The Saint John's Fern (15 page)

Master Sherford’s sudden outburst began to put me at my ease. I realized that he probably needed to talk about his erstwhile friend in an effort to make sense to himself of what had happened; so I withdrew a few more steps into the shadows of the archway where it was more difficult to be seen, hoping that he would follow me, which he did. His initial irritation had vanished and he seemed as eager now to chat as he had been reluctant hitherto.

‘That morning,’ I said, ‘the morning of May Day, when you saw him in the distance, near Sequers Bridge, do you remember if Beric was riding towards Plymouth or in the direction of Valletort Manor? Did you notice anything strange or odd about him?’

Stephen Sherford frowned and his eyes focused on me as though he had not really seen me before. He repeated the questions I was always being asked, had always been asked from my childhood onwards: ‘Why are you so interested? What has it got to do with you?’

‘I told you,’ I answered smoothly. ‘I promised John and Joanna Cobbold, who are Master Capstick’s neighbours, that I’d try to find out anything I could that might lead to Beric Gifford’s arrest.’ (One thing seemed plain enough at any rate, and that was that Bartholomew Champernowne had not warned Stephen Sherford of my advent, nor tried to persuade him not to speak to me.)

Fortunately, my new acquaintance seemed happy to accept this explanation without further questioning on that particular score and merely nodded his head.

‘What did you mean,’ he queried, ‘when you asked if I’d noticed anything strange or odd about Beric?’

I countered this with the question he had not yet answered. ‘In which direction was he riding?’

‘Towards Plymouth. It was very early. The dew was still thick on the grass, I remember, but I had been out maying with some of my father’s tenants. We were coming up from the woods below Sequers Bridge when I saw Beric in the distance. I called out to him but he must have been too far away to hear.’

‘You’re certain it was your friend?’

‘Of course! I recognized both Beric and his horse.’

‘And there was nothing different about either of them that you can recollect?’

‘No. I was a bit surprised that he didn’t hear my shout, but perhaps it was because Flavius – that’s his horse – was being especially mettlesome and it needed all Beric’s skill and attention to quieten him.’

‘Was there a particular reason for the horse’s behaviour, do you think?’

The delicate eyebrows rose once again. ‘Why should there have been? He’s always been a difficult brute, and it’s only Beric who can manage him. Moreover, he doesn’t take kindly to crossing bridges. Never has done. I remember on more than one occasion, Beric cursing the fellow who sold him Flavius for not mentioning the fact before he parted with him. Said he wouldn’t have bought him if he’d known.’

‘But on that morning of the first of May, was the horse being more difficult than usual?’ It had occurred to me that if Beric himself were jumpy and nervous because of his purpose when he reached his journey’s end, then that edginess might have conveyed itself to his mount, making the animal more recalcitrant than was customary.

Stephen Sherford considered my question. ‘Perhaps a little,’ he conceded at length. ‘Why do you ask? It can’t possibly have any bearing on what happened subsequently, can it?’ When I did not answer immediately, his irritation returned in full force. ‘Why are you wasting my time with this stupid interrogation? What’s the point of it?’

I nearly repeated to him what I had said to Jack Golightly about the dross and the diamond, but instead, I answered his query with one of my own.

‘What do you think has happened to Beric Gifford in these months since the murder of his great-uncle? Where do you believe he’s hiding?’

‘He’s escaped, of course. To France, if he’s any sense.’ The answer came all too pat.

‘Without Katherine Glover?’

Stephen shrugged. ‘Oh, I expect she’ll join him, sooner or later. That’s if he still fancies her after he’s met all those attractive Frenchwomen.’

It was on the tip of my tongue to point out that Katherine Glover was a very pretty girl, but I didn’t want to antagonize him further. Something in his tone, made me ask, ‘Don’t you like her?’

‘She’s his sister’s maid, for heaven’s sake!’ he retorted impatiently. ‘All right for a tumble in the hay, but not to marry!’

‘Did you tell him so?’

‘No, of course not! I wasn’t such a fool. I’ve told you, he has the devil of a temper when roused, and he believes himself very much in love with Katherine Glover.’

‘Is her lowly status the only charge you have against her, or is there some other reason?’

