The Weaver's Inheritance (17 page)

This I could well imagine, for the Duke of Gloucester seemed to have spent the whole of his adult life acting as peacemaker between his two remaining elder brothers. That he appeared to love them both equally was his misfortune, for his loyalty still lay as it always had done, with King Edward.

‘So, what has all this to do with your being here, in this out-of-the-way spot?’ I asked yet again.

Timothy took the last bite from his apple and threw away the core. ‘This out-of-the-way spot,’ he reminded me, ‘is part of Clarence’s holdings in this county, and Farleigh Castle can’t be many miles distant. One of my spies in Duke George’s household thinks mischief may be brewing here, but he’s unable to discover exactly what. All he’s heard so far is the merest whisper, the merest breath of rumour. He’s one of my very best men, which means that if there is any truth in the story, the Duke must, for once, be keeping the details extremely close – which in itself is a worrying sign. Clarence usually can’t keep his mouth shut.’

I was still nonplussed. ‘But there’s nothing and no one of any importance here,’ I protested. ‘What harm could he – or she or it – possibly do either to His Highness or to the Woodvilles in Keyford?’

‘It might not necessarily be physical harm,’ Timothy demurred. ‘Insult, insinuation, both are grist to Clarence’s mill in trying to stir up popular support and sympathy on his own behalf. Howbeit, I’m here to keep watch for a day or two. If nothing comes of it…’ Once again, he shrugged. ‘Like you, I’m baffled by my man’s report, but I trust him enough not to ignore any of his information.’ He glanced along his shoulder at me. ‘Now it’s your turn to tell me what brings
you
here.’

I knew he would be interested in my tale, for our friendship – if that is not too strong a word for it – had started during my hunt, six years earlier, for the missing Clement Weaver, and to some extent the search had involved both him and his master, the Duke of Gloucester.

He heard me out in silence and then laughed. ‘Come and work for His Grace, Roger, as he’s asked you to do on more than one occasion. You’d be invaluable to him – and to me. Your nose leads you straight into the thick of any mystery that’s in the offing, and your natural curiosity won’t let you rest until you’ve solved it.’

I scrambled to my feet, tossing my apple core into his lap, which he brushed clear of his excellent woollen hose with an exclamation of annoyance. ‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m happy as I am, being my own master. I must be going. How long do you intend to remain here?’

‘Until tomorrow perhaps, but no longer. Whereabouts does this Baldwin Lightfoot live?’

I nodded towards the scattering of buildings. ‘Mistress Burnett says his house stands a little apart from the others, with a high-walled orchard adjacent, and I can see only one that answers that description. In any case, if I should prove to be wrong, an enquiry or two should soon locate him.’

I did not add that a cottage in the foreground, with pens for hens and geese, and a small pond behind it for ducks, was the most urgent object of my attention. However, I had already decided that pleasure must come after business, and therefore, with Timothy’s eyes still upon me, I made my way along the street, pausing only to confirm from a passing stranger that Baldwin Lightfoot’s was indeed the house with the orchard.

My informant was a local man, a woodsman judging by the billhook that dangled from one hand and the axe slung across his opposite shoulder. ‘Ay, that’s where Master Lightfoot lives all right. And next to him is the Widow Twynyho’s, she as used to be one of the ladies-in-waiting to the poor young Duchess of Clarence, God rest her soul.’ There was evidently some pride in this royal connection.

I thanked the man and walked on through the quiet of the afternoon towards Baldwin’s house. As I approached it, I heard, very faint and as yet some miles distant, the rhythmic pounding of horses’ hooves; and, every now and then, so still was the air, the jingle of harness.

Chapter Twelve

Baldwin Lightfoot’s house was solidly built of local stone, too small to be a manor, but a substantial dwelling place, nonetheless. There was a capacious undercroft for storage, a paved courtyard in front and a garden behind. Alongside was the orchard, the tops of the trees just visible over the high wall that enclosed them.

I crossed the courtyard and knocked at the door. It was answered by an elderly woman in a gown of dark blue homespun and a bleached linen hood and apron, both of which were slightly soiled and crumpled. The bunch of keys jangling at her belt proclaimed her Baldwin’s housekeeper.

‘Is your master in?’ I asked.

