[Roger the Chapman 03] - The Hanged Man (20 page)

'But why should you doubt his word?' Lillis demanded.

'I need to find out if he was speaking the truth,' I answered stubbornly. 'You asked me to unravel this mystery, and that is what I'm trying to do.'
 

She turned impetuously to Margaret for support. 'Tell him not to go, Mother! He's been ill. The weather's bad. He'll kill himself.'

'I doubt that. Not a great lad like him.' Mistress Walker eyed me levelly. 'Will you be coming back?'
 

I returned her glance, look for look. 'You have my promise.'

At that, she relaxed, and continued making her black pudding with renewed vigour. 'In that case, you must do as you see fit.' She wiped her hands on her apron. 'You'll need money. You've paid me well over the weeks. Let me return some to you.'

'No,' I said firmly. 'I have a little of my own store left, enough to start me on my way. I shall take my pack and sell as I go. I have been idle far too long.'
 

'It will delay you,' she argued. 'You will be gone longer than you need.'

'I have given my word to return.' I began fastening the pack on my back. 'You have no cause to be uneasy. But I need to feel the road beneath my feet again; to feel free and not bound by charity; to feel space all around me instead of being confined by city wails.'

I saw the sudden look of comprehension on Margaret Walker's face as she realized that I would never wholly settle down to a life of domesticity; that I was a rover by choice and not of necessity. I had of course told her and Lillis some of my past history, during the evenings when we had been gathered round the fire together, but I think, until that moment, she had not quite accepted that my decision to become a chapman had not, in some way or another, been forced on me by circumstances. It therefore came as a shock to her to discover that wanderlust was in my nature, at its very core.

'Even wanderers over the face of the earth need a place to return to,' I said quietly, arranging my cloak around myself and the pack, until I looked like a monstrous hunchback. I saw that she understood me, and guessed that she would come to terms with things as they were, not as she would like them to be. She was a practical woman who had learned not to expect too much of life.

She wanted a husband for Lillis and grandchildren to dandle on her knee. She had also, I suspected, wanted the comfort of a man's constant presence in the cottage, for she had had to cope too long on her own; but if that was not God's will, she would settle for what she was offered.

Not so her daughter. Lillis threw herself at me and locked her thin arms about my neck. 'You shan't go! I forbid it!' she said fiercely.

I laughed as I looked down into the angry little face so close to mine, lips parted to reveal small, sharp teeth, eyes blazing with fury. I put up my hands and ruthlessly tore hers apart, freeing myself from her clasp. 'I'm going,' I said calmly, 'and neither you nor anyone else can stop me.'

'I will stop you! I will!' She beat with the full force of her strength against my chest. 'You're not to leave me!'

Margaret looked on, a cynical smile twisting her mouth, for she knew already who would win the battle. My strength and height have always given me an unfair advantage, and so it proved then. I simply picked Lillis up and put her to one side as I made for the door, leaving her sobbing with impotence.

Grinning, I went back and, tilting up her small pointed chin, planted a kiss firmly on her lips. They tasted faintly salty. 'You'll see me when you see me,' I told her, 'and not before. But you will see me.' I kissed her once more and then was gone.

I was free. I was an my own. ! had escaped the petty tyrannies of the women. There was a spring in my step, in spite of the overcast morning, as I walked across the Frame Bridge and under the arch of Frame Gate into Lewin's Mead. This indeed had once been a meadow, belonging many years ago, or so I had been told, to one of the castle reeves; but dwellings had now encroached on the open space, including some of the outbuildings of the Franciscan friary. It was the fate, even then, of so much of our land, as towns began to spread outside their walls. And nowadays, of course, in this year of Our Lord 1522, towns are stretching their tentacles even further into the countryside, and I can foresee the time when walls will cease to be of any practical use. But everything changes, and I suppose it is only old men, like myself, who regret the past.