Stephen Sherford pursed his lips. ‘I’ve only seen her twice, each time in Beric’s company. But on both occasions it seemed to me that he was more in love with her than she with him. Oh, she was affectionate enough, kissing him and hanging round his neck, so I can’t really tell you what gave me that idea. It just crossed my mind that she might be using him for some purpose of her own.’

‘Such as?’

Again the irritation spurted. ‘How in God’s name should I know?’

I leant my back against the wall of the archway and waited while a carter with a full load of hay passed through. Once he was safely in the courtyard, with Sir Anthony’s servants swarming about him, I said, ‘Well, if you’re right, whatever purpose she may have had in view must now lie in ruins. She can hardly have expected him to become a permanent fugitive from justice. And from all that I can gather, she seems, so far at least, to have remained true to her lover.’ I did not add that I had received positive proof of Katherine Glover’s affection for Beric Gifford only the night before last.

There was another interruption as a couple of kitchenmaids hurried past on their way indoors, vegetables from the garden held up before them, cradled in their aprons. The pair of them glanced sidelong at us, then broke into giggles once they thought themselves safely out of earshot.

My companion flushed and said angrily, ‘I must be going. I’ve wasted enough of the morning as it is, talking to you.’

I remembered to be obsequious again, an objective I had almost lost sight of. ‘You have been most kind. I can’t thank you enough.’

He was mollified. ‘
Have
I been of any use to you?’ he queried.

‘I’m sure it will prove so,’ I assured him, ‘when I’ve had a chance to sort through all you’ve told me in my mind.’ As he turned to go, however, I laid a hand on his arm. ‘Forgive me, but there’s just one thing I haven’t asked on which I should be grateful to have your opinion. There are rumours, I’ve been told, that people claim to have seen Beric Gifford in this neighbourhood within the last few months. So could he, do you think, have eaten of Saint John’s fern?’

Stephen Sherford blinked at me for a second or two, then gave a shout of laughter. But it had, I thought, rather a hollow ring.

‘I don’t believe in any of that nonsense, do you?’

I smiled. ‘I have to admit that I’ve never met anyone who’s actually known anyone who’s eaten the hart’s-tongue fern and become invisible. But is that proof positive that it hasn’t happened to someone, somewhere, at sometime?’

‘I should say so, yes.’

‘Then where is Beric Gifford hiding? For he’s still in the neighbourhood, you can take my word for it. I saw him the night before last.’

My companion gave me so incredulous a glance that I was forced for the sake of my own plausibility to explain the circumstances to him. When I had finished my story of Beric’s encounter with Katherine Glover, he slowly shook his head.

‘If what you say is true, then I have no idea where he can be. I thought him safe in France. Or in Brittany with Henry Tudor.’

It was the same answer that I had received from so many others. No one seemed able to suggest a hiding place close at hand where for months on end a man might defy all the forces of the law to find him. Stephen Sherford was plainly shaken by my revelation, and I exonerated him from any suspicion of pretence.

‘I must tell my father what you have told me,’ he said in trembling accents. ‘I have sisters. My parents would prefer them not to walk abroad unattended with a murderer loose in the vicinity.’ Friendship had obviously not survived the killing of an old man; nor, on reflection, did it deserve to. ‘Where will you go now?’ he added.

‘To Modbury first, to glean what I can there, and then to Valletort Manor.’ I picked up my pack and settled it on my shoulders. ‘That, after all, is where the answers must finally lie. I shall have to see what Mistress Gifford and Katherine Glover are able to tell me.’

‘You’ll get nothing from either of them,’ Stephen Sherford said as he began to move in the direction of the house. ‘His sister dotes on Beric. He can do no wrong in her eyes. And Katherine Glover knows how to keep her mouth shut. Ah, well! God be with you, chapman!’

I called after him, ‘You haven’t received a visit from Bartholomew Champernowne today, I presume? At least, if you have, you haven’t mentioned it.’

He paused, looking puzzled. ‘He wouldn’t dare to show his face here. My father and I dislike the fellow, and he knows it.’

‘Then I’ll wish you good day, Master Sherford.’

And I set out on the last leg of my journey.

