[Roger the Chapman 04] - The Holy Innocents (25 page)

'But we'll away to Matt's tavern for our victuals.'
 

'A pity, a pity,' Granny Praule mumbled. 'Four young men together under my roof, that's a chance I'm not likely to have again in a hurry.'

'We'll perform a special entertainment for you and Mistress Bridget tomorrow,' Martin Fletcher promised, kissing her wrinkled cheek. 'And no payment asked in return.' Granny cackled delightedly and told me she would leave the cottage door on the latch. 'But don't be long, lad, and mind you push the bolts to, once you're inside.'

Matt's tavern was quiet and he was already thinking of locking up for the night as defence against any marauders, but the prospect of losing good money if he turned us away was not to be countenanced lightly. So he sat us down at a table, fetched us bread and cheese and ale and exhorted us to eat our fill, although it was plain that he hoped we wouldn't dally. After that, he left us to ourselves, disappearing down the cellar steps with his potman, to attend to his barrels.

I was grateful that sufficient time had by now elapsed to blunt Martin Fletcher's curiosity concerning my friendship with Grizelda, for I had no wish to discuss it. Instead, he and his friends kept me amused with tales of their life as wandering entertainers.

'The summer's the best time,' Martin said, and the other two nodded vigorous agreement. 'Going from village to village, town to town, the sun shining and the people running out to greet you, that's as great a reward sometimes as the money you can make. But best of all are the fairs, especially the big ones, like St Bartholomew's in London. Everyone's there. You meet up with all your old friends, hear all their gossip, find out how they fared during the winter, whether or not they had a roof over their heads, and so on.'
 

'I like the fine ladies,' Luke put in thickly, without bothering to clear his mouth of bread and cheese. 'There's always lots of them at fairs, looking for silks and velvets and ribbons to spend their money on. And in between, they stop to watch the jugglers and mummers. A lady threw me a gold coin once. A very beautiful lady. About three years ago, it would be, come Bartholomewtide. I've never forgotten because someone said she was the Duchess of Gloucester, come down from the north with her lord, for a visit. They hadn't long been wed; only a few months I reckon. Their son, little Prince Edward, hadn't been born then, at any rate. Whether it was true or not, I don't know for certain, but it's sure someone said it was Duchess Anne, and she gave me gold.' In return for their confidences, I told some of my adventures since I took to the road, but nothing of any consequence.

I kept the stories light and amusing. I was too tired, and the hour too advanced to give details of anything other. The landlord had emerged from the cellar and was hovering nearby, waiting on our going. We took the hint and paid what was due, then went out into the Foregate.

The threatened rain had come to nothing, the clouds moving away southwards, leaving the heavens clear and starry overhead. Moonlight showed us a path leading up from St Peter's Quay, ribbed by the shadows of tree trunks. The wagon stood on a patch of rough ground not far from Granny Praule's cottage, in the lee of a cluster of brambles. Martin Fletcher and his two companions climbed in beneath the canvas awning, and, without even bothering to remove their shoes, stretched themselves out on top of the muddle of bedding and costumes. I guessed they would soon be dead to the world, weariness and the ale we had consumed at Matt's tavern assuring them of a night's sleep, oblivious to all disturbances.

Granny Praule had left the cottage door unbolted, as she had promised, and, as I entered, I could hear her snoring.

Bridget was nowhere to be seen, having decorously draped a much darned and patched sheet over a string, hung between two walls of the cottage. Her straw mattress, however, was plumped up invitingly and spread with clean linen. I carefully shot home the bolts, stowed my pack and cudgel close to the door, stripped down to shirt and hose and tumbled thankfully into bed. I, too, would sleep soundly.

Chapter Sixteen

I did not stir the whole night through, and awoke just after dawn to the distant crowing of a cock. There was a dull ache behind my eyes, which opened reluctantly upon the pallid daylight, only to shut themselves again as fast as possible. My mouth tasted as if I had swallowed pigswill, and when I moved, the stubble on my face scraped against the linen covering of the mattress. I had drunk more deeply the previous evening than I had realized at the time, and guessed that Martin Fletcher and his two friends must be sharing my discomfort. They, however, could afford to sleep a little longer m their wagon. I, on the other hand, must rouse myself at once, for I could already hear rustling sounds from the other side of the makeshift curtain; sounds which told me that Bridget was up and stirring. Granny Praule, also, for, a moment later, there was a familiar, if subdued, cackle of laughter.

