The Saint John's Fern (14 page)

The man tried to spit at me, but when you are flat on the ground, spitting isn’t easy and the saliva merely dribbled down his chin. I laughed and released his arms, but Jack Golightly was not amused. He advanced his face to within an inch of the groom’s face, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a snarl of rage.

‘You can go back to your master and tell him this. If he comes so much as within half a mile of this cottage, he’ll be a dead man. No one violates the sanctity of my hospitality and gets away with it! Especially not a Champernowne!’ Once again, he succeeded in making the name sound like the vilest of imprecations. He stood up, releasing his prisoner, but also delivering a swift, hard kick to the man’s groin. The groom doubled up in agony.

Taking the lantern, we left him to hobble back to where his horse was tethered as best he could, and returned to the cottage once again, locking the door behind us. We also shuttered and barred the open window.

‘Did we ought to make certain that he’s gone?’ asked Jack.

I shook my head. ‘He won’t hang around. He’s too frightened. You’ve put the fear of God into him if it wasn’t there already. I can almost feel pity for the poor oaf, for it was plain he didn’t relish what he’d been ordered to do. I don’t suppose he’s ever killed a man in his life. I’d guess that petty thieving is the most his talents have ever run to.’

We were both shivering with cold now that the excitement was past, and with the bellows Jack tried to blow a spark of life back into the fire. After a while, a flame caught some of the unburnt wood, and he put a pan of ale to mull over the heat. Meanwhile, I found our two dirty beakers from yesterday’s supper and within half an hour, we were able to sit on the mattress, the blanket pulled over our knees, and feel the warmth creep back into our bones.

‘Well, all’s well that ends well,’ I said lightly. ‘At least I’m still here.’

But my host refused to be mollified. When he spoke, his voice was harsh with unsuppressed hatred.

‘I swear to you, chapman, that if ever Bartholomew Champernowne comes near this place again, I’ll have his life and count my own well lost in ridding the world of such a worm!’

‘That’s foolish talk,’ I said, draining my cup. ‘It’s wrong to take life, be it your own or another’s. You’re tired and upset. Lie down and get some sleep. You’ll feel differently in the morning.’

I reached across and put out the lantern that I had left near us on the floor. Darkness muffled us once again. I stretched my length on the palliasse and, a moment or so later Jack did the same. He hadn’t answered me, but I was too sleepy to press the matter. Besides, within minutes, he was snoring.

Chapter Ten

I awoke the following morning with aching limbs that felt as heavy as lead and an incipient headache that nagged behind my eyes.

It was as much as I could do to sit upright on the mattress, and my first thought was that I was suffering from an ague, contracted since coming into Devon. Then the truth dawned on me: I had had three disturbed nights, one after the other. Last night, Bartholomew Champernowne’s groom had tried to break into Jack Golightly’s cottage in order to kill me; the previous night, I had witnessed the nocturnal meeting between Katherine Glover and Beric Gifford at the Bird of Passage Inn; and the night before that again, I had paid a visit to Oliver Capstick’s house in Bilbury Street. Lack of rest was no good for either my wits or my strength, and I decided that when I said my morning prayers I should have to have a word with God about it. It was all very well for Him to give me these signs and show me the path that I must follow, but if I were to be of any use in doing His will, He really would have to allow me to get some sleep.

Jack was already up, frying thick, fatty slabs of bacon in a pan over the now brightly burning fire and, at the same time, stirring porridge which was bubbling away merrily in an iron pot.

‘You’ve slept a fair while,’ he remarked, as I yawned and stretched my arms until the bones cracked. ‘But you were so dead to the world that I didn’t like to wake you. Not that you look much better now, with those dark circles under your eyes. Go and stick your head in a bucket of water; it might revive you. There’s a stream that runs close to the animals’ pen. Breakfast’ll be ready when you get back.’

He was as good as his word, and by the time that I had washed and cleaned ny teeth with my willow bark, a bowl of gruel and a plate of bacon collops awaited me on the table. My host, seated opposite, had already started on his meal and greeted my return with a grunt, too busy eating to talk yet awhile. At last, however, he had cleared both plate and bowl, and patted his stomach with a sigh of repletion.

‘Are you still of the same mind today as you were yesterday?’ he asked. ‘Do you intend calling upon Master Sherford?’

