The Colour of Evil: A Sebastian Foxley Medieval Murder Mystery

by Toni Mount

  My temper was not all that seethed. The afternoon shimmered in a heat haze. The hot cobbles could be felt underfoot, e’en through my leather boots and my hair clung wetly to my brow and neck. Gawain’s tongue lolled and dripped but he found a horse trough to quench his thirst outside The Barge. This inn in Bucklersbury had rooms at reasonable prices where Jude used to go with his cronies upon occasion. It was worth enquiring within. Besides, walking the city streets was a dry occupation.

  A cooling cup of ale would be welcome indeed but I had counted the coins in my purse – a third accounting increasing them by not so much as a farthing. I possessed a half groat, two pennies and five halfpennies. A grand tally of sixpence ha’penny to keep the household and pay my journeymen’s wages on Saturday! And I had thought to give them a little extra in token of their fine work upon the king’s commission. More like, I would now have to ask them to buy tomorrow’s bread for the board. Rose might have a few pence remaining of those I had given her from my payment for the examination of the bishop’s suspect documents. There were takings from this week’s book sales in the box – if Jude had not filched them also.

  Of my brother, there was no sign and, when I made enquiry of the innkeeper, he declined to answer unless I bought a drink at least. Thus, I was about to leave The Barge, without information and parched as ever, when someone called my name. It was a woman’s voice.

  ‘Master Foxley? Is that you, young man?’

  I looked about me. Being a building of great age, the inn was a gloomy place, having old-fashioned, narrow windows. A pale hand waved above the heads of other customers, beckoning.

  ‘Come join us, Master Seb.’ This voice I recognised. I pressed through the crowd towards the board in the far corner.

  ‘Mistress Alder. Ralf,’ I greeted them, touching my cap to the washerwoman.

  ‘Since you gave us the half-day off, I reckoned I’d make good my debt to Joanie, like you said she reminded me. So here we are, supping ale. Will you take a cup with us, master? Looks like you’re in need.’

  Ralf’s offer could not have been a more welcome one, so I smiled and squeezed upon the bench beside the journeyman. Gawain went under the board, out of the way of so many feet.

  ‘Ralf was telling me how you approved his just-so and gold-leafing, Master Foxley,’ Joan Alder said, finding someone’s abandoned ale cup, wiping it out upon her apron and filling it from the jug.

  ‘I told you, Joanie: it’s gesso, not just-so.’

  ‘Aye, well, whatever it is, sounds as though you’ve made yourself right at home in Master Foxley’s workshop.’ She passed me the ale. ‘Better than that tight-fisted Master Linton you used to work for. You know he still owes me tuppence for his last four lots of laundry. What am I? A saint to toil for naught? It’s not fair, the way some folks treat others, is it now?’

  ‘Don’t speak ill o’ the dead, lass,’ Ralf said, patting her hand, reddened from years of soaping and boiling linens.

  ‘Well, I for one bless you, good mistress, for this ale.’ I drank deep of it but then thought to make the remainder last a little longer.

  ‘You’re welcome to – ’ Mistress Alder gaped for an instant then disappeared ’neath the trestles with the speed of an apprentice evading his master’s birch. ‘Don’t let that pig see me, Ralf,’ she said in a muffled voice. ‘Keep him away, for the love of St Mary.’

  Ralf turned, glancing towards the entrance, then turned back swiftly, pulling his cap low.

  ‘Master, take Joanie’s seat, if you will. Spread yourself.’ Ralf eased along our bench to take up more room as I moved to sit upon the stool opposite, attempting to arrange my feet around Gawain’s great furry heap under the board without kicking the washerwoman. Quite how there was room enough for them both in so cramped a space, I was unsure.

  ‘From whom does she hide?’ I whispered, leaning across, close to Ralf. I noted then her cup, yet full: clear testament to an absent third member of our party. I passed it down to her without looking and felt a hand take it from me ’neath the board.

  ‘See the fellow just come in the door? Good thing he must be nigh blind in here after the bright sun outside. I’ll keep my head down. He knows me, knows I get on well with Joanie.’

  A wide-shouldered fellow, built like the barbican of the Tower of London, surveyed the crowded inn, squinting in the gloom. His was an intimidating presence; his beard, a thick black tangle of brambles, hid half his face. He held his arms, the size of a bull’s haunches, away from his sides, his chest so massive, his limbs could not hang straight as those of normal men.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘That’s Hamo, Joanie’s one-time husband. A blacksmith by trade, I swear he used to use poor Joanie like his anvil, the swine. Him and me have had words in the past. It never ended well for me or Joanie.’

