with a well-stocked vegetable patch, a fat pig rootling and snorting in its sty, and an equally fat and contented cow in the field behind it. Moreover, a comfortably rotund and well-fleshed goodwife was tending her herb garden. Here, without doubt, there would be food in plenty, and enough to spare for a passing stranger.

I was not disappointed, and was soon seated with my back against the wall of the cottage, a plate of bread, cheese and small, green leeks on my lap, a cup of ale on the bench beside me, while my hostess went eagerly through what remained of the contents of my pack. From the open kitchen doorway came the smell of slow-burning peat, warming the big earthenware pans of milk until the rich, thick clots of cream rose to the surface.

'Have you been troubled by the outlaws this far north?' I asked after several minutes of companionable silence. 'They're hunting all around Totnes.'

The goodwife's face clouded with anxiety. 'So we've heard,' she answered, 'but as yet we've seen nothing of them, God be praised! It's lawless times we live in, that's for certain. And what are the Sheriff and his men doing, I'd like to know! Enough pence go into their coffers to keep the highways and byways clear of such evil, if they would only get up from their fat backsides and risk their precious hides now and then. How much for this leather strap? I need a new one for sharpening my knives.' 'You may have it as payment for my meal,' I told her; and when she demurred that such simple victuals were no more than she would provide for any wayfarer like myself, I insisted, adding, 'The lord Sheriff's been sent for from Exeter by Mayor Broughton, and he's expected to raise a posse to ride after these devils, and root them out. They struck twice last night, towards Dartington and along the banks of Bow Creek. There was a holding burned to the ground in the latter spot, and a man killed, charred to a cinder, as he slept.'
 

The goodwife clucked in dismay. 'My man's away to pasture, with the sheep. I hope he's safe.'

'You've nothing to fear in daylight,' I assured her. 'That's when the wolf-heads go to their lair and sleep.' And I finished my ale.

She brought me another stoup and some pastry coffins, containing apple and honey, together with a clot of fresh cream, before returning to tend her herbs.

'Sit there as long as you wish, lad. You won't bother me.' And she bent once more over the plants, her fingers expertly plucking out the weeds from among them.

I took her at her word. The food and ale had made me sleepy, and the afternoon sun was still warm on my face. I stretched my legs their full length, settled my back more comfortably against the wall and closed my eyes. The varied scents of spring teased my nostrils, and for several long minutes I let my thoughts drift, relaxed and filled with contentment.

This mood did not last, however. Conscience pricked me about Grizelda. I had reacted with unnecessary harshness to her teasing. Most likely she had not meant what she said; and at a time when I should have offered sympathy and understanding, after the loss of her home and the death of Innes Woodsman, I had chosen to be angry with her. Why? Because, whether she believed my story or not, I felt guilty at leaving her to her fate when I suspected she might be in some danger? Because I had needed an excuse to be on my way, having suddenly grown tired and confused with a tangle of facts and events which I found impossible to unravel? It had seemed to me earlier in the day that God Himself was telling me that I was mistaken; that He had not directed my feet towards Totnes; that there was no mystery concerning the disappearance of Andrew and Mary Skelton. They had managed to escape unseen from both house and town and had been killed by the outlaws. But I realized now that I had deliberately deluded myself. In the sweet silence of the warm afternoon, with a quiet mind and a body at rest, God's voice race again made itself heard, urging me to retrace my footsteps. I sighed, but for the moment stayed where I was, trying to get my reluctant thoughts in order.

Two small children had vanished from their home without being seen by either of the servants in charge of them. Both Bridget Praule and Agatha Tenter swore that this was impossible. But knowing the cunning of the young, and recalling my own youthful shifts and ploys to escape the watchful eyes of my mother, I was perfectly ready to accept that it had happened. More difficult for me to accept, however, was the fact that Eudo Colet, the one person with anything to gain from his stepchildren's deaths, had been in no way involved in their disappearance and subsequent murder. Yet he had been out of the house, visiting one of his most respected neighbours, at the time they had vanished. They had been there when he left, gone when he returned. Both maid and cook testified to that fact, and would not be shaken.

So, what did I and others know about Eudo Colet? Very little before his arrival in Totnes as husband of the town's richest heiress. His origins were shrouded in mystery, but his air and manner proclaimed him of lowly birth; a man who had used his good looks to ensnare a vain and wealthy woman. A common enough story, and one told over and over again throughout the ages. Nevertheless it demonstrated Eudo Colet to be a man of few scruples, as all adventurers are, of necessity. Grizelda had pressed me to consider the possibility that he had links with the outlaws, and who was to say that she was wrong? Who knew what dubious connections he had formed in his youth? He might himself have once been a felon. Perhaps some chance meeting with a member of the robber band had renewed an old friendship; and with his wife recently dead in childbirth, and his newly acquired wealth burning holes in his pockets, Master Eudo had seen a way to help himself to an even greater fortune. But this posed me a problem: by what reasoning had he been able to persuade the children to escape secretly into the countryside, where his murderous cronies awaited them?

