[Roger the Chapman 05] - Eve of Saint Hyacinth (5 page)

Those of you who have read my previous chronicles will know that, although not blessed - or cursed - with the second sight, I have inherited from my mother a sixth sense which sometimes manifests itself in dreams, and at others in a kind of foreboding. It was the latter which suddenly seized me in its grip, causing me to stand stock still, every hair rising on the nape of my neck in fear, droplets of sweat trickling down my spine. I had a strong sense of evil, but whether of some past deed or one yet to come I was unable to tell. The silence was deathly; not a bird sang nor an insect hummed, whereas, seconds before, the woods had been lull of such noises. The surrounding trees seemed to move closer, until I felt crushed and stifled by their menacing presence...

The moment passed. I shook myself like a dog which has at last reached dry land after treading water. The trees withdrew. There was a sudden flurry of movement as a bird winged its way through the branches to its nest, calling assurance to its little ones. Grasshoppers and crickets once again resumed their chattering chorus. I stooped to pick up my pack, noticing as I did so a small bunch of flowers - bluebell, campion, trailing stems of ground ivy placed at the base of the shrine. They had been torn up from amongst the grasses, some of which had been pulled up with them, and, although not dead, were wilted and jaded. I stared at them with interest, wondering who had bothered to make his or her way to this isolated spot in order to honour a saint no longer represented. And why? What was the purpose of the offering?

But the flowers could provide me with no solution and I turned my attention to finding a way out of the clearing. It was then I saw that a narrow track, about the width of a man, had already been flattened through the undergrowth to my left; a rough path hacked between the trees and rushes and yellowing grasses. Using my own cudgel I was able to force my way along it and, ten minutes later emerged on to the path which I had been travelling before I so stupidly got lost.

* * * *

The sun was riding directly overhead by the time I once again joined the main Winchester road from Southampton.

The dinner hour was long past, but thanks to my stupidity I had not eaten, so I set off towards the city, hoping to find somewhere to satisfy my hunger. A roadside ale-house, maybe, or a friendly cottage, whose goodwife would be willing to sell me victuals. I had not gone far, however, when I heard the creak of wheels behind me and, glancing over my shoulder, saw an empty cart approaching, pulled by a heavy chestnut horse and driven by a square-set country fellow dressed in a smock of grey homespun and thick, woollen hose. Stout boots of rough brown leather encased the lower part of his legs. The cart drew to a halt beside me.

'Want a ride, chapman?' the man asked laconically.

'I'd be grateful,' I answered. 'But I'd be still more grateful if you'd tell me where I can find food and drink round here. I've had no dinner.'

The man screwed up his face and tugged at the liripipe of his hood. 'Missed your tucker, have you?' He regarded me thoughtfully. 'Don't look the sort who'd forget to eat. And it's midday now. Two hours past dinnertime.'
 

'I made a short cut through the woods and, like a fool, took the wrong turning. You know how it is when you try to be too clever.'

The man laughed. 'Aye, I know.' He patted the empty seat. 'Jump up. I'm going to collect a load of wool from a farm near here. The goodwife’ll feed you, I'll be bound. A good-hearted, if sharp-tongued soul who'll be glad, I reckon, to see a pedlar.'

I mounted to sit on the board beside him, placing my pack at my feet. My companion gave his horse the office to start and we began to move forward.

'Are you a native of these parts?' I asked.

'Born and bred within the walls of Southampton.'
 

'Do you know the countryside about here? The woods around Chilworth Manor?'

The carter shook his head. 'I stick to the beaten tracks, although I know Sir Cedric Wardroper. I cart his wool to the spinners and weavers. Why do you want to know?'
 

'I wondered if you'd ever heard of a deserted shrine in the woods near here. I stumbled across it, quite by chance, this morning.'

The man scratched his head. 'Can't say as I ever have. But then, as I say, my home's Southampton. But you could inquire at the Catchside farm when we get there. One of the workers might know something of it. Or Master Catchside and his wife. You can but ask, if it's important to you.'

