The Weaver's Inheritance (21 page)

As we crossed the Frome Bridge, the river bloodied by the sunset, I said quietly, ‘You’ve been a good friend to me, Adela. Thank you. I shan’t forget. If I can ever be of service…’

‘You and Margaret have already been of great service to Nick and me,’ she interrupted. ‘You have nothing to thank me for. It’s very little that I’ve been able to do in return.’ She quickened her step as we passed beneath the archway of the gate. ‘Look! There’s Richard waiting for me. He must have finished his spell of duty at the castle.’

Not for the first time, the sight of Richard Manifold’s smiling countenance made my hackles rise. There was nothing about him – not his red hair nor his bright blue eyes, not his stocky figure nor his aggressive stance – that commended itself to me. I had no idea why his appearance so irritated me; no notion why I wanted to wipe the smug, self-satisfied expression off his face each time we met. I gritted my teeth, gripped Nicholas’s hand more firmly in mine, as though to emphasize my right of possession, and reluctantly followed Adela to the cottage door.

But for once, the Sheriff’s Officer had not come to pass the time of day or to reminisce about times past, and he gave me none of his usual disapproving looks when I entered the cottage in Adela’s wake. He was too full of news that had arrived at the castle earlier in the afternoon, while most of the population had been out celebrating.

Adela, ever the careful hostess, plied Richard with ale and offered him a seat before allowing him to proceed with his story.

‘Now, what’s happened?’ she asked, but only when satisfied that he was comfortable.

‘The King has arrested one of Clarence’s household, a man called Thomas Burdet, and he’s to be tried on a charge of attempting to procure the King’s death by necromancy. The Sheriff reckons there’s no doubt but he’ll be hanged. A life for a life, even if it means another rigged jury.’

I sucked in my breath. ‘Brother George won’t stand for it,’ I said, forgetting for a moment my dislike of Richard Manifold in my anxiety for his opinion. ‘Does this mean civil war after all, do you think?’

He nodded portentously. ‘It could lead to that. But the lord Sheriff is in two minds about it. He said it wasn’t like King Edward to be so maladroit.’

‘Nor is it.’ I chewed my lower lip thoughtfully. ‘He’s up to something. But what? How did you come to hear of this development?’

‘An Augustinian friar from All Hallows on the Wall, in London, has come to Bristol on business with his fellows at Temple Gate. This was one of the bits of news, amongst others, that he brought with him, and it was thought to be of sufficient importance, in view of its possible consequences, to pass on to the lord Sheriff.’

‘Is there more to the story than you’ve told us?’ Adela asked quietly, but with an edge of steel to her voice. ‘Or has some poor unfortunate retainer in Clarence’s employ simply been picked upon, as Ankaret Twynyho was picked on by Prince George, to be a scapegoat, in order to satisfy the Queen’s desire for revenge?’

Richard Manifold swallowed the remainder of his ale and glanced hopefully at the barrel on the far side of the room. When Adela ignored this hint, he sighed and continued, ‘He was apparently accused of sorcery by an Oxford clerk, whose name I can’t at this moment recall – Blake, was it? Thomas Blake? – who, in his turn, had been named as a necromancer by another Oxford clerk called John Stacey, a caster of horoscopes. So you see, Adela, this man has
not
been picked at random by the King and his officers.’

Adela smiled grimly. ‘And what, I wonder, have these other two, this John Stacey and Thomas Blake, been promised if they impeach some poor man of the Duke of Clarence’s household? Will they stand on the scaffold alongside him when he’s hanged, or will they mysteriously be forgiven for their sins?’

Richard Manifold clucked his tongue disapprovingly. ‘You’re becoming far too cynical, my dear. It’s not womanly. You’re allowing yourself to be influenced by others.’ He glared at me; and before a furious Adela could rebut his accusation, he had noticed the still damp, mud-streaked hem of her gown. ‘Don’t tell me you were gathering may this morning! No, no! This won’t do at all! At your age you really should know better.’

The reproof was meant for me. He was angry because he guessed that I had been her companion on an expedition that he would have liked to have shared with her himself. He spoke without thinking of the effect of his words upon Adela, and stared at her in astonishment when she rose wrathfully to her feet and ordered him from the house.

