Death and the Chapman

by Kate Sedley

  Chapter Fourteen

  But I had no intention of forgetting either Clement Weaver or Sir Richard Mallory. I did not say so to Thomas Prynne, however. There was something in both his and his partner’s manner which indicated clearly that they did not wish to be troubled with the matter. And why should they? I asked myself, as I left the kitchen and crossed the passage to the ale-room in order to collect my pack and stick. They were convinced, as I had been earlier, that the two men had been set upon by thieves, robbed and murdered and their bodies disposed of in the river. They were busy people, and had no time for less credible theories. Furthermore, I had not told them of Marjorie Dyer’s duplicity. But, then again, was it duplicity? It was not a crime for her to have a cousin who worked at the Crossed Hands inn. It was simply that she had apparently not mentioned the fact to the Alderman…

  Gilbert Parsons was in the ale-room, eating his breakfast, his lean, sad face wearing the same abstracted expression. He turned his soulful, watery blue eyes towards me and said in a hollow voice: ‘Nuncupative wills are the Devil’s handiwork, and lawyers the Devil’s instruments. Never trust them, and never pin your faith in litigation.’

  ‘I don’t intend to do so,’ I answered cheerfully, then, frowning. ‘You haven’t seen my pack and stick here anywhere, have you?’

  It was Thomas who answered my question, as he came bustling along the passage to see if his guest wanted more ale.

  ‘They’re in your chamber. We took them up, out of our way, after we’d carried you to bed last night.’ He gave his deep throaty chuckle. ‘You mean you didn’t notice them? You must still have some of that wine clogging your brain, my lad!’

  I thanked him, looking suitably sheepish, and mounted the stairs once again. The doors of all the bedchambers now stood open, revealing the interiors of the rooms. My natural curiosity was immediately aroused and I looked inside the other two, noting appreciatively the difference in furnishing. The largest of the three chambers, the one which should have been occupied by Master Farmer from Northampton, contained a huge four-poster bed, hung with a tester and curtains of rubbed, but nonetheless good, red velvet. Beside it was a small oak cupboard, on top of which still reposed a jug of ale and a loaf of bread: the ‘all-night’, placed there the previous evening for the guest who had failed to arrive. In addition, there was a wax candle in a pewter holder, and a tinder-box. A fine oak chest was ranged against one wall and had been opened in readiness to accommodate the traveller’s clothes and perfumed with lavender and spices. A mirror of polished metal hung above it, and, in the farthest corner from the bed, stood a night-commode. The rushes scattered on the floor were redolent with the scent of dried flowers. A pile of logs lay ready to be lit on the hearth. A room, indeed, for the privileged guest.

  The chamber next to it was Master Parson’s. A smaller bed with tester and curtains of unbleached linen was still unmade, the sheets crumpled and tumbled, and a deep hollow down the centre of the goose-feather mattress. The candle beside the bed was only of tallow, and the clothes-chest, like the commode, was made of elm wood. The rushes on the floor had lost their perfume and were plainly two or three days old. Which brought me to my own room, with nothing but a truckle bed and the battered oak chest, one of its hinges broken and the other missing. Smiling ruefully, I looked about me for my pack and stick.

  They had been placed in a corner of the room which was always in shadow, and explained why I had previously overlooked them. I was relieved to know that I was not still suffering from the effects of last night’s wine. I humped the one on to my back and grasped the other, only to find myself unexpectedly wishing that the stout ash plant was a slender willow wand, that magical staff which protects travellers from harm. I shook my head vigorously to clear it of such nonsensical thoughts. What danger could I possibly be in?

  Downstairs, Gilbert Parsons was getting ready to set out for the law courts, while Abel was busy removing dirty dishes from the table. Thomas was nowhere to be seen, but the trapdoor to the cellar had been heaved back against the floor, revealing a flight of worn stone steps. I nodded at Abel and handed him the money for last night’s supper. ‘I’ll be back again this evening,’ I said.

  He grunted. ‘You may have to sleep in the kitchen if we’ve managed to rent out your room.’ He obviously deplored Thomas’s open-handedness.

  ‘Of course!’ I smiled disarmingly. ‘Master Prynne has already made that plain.’