At this point we turned off the main road and rattled over a mile or two of rough track before arriving at the farm. It appeared to be of sufficient hideage to support a family and its dependants in comfort, boasting a plough and four oxen, hens, cows and a flock of sheep which had recently been sheared, and whose fleeces the carter had called to collect.

Most of that particular day's activity was therefore centred in the barn, where the wool was being packed. The women were rolling the fleeces, their smaller fingers dextrously pulling and smoothing as they did so, and securing each neat bundle with a narrow cord of fine twine. In the centre of the barn a huge sack was suspended almost at floor level by ropes from the beams. Two men stood in the sack, packing and treading down the rolled fleeces as the women passed them in, the wall of wool rising higher and higher until it reached the top, when the men sat astride the sack and sewed it up. It was then lowered to the ground and knotted at each corner in order to ease the handling of such a cumbersome object.

I watched, fascinated, my hunger temporarily forgotten, until the carter hailed the eldest of the women, whose tendency to direct operations rather than participate in them had already marked her down in my mind as likely to be the mistress of the house. I was not mistaken.

'Goody Catchside, here's a chapman I picked up on the road, who'd be glad of some dinner.' The man chuckled. 'He missed his by getting lost in the woods.' The farmer's wife clucked in a motherly fashion.

'You'd best come with me then, lad,' she said, 'and bring your pack with you. There's one or two things I'm short of, and if you have them it'll save a journey to Winchester at this busy season. Come along! Don't loiter!' She bustled ahead of me, but paused at the barn door to fling an admonition at her husband. 'Andrew! Make sure the men put aside enough wool for our own use before they go loading up the cart. I know him,' she added in a grumbling undertone as I followed her in the direction of the house. 'He'll sell far too much for the sake of an extra shilling or two and then where does that leave us? Short of winter garments and forced to buy. A false economy, chapman! A false economy.'

I was given bread and cheese and ale, together with a bowl of fish stew, which reminded me that it was Friday. I remembered guiltily the collop of bacon I had eaten at Chilworth Manor for breakfast. I must have grimaced at the memory, for the goodwife asked sharply, 'What's the matter? There's nothing amiss with that soup. I made it myself with fish caught fresh from the stream this morning.'

I hastened to reassure her and explained the reason for the face I had pulled. Mistress Catchside snorted in disapproval.

'I've always suspected that the Wardropers were lax in their religious observance. A flighty woman, Lady Wardroper, far too young for Sir Cedric. And young Matthew, as I remember, was never a reverent child. One might have hoped that his years in Leicestershire, or wherever it was, would have improved him. But since his return home I've seen him talking and walking about at the back of the nave during Mass in a very disrespectful fashion. However, I've no time for gossiping. Let me see what's in your pack and then you and the carter can be going. We need to have our wool on the way to the weaving sheds before nightfall.'

Yet again I laid out my wares, and while the goodwife picked them over I asked her if she knew anything of the shrine in the woods. Her answer was decisive.

'I've never heard anyone mention it,' she said, 'and I've lived in these parts all my life. Indeed, this was my father's farm and his father's before him. Catchside,' she added, seeming to feel that some explanation was called for, 'was from the city.' She shrugged. 'But there, I was a plain girl and had to take whoever offered. And Andrew had money which he was prepared to put into the farm. My parents thought him a good enough husband for me, at all events, and so I married him.' She pulled herself up short, turning an uncomfortable red and obviously annoyed at herself for confiding in me. 'Hmmph I'll buy this set of spoons, for mine are worn so thin the edges cut my mouth. How much are you asking for them?'

‘And you're sure,' I urged, when the transaction was completed and I had knocked a little off the price to pay for my food, 'that this woodland shrine is unknown to you? You've never heard it spoken of by anyone?'
 

