The Saint John's Fern (12 page)

‘I’m a childless widower and I live alone,’ he said by way of explanation, and with a sweeping gesture that embraced the unmade bed, the still unwashed dishes, the plain, beaten earth floor that needed brushing, and the dust lying thick on every surface. But to offset all that, there was the most delicious, savoury smell emanating from the iron cauldron hanging from a hook over the fire in the middle of the room. I could have tolerated a great deal more disorder than I saw about me to sample a plateful of Jack Golightly’s stew.

‘You seem very snug, all the same,’ I answered, slipping my pack from my shoulders and heaving it into a space between the water butt and a wooden rack where some apples were set out, coated with melted beeswax to preserve them for the winter. I looked thoughtfully at my host as he wiped two bowls clean with a handful of grass, then filled them with stew. ‘If you can cook like this, you have no need of a wife.’

He raised his eyebrows but made no comment on this rather crass remark, merely motioning me to draw up a stool to the table and pushing aside the remains of his previous meal, which had not yet been cleared away. He gave me a spoon and a slice of black bread, bidding me ‘Fall to!’ and pulling up a second stool for himself. For several minutes, there was no sound except the two of us eating.

Eventually, however, when I had blunted my appetite with two helpings of stew, I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand, propped my elbows on the table and said thickly, ‘I guess that Master Champernowne must have been here. And did he try to bribe you to deny the truth of your story concerning Beric Gifford, should I pay you a visit? I think he must have done, or you wouldn’t have been expecting me, would you? Did he give any reason for his request?’

Jack Golightly laid down his spoon and picked a sliver of meat from between two of his front teeth with a grubby fingernail before replying to my questions with one of his own.

‘You say “try to bribe”. What makes you think that he didn’t succeed?’ he asked with a grin. And fishing in the pouch at his belt, he produced three or four coins, piling them up on the table in front of him.

I looked from his face to the little pile of money and back again. ‘You neither act nor speak like a man who is about to tell me a pack of lies,’ I said. ‘And yet … Are those your own coins or his?’

‘Oh, his!’ my host exclaimed cheerfully, picking them up and returning them to his pouch with every indication of pleasure. ‘But you’re quite right. I don’t aim to mislead you, or tell you anything but the truth. I did meet Beric Gifford on my way to Plymouth market. So, what else is there that you want to know?’

‘But…’ I protested feebly, and Jack Golightly laughed.

‘You wonder why I took young Master Bartholomew’s money,’ he said, ‘when I had no intention of doing what he asked of me. Well, for one thing, I’m a poor man and must take my chance where I can to eke out an uncertain livelihood. For another, I made him no promises. It’s not my fault if, in his arrogance, he assumed that I would bow to his demands. But if you want the real reason why I deceived him, it’s because he’s a Champernowne.’ And he uttered the last word with such a weight of loathing that it was almost like a curse.

There was a moment’s silence. Then I said, ‘You obviously dislike the family. Can I ask why?’

My companion got up and poured two cups of ale for us from a pitcher standing on a smaller table where a few more dirty dishes were stacked. When he returned and had seated himself once again, he answered, ‘I don’t mind telling you. There’s no secret about it.’ He took a swig of his ale, which, to my mind, was rather tasteless and flat, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his smock. ‘My family have always been loyal to the Courtenays, and therefore to the Lancastrian cause. The Champernownes are for the House of York.’

I grimaced. ‘In that case, perhaps I should point out that you see before you a man devoted to King Edward IV and all his family.’

Jack Golightly shrugged. ‘That doesn’t worry me, chapman, although I think you’re misguided. But many years ago now, when I was young – that same year, in fact, that Edward of Rouen was crowned in London as our present king – the French sent a force into Plymouth to help our cause. As soon as the Champernownes got wind of it, old William Champernowne sent his men to repel the French, but they were intercepted here, at Yealmpton, by the Courtenays and their followers.’ The strangely pale blue eyes glittered with unshed tears. ‘The Courtenays won the skirmish and the Champernownes were forced to retreat, but not before they’d fired this cottage out of revenge. My father and I managed to douse the blaze, but the shock was too much for my mother. She died not long afterwards. The Champernownes killed her as surely as if they’d put a knife through her heart.’