I nodded. ‘And you? I can only hope you’re
not
of the same mind as you were yesterday as regards Bartholomew Champernowne. You’ve been kind to me and I like you. I’d hate to see you dangling at the end of a rope.’

‘That’s up to him,’ Jack replied grimly. ‘Don’t worry! I shan’t go searching him out, but if either he or that groom of his comes bothering me again, I might not be answerable for my actions.’

‘I doubt if he will come bothering you again,’ I said. ‘He’ll guess that I’ve gone on my way this morning, and I’m the one he’s after, not you.’

‘Take care, then,’ Jack warned. ‘Watch your back. Live by this maxim: never trust a Champernowne.’

‘Will he warn this Stephen Sherford, do you think, of my probable arrival? For he seems to know the name of everyone hereabouts who gave evidence to the Sheriff’s officers after Oliver Capstick’s murder. But even if he does, I fancy he’ll hardly try to buy Sherford’s silence, as he did yours and Gueda Beeman’s.’

Jack grimaced and picked his teeth with a rusty nail that he kept handy for the purpose. ‘He might go to see Master Sherford,’ he conceded, ‘but as you say, it’s unlikely he’d attempt to bribe him. That might be regarded as too insulting. But it’s likely he’d try to persuade young Sherford to have nothing to do with you for the sake of Mistress Gifford. Champernowne would appeal to his sense of chivalry in protecting a lady’s name from further calumny.’ Jack hesitated before adding, ‘
If
Master Sherford is the man you’re looking for, of course. We don’t know for certain that he’s the one. It could possibly be some other.’

I finished my bacon and swallowed a mouthful or two of ale. ‘But according to you there’s no one else in these parts who could have been a friend of Beric’s, so, in those circumstances, it’s worth paying Stephen Sherford a visit. And even if he proves not to be my man, it’s possible he can tell me who is.’ I stood up, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, and gathered up my pack and cudgel. ‘I have to be on my way now. Many thanks for your hospitality. I shan’t forget you.’

Jack Golightly warmly clasped my proffered hand.

‘Take care,’ he urged again. ‘You’re a good man, even if you do support that usurper Edward of Rouen, and all the tribe of the House of York.’ He grinned. ‘Tread carefully, and I hope you bring Beric Gifford to justice. You’re right. There’s no excuse for killing an old, defenceless man, whatever he may have done. God be with you, chapman, and I trust we’ll meet again one day.’

He accompanied me to the door of the cottage, where he once more shook my hand before giving me instructions how to reach Edmeston and the home of Sir Anthony Sherford.

*   *   *

I crossed the River Erme by Sequers Bridge and then followed a track that wound its way between the trees in a slightly northerly direction. I had gone less than half a mile when, as Jack Golightly had predicted, I came upon Sir Anthony Sherford’s dwelling.

Sir Anthony was obviously a man of some substance, for a great many new buildings, a few of very recent construction judging by the rawness of the timber and the cleanliness of the stonework, had been added to the original house. This latter I guessed to be several centuries old and was built foursquare around a central courtyard and above an undercroft well stocked with provisions for the coming winter. There were also a number of servants in evidence, one of whom came forward briskly at my approach.

‘Take yourself off to the kitchen, chapman. Either the cook or the housekeeper may have need of your goods. And if you have anything they think Lady Sherford might want, Dame Isabelle, the housekeeper, will let her know.’

‘I was hoping,’ I said, standing my ground, ‘to have a word with young Master Sherford.’

The man was truculent. ‘What do you want with him? He’ll not be interested in your fripperies or your knives and spoons. Get away to the kitchen with you!’

‘I’d like to speak to Master Sherford, none the less,’ I repeated and, diving my hand into the pouch at my waist, I produced a coin, turning it over suggestively between my fingers.

The man, who had once more opened his mouth to refuse me, stood, suddenly irresolute, but with avarice winking in his dark brown eyes.

‘What do you want with Master Stephen?’ he demanded.

‘That’s my affair.’ I handed over the coin, but then it struck me that I might be making a fool of myself and I added, ‘If, that is, he’s a friend of Beric Gifford.’