I got up, trying to ignore the pain in my head, and pulled on my boots and tunic. I cleaned my teeth with willow bark, and taking one of the bone combs from my pack, ran it quickly through my hair. Until Bridget heated some water, could not shave. Sometimes I wondered if it would not be less trouble to grow a beard. Needing to relieve myself, I unbolted the door and went outside, round to the back of the cottage.

It was raining a little; not the thick pall of dense drizzle which, yesterday afternoon, had blotted out the far horizon, but bright, white spears of springtime rain, which would soon give place to sunshine. Fragments of blue sky were already showing through the cloud, promising another fine, warm day.

I returned to the cottage after a few minutes, to find Bridget and her grandmother both up and dressed, the former lighting a fire on the central hearthstone. Beside her, a leather bucket stood ready to fetch water from the well, farther up the hill.

'Let me do that,' I said, grasping the bucket's handle.

The words were hardly out of my mouth when there was a frantic knocking at the cottage door. A voice I recognized as that of Peter Coucheneed, shouted urgently, 'Roger! Roger Chapman! Are you there, man?'

'Come in!' I called. 'The door's unbolted.'

'My, my!' Granny Prattle exulted. 'What a to-do! Whatever can be the matter?'

The door opened and Peter Coucheneed burst in, forgetting to stoop and cracking his high, domed forehead against the lintel. Such was his perturbation, however, that he scarcely seemed to notice. His face was ashen, what hair he possessed awry, his clothes crumpled from sleeping in them. There was a smear of blood on one of his cheeks and another dark patch on the breast of his tunic. His hands, too, were liberally stained. Granny Prattle gave a horrified shriek and Bridget looked as though she were going to faint. I dropped the bucket and guided her to a stool. Then I turned back to Peter.

'What in God's name has happened? Where are you hurt? Who has attacked you?'

'Not me! Not me!' he gasped, once he had found his tongue. 'Martin and Luke, both murdered as they slept.' He lifted one bloodstained hand and made a sawing motion across his neck. 'Their throats are cut.'

Granny screamed again, but she was made of sterner stuff than her granddaughter, who gave a little moan, slid off the stool and sank, unconscious, to the ground.

'It's them wicked outlaws!' Granny Praule wailed, going to Bridget's assistance. She knelt down, gathering the girl into her arms. 'Wake up, child! Wake up! This is no time to be losing your senses. Someone has to run for the Sheriff. What a piece of good fortune he's here in the town.'

'I'll go,' I said, but Granny shook her head. She let Bridget's inert form slip back, unceremoniously, on to the beaten-earth floor, and scrambled with surprising agility to her feet.

'You go to the wagon with this poor lad,' she instructed, unhooking a rusty black cloak from a nail beside the door and draping it round her shoulders. 'Wait with him till I come.' She saw the worried glance I cast at Bridget, and added impatiently, 'Let the silly child be. We can't be bothering with the megrims at a time like this. She'll come to, if you pay her no attention.' And with this callous utterance, she was out of the door and off up the hill before I could stop her.

Peter Coucheneed was shaking from head to foot, so I found a pitcher of Granny's damson wine and poured us both a generous measure. It was a potent brew. A slight colour crept back into his cheeks, and the palsied movements of his hands steadied a little. By this time, Bridget was beginning to stir, and I was able, with his assistance, to see her comfortably laid down upon Granny's bed before we left the cottage.

The wagon stood a hundred yards or so to the south, not far from St Peter's Quay, in the lee of some bushes which hedged the Cherry Cross estate. It was still not full daylight and few people had as yet strayed very far from home. No word of this new disaster had reached them, so at present, the cart was of no interest. It stood silent, its shafts empty, the mule some way off, contentedly nibbling the grass. As we drew close, Peter Coucheneed stopped and gripped my arm.

