Death and the Chapman (7 page)

I suddenly realized that if anyone were to find me there, stealing around the house like a thief in the night, it would look bad for me. And rightly so. I had kindly been offered shelter, and was abusing the Alderman’s hospitality by spying on him and his family. And for no good reason; nothing that I could even explain to myself.

Yet I made no attempt to go, lowering my weight to sit on a stair and continuing to peer over the top one. After a moment or two, there came the whisper of voices and then another noise which sounded like kissing. Seconds later, Marjorie Dyer, in a billowing white nightshift, appeared in the doorway like a voluminous ghost and softly closed the bedchamber door behind her. She tiptoed past me, only inches from my face, and vanished up the second flight of stairs to her own room in the attics.

The blood rushed into my face, and I cursed myself roundly for a Peeping Tom. What more natural than that the widowed Alderman should find comfort of a sort with his housekeeper, who was also his cousin? I felt deeply ashamed of myself and began easing my way downstairs. How could I have been so foolish as to imagine that anything sinister was happening? I blamed the nightmare, although it was difficult to understand why I had been so frightened. It now seemed nothing more than an unpleasant dream.

Affairs in the kitchen were exactly as I had left them; Ned still sound asleep in his corner, sucking his thumb; Rob drunkenly snoring. Neither had awakened to miss me, and I resumed my place near the almost dead fire, resting my head on my pack and wrapping myself in my cloak for warmth. I had no trouble this time in dropping off, with no fears of my dream recurring, and was once more on the borderline of sleep when I found myself wide awake again. The thing which had been puzzling me, nagging away at the back of my mind all evening, had suddenly pushed its way to the fore. If Clement Weaver had been murdered by footpads for his money and possessions, as seemed most likely, why had his attackers bothered to remove the body? Having ransacked his pockets and seized his saddle-bags, why had they not simply left him lying there, on the roadway? Why impede their escape by carrying a corpse along with them?

The more I thought about it, the less sense it made. Swiftness of hand and fleetness of foot were surely the essence of highway robbery. An ordinary pickpocket or footpad, having once accomplished the deed, would have melted away into the darkness; back into that criminal world whence he had come, with its maze of alleyways and taverns and brothels...

My head spun with weariness. It seemed a long time since I had left Whitchurch early the previous morning. My head ached and I felt I was becoming obsessed by something which was not my problem. I had taken to the open road for the freedom it offered; to live for myself and not to become involved with things that did not concern me. But if I was to achieve this desirable state, I should have to learn to be less curious. ‘Nosey’ was the harsher word my mother had always used for it.

‘You must learn, my son, to keep that nose of yours out of other people’s business.’

I resolved sleepily to be off at the crack of dawn, before anyone else was stirring. I would shake Bristol’s dust off my feet and, with luck, be at the village of Keynsham by dinner-time.

The Saint’s tomb gleamed with hundreds of precious stones, so thickly encrusted that the gold in which they were set was well-nigh invisible. Above the tomb hung St Thomas’s hair shirt, and, to the left, was a small spring which had been seen to run with milk and blood. In the crypt behind it was one of the swords which had killed the Archbishop; while in the choir, adorned with yet more jewels and large creamy pearls, stood a picture of the Virgin, which, so it was said, had talked with the Saint during his lifetime. The enormous ruby, the Regale of France, given by King Louis, seventh of his name, glowed like liquid fire, and the candlelight struck sparks from the sapphires and diamonds.

There were other relics, too, here in this great cathedral where Thomas a Becket had been martyred three centuries ago; the nails and right arm of St George, some of the Holy Thorns which had pierced Christ’s brow, a tooth of John the Baptist, a finger of St Urban, and the upper lip of one of the Murdered Innocents. Even I, coming so recently from Glastonbury, the oldest Christian shrine in England, was overwhelmed by the sanctity of the place, and by the awestruck devotion of the many pilgrims around me.

I, too, had travelled the last part of my journey by the Pilgrims’ Way, joining it after I left Southampton, where I had gone to replenish my stock of merchandise from some of the ships just put into port, and from the market in High Street near St Lawrence’s church. By purchasing in bulk from the stall-holders I could get things cheap, then add the necessary penny to make my profit when selling to outlying villagers and hamlet-dwellers. It was a rougher life than I had anticipated when I first set out on my travels. I had slept under as many hedges and in draughty barns as I had in the slightly less spartan conditions of an abbey or a priory guest-house. Yet I wouldn’t have changed it for all the safety of four permanent walls, even though I knew I had so far had the best of the weather and that the winter was still to come.