‘You forget yourself, Richard! I am not a child to be spoken to in such a fashion. I am twenty-six years of age, and I ask you to remember that. Nor am I answerable to you for any of my thoughts and feelings. Nor,’ she added significantly, ‘for my friends or the company that I keep. Please leave, and do not return until you are invited back.’

Like all red-haired people, he blushed easily, and the colour surged into his face in a fiery tide. ‘Now look here!’ he blustered, first thumping the table before standing up. ‘There’s absolutely no need…’

‘Please leave,’ Adela repeated in a quieter voice. Nicholas had crept to her side and was holding tightly to her hand, uneasy, as children always are, when their elders quarrel.

Richard Manifold looked like someone who had stepped into a quagmire where he had thought all to be firm ground. Then he jutted his chin belligerently. ‘You were always a stubborn woman,’ he taunted her. ‘If you hadn’t been, you’d never have married that weakling from Hereford, who died on you after only seven years.’ He drew himself up and puffed out his chest to demonstrate his own health and strength. ‘All right! I’m going. But you’ll soon be begging me to come back, see if you’re not!’ And on that valedictory note, he stalked to the door and let himself out into the soft May twilight.

Adela sucked in a deep breath and smiled tremulously at me. ‘I’ve been looking for an excuse to do that for months,’ she said. ‘I never liked him very much, not even when I was young. There was always something about him, some touch of arrogance, of self-importance, that irritated me beyond endurance. I’m not surprised he hasn’t married. No woman could put up with him.’

‘If he bothers you again in the next few weeks,’ I said firmly, ‘let me know.’

She laughed. ‘You won’t be here. You’ll be in London.’

Her words echoed the everlasting complaint of my mother-in-law, but they were uttered in a tone of amusement rather than reproach. Looking at her across the table, I remembered my first opinion of her as a self-contained and self-reliant woman, who, over the years, had taught herself to be emotionally as well as physically independent of other people. She would give her loyalty and her love without expecting too much in return. She would let a man go about the world and still welcome him back with open arms whenever he chose to come home. The man whom she eventually married would be extremely fortunate, and for a moment I felt almost jealous of him.

I only realized that I was staring at her when she lowered her eyes, obviously embarrassed by my steady scrutiny. ‘You’d better be getting back to Margaret,’ she said. ‘She’ll be waiting for you.’ She looked up once more and smiled, having recovered her composure. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll see you again before you set out for London. Take care. And God be with you.’

‘And with you.’ I kissed her proffered cheek and ruffled Nicholas’s hair. When I still hesitated, she laughed good-humouredly, anticipating my question.

‘Of course I’ll keep an eye on Margaret and Elizabeth for you. Nick would miss Bess if he didn’t see her every day, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?’

Nicholas nodded vigorously, understanding only the name and the fact that he was being asked to express his approval. ‘Like Bess,’ he affirmed. ‘Like Bess.’

I thanked her and glanced towards the spinning wheel in the corner. ‘All goes well with Alderman Weaver?’

‘Very well. I’ve as much work as I can handle and he’s a kind and considerate employer. I’ve seen him once or twice when collecting my daily supply of wool, and he always remembers my name and gives me a friendly word.’

I was interested. ‘Is his so-called son ever with him?’ I asked.

Adela clapped a hand to her forehead. ‘There! I meant to tell you when I saw you again, and I quite forgot. I met them together one morning while you were away. I’d gone round by the rope-walk in order to get a breath of fresh air and to stretch my legs before returning to Margaret’s to pick up Nicholas. Alderman Weaver was looking very unwell and leaning heavily on the young man’s arm. But in spite of that, I thought how happy and contented he appeared.’

‘How can he possibly be happy and contented,’ I demanded angrily, ‘when he’s prepared to rob his daughter of her rights? How can he allow himself to be taken in by this impostor?’

‘Well, that was the strange thing,’ Adela answered slowly. ‘The Alderman hadn’t noticed me. It was a chilly morning with a nipping wind, and he had his hat pushed forward, over his eyes, against the cold. But the young man saw me. He was looking straight ahead, and as I drew abreast, he said, “Hello, Adela. I heard your husband had died and I’m sorry. You’d best marry a Bristol man next time.”’