  ‘He has a look about him,’ I said in a hushed voice. ‘Bent upon trouble, that one. See how the other customers stand aside for him. Oh, Ralf… I fear he comes this way. Put your head down as if sleeping off your drink.’

  Ralf did so and I swiftly pulled his cap lower yet, such that only his sparse grey hair was visible around it. He could have been anyone but I had forgotten his bent back.

  Too late. Hamo had already seen my journeyman’s misshapen form and the blacksmith made straightway towards our board.

  ‘Ralf Reepham,’ he growled, grabbing the older man’s hair and pulling his head up. ‘I told ye t’ stay away from me drinkin’ places, didn’t I?’

  ‘Hey! Hold off!’ I told him. I was ignored.

  ‘If ye’re seeing that bitch o’ mine agen, ye knows what t’ expect.’ Hamo dragged Ralf’s head further back – a position his spine could hardly achieve. Poor Ralf’s face showed his agony; he tried to push Hamo off but he might as well have tried to fend off a falling boulder.

  ‘Leave him be, you wretch,’ I cried. ‘You be causing him much hurt.’

  Hamo turned his eyes upon me.

  ‘Whoever y’ are, shut yer mouth, ’less ye want t’ eat yer own teeth.’ He returned his attention to Ralf. ‘Where’s the bitch? Haven’t seen her earnin’s fer months.’

  ‘She owes you nothing,’ Ralf managed to say. ‘Let go, I beg you.’

  And that was the moment I made a terrible error. I threw the contents of the ale jug in Hamo’s face. I could have done no worse if I had poked a baited bear in the eye.

  Hamo roared and flung Ralf aside like a rag.

  Customers fled to the farthest corners, though few left the place. Nobody wanted to miss this entertainment.

  Still dripping ale, the blacksmith grabbed the front of my jerkin in one massive hand and hoisted me aloft.

  ‘Ye skinny yard o’ piss!’

  I kicked out and flailed at him but if he felt my blows at all, he did not mark them. He hefted me outside to the horse trough as though I were but a penny-weight burden, dropped me in the water and pushed my face under.

  When he let go, I surfaced, gasping and spluttering, only for him to submerge me a second time. When next he left hold, mercifully, he walked away, shaking water off his hands.

  Folk were applauding his performance, cheering. No doubt, they thought it a right merry holy day jape. But a couple of fellows had courtesy enough to haul me out of the trough. I might have thanked them heartily had they not been laughing so hard at my humiliation. I coughed, spat, wrung out my cap and perched on the edge of the trough to remove my boots and tip the water from them.

  By the time Ralf, the washerwoman and that useless dog of mine – who had not so much as barked a protest at his master’s mistreatment – came out to see how I faired, at least I was upright. Water pooled around my feet as I dribbled and dripped like a leaking conduit. Earlier, I had desired cooling. This was not the means I then had in mind but cool I was, if ungrateful for it.

  At least, on such a day, my attire would dry swiftly but
with squelching footwear, I no longer wanted to go searching for my brother. He would enjoy overmuch the state of me, after my involuntary bathing. And what would Chesca think? A half-drowned rat was not an exemplary impression to make upon one with such airs. I needs must return home, mission unaccomplished, to change my clothes.

  I was surprised when, halfway along Cheapside, Ralf managed to catch up and walked back with me. Was Mistress Alder not better company than a wet, disgruntled master? Mayhap, he thought I required safe-conduct, if I was not to suffer further humiliation. Not that any man could have protected me from that monstrous Hamo.

  ‘I wanted to thank you, Master Seb, for speaking up on my behalf. I should have warned you not to. I’m right sorry your courage led to a dowsing but it could’ve been worse. Hamo’s a bully. His dealing is usually more violent than that. He must be in an agreeable humour this holy day, or too hot to make a proper brawl of it.’

  ‘Are you telling me I was fortunate? Fortunate to be publicly humiliated? I could as well have spent the day in the stocks, pelted with dung and rotten cabbages.’

  ‘Aye, but this way you don’t stink so bad.’ Even Ralf found this amusing. I could detect a hint of laughter in his words. Such knavery from one of my own household was hardly to be borne.