'You must prepare yourself...' he began, but was unable to say more, his voice clogged with horror, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

I patted his arm. 'I understand,' I whispered, and braced myself for what I was about to see.

I stared into the open back of the wagon where the two sprawled figures lay. The canvas, stretched over the willow framework, cast a gloom which made it seem, at first, as though both men were still asleep, but the sickly-sweet smell of blood quickly dispelled any such notion. As I leaned nearer, I was able to see that the head of Martin Fletcher, who lay stretched out with his feet towards the front end of the cart, was at a peculiar angle to his body, and that his exposed throat looked almost black, as did the stiffened breast of his shirt and tunic. The bedding and pile of costumes beneath him were also darkly stained, and, at his side, the supine body of Luke Hollis showed similar signs of abnormality. I touched the neck of each man in turn, and my fingers came away sticky with congealing blood. I shuddered.

'Where did you sleep?' I asked Peter Coucheneed, although I could guess the answer.

'At the front, across their feet, from side to side of the wagon. Not so easily reached. It's probably what saved my life.'

I grunted, but made no other reply. It was certain that whoever had killed Martin Fletcher and Luke Hollis had been presented with an easy task. The back of the canvas hood was open to the elements, both men's heads towards the cart-tail, both deep in an ale-soused slumber from which very little would have roused them. And, because of this, both were probably sleeping on their backs in order to breathe the easier. The silent-footed murderer would have had no difficulty in lifting each man's head and cutting his throat with the minimum of fuss. Yet, having killed two, and with no danger of an alarm being raised, it would have been simple then to walk round to the side of the cart and dispatch the third. So, surely, if Peter Coucheneed had been spared, it was not because of his whereabouts in the wagon.

The next question to present itself was why had the two men been killed at all? I asked if anything had been stolen.

My companion shook his head. 'No, nothing. What do we have that's worth the taking? But do wolf-heads need a reason for what they do? They live by violence. The murder of innocent people is nothing more to them than sport.' This was a point of view shared by most of the town's inhabitants as word of the killings spread rapidly amongst them. The Sheriff, busy assembling his posse in the Priory forecourt, was too hard pressed to come himself but sent instead one of his sergeants, who had no hesitation in branding these latest murders the work of the outlaws. News had only just been received, within an hour or so of sunrise, of
 
the looting of a farm and holdings in the parish of Berry Pomeroy. It was plain that the outlaws, returning to their lair, had come across the wagon, and slaked their blood-lust by murdering two of its sleeping inmates.

Such, at any rate, was the conclusion drawn by the sergeant, and eagerly taken up and repeated by all those who had gathered at Cherry Cross, attracted, as folk always are, by the, smell of death and destruction. In half an hour, it would be in every mouth, and quoted as Gospel truth, without any need for further thought or explanation. An atmosphere of hysteria pervaded the town and Foregate, for if the outlaws had not yet managed to breach the walls or stockade, it seemed as if they had come very close to doing so; far too close for peace of mind and comfort.

I left Peter Coucheneed to the ministrations of Granny Praule and Bridget, the former cock-a-hoop at thus finding herself the centre of attention, with a succession of visitors calling to inquire after herself and her guest. Four of the strongest Brothers from the Priory were summoned to take away the bodies, and I went with them, at Peter's request, walking beside the litters.

Inside the town, all was feverish activity. Seemingly, from the numbers thronging the streets, few people remained indoors, only the very old and very young children. News of this latest outrage had spurred many able-bodied men to swell the posse's ranks who might otherwise have hesitated to spend long days in the saddle, riding over rough and uncharted terrain. I saw Thomas Cozin, mounted on a mettlesome bay, his wife and daughters hanging devotedly about his stirrups and trying their best to dissuade him from such a hazardous enterprise. The Sheriff was dividing his volunteers into groups and placing each one under the direction of a sergeant. Plans were drawn up as to the ground to be covered by the different companies, so that as much of the surrounding countryside as possible would be covered.