‘You’ll change your tune, my lad,’ a fellow traveller had said to me one evening, ‘when the roads are blocked with snow or slippery with ice, and the womenfolk won’t venture out of doors.’ He was an unfrocked priest, turned out of his parish for some misdemeanour and forced to beg for his living from door to door. It was a bad night, I remember, cold and wet, and we had taken refuge in somebody’s byre just to get out of the rain. If the owner discovered us, no doubt we should have been turned out into the elements, but the cows had been milked and had raised no alarm, merely chewing the cud contentedly and regarding us with solemn, incurious eyes.

But even under those conditions, and with my companion’s pessimism sounding in my ears, I had no regrets. ‘I’ll deal with winter when it comes,’ I said, taking bread and cheese from the pouch at my waist and sharing it with my doleful ex-priest. We cheered one another up through a night of fitful slumber by exchanging scurrilous anecdotes about the Church and churchmen.

But now, standing on the hallowed ground of Canterbury, I felt ashamed of my ribaldry, and something like nostalgia for my former life momentarily swept over me. I wanted to be one again with the brothers at Glastonbury and to feel assured of Christ’s love. I looked into the face of the painted Virgin, searching for some sign of divine approval for the decision I had taken to leave the Abbey.

‘Holy Mother, pray for me, now and in the hour of my death.’ I crossed myself, at the same moment becoming aware of the kneeling figure on my right, draped from head to toe in black and with a heavy veil concealing her face. To one side of, and slightly behind, this supplicant, whoever she was, a young girl wriggled uncomfortably, her knees pressed against the cold stone. She, too, was dressed in mourning, but it was plain and unadorned with any gold cross or jet rosary, such as hung about the woman’s neck. Obviously, they were mistress and maid.

From somewhere, a draught stirred the woman’s veil, and I was immediately transported back to Bristol, that warm May day almost five months ago when I had seen Anne Neville, together with Margaret of Anjou, riding along Corn Street. Then, they had been mother and daughter-in-law: now, the fortunes of both had been irrevocably changed. For the clash of arms which everyone expected had in fact taken place only two days later at Tewkesbury, and King Edward had been victorious. Margaret’s son and Anne Neville’s young husband, Edward of Lancaster, had been killed during the battle, whatever our present so-called historians might tell you to the contrary. He was not murdered afterwards by Richard of Gloucester, nor was his father; although Henry Plantagenet was undoubtedly put to death in the Tower, on the orders of the King, however much Edward and his Council would have wished us to believe that the poor man died of ‘pure displeasure and melancholy’. Margaret of Anjou was at this time a prisoner of the King, while her erstwhile daughter-in-law had been restored to her sister, Isabel, and was living in the Duke of Clarence’s household as an honoured guest.

Here again, I must stress that I was not then as knowledgeable of events which were happening in the larger world as my narrative would suggest, although I naturally gathered stray pieces of information along the way; particularly those of such grave importance as the outcome of the battle at T ewkesbury. And if I had remained ignorant of it before, I should certainly have learned of it in Canterbury, where they were still talking of the splendour of King Edward’s summer visit, when he had come to render thanks at St Thomas’s shrine, not only for his victory, but also for the birth of his son, born in Westminster sanctuary during his exile.

Remembering these things also prompted recollection of the Weavers, to whom, I must admit, I had given little thought in the intervening months. The episode now seemed dreamlike and distant, something which had happened a very long time ago and to another person. I recalled guiltily my promise to the Alderman to make inquiries concerning his son when I reached London; but somehow, although the capital still beckoned, and remained my goal, I had not yet reached there. However, it was my avowed intention to go when I left Canterbury; but whether, on arrival, I should keep my word and search for Clement Weaver was a different matter. It now seemed not only impossible, but fruitless; a waste of time which I could ill afford. It was ten months since his disappearance, and in any case, what was there to find out which had not been discovered already? The more I thought about it, the more foolish seemed my promise to his father. I was sure that after this lapse of time, the Alderman would absolve me.

