The Saint John's Fern (17 page)

I looked for the priest, but he must have withdrawn to his house, eager for breakfast, as soon as the Mass was over, for there appeared to be no sign of him. So much, I thought, for my good intentions. I knelt down on the hard tiles and asked God to keep Adela and our children safe from harm during my absence, and could not help reminding Him that I was, after all, here on his business. ‘For you know very well that it was You who sent me to Plymouth in the first place,’ I added sternly.

God, as usual, vouchsafed no answer, and I got up from my knees feeling slightly irritated. I was about to leave the church and return to Anne Fettiplace’s cottage to collect my pack, when a sudden movement to my left made me start. Remembering the attempt on my life of the night before last, I spun around, hands clenched, ready to defend myself if necessary.

But it was not necessary. The figure that emerged from the North Transept was that of a woman, and my eyes were by now sufficiently accustomed to the darkness to recognize that she was richly dressed. I stood respectfully aside to let her pass before following her outside, into the sunshine. At the church door, she turned to thank me, and by the light of day, I saw that although she was not beautiful in the accepted sense of the word, she had finely chiselled features, with skin as brown as a hazel nut. Her eyes were also brown, dark and velvety, and the lashes that fringed them almost black. The effect was highly dramatic, and any man would have given her a second look.

‘Berenice,’ said a voice behind us, ‘are you ready to go home yet?’

We both glanced round, and there, coming along the path towards us, was Katherine Glover.

Chapter Twelve

She did not see me at first. Her eyes were fixed upon her mistress.

‘The horses are growing restless. You’ve been a long time,’ she said.

‘I stayed behind to pray after the rest of the congregation had left,’ Berenice replied. ‘I lit a candle for Great-Uncle Oliver.’

I saw Katherine Glover’s unguarded look of astonishment and her open mouth, as if she would make some remark. But then she noticed me and her expression turned to one of shock, then of resentment.

‘What are you doing in Modbury, chapman? Are you following me about?’ Without waiting for my answer, she turned to Berenice. ‘This is the pedlar I told you of. The one I met at the Bird of Passage Inn. The one who’s so inquisitive concerning our affairs.’

Her mistress regarded me quizzically. ‘So you’re the man, are you?’ The dark eyes were filled with sardonic amusement. ‘But you omitted to tell us, Kate, how extraordinarily handsome he is.’

I felt the beginnings of a blush, and in order to change the subject I said quickly, ‘When you refer to “us”, Mistress, I take it that you mean yourself and your betrothed, Master Bartholomew Champernowne.’

The laughter vanished and the strongly marked eyebrows rose. ‘Now how do you know that?’ she asked.

‘As far as your betrothal goes, I was told by someone in Plymouth that you and he were to marry. And because of what happened afterwards, I’m sure that he was with you when Mistress Glover returned home after our meeting at the inn.’

This time the eyebrows drew together in a frown.

‘What happened afterwards?’ Berenice demanded, and listened intently to my explanation. ‘The fool!’ she burst out angrily when I had finished. ‘If any of this – the suborning of witnesses, attempted murder – comes to the Sheriff’s ears, Bartholomew will be in very deep trouble indeed.’ She glanced anxiously at me. ‘Can I rely on your discretion, chapman, not to mention this story to anyone else?’

Wishing to conceal the fact that I had already confided in Anne Fettiplace, I prevaricated.

‘I wasn’t the only person involved, Mistress, as I’ve told you. But I assure you
I
have no intention of approaching any officer of the law.’

She mulled this over for a moment or two, before asking, ‘What do you know of this man in whose cottage you were staying? This … This…’

‘Jack Golightly,’ I supplied.

Berenice nodded. ‘This Jack Golightly. Is he likely, do you think, to make a report to the Sheriff’s officers next time he visits Exeter or Plymouth?’

I shook my head. ‘I should deem it highly improbable. The truth is that although, in general, he bears a grudge against all Champernownes, and wouldn’t be averse to doing one of them a serious mischief if he could, he would be far happier committing that mischief himself. If you wish to keep your betrothed safe from harm, you’d do well to advise him to steer clear of Jack Golightly.’