I jerked upright on the bench, now thoroughly wide awake, and stared around at the sun-dappled garden. The goodwife was still busy about her weeding and had not noticed my sudden start. I sank back once more against the wall, but this time did not close my eyes.

I remained uneasy concerning this notion of Grizelda's; it seemed too much dependent on chance and luck. But neither could I dismiss it, my experiences of the past night convincing me that Eudo Colet had tried to get me out of his house, either by injury or by playing on my superstitious fears. And his only reason for doing so must be my visit to Dame Tenter's cottage and my poorly concealed interest in the fate of Mary and Andrew Skelton. Moreover, I had mentioned the lullaby heard by Jack Carter on the morning of the children's disappearance, which must have suggested a means by which he could be rid of me. The discovery that Master Colet had indeed spent the night within the town wails, confirmed this suspicion, only to have doubt cast upon it by Ursula Cozin's information. But Mistress Ursula had said that the guest slept on a truckle bed in the downstairs parlour, so that he could be away at first light without disturbing the rest of the household. And now that I had leisure to consider her words, I realized that if Eudo Colet could let himself noiselessly out of the house in the morning, he could equally well have done so during the night. My turmoil of mind following Ursula's revelation, had merely been the result of tiredness due to lack of sleep. Another excuse for leaving, the belief that I had reached a dead end, was knocked from under me. I had no longer any choice but to return.

I got to my feet, thanked the goodwife for her welcome, added a spool of fine silk thread to my gift of the leather strap, hoisted my pack on to my shoulders and, grasping my cudgel, set off back the way I had come, towards Totnes.

Chapter Fifteen

The first shadows of evening were stroking pasture and garden as I made my way along the track, steadily putting the miles behind me. On the far horizon, black-fingered clouds stretched towards the sun, an intimation that the spell of fine weather might soon be over. There was a chill in the air, and the distant hills were lost behind gathering mist. Here and there, plumes of smoke rose from a cottage roof as the goodwife began her preparations for supper.

I was careful, on this return journey, not to stray into the forest, but to keep to the course of the river and in sight of habitation. It was not yet time for the outlaws to be up and stirring, but there were others who hunted alone, or in twos and threes, lying in wait for the unwary traveller. I had always been capable of protecting myself against these enemies, and my cudgel was my trusty friend, but it would be untrue to say that I had never suffered injury, and I had no wish at present to risk my hide.

The track broadened as I reached the great tidal marsh, just north of Totnes. Golden-headed kingcups were beginning to close with the fading light, and dumps of reeds and grasses were slowly drained of colour as banks of clouds diminished the sun. Lights from the Foregate pricked the gathering darkness and, high on the hill, torches had been lit on the castle walls.

I was nearing East Gate, skirting the fences of St Mary's Priory, when I heard the rattle of wheels behind me. I had been vaguely aware for some minutes past of a cart approaching, and now, turning my head, I saw a gaily painted wagonette, its wooden sides picked out in yellows, reds and greens, and between its beribboned shafts, a patient-eyed mule plodding decorously over the rough and stony ground. A willow framework supported a canvas covering, and within the body of the cart was a tumble of bedding and brightly coloured costumes.

Three young men walked alongside the wagon, one at the head of the mule, his hand on the bridle, the other two lagging a little, and all of them plainly footsore. Shoes and hose were white with dust, their tunics well worn and, in places, threadbare. A flute and tabor were tied to the slats at one side of the cart, but even without them, I should have had no difficulty in recognizing this little party of vagabonds as travelling entertainers. Early spring was the time when such bands took to the roads, mumming and miming, juggling and dancing, after spending the winter, if they were luck, in the household of some great lord, or, if less fortunate, earning a few pence in the streets of a town. And if all else failed, they had a home of sorts in their covered wagon.

The youngest of the three, the one leading the mule, was a thickset lad with a shock of red hair, blue eyes, turned-up nose and a round, jolly face, peppered with freckles. I recognized him on the instant, and without stopping to think that I had to be mistaken, put out a hand and gripped his arm.

'Nicholas!' I exclaimed. 'Nicholas FletcherI'

He turned a startled gaze in my direction before giving a good-natured grin.

'My name is surely Fletcher, sir, for my great-grandsire was a maker of arrows. But my baptismal name is Martin.' He knotted his sandy brows. 'Although I do have an older brother called Nicholas.' The grin widened. 'A brother twice over in fact, for he's not only my parents' child, but also a Brother of the Benedictine order at Glastonbury Abbey.'
 

'Of course!' I said, clapping a hand to my forehead and cursing my own stupidity. 'Forgive me, but you're as like as two peas in a pod.'

'You know him?' Martin Fletcher asked delightedly, while his two friends crowded round, eager to discover what was happening. 'You're acquainted with Nick?'

'We were novices together,' I explained, 'but the cowl and tonsure were not for me, and I never took my vows, unlike your brother.'

I have mentioned Nicholas Fletcher somewhere before in these chronicles, the fellow novice who taught me how to pick locks, a dubious talent learned during his childhood travels with the troupe of jugglers and mummers to which he and his family belonged. Had he ever talked of a brother? Maybe, and I had forgotten.