The woman beside me had risen from her knees and was making preparations to leave, motioning to her attendant as she did so. The girl caught my eye, pulling down the corners of her mouth in a comic grimace of resignation, indicating that her mistress was not the easiest of people to deal with. Indeed, the woman was fussing peevishly with the folds of her gown, smoothing and arranging them with uneasy, fluttering hands, before joining the throng of other pilgrims making their way out of the choir. The girl, following obediently, turned to smile at me across her shoulder, then was swallowed up by the press. She left me with the impression of a tip-tilted nose, bright blue eyes fringed with jet-black lashes, and dark, curling hair, judging by the tendrils which strayed from beneath her hood. Her skin was pale, made even more pallid by the black clothes she was wearing. Her demeanour suggested natural high spirits with difficulty suppressed, and there had been more than a hint of invitation in her manner. A pity, I reflected, that I would be unable to take advantage of it, as we were unlikely to meet again. I knew neither her name nor that of her mistress, nor where they lived. Besides, I had my living to make and I must start knocking on doors.

There were rich pickings to be had in Canterbury, where the constant influx of pilgrims from all parts of the country meant an unceasing flow of money into the pockets of its citizens. It had more taverns and cookshops than any other town of its size that I had passed through. And more trouble, too: the streets were rarely quiet. There were frequent disputes between the clerical and secular interests of the town; between Mayor and Archbishop, layman and priest. They quarrelled over water rights, the fishmarket, and whose authority it was to arrest wrongdoers; over ecclesiastical immunities and restraints of trade. It was nothing to see several brawls a day in the Canterbury streets, and it was not always simply fists which were used. I had been there less than a week, and already I had seen daggers drawn on more than one occasion. But then, the English have always been anti-clerical in their attitudes. They have always resented the power of Rome.

Before leaving the cathedral, I returned once again to St Thomas’s tomb, kneeling before it in prayer. I meant to seek his intercession with the Heavenly Father for abandoning my religious life, but somehow, the words would not come. I was not truly contrite. Instead, I found myself wondering what it was like to have been dead for hundreds of years, while the flesh, the only house my soul knew, rotted from my bones. I remember folding my arms around my body, seeking the solid reassurance of skin and bone. I thought of lying in the cold earth while the centuries spun by above my head, but my imagination was unable to encompass it; that drift of years, weaving its ever-changing patterns, while I, once so alive, crumbled into dust...

Like a dog shaking water from its back, I shook off my gloomy thoughts and emerged some minutes later into the bustling streets and the fragile, crystalline beauty of the autumn day. The sky was a delicate blue, rinsed at the edges to a soft, pale green, and the September sunlight was warm on my back. I was alive and young. My life stretched before me. That was all that mattered.

I met the girl again the following day.

I had done well that morning, selling needles, thread, ribbons and a length of sarsanet, which I had picked up cheap in Southampton market, for nearly twice what I had paid for it. It was gone dinner-time and I was hungry, so I bought two meat pies from a cookshop and took them down to the banks of the Stour. I ate ravenously, wishing that I had treated myself to a third, then filled my leather bottle from the river, washing the food down with clear, cool water; Adam’s ale, and on some occasions nearly as satisfying as the proper thing.

It was quieter outside the city walls, and I had chosen a secluded spot beneath some overhanging willows. Sunlight sparkled on the water and everywhere there was the sharp, dank smell of early autumn. A faint breeze rippled the grasses silver and green, and from where I sat, I could see the track leading to the West Gate. While I watched, two horsemen passed, their mounts blowing gustily through flaring nostrils, sweating hides glittering like polished metal, raking at the bits as they were reined in to a walk for their approach to the city. But that was the only sign of life that I saw for quite some time, and I began to nod. For the past few nights, since coming to Canterbury, I had slept in the dormitory of the Eastbridge Hospital, but my fellow guests had not made good bedmates. There was the inevitable snoring and wheezing one got in such places, but one man also suffered from a most distressing cough. No sooner, it seemed, had I dropped off to sleep, than he began hacking again, with a persistence that woke the rest of the room and sent one or two sleepless souls into a positive frenzy. Last night it had only been through my intervention that the poor man was saved from a beating. So, what with one thing and another, today I was tired, and before I knew what was happening, had begun to doze...