'Oh, as to that, never is too final a word. I may, I suppose, have heard it mentioned at some time in my life. I’m past my fortieth birthday.' She frowned, realizing that once again her tongue had betrayed her into an unnecessary confidence. 'But no, not that I can instantly recall. Young man,' she added with asperity, 'I don't know what it is about you, but you have a disarming habit of making me say more than I intended and I suspect that that applies to other women. You must learn not to take advantage of us poor, weak females.'

I laughed. 'I should never be so ungallant, even if it were true. But you overestimate my powers to charm and your own weakness, I do assure you.'

Goody Catchside said 'Hmmph' again, but made no further comment, anxious not to hold up the proceedings any longer. We returned to the barn, where the last of three sacks of wool had just been loaded into the wagon. I clambered up beside the carter, thanked my hostess most heartily for my meal and was driven away along the track.

'Did you find out what you wanted to know?' the man asked me after we had gone a short distance.

I shook my head. 'Mistress Catchside was unable to recall hearing the shrine talked of, but admitted that her memory might be faulty. However, someone has been there lately and been at trouble to cut a path through the undergrowth to reach it and lay flowers at its base.'

I sighed. 'Ah well! It's of no importance, I suppose. Do you continue towards Winchester now, or return to Southampton?'

'I have one more call to make and shall lie at Winchester tonight, at a hostelry just outside the city where they know me. I can therefore take you as far as the suburbs.'
 

'Aren't you afraid of thieves,' I asked, 'while you are sleeping?'

The carter roared with laughter. 'Who'd be able to move one of those great, cumbersome things?' He jerked his head backwards in the direction of the wool sacks. 'And if you split one open all the contents'd come bursting out. No, no! Wool's the safest cargo anyone can carry.'
 

I accompanied the carter to the second farm and, when the wagon was full, helped him cover it with tarred canvas, but not too tightly. (For as my friend instructed me, wool must be kept dry, but never overheated.) By this time the city bells could be heard ringing out over the surrounding countryside for Vespers and we took leave of one another.

I made my way to the Hospital of Saint Cross where free ale was always available for travellers, a great consideration with me, as you might imagine. And as I sat in the late afternoon sunshine sipping my ale, my back against the warm stone of one of the almshouses, my mind went back over the events of the past two days.

I thought of Jennet first, her eager flesh, her passionate kisses, but I knew she would have done as much for any young man who took her fancy. She was one of those loving and giving creatures unhampered by morals. My thoughts ran on to this morning and the abandoned shrine in the woods. Who had had cause to visit it recently? Who had picked and left the flowers?

It was a mystery to which I should probably never know the answer and already the interest of it was beginning to fade a little. I put down my empty beaker on the bench beside me and stretched my arms and legs until the bones cracked. By this time tomorrow I should be on the road to London, selling as I went, but with my goal drawing nearer with every passing mile. It would take me well over two weeks to reach the capital, yet I could feel the excitement even now, stirring in my veins.

Chapter Four

It was a Monday morning, late in June, when I crossed the Tyburn and entered Westminster. I held tightly to the shoulder-straps of my pack, for I knew the suburb's reputation as a breeding ground for thieves and pickpockets. These men and women, so it was said, would snatch anything, even the hood from your head or the cloak from your back, and then make their escape through Westminster Gate. Indeed, although I myself was never molested in such a fashion I have seen the footpads at work, so light-fingered, so agile, so swift in their approach and retreat that the unfortunate victim stood no chance of raising the hue and cry before the thief had vanished, seemingly off the face of the earth.

I have not seen Westminster now for many a long day, but my children assure me that its sprawl of houses and shops grows greater with every passing year and surely must be half as big again as when I last set foot within its walls. All I can say in reply is that I have no wish to pay a visit. Even more than a quarter of a century ago Westminster was nearly as crowded and as noisy as London itself. The streets were full of people selling their wares; and as a large proportion of them were Flemings, the cries of 'Buy! Buy! Buy! What do you lack? What'll you buy?' grated harshly on the ears.