‘I shall certainly do so,’ she answered. ‘And I shall make it plain to him how exceptionally foolish his behaviour has been. Thank you for telling me.’ Unexpectedly, she held out her hand. ‘Will you come to visit us at Valletort Manor? Katherine and I are always ready to spend our money on ribbons and combs and all other such aids to vanity as I’m sure you carry in your pack.’ The deep brown eyes were alight once more with mockery. ‘And you can satisfy yourself that my brother is not in hiding there, which is what, I’m sure, you and half the rest of the world believes.’

I was taken aback by this frankness, and also by the fact that her proffered hand seemed to indicate that Berenice Gifford was prepared to treat me almost as a friend. But I did not trust her. She was laughing at me, secure in the knowledge of her ability to protect Beric from all prying eyes such as mine. Even Katherine Glover had shown no agitation at her mistress’s invitation; and their confidence was a challenge that I could not refuse.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I shall be happy to visit you sometime within the next few days. I won’t trouble you for directions, as I’m sure there must be someone who can tell me how to find Valletort Manor.’

Berenice Gifford threw back her head and laughed, this time seeming genuinely amused.

‘Dozens,’ she said. ‘If our whereabouts were unknown to people in the past, you may be certain that there’s not a person in Modbury and the surrounding countryside who doesn’t know where to find us nowadays. Isn’t that so, Kate?’

Katherine Glover grimaced sourly, pulling awry that little, flower-like face.

‘Oh, they all come poking around,’ she sneered, ‘hoping to find Beric and claim the reward. None of our assurances that he’s safely in Britanny manages to persuade them that he’s not in hiding somewhere close at hand.’

‘Nor,’ added Berenice warmly, can they be persuaded that Katherine and I are not protecting him in this imagined concealment. And a few make it plain that they believe I egged my brother on to commit that heinous crime, so that I could inherit Great-Uncle Oliver’s money.’ She shuddered eloquently. ‘It’s true that we’d had our differences, the old man and I, but beneath that crusty manner, he was a kindly soul who’d been good both to me and to my brother. I had no reason to wish him dead: he was pleased with the news of my betrothal to Bartholomew and would have treated me well when the time comes for us to marry.’ She sighed deeply and pushed back a lock of almost jet-black hair that had strayed from beneath her hood. ‘Neither Kate nor I had any idea what Beric was plotting when he left home on May Day morning.’ She turned to her companion for confirmation. ‘Isn’t that so, Kate?’

Katherine Glover nodded. ‘Quite true. If we had had so much as an inkling, we should naturally have tried to prevent him, to reason with him, to discover the cause of his murderous rage. We should even have attempted to confine him to the house if persuasion had failed.’

‘You don’t think, then,’ I suggested, ‘that Master Gifford’s anger had the same cause as his rage of the previous day, when he tried to strangle his uncle? You don’t believe that he was still incensed by Master Capstick’s refusal to contemplate you as his nephew’s wife?’

She flushed uncomfortably and her look of resentment palpably increased.

‘If you want the truth, yes, I think it did. But, given a chance, I might have been able to convince Beric that the old man’s opinion was of no concern to me. That I was not offended by it.’

The tone of her voice was so sincere that I couldn’t help wondering why I didn’t believe her. I tried not to let my doubt show in my face, however; and, as her mistress was at last displaying some signs of wishing to be on her way, I bade both women good day and moved off in the direction of the churchyard gate, where their horses were tethered. The palfrey I recognized. The bay, with the two white front stockings, must therefore belong to Berenice.

Just at that moment, the lady herself called after me, ‘Don’t forget! We shall expect to see you soon, when you’ve finished selling your wares here in Modbury.’

I stopped and waved my acknowledgement, before walking on down the hill.

*   *   *

I did not return at once to Anne Fettiplace’s cottage, but waited until I was certain that I had not been followed. I had no clear idea why I felt this to be necessary, but for some reason I did not wish to draw the attention of either Berenice Gifford or Katherine Glover to my hostess, even though common sense suggested that I was being overcautious. On the other hand, although both women appeared to have been open and frank in their dealings with me, I knew for a fact that they were lying; that one of them, at least, had had recent contact with Beric Gifford, and that he was not in Brittany, but very much closer to home.

When I described the encounter to Anne Fettiplace and told her of my invitation to visit Valletort Manor, she looked worried.

‘Will you go?’ she enquired, serving me up a dinner of bacon collops and gravy, followed by apple fritters and goat’s-milk cheese.