The servant’s eyes widened abruptly, then one of them half closed in what might or might not have been a wink. At the same time, he slid the coin into his pocket. ‘Got a message from Master Gifford, have you?’ he asked in a carefully lowered voice. ‘D’you know where he is?’

I made no reply, pressing my lips firmly together as an indication that I was not prepared to say more. The man still hesitated, and I realized that I had probably been foolish to hand over the money before I had achieved my object. But after a moment or two, he indicated an upturned barrel just inside the courtyard entrance and said, ‘Sit there, and I’ll see if I can find the young master for you. Mind you,’ he added, swinging on his heel, ‘even if I do, I can’t guarantee he’ll be willing to speak to you.’

He went away and, ignoring his offer of a seat, I withdrew into the shadows of the courtyard archway. No one else seemed to evince any interest in me, for which I was thankful. I had no desire to be hauled off to the kitchen to display my wares to the cook and housekeeper, or to have to explain my business over again.

The day, as days in early autumn often do, had turned suddenly warm, although it was not yet ten o’clock. I began to sweat, but whether as a result of the unexpected heat or because I was feeling the effects of my three nights of broken sleep, I was uncertain. Or was it simply that the events of the small hours of this morning had shaken me more than I cared to admit, even to myself? I suddenly had a great yearning for my home, for Adela, for my children, but I put the longing from me. There was work for me to do here, or God would never have given me that inexplicable urge to come to Devon.

There was a slight bustle in the main doorway of the house, which stood immediately opposite the archway where I was sheltering. A young man appeared, following the servant to whom I had already spoken, and, after what were obviously a few words of dismissal to his attendant, walked towards me across the courtyard. As he drew near, I could see that he was about eighteen or nineteen years of age, tall and slender, with hair so fair that it was almost silver in colour, and eyes that were of such an intense dark blue that in some lights they looked nearly purple. He was dressed for riding, and I surmised that he had been fetched from the stables, his expression suggesting that he was none too pleased at the interruption to his morning’s plans.

I stepped out from the shadows and respectfully tugged at my forelock. Obsequiousness costs nothing and, in my experience often obtains me what I want with less effort than I should otherwise have to expend.

‘Master Sherford, I’m sorry to intrude upon your time in this fashion. It’s generous of you to take the trouble to speak to me.’

His annoyance was tempered with nervousness. ‘Matthew said you have a message for me from Beric Gifford.’ The eyes widened giving them the appearance of rain-drenched pansies. ‘I – I haven’t seen him, you know, not since the day he vanished, the … the day of … of the murder.’

I shook my head. ‘Your man got it wrong, sir. He assumed too much. I have no message for you from Beric Gifford. But from what you’ve just said, I’m right, am I not, in thinking that you were at one time his friend? You are the person who told the Sheriff’s officers that you saw Master Gifford near Sequers Bridge?’

Stephen Sherford nodded, now thoroughly bewildered. ‘I am. But what of it?’ The pale eyebrows arched themselves over those extraordinarily deep blue eyes.

Quite unexpectedly, I felt awkward and at something of a loss, for what possible reason could I give this young man for my interest in the murder of Oliver Capstick? I should have approached him sideways, like a crab, instead of tackling him face to face. I should have followed my usual course and gone to the kitchens, as the servant, Matthew, had instructed me to do, and while displaying the contents of my pack tried to discover what, if anything, was known by the cook and her helpers, or by the housekeeper, Dame Isabelle. I reflected wryly that I might also have made some money had I done so. The trouble was, I doubted if anyone but Stephen Sherford would be able to provide the answers to my questions.

‘I – er – I’m a – a friend of Master Capstick’s neighbours, John and Joanna Cobbold,’ I floundered. Stretching the truth a little further, I added, ‘They – er – they were fond of the old man. They – they’re anxious to see his murderer brought to justice. I – I promised them I would make such enquiries as I could on my travels.’

‘
I
don’t know where Beric is,’ my companion said sharply. ‘And I don’t want to, either. I want nothing to do with him. He was my friend, yes. But what he’s done is inexcusable. If he’s ever caught, he’ll hang.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t think what got into him. Oh, he has a temper when he’s roused, but I should never have thought him capable of murder! At least not that sort of murder. He might have killed someone in a fit of uncontrollable anger, but never in cold blood. It just shows that you never really know other people, not even when you’ve been friends with them for years.’