She took one look at my pack and said, ‘Not to pedlars he isn’t. But the girl and I might be interested if you’ll come through to the kitchen.’

‘I’m not selling anything,’ I answered. ‘I’ve been sent with a letter to Master Lightfoot from his cousin, Mistress Burnett of Bristol.’

The housekeeper eyed me doubtfully, disinclined to believe my story, but at the same time recognizing a certain ring of truth about it. ‘Why would she send a chapman?’ she demanded.

Fortunately, before it became necessary for me to embark on any sort of explanation, I heard a door open somewhere, and the next moment a man strolled into view. ‘Who is it, Janet? Who is this person?’

He was tall, almost certainly over fifty, heavily built with what had once been a well-muscled frame now running to fat. In his younger days he had probably been very handsome, but his face had grown soft and flabby, melting into a travesty of its former good looks. The thinning brown hair, liberally streaked with grey, had receded far enough to reveal a high, domed forehead, and only the eyes, a clear, curiously light grey, retained any spark of youth. There were food stains on his clean-shaven chin, and an unpleasant, faintly sourish odour emanated from his clothes. Yet in spite of all this, he had a cocksure bearing and an air of self-satisfaction that instantly conveyed to the onlooker his pleasure in himself and in all his works.

‘This pedlar claims he’s been sent to you with a letter from Mistress Burnett, Master,’ the housekeeper said, confirming, if confirmation were necessary, that this was indeed Baldwin Lightfoot.

‘From my Cousin Alison?’ He frowned, unable, in common with Dame Janet, to understand his kinswoman’s choice of messenger. But the next moment, his attention, the attention of the three of us and indeed of the whole of Keyford, was distracted by what was taking place less than a hundred yards from his door.

While I had been standing there, the pounding hoofbeats had been growing ever louder, the jingle of harness more intrusive upon the ear, until now, suddenly, riders and mounts burst into view and were all about us in a flurry of plunging, rearing horses and shouted orders. Within moments of dismounting, armed men in the livery of the Duke of Clarence were smashing their way into a nearby house, not bothering to knock or wait for an answer to their summons, dealing summarily and brutally with anyone foolhardy enough to get in their way. From inside the walls there arose a terrible screaming, a female voice, hysterical with fear. A few minutes later, a woman, her arms pinioned, her face bleeding, was dragged outside and thrown across a saddle-bow with no more consideration than if she had been a sack of grain. Neighbours, lured from their houses by all the noise, stood petrified with terror by what was happening; by that constant and unseen danger which lurks in wait for all of us, and comes out of the blue to shatter our peaceful lives, even on the sunniest and quietest of days.

I turned, horrified, to Baldwin Lightfoot. ‘What are they doing to that woman? Who is she? What has she done? For pity’s sake, we must try to stop them!’ I gripped his arm.

‘Leave well alone, man! Leave well alone!’ He dislodged my hand from his sleeve. ‘It’s none of our business. Come away! Come indoors!’ And he fairly dragged me across the threshold, displaying an unexpected strength when roused.

It was my turn to fight free of him as I made once again for the door. ‘We can’t let her be abducted without raising a finger! If you and I and the rest of the men in this village stand together…’ I did not stop to finish the sentence, but lifted the latch and ran across the courtyard, heading for the street.

But Baldwin Lightfoot lived up to his name. He was nimbler and speedier than I would ever have credited him with being, and was after me in a trice, throwing his arms around me in a vice-like grip. ‘These people mean business,’ he hissed in my ear.

I struggled furiously. ‘Let me go! If you won’t come with me, let me do what I can on my own. No need for you to be involved.’

‘You’ve involved me already by being within my pale,’ he retorted, his arms tightening about my waist. ‘It will be noted that you came from this house and that will stand as a mark against me. Besides,’ he added on a triumphant note, ‘you’re too late. They’re on their way.’