‘Of course,’ I answered, clearing my mouth with a swig of her home-brewed ale. ‘I would have gone, in any case. To be asked can only be a bonus.’

‘Then you must take great care,’ she advised me. ‘Will you go straight away?’

I shook my head. ‘No. I’ve told Mistress Gifford to expect me within a day or two, but not immediately. She thinks the reason is because I wish to do some trading here, in Modbury, before setting out for Valletort Manor. But, in reality, I want to visit Burrow Island and the fishing villages along the coast.’

My hostess looked even more anxious, if possible, than she had done before.

‘Then don’t go asking too many questions,’ she admonished me. ‘Keep your eyes and ears open by all means, but stick to selling your wares. They’re queer folk, the fishers, and don’t take kindly to interference from the outside world. They protect their own, and Katherine Glover’s one of them. Don’t forget that!’

‘I shan’t forget,’ I promised. ‘I’ve had experience of what they’re like. I had dealings with them once before, some years ago.’

‘Well, remember that there are monks living on the island,’ Mistress Fettiplace reminded me. ‘They’re Cistercians from Buckfast Abbey, and Abbot Kyng, so they say, is strict with his flock. If you do run your head into trouble, they’ll protect you.’

I was dubious about this. Although I did not say so, it was my experience that monks separated from the Mother House tended to grow lax after a while, and disliked interfering in the entrenched ways and customs of the local community. But I had no intention of doing anything foolish. I was a married man now, with responsibilities, and I hoped that God would remember that as well as I did.

‘Will you remain there long?’ my hostess persisted, obviously still uneasy. ‘My menfolk will be back from Exeter tomorrow. They’d always come to your assistance if you needed them. You’d only have to send me word.’

I thanked her, laughing, and took both her hands in mine.

‘Mistress Fettiplace, I mean to be careful, but God bless you for your concern. As for how long I shall stay there, a day, perhaps two at the very most, is the limit of my expectations. The monks, if I recollect rightly, have a small hostelry on the island where I can sleep. At the end of that time, if I’ve not already discovered where Beric Gifford is hiding, I shall go on to Valletort Manor and see what I can find out there.’

When we parted, she reached up and shyly kissed my cheek.

‘My lad’s about your age,’ she said. She patted my shoulder. ‘Look after yourself and don’t try anything foolish. Do you hear me, now?’

‘I hear you,’ I grinned, returning the kiss. ‘I promise you I’ll try to take care.’

With this she had to be content, and stood at the door of her cottage to wave me off.

It was still some while to noon, and I had the rest of the day before me; a beautiful October day, warm and sunny, but with a little breeze that fanned my cheeks and made walking easy and pleasant. The path that I had chosen was like its fellows on that peninsula of land between the rivers Erme and Avon; sometimes it led across open heath and at others plunged deep into dense patches of woodland; sometimes it led me uphill and at others, down. In several places, the track almost disappeared amongst great tangles of undergrowth, where long, snaking briars coiled around my legs as though loath to let me pass; and now and then, the trees drew back to leave a grassy space, their branches arching overhead, their trunks forming a circle like the pillars of some pagan temple. Little sunlight penetrated to these clearings, but on a fine day they were filled with a greenish, bronze-tinted, subaqueous gloom.

It was in one of these circles that I sat down to rest and eat the apple that Anne Fettiplace had insisted I take with me for the journey.

‘You’ll need something to sustain you,’ she had said. ‘You can’t be sure when you’ll get your next meal.’

So, blessing her thoughtfulness, I sat on a fallen log and bit into its bitter-sweet crispness. I was tired, for, by my reckoning, I had walked more than three miles by then and the going had been rough. The log was at the foot of a tree, and, when I had finished my apple and thrown away the core, I leant back against the bark, closing my eyes for a moment, letting my thoughts drift, dreaming of Adela and home …

I must have fallen asleep, for I was suddenly jerked awake by a violent bodily convulsion, and found myself possessed by an inexplicable sense of dread. I was sweating, but at the same time shivering with cold. I started to my feet, reaching for my cudgel, which I had propped against the tree-trunk, convinced that someone was in the clearing with me. But when I glanced around, there was no one to be seen. At first, I refused to accept the evidence of my eyes, and grasping my stick firmly in my hand, with two strides I was in the centre of the clearing, where I spun round and round on my heel, shouting, ‘I know you’re there! Come out from wherever you’re hiding and show me your face!’