  It was as well that Adam would be from home, elsewise, my cousin’s mirth at sight of me might know no bounds.

  The Cardinal’s Hat Inn, Cheapside

  Dried off and wearing my Sunday best shoes in preference to oozing boots, we all of us – the entire household along with Mercy Hutchinson and all the children – went to the Cardinal’s Hat in Cheapside where was promised an evening of fine music. Minstrels with shawms, flutes, sackbuts and tabors tuned up for an hour or two of dance and song. I determined to enjoy myself, setting aside the memory of my earlier soaking. However, paying for our ale could prove a problem. I had no choice but to tell Adam and Rose of our parlous situation and, upon counting our coin, we none of us had above a few pence in our purses. It might have to be a dry evening, or else we must make do with ladles of water at the conduit.

  Ne’er a dancer – one episode of high spirited cavorting upon the birth of my son in Foxley village a twelvemonth since not withstanding – I watched, wistfully, as Adam danced every jig and reel with our womenfolk. Rose, Mercy, Kate and even Nessie, who ambled like a carthorse, were led around the floor in turn, spilling out into Cheapside to whirl around the Cross.

  Our own Jack and Stephen Appleyard were there and both found willing partners. Jack made up in enthusiasm what he lacked in finesse whilst Stephen demonstrated surprising grace and sureness of step. Kate sought out Master Collop’s apprentice, Hugh Gardyner. He might have difficulty doing strip-the-willow, what with his hand without a thumb, but naught was amiss with his elegant footwork. They made a handsome young couple – aye, and suitable. I should mention it to her father sometime soon.

  The long, hot twilight of midsummer witnessed much pleasure, laughter and merriment. The little ones, curled together on a heap of blankets like a litter of pups, slept through the noise, somehow, and Gawain and I kept a watch upon them. Dickon sucked his thumb and hugged his rag ball. The troublesome Nicholas slumbered like an angel and the babes, my Julia and her nursing sibling, Mundy, likewise looked innocent as saints. Mercy’s other son, Simon, was chasing around with his schoolmate, Will Thatcher.

  How startled was I when Will’s mother, Beatrice, came over and seized my hand.

  ‘Come, Master Seb. My Harry’s knee’s plaguing him. You will partner me in the dance, won’t you? Can’t bear t’ see you missing the fun, nor me. Come on.’

  I tried to object but she was deaf to my pleas and dragged me forth to join in a circle dance. It was not that I was ignorant of the steps required. I had watched this dance many times. But I had suffered public embarrassment once already this day and to repeat it by tripping over my feet and sprawling upon the floor would be unbearable. Yet Beatrice insisted.

  So I danced. A circle dance and a reel with Beatrice, another circle dance with Rose, during which, whilst stripping-the-willow, I found myself holding John Rykener’s hand. He wore velvet skirts in his role as Eleanor, graceful and light of step as any maid. Only his saucy wink as we parted company again was less than demure. I then partook of a jig, partnering Peronelle Hepton – Wenham, as was – with her new husband’s permission. This last being the final act for my reluctant hip. I subsided onto the steps of the Cross, there being no benches or stools unoccupied in the inn, sweating and panting but laughing all the same.

  ‘Such unaccustomed exercise; you’ll be needing this.’ Adam grinned and handed me a brimming ale cup. Thought you said you couldn’t dance.’

  ‘I cannot. Not one step more, cousin. I be blown.’ I sipped my drink, not chancing to enquire who paid for it.

  It was then that I espied my brother. He and Chesca stood beyond the ever-growing pile of kindling that would shortly become the largest of the city’s celebratory bonfires. Those with an eye to caution were filling buckets at the conduit for fear stray sparks might alight upon roofs or bushes and set up a blaze. Fortunately, there was little wind to make it too much of a likelihood.

  Ale cup in hand, I made my way around to Jude on the far side, discovering I was limping a little from my aching joint. Quite what I should say to him, concerning the money, I knew not. It seemed unmannerly to spoil a joyous evening with harsh words and anger. In the event, it was my brother who did the talking.

  ‘Ah, well met, little brother,’ he greeted me. ‘And you read my thoughts: ale!’ He took my cup and drained it in a single draught, smacking his lips when he was done. He gave me the empty cup and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘You should have come with us to the horse racing earlier. We had a bloody fine afternoon’s sport, did we not, wife?’ He pulled Chesca to him in a tight embrace and gave her a resounding kiss. I saw that he was somewhat glassy-eyed. My ale was by no means his first drink of the night.