  Then, whistling, I turned and walked out into the street.

  * * *

  At the top of the lane I paused, staring into the courtyard of the Crossed Hands inn. I wondered if I could chance my luck and get inside, without encountering Martin Trollope. But just at that moment he appeared on the balcony, shouting down to one of the ostlers who was leading a horse out of the stables. I badly wanted to speak to Matilda Ford again, but decided that the time was not propitious.

  I had decided over breakfast, that this morning I would sell my wares in the Farringdon Ward, going from house to house, knocking on doors. That way, I hoped to locate the Alderman’s brother, John Weaver, and learn anything he could tell me. Consequently, I made my way along Cheapside and out through the New Gate to the noisy, stinking cattlemarket of Smithfield, where, on great occasions, tournaments and jousting were held. Beyond, lay St Bartholomew’s Priory, famous for its annual fair, the numerous Inns of Chancery and the long string of shops and houses strung out along the River Fleet.

  It was more than halfway through the morning before, quite by chance, I knocked on John Weaver’s door. As I put the question I had posed at every house so far – ‘Can you tell me where John Weaver of Bristol lives?’ – the sallow-faced girl who had appeared in the doorway asked pertly: ‘And why would that be any concern of yours?’

  ‘I have a message,’ I answered, ‘from his brother, the Alderman.’ And when she still hesitated, I added: ‘Of Broad Street, in Bristol.’

  ‘Wait here,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll fetch Dame Alice.’ Dame Alice was a stout, pleasant-faced woman, who wheezed distressingly whenever she was flustered, as she appeared to be now. Her faded blue eyes were wide with suspicion, wisps of hair escaping from beneath her white linen cap.

  ‘Are you the chapman?’ she asked unnecessarily, eyeing my pack. ‘My daughter-in-law says you have a message for my husband.’

  ‘Is he at home?’ I inquired politely.

  She shook her head. ‘He’s over at Portsoken with George and Edmund.’ These, presumably, were the two sons whom Alison had mentioned. ‘The weavers need constant supervision, you know. You can’t just leave them to their own devices. A lazy, idling, good-for-nothing set of people.’ She spoke without rancour, simply endorsing her menfolk’s opinions, as was seemly in a woman. ‘He won’t be home until just before curfew, but you can go over there and find him, if you like.’

  I had no desire to leave the lucrative market of Farringdon Without before I had knocked on as many doors as possible. Already, my pack was greatly depleted: I should need another visit to Galley Wharf tomorrow morning.

  ‘Perhaps I could leave the message with you?’ I hazarded. ‘It’s to do with your nephew’s disappearance.’

  ‘Clement? Oh dear, oh dear! That poor boy! Maybe… Maybe you’d better come in.’

  She led me through to the garden at the back of the house, which ran down to the river. The rain had cleared by now, giving way to hazy sunshine and a sky which stretched milk-white above the tree-tops, threaded with faint ribbons of gold. Mistress Weaver and her daughter-in-law, whom she addressed as Bridget, had been picking herbs from the little herb-garden in the shade of one wall. Cumin, fennel and others were heaped in a shallow basket, ready to be dried and stored for the winter.

  Mistress Weaver folded her hands together nervously over her apron.

  ‘What… what did my brother-in-law have to say about poor Clement?’

  I told her as quickly as I could about my meeting with Marjorie Dyer and my talk with the Alderman, leaving out my sub
sequent adventures. When I had finished, it was Bridget Weaver who spoke first. Her manner had lost its initial hostility.

  ‘Poor Uncle Alfred,’ she said quietly. ‘He can’t accept what’s happened. But there’s nothing more we can tell you than you seem to know already. Alison, her maid and the four men – our two, Rob Short and Ned Stoner – arrived here late in the afternoon, not long before curfew. But as soon as Ned had seen Alison safely inside the house, he rode back again to the Baptist’s Head. He was only just in time as it was, before the gates were closed for the night. It wasn’t until next morning that we knew Clement was missing.’