He was right. The men-at-arms, having securely bound and gagged the unfortunate woman, and one of the bravos having mounted behind her, were off down the street as fast as they could gallop, and were soon nothing more than a cloud of dust on the horizon, a thudding of hooves growing ever fainter as they receded into the distance …

Silence seeped back again into Keyford, birds resumed their singing, sunlight dappled the grass and the rutted track, the delicate scent of apple blossom drifted over the orchard wall. The recent violence might have been no more than a bad dream but for the shattered door of the neighbouring house. It had all happened so fast and so unexpectedly that the inhabitants were wandering about in a daze, unable at first to speak. But gradually, they began to gather in little groups, muttering to one another, embracing one another for comfort, trying to make sense of what they had witnessed. Baldwin, releasing me, joined a knot of people gathered outside his gate.

‘Why,’ he asked no one in particular, ‘would the Duke of Clarence send to arrest Widow Twynyho? She was lady-in-waiting to the late Duchess and a member of his household.’

There was a mumble of agreement, and one of the women added, ‘Ankaret’s such a gentle soul. What can she possibly have done to incur the Duke’s displeasure, let alone be treated like that?’ She shuddered. ‘And we all stood by and did nothing.’

‘What could we have done?’ someone else demanded angrily.

But it was becoming obvious by the way in which people suddenly avoided one another’s eyes, that a feeling of guilt was beginning to plague them. Yet it was sadly true that there really had been nothing that any of us could have done against armed men, not even if we had all banded together and acted in unison; and the element of surprise had robbed us of even that forlorn hope. Who, in any case, would dare to brave the wrath of the mighty Duke of Clarence, when his retribution was so terrible and swift? Whatever it was that Ankaret Twynyho had done to offend Brother George, nothing, surely, merited the sort of treatment meted out to her.

Brother George … The slightly derogatory title brought Timothy to mind, and I realized that I had, for the last fifteen minutes or so, completely forgotten his presence here. I glanced around, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, and was rewarded by seeing him skulking on the fringes of the crowd. I left Baldwin Lightfoot, still talking in low, incredulous tones to his neighbours, and made my way to his side. Timothy, however, saw me coming and withdrew even further apart, as though hoping to deter me. But I was not to be put off.

‘Well, is this what you were waiting for?’ I asked. Taking his silence for assent, I went on, ‘What can it mean? I understand that the poor creature arrested, the Widow Twynyho, was lady-in-waiting to Duchess Isabel, and therefore presumably trusted by both her and the Duke. And why use her with such violence? Why does it need God knows how many armed men to arrest one defenceless woman?’

Timothy shrugged. ‘To impress the incident on people’s minds, maybe. To make sure it’s talked about, that it’s heard of well beyond the confines of Keyford and Frome. To publish the fact that this woman is a dangerous criminal. To make the world aware that George of Clarence is a very important person and that no one lightly invites his displeasure. Your guess is as good as mine at the moment, Chapman, but time will very quickly tell. In a week or two, probably less, we shall have the answer to this riddle. And now I have to return to my inn and collect my horse. I must be on my way to London within the hour. Duke Richard has come down from the north again to try to keep the peace between his brother, and I was ordered to report to him there as soon as possible should anything happen.’

He moved off briskly, not even pausing to say goodbye, and I stared after him for a moment or two before rejoining Baldwin Lightfoot. The latter seemed not to have noticed my absence, so engrossed had he and his neighbours been in a discussion of the last hour’s events. An air of unreality still hung over them like a pall; their eyes and movements were those of sleepwalkers, but sleepwalkers who were afraid to wake up. Their small, cosy world had been shattered by a terror they did not understand, and it would never be the same again.

I had been looking for another face in the little knots of people that had gathered, but could not see it, although I fancied that one of the elderly dames was Rowena’s aunt. I could not be sure, however, my memory of her being unclear; and in any case, I had promised myself to complete my business with Baldwin Lightfoot before seeking her out. I touched him on the arm and he jumped as though I had pricked him with a knife.

‘Good God, man, don’t do that!’ He was white and shaken, his face the colour of uncooked dough. He added defensively, ‘I didn’t see you there. You startled me.’

‘I’m sorry, but I have to be leaving soon, and I still have to deliver the letter from your cousin.’

For a moment Baldwin looked bemused, recent events having driven everything else from his mind, but then he recollected and nodded. ‘Come inside,’ he said. ‘We need some wine to settle our stomachs.’ He glanced towards his housekeeper, but she was so deep in conversation with two other women that he shrugged and obviously decided not to disturb her.