From Lewin's Mead I made my way through Silver Street to Magdalen Lane, past the nunnery, which made me think at once of Cicely Ford. My heart lurched a little at the memory of her hand tucked into the crook of my arm and her sweet, gentle face turned confidingly up to mine. But I had seen God at work there; she was not for me nor for any man. I turned into Stony Hill, the path the mysterious horseman had travelled that March morning of last year, and, with St Michael's Church on my left, I climbed steadily in the direction of the windmill, perched on the high ground above the city. Its sails were mining in a freshening breeze, for there is always a wind blowing on the heights surrounding Bristol. I paused for a moment, looking back at the town, at the houses clustering, as they had for centuries, around the confluence of the Frome and the Avon. Then I set my face resolutely nor-nor-east, towards Gloucester.

By nightfall, I had reached only as far as the old Cheap town of Sodbury, where I was able to sell some of my wares in the market-place, and so buy myself a night's lodging at a respectable inn. The next day being Sunday, I attended both the services of Tierce-Sext and None before deciding to wait until the morrow before resuming my journey. I also attended Vespers at the parish church, much to the amusement of the landlord and his wife, who were well aware that my piety had much to do with their beautiful daughter, who was herself a model of religious devotion.

The next morning, however, early, I prised myself away, and with the family's good wishes ringing in my ears, as well as two of the landlady's chicken pasties nestling in my pocket, I took once more to the road. My boots were soon mired with filth from the uneven track, and a sudden flurry of sleet caused me to pull up my hood and wrap my cloak more securely about me. Everything was dank, gloomy and miserable; a passing horseman in a scarlet cloak was the only splash of colour in the landscape.

There were far fewer people travelling in the depth of winter, all those who had no need to sensibly remaining mewed up at home by the fireside. And, as a carelessly driven cart splashed me to the thighs, discomforts I had borne for the past three winters without complaining suddenly seemed an unnecessary penance. Well, Margaret and Lillis Walker were waiting for me...

My journey, in the end, took five days, for I carried my pack into isolated hamlets and villages where the inhabitants were delighted to receive any traveller at that season of the year, and particularly one who was able to replenish the women's store of needles and thread, offer the men a new hunting-knife, and the young girls ribbons for their hair. I could have sold three or four times as much as I had in my pack, but my stock had been low when I set out, and I often cursed myself that I had not replenished it at Bristol dockside before leaving. But I suppose it would have delayed me even more and, as it was, on reaching Gloucester, my purse was as full as it would hold.

It was almost dusk on Thursday as I passed beneath the porch of the West Gate into the still busy street, where the bustle of the day's market was just beginning to wane. I stopped at a haberdasher's, where I bought a fresh pair of hose - the ones I was wearing being soaked through - and a jaunty russet hat which cost me sixpence; then at a pie-stall for my supper. The refilling of my pack, I decided, could wait for the moment, and I went in search of St Oswald's Priory, which I discovered in the shadow of the great cathedral church of St Peter. Here I slept on the floor of the guest hall, with several other travellers who were seeking a night's asylum from the elements, and awoke in the morning to a breakfast of dried fish and oatmeal, a reminder that Friday had come round again. As I doused my head under the pump and tried to hack the beard from my chin with a blunt razor, I thought of Lillis, of warm water and a knife-blade always carefully sharpened. I was missing her; I was missing my bodily comforts. To my amazement, freedom was beginning to pall a little. I was actually looking forward to going.., yes, to going home.

Chapter Seventeen

Overnight, the rain had stopped and the sky cleared. It was one of those days when everything has an edge to it; the distant trees and roof-tops seemed carved from thunderclouds. Later on, it would rain again. I recognized the signs but, for the moment, sunlight glittered on a thin scattering of snow across the cobbles. The air was cold against my face and the windows of the houses I passed rattled in response to a rising breeze.

Following my instinct, I made my way straight to the inn close to St Peter's Abbey, built over a hundred years earlier to accommodate pilgrims visiting the murdered Edward II's tomb, but still known locally as the New Inn.