  ‘Chesca’s my good luck charm… aren’t you, dear heart? We won! For once, we bloody won. She insisted I put a big fat wager on the sorriest bloody nag outside a knacker’s yard, ’cos she felt heartsick for it and it bloody won, didn’t it? Talk of fucking miracles. So I reckon I owe you a portion of my winnings, seeing you lent me…’

  ‘Lent you! I ne’er…’

  ‘Here.’ Jude unfastened his purse.

  I had not noticed the weight of it, bulging and dragging at his belt. He was fortunate no cutpurse had thought to relieve him of it.

  ‘Go. Have a good time at my expense.’ Laughing, he gave me a fistful of coins. ‘Show me your purse,’ he said, peering into its bare interior as I was about to put the coins in it. ‘Whoa. You’re poorer than a bloody church mouse, Seb. Have some more.’ He took another handful and tipped them in. I dare say, upon the morrow, he would regret it but he was generous in his drunken state, I admit.

  ‘My thanks, Jude. Have a care this eve; keep that purse out of sight.’

  He waved aside my warning and went off along Cheapside, his arm tight around Chesca’s waist. I was unsure quite who was supporting whom as they wove their way through the crowds of merry-makers. I wondered if he would have any coin remaining by morn, whether gambled, drunk or stolen away.

  I returned to the steps of the Cross where Adam sat, staring into his empty cup.

  ‘Where be Mercy?’

  ‘Feeding her Mundy within.’ He nodded towards the inn door. ‘Woke up, howling, so she’s soothing him.’

  ‘You want that cup refilled?’ I asked.

  ‘We can’t afford it.’

  ‘We can now. My brother just repaid his debt – somewhat of it, at least.’ I gave him my cup also and coin enough for us all to enjoy refreshment.

  He grinned and went to shoulder his path betwixt numerous, jostling folk, in search of a potboy. Until his return, I observed the dancers, lacing patterns, skippi
ng and spinning. I waved at Master Collop who watched his young wife measuring steps with an alderman whose name escaped me. Jonathan and Mary Caldicott galloped by, hands clasped, up one column of dancers and down the next. Then I saw our Kate, dragging a clod-footed watchman along, his cudgel banging at his thigh. Half London was here, enjoying the celebrations.

  ‘Did Rose find you?’ Adam said, returning with our ale.

  ‘Nay. Why?’

  ‘She’s looking for you to lead her in the last square dance. Here she comes. You best brace yourself, else she’ll be gravely disappointed.’

  Kate joined us also, having despaired of the watchman for a partner.

  ‘You lead her then, cousin. My hip be untrustworthy now.’

  ‘I’m spoken for. I’m dancing with Mercy. Pen and Bennett Hepton, Beattie and Stephen – would you believe – but we need you and Rose to make the square. Come. Stir your idle backside, can’t you? One last time, eh? For Rose?’

  ‘Go on, master. You make a fine couple.’ Kate added her voice to the argument.

  Oh well: for Rose. Much against my better judgement, I left the step, handing my cup to Kate for safe-keeping as Rose came over.

  ‘My lady Rose,’ I said formally, bowing low. ‘I would be truly honoured and take the greatest pleasure if you would permit me to escort you in this last dance.’ I kissed her hand, playing the court gallant.

  ‘Well, sir knight,’ she said, eyes sparkling as she gazed at me. ‘Since I see no line of other suitors vying for my hand…’

  ‘Then more fool they for being blind to the most perfect, the sweetest flower in all England.’ I led her out to form the square with the others. I hoped she could not see how I gritted my teeth for the pain and prayed silently that I should survive the dance without mishap. Once worn, my hip could be a chancy thing.

  The music began. We were the fourth couple and thus the last to make our stately measure, up and down, her hand resting upon mine, stepping with pointed toe and making our courtesies as we turned. I achieved that much well enough. But then we eight joined hands and circled round. I nigh stumbled but Rose and Peronelle on either hand kept me from falling. Then we had to repeat it all again. The measured steps I could manage but the final circling was likely to be fast as a last flourish to end upon. And so it was. Adam and Bennett Hepton pulled us round at a furious pace. My left hip gave out, as I feared it might. I tumbled and, though I released her hand, Rose fell atop me, followed by Adam, Mercy, then everyone else. I felt mortified at the bottom of a heap of arms, legs and writhing bodies.