  Her mother-in-law nodded. ‘My husband and sons set out for the city immediately and spent the next few days searching every place they could think of where Clement might have gone of his own free will. Not that they, or any of us, had much hope of finding him. We sent one of our men post-haste to Bristol and the Alderman was here within a week, but by then, we knew the worst.’ Mistress Weaver sighed. ‘I realize that it’s difficult for Alfred to accept the truth, particularly without a body to convince him. But, believe me, he’s wasting your time, as well as raising his own hopes falsely. My husband and sons would tell you exactly the same if they were here.’

  It was the same story as I had heard before, with always the same conclusion. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Clement Weaver had been murdered by footpads. In any mind but mine, that is. I still felt there was a mystery to be unravelled. But there seemed nothing more to be gleaned from either Mistress Weaver or her daughter-in-law, so I said I must be on my way.

  ‘You must have some refreshment before you go,’ the older woman insisted, and led the way to the kitchen. ‘Bridget, my dear, fetch the chapman some ale.’

  But when it came, it was sallop, a ‘poor man’s ale’, made from wild arum. Bridget Weaver was not such a fool as to waste the real thing on a pedlar. The two women drank an infusion of calamint, which my mother had been fond of, swearing by it as a cure for coughs and the ague. They did not offer me a seat, and I stood towering above them, as they sat at the kitchen table. Neither of them offered to buy anything from me.

  I was still drinking my sallop when a swarthy, thickset young man entered the kitchen. He bore more than a passing resemblance to Alderman Weaver, so I had no difficulty in placing him as one of the nephews. And as he stooped and gave Bridget a smacking kiss, I guessed him to be her husband. My presence, of course, entailed further explanations, which to my relief were given by Dame Alice. I felt that if I had had to repeat my story again, I should have gone mad.

  When she had finished, the young man, whose name I had learned was George, grunted and pulled down the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Uncle Alfred’s a fool,’ he said, not mincing matters. ‘Clement’s dead. If he wasn’t, we should have heard by now.’ He turned to his mother. ‘Father and Edmund sent me to tell you that they won’t be home for their dinner. There’s trouble among the weavers over at Portsoken. They want more money. They say the cost of bread is rising. They’re talking of sending a deputation to the King, to remind him that he promised to control the price of food this coming winter.’

  I remembered what the Canon of Bridlington had written in the previous century: it had been a favourite quotation of our Novice Master at Glastonbury. ‘Any attempt to control prices is contrary to reason. Fecundity and dearth are in the power of God alone, so it follows that the fruitfulness of the soil, and not the ordinances of men, will determine the cost of our goods.’ I had always felt that this was a little unfair, making God responsible for our problems.

  Bridget said: ‘They’re always making trouble. They want a good whipping. Is there any news from the city?’

  George shrugged his big shoulders. ‘Only the same gossip that’s been rife for the past few weeks. The Duke of Gloucester wants to marry Anne Neville and the Duke of Clarence says he shan’t. And the King tries to keep the peace between them.’

  ‘Heaven alone knows why.’ Mistress Weaver threw up her hands. ‘He owes the Duke of Clarence nothing.’

  These were much the same sentiments as I had heard expressed by my pilgrim friends two days earlier. Interest in the King and his family seemed a popular pastime here in London.

  I put my empty mazer down on the table and said quietly: ‘Thank you. I must take my leave now.’

  Mistress Weaver and the other two, who had been momentarily diverted, suddenly recollected my presence.

  Bridget said: ‘I’m sorry we were not of more help.’

  I smiled regretfully, but I had not really expected to gain any further information from them. The truth of the matter lay where it had always lain, at the Crossed Hands inn. I was still convinced that that was where I should discover the truth about Clement Weaver. And about Sir Richard Mallory and his servant, Jacob Pender.

  By dinner-time my pack was almost empty and I retraced my steps to the city and East Cheap, where the butchers and cookshops plied their trade. There were also fishmongers selling baked as well as fresh cod and mackerel, salmon and trout, and I wandered happily among all this abundance of fare, wondering what to buy first. In some of the shops the owners stood in the entrance, darting out to pluck me and other passers-by by the sleeve, urging us to sample what was on offer. On one occasion I saw a small man lifted bodily off his feet and carried forcefully across to a pie-stall. His little legs, in their parti-coloured hose and long leather boots, kicked unavailingly against his captor.