And I was right to do so, for in the few minutes' conversation, obligingly spared me by the harassed landlord, I garnered much necessary information. Sweating profusely in his leather apron, his bald head shining in the early morning light, he was summoned by a pot-boy from the kitchens, where he was overseeing the cooking of breakfast for his numerous guests. In such circumstances, he might have been forgiven for a show of ill-temper, but he was one of those rare souls who have courtesy and patience for all their fellow men, be they of high or low degree.

'Last March,' he murmured, scratching his ear with a greasy forefinger. 'By the Virgin, that's a fair time ago, Master. The Day of the Annunciation... Now, wait a minute! I do remember something. A biggish man, you say, this Master Herepath. A gentleman, well-dressed and riding a roan mare... Yes, I have him. He arrived late in the evening, after the goodwife and I returned from Compline. We had been unable to go to church earlier, but would always wish, you understand, to pay devotion to Our Lady. He was heavily mired about the legs and feet, having come, he told us, from Bristol, riding throughout the day, and took our best bedchamber, together with a private parlour. Yes, yes! Of course I remember, now you jog my memory.'

'How long did he stay?'

The landlord considered my question, his head thoughtfully tilted to one side, and ignoring vociferous demands for his presence from the ale-room. He was quite content for the present to stand in the yard and give me all his attention.

'He stayed... Yes, he remained two nights, the Thursday and the Friday. And it comes back to me that on the Friday morning he had a visitor, a man I know by sight who lives on the edge of town, close by the Grey Friars.

They went off together somewhere, and then what happened? Let me see... Yes, I have it! Master Herepath returned leading a horse, a big, handsome black gelding with white stockings. He asked for extra stabling for the night, and the next day set out again for Bristol, riding the black and with the roan on a leading rein, tethered to his bridle.' The landlord broke off to call to a hurrying pot-boy: 'Tell the gentlemen I'm coming. I shan't be much longer.'

'And Master Herepath remained at the inn for the rest of the day?' I pressed, sensing that ! was beginning to lose his interest.

'He certainly slept here,' the landlord conceded, 'but he was away and busy about his own pursuits for the hours of daylight. Indeed!' The ear was vigorously rubbed once more as animation returned. 'Now I think carefully, he arrived back at the inn some time after dark.., and came in, I recall, with the ringing of the curfew bell!' The landlord was pardonably triumphant at these prodigies of recollection. 'He said he was the last man in at the West Gate before it was closed for the night. He had missed his supper, but my wife who, I have to admit, is susceptible to a handsome face, gave him soup and bread and cheese and ale in his room. And now, Master, you must excuse me. My guests are shouting for me, as you can hear. I trust I've been of some assistance to you.'

'You've been more than helpful, and I thank you. Just one more thing before you go. What was the name of the man from whom Master Herepath bought the gelding?' The landlord paused in the open doorway of the aleroom, his honest brow furrowed. As the clamour from within grew too loud to be ignored any longer, he flung over his shoulder, 'Master Richard Shottery, if I remember rightly.'

This tallied with what Edward Herepath himself had told me, and I therefore set out with confidence for the Franciscan friary and the network of streets and alleyways surrounding it. A very few inquiries directed me to the home of Richard Shottery, a hatchet-faced sharp-nosed man who was as reluctant to talk to me as the inn-keeper had been willing. Fortunately, I had left my pack behind at the priory, and so was able to disguise my true calling, for he would never have stooped to speak to so humble a person as a chapman. As it was, I was kept standing in his presence.

'You say you are a servant of Edward Herepath? Don't tell me there's anything wrong with the black I sold him, for I shan't believe you. As fine a piece of horseflesh as you're likely to find anywhere in the kingdom.'
 

'No, no,' I assured him hurriedly, 'my master is more than satisfied with the animal, but he is a man who likes to keep precise details of all his transactions. He is unsure of the day on which he bought the gelding from you, and as I was passing through Gloucester on his business, he commissioned me to approach you in this matter.' And God forgive me, I thought, for the lies I am telling. I prepared myself to do penance after my next confession.