I shrugged. ‘There’s nothing in that. He could easily have heard the Alderman talking about you after you’d called to ask him for work.’

‘But he knew me,’ she insisted. ‘He recognized me.’

‘He must have seen you when you called at the Broad Street house. Of course! That would be how he and Alderman Weaver came to be talking about you. “Who was that?” our friend would have wanted to know, and then your history would have come tumbling out.’

Adela shook her head. ‘You’re forgetting,’ she said. ‘I didn’t call in Broad Street. It was Margaret who went on my behalf. If this man is an impostor, we had never set eyes on one another before that morning by the rope-walk, but he knew me at once for who I am. And what is more, although my youthful memories of Clement Weaver are hazy, there’s one thing about him that I do recall. Clement had a habit of looking you directly in the eyes when he spoke, as if everything he said was a challenge that he was expecting you to take up and contradict. This man looked at me in precisely the same fashion. You know, Roger, the more I think about it, the more I’m inclined to the view that he could well be who he claims he is.’

Chapter Fifteen

I have mentioned on at least two previous occasions in this narrative, the fact that throughout this strange case of Clement Weaver I was destined to be an observer of great events, simply because God decreed that I should be in the right place at the right moment. And so it was that during the last week of May, a few days after the execution of Thomas Burdet, I was passing through the city of Westminster when Clarence stormed his way into the palace council chamber to protest his henchman’s innocence.

I had taken almost a month over the journey to London, not hurrying, going out of my way to visit the remoter communities of Wiltshire and Berkshire and the city approaches, allowing the quiet of the countryside to act as balm to my bruised and battered spirit. I had set out from Lawford’s Gate still convinced of my undying passion for Rowena Honeyman, only to discover that by the time I reached the scattered hamlets and holdings of Savernake Forest, a whole day would go by without my once conjuring up her face. Indeed, as the fitful showers of early May gave way to more smiling weather, and as the white stars of the campion flowers began to displace primroses and sweet wild violets, I found that I might not think of her for several days together, until something happened to jog my memory. And even then, the sadness and regret did not last beyond an hour or two.

There was so much to be observed, and occasionally to be done when my services could be of any use, that I had little spare time for repining. May is the month for rethatching roofs after the depredations of winter, when torn and loosened straw must be flattened down and stitched into place; for threshing grain when the weather is kind; for planting peas and weeding autumn-sown corn; for draining grassland. It is also the season for the start of the summer activities.

On Whit Sunday, after Mass, I clapped and cheered the Morris dancers on the green of some village whose name I have long since forgotten, although I shall never forget the mouthwatering taste of the Whitsun cheesecake given to me by one of the local Goodies. The pastry which encased it was light as thistledown, while the flavours of clove and mace were so skilfully blended with the curds and egg yolks that there was no bitterness or stinging of the tongue. And when I fell asleep that night, beside that same Goody’s damped-down fire, I was undisturbed by dreams of a little, straight nose, periwinkle-blue eyes and a small, determined chin, all in a frame of silky fair hair. The following morning I awoke refreshed, and, if not entirely carefree, then certainly without that weight of misery that I had carried with me for so many miles at the beginning of my journey.

I was even prepared, when at last I reached it, to look with a tolerant eye upon the city of Westminster with its teeming streets full of aggressive Flemish merchants, not so much trying to sell their wares as to force them at knife-point on innocent passersby. Lawyers, in their long striped gowns, and Sergeants-at-arms, in their silken hoods, strutted in and out of Westminster Hall with as much pomp and inconvenience to other people as they could possibly manage. Furthermore, the city, then as now, has always been a hotbed of thieves and pickpockets who can be out by the gate and halfway along the Strand towards London before their victims realize that anything is missing.

That particular morning, I pushed my way through the crowds, brandishing my cudgel as a warning, letting everyone know that I should defend myself if the need arose. The pack on my back also served as a handy weapon, for although it was not so heavy as when I first left Bristol, it was still weighty enough to give any rogue a hefty blow to arm or face if I swung my body in his direction. Coupled with my girth and height, this proved to be deterrent enough, and I was untroubled even by those most determined of cutpurses who operate the stretch of ground between the waterfront and the Abbey.