Chapter Eleven

The little town of Modbury, running steeply downhill to the sequestered valley, has declined in importance since its Saxon heyday, when it was the moot burgh or chief meeting place of the district. It still boasts, however, a portreeve, steward of the marketplace and the representative of the people in all their dealings with the lord of the manor; an ancient Saxon office.

Modbury Priory, high above the town, had, I learnt later, originally been a daughter house of the Benedictine Abbey of Saint Pierre-sur-Dives in Normandy, but thirty and more years ago, after many vicissitudes in its fortunes, the late King Henry had granted all its lands and revenues to his foundation of the College of the Blessed Mary at Eton. The priory had finally been dissolved ten years previously, and the last prior was happily living out the remainder of his days as a tenant of the college.

The Champernownes are still Lords of the Manor as far as I know, and have been since the reign of the second Edward, when they succeeded to the title after first the de Valletorts and then the Oxtons. The principal members of the family, at the time of which I speak, seemed to me to be generally well-liked, and had the great virtue, as far as I was concerned, of having supported the House of York during the recent civil wars. (I knew little at this juncture about Bartholomew Champernowne except that he belonged to a cadet branch of the family, and that I and at least two others felt some antipathy towards him.)

The population of the town was not large; less, I guessed, than that of either Totnes or Plympton. But it seemed to be a thriving place, its prosperity centred on the woollen industry with a fair proportion of Tuckers, Fullers and Weavers amongst its local surnames. It had a bustling marketplace and a cheerful, welcoming attitude towards strangers, if my experience was anything to go by.

This, then, was Modbury as I encountered it on that warm, sunny October afternoon, descending from the church and manor house atop the hill, to the huddle of shops and dwellings at its base.

*   *   *

I had no difficulty in finding the cottage of Anne Fettiplace. The first person I accosted, a bright, smiling youth with ruddy cheeks, was able to direct me straight to her door.

‘Here, I’ll show you,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’ It was only a few steps further on and hardly worth his time and effort: he could have pointed it out from where we were standing. But, as I was soon to discover, he was typical of the townspeople, for most of whom nothing was too much trouble. ‘She’ll be pleased to see one of your calling,’ the lad added. ‘Indeed, we all shall. We’ve been starved for a good while now of fresh news from the outside world. Have you come far? From London, perhaps?’ he suggested hopefully.

‘From Bristol,’ I said, and saw his face fall. ‘But we do get London news,’ I assured him. ‘If you’ll tell me where you live, I’ll call on you and your goodwife later.’

‘My mother and father,’ he amended, but flushed with pleasure that I should think him old enough to be married. He pointed out his parents’ cottage, wished me a courteous good day and sped off to spread the news that there was a stranger in the town.

My knock on Anne Fettiplace’s door was answered by a woman as round and as plump as Mistress Trenowth and the Widow Cooper, and who, in looks, could only be their sister.

‘Mistress Fettiplace?’ I enquired, but without any doubt as to what her answer would be.

She gave me an apologetic smile and admitted the charge. ‘But I’m afraid I’m not in need of your goods just at present, chapman,’ she said. Then she paused, frowning. ‘But how do you know my name?’

‘I’ve come from Plymouth, where I met your sisters,’ I explained. ‘They bade me seek you out if I wanted a place to sleep in Modbury, so I’m taking the liberty of doing as I was instructed.’

Immediately her plump features were wreathed in smiles and she held the cottage door open for me to enter.

‘Please walk in! If you’re a friend of Ursula and Matty’s of course I can find you somewhere to sleep. Put your pack and staff down there in that corner while I fetch you a cup of my best home-brewed ale. Are you looking to stay in Modbury long?’

While she spoke, she bustled about, filling a beaker from the ale-cask that stood in another corner of the room, and inviting me to sit down at the table. When I had slaked my thirst and complimented her, much to her gratification, upon an excellent brew, I said, ‘Before I trespass on your time and good nature, Mistress Fettiplace, I must explain how I came to meet your sisters and what my business is hereabouts. You may not wish to have me as your guest when everything is made plain to you.’

‘Have you eaten?’ she interrupted. ‘It’s nearly suppertime. I was just about to get my meal and I should be most happy if you would share it with me. Whatever you have to tell me can wait until it’s ready.’

I grinned. Anne Fettiplace was a woman after my own heart, and one who had the right priorities.