  I strolled across and tapped the pieman on the shoulder. ‘Release him,’ I said quietly, but at the same time clenching one of my hands into a fist.

  The pieman hesitated while he looked me up and down. My size, however, evidently decided him. Reluctantly, and with a muttered oath, he set the man on his feet again and moved away, casting around him for his next victim.

  The little man smoothed down his tunic, trying to appear dignified, but only succeeding in looking extremely ruffled.

  ‘Thank you, my good man,’ he said. ‘I am much obliged to you.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ I answered. I noticed for the first time that his tunic was embroidered with the crest of the White Boar and the motto ‘Loyauté me lie – Loyalty binds me.’ Memory stirred. Those, surely, were the crest and motto of the Duke of Gloucester.

  ‘May I offer you a cup of ale at the Greyhound?’ he went on, indicating one of East Cheap’s many hostelries.

  ‘If you’ll allow me to buy some pasties to go with it.’ My stomach was rumbling so hard I was sure he must have heard it.

  He gave no indication of having done so, however, merely inclining his head with a kingly gesture and waiting patiently until I had made my purchase. I had always heard that the nobles’ servants were often grander than their masters, which accounted for so many of them being nicknamed ‘King’ or ‘Prince’ or ‘Bishop’. I followed him into the ale-room of the Greyhound, and was amused to notice that, once the ale was ordered, he tucked me away in a corner, where we should be unnoticed. He had no wish to be seen by his cronies and fellow servants in the company of a chapman. Only gratitude had prompted his gesture.

  I ate my pasties, one of which he fastidiously declined, unperturbed by his obvious embarrassment. Conversation was difficult at first, but after a while the ale began to loosen his tongue. By the time we had both drunk our second cup he was becoming, if not garrulous, then very confidential. And when we had downed a third cup he was telling me things which I was certain he shouldn’t.

  ‘Such a to-do this morning,’ he confided, tapping the side of his nose with a delicate forefinger. ‘My lord – my lord of Gloucester, that is,’ he added, in case I was ignorant of the significance of the badge on his tunic, ‘arrives at his brother the Duke of Clarence’s house with a demand to see Lady Anne. Lady Anne Neville, the late Earl of Warwick’s daughter.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, unable to resist airing my knowledge. ‘I saw her last spring in Bristol, riding down Corn Street with Queen Margaret.’

  M
y acquaintance looked scandalized. ‘The Lady Margaret of Anjou,’ he corrected me in admonitory accents. ‘You must never refer to her nowadays as the Queen.’ He put his head on one side, consideringly. ‘That must have been before the battle of Tewkesbury.’

  ‘A few days before,’ I agreed.

  ‘Well,’ he continued, lowering his voice to an even more confidential whisper, ‘since then she’s been staying with my lord of Clarence and his wife. The Duchess Isobel is her sister.’ Again I nodded, and again he appeared a little crestfallen by the extent of this country bumpkin’s knowledge. ‘My lord of Gloucester wants to marry her. Naturally. They were childhood sweethearts years ago when my lord was an apprentice knight in Warwick’s household at Middleham. But the Duke of Clarence, who’s inherited all his late father-in-law’s estates in right of his wife, can’t bear the thought of parting with half of them.’

  ‘Understandably,’ I interrupted.

  The little man snorted disparagingly. ‘He shouldn’t have got anything at all, if you want my opinion, not after betraying his brothers like he did and supporting King Henry.’ I wondered idly why it was all right to refer to ‘King’ Henry but not ‘Queen’ Margaret, but I held my peace. The politics of those days were extremely complicated. My acquaintance continued: ‘Anyway, my lord appealed to the King, and the King told brother George that he was not to interfere with brother Richard’s courtship, especially as Lady Anne herself seemed anxious for the marriage. So—’ the little man leaned towards me across the table, his pale eyes gleaming with suppressed excitement, his breath stinking with ale, fanning my cheek ‘—this morning as ever was, we ride out to call on Lady Anne. But when we get to my lord of Clarence’s house, what do you think has happened?’