I don’t know whether or not he expected me to sympathize with him, but I could not bring myself to do so. A great many common people had suffered grievously during the civil war that had torn this country apart for so many years; but, as I had just told him, I was sufficiently devoted to King Edward and, above all, to his younger brother, the Duke of Gloucester, to be unmoved by the plight of their enemies. So I took refuge in silence and buried my face, as far as I could, in my cup as I finished my ale.

‘You see, therefore,’ he continued at last, ‘why I make no bones about serving any Champernowne a backhanded turn if the opportunity arises.’

‘I do, indeed,’ I said, setting down my empty cup. ‘You don’t deny, then, that you met Beric Gifford on the morning of May Day as you were going towards Plymouth and he was returning. Were you on foot?’

My host smiled sourly. ‘Of course I was on foot. I’m not rich enough to own a horse, or even a mule. I have a shoulder yoke from which I suspend my baskets. He was riding, though; that great, black horse of his that he was so proud of. And still is, as far as I know.’

‘Where did you encounter him? Were you close to him or at a distance?’

Jack Golightly repeated the habit he had of sucking his teeth before replying.

‘It was in the forest near here. I expect you came through it. I had to jump aside, into the trees, to get out of his way. He was riding at a great pace, in spite of the roughness of the ground, bent low over the animal’s neck, the reins all bunched up in one hand and the fingers of the other knotted’s in the black’s mane, as though he were scared to death he was going to fall off. I remember thinking to myself: One day, my boy, you’ll break your neck, and serve you right, going at such a speed. But when I arrived at Martyn’s Gate and found Bilbury Street swarming with Sheriff’s officers and people who had just arrived to gawp, and when I learnt of the murder and was told the murderer’s name, I understood his hurry. And I was able to tell one of the sergeants that I’d seen Beric Gifford heading, as far as I could tell, in the direction of Modbury and Valletort Manor. But a posse had already been sent that way after him.’ My companion sounded cheated.

‘You hadn’t met the posse on your journey?’

‘No, for I took the road to the ferry. They’d have gone north to the ford, or further on, to the bridge, if it were floodtide, just as Master Gifford must have done, before riding southwards again to join this track at Brixton.’

I asked, ‘When Beric passed you in the forest, did you notice if he was wearing a jewel in his hat? Gold with a teardrop pearl.

My companion laughed. ‘He was riding too fast for me to take notice of anything he was wearing.’ Nevertheless, Jack wrinkled his brow as he obligingly tried to remember, but after a while he shook his head. ‘If my life depended on giving an answer, I’d say that he wasn’t. But if his life depended on it, I’d have to say that I can’t be certain.’

Beric wasn’t wearing the ornament that was now in my pouch, of course, for it had fallen from his cap in the bedchamber, where it had been lost among the rushes, and my host’s testimony in some part confirmed this. I saw the curiosity in Jack Golightly’s eyes, guessed the question hovering on his lips and made haste to divert his attention.

‘Are you acquainted with Beric Gifford and his sister?’ I asked.

He shrugged. ‘I know them by sight well enough to recognize them when I meet them. And I listen to all the gossip. I know that they’re famed for their prodigality; that they both spent far more money than they could afford until one of them murdered their uncle and the other inherited his fortune. I know that Berenice Gifford is betrothed to that young coxcomb who was here this afternoon, and that her brother is – or was – determined to marry her maid, Katherine Glover, which was the cause of his falling out with old Oliver Capstick. In short, I know as much as most other people do concerning their neighbours.’

‘And what do you think has become of Beric Gifford since he killed his uncle?’

My host shrugged. ‘If he’s any sense, he’ll be miles away from here. France, Brittany, Scotland.’

I thought for a moment, before deciding to take him into my confidence. ‘If I told you that I’m certain I saw him last night, talking to Katherine Glover outside the Bird of Passage Inn at Oreston, what would you say to that?’

Once more, Jack Golightly pursed his mouth and sucked on his teeth. ‘I’d think him the biggest fool in Christendom,’ he answered slowly.

‘You wouldn’t think that he’d eaten Saint John’s fern and could render himself invisible or visible at will?’

My companion laughed. ‘No, I shouldn’t! I’ll tell you something, chapman. I ate the leaves of the hart’s-tongue fern once, when I was a boy – and nothing happened! I waited all day to become invisible, but not so much as a fingernail vanished. If you believe that story, you’re more gullible than I take you for.’

‘I didn’t say I believe it,’ I answered. ‘But I was speaking the truth when I said that I saw Beric Gifford last night. Unfortunately, it was impossible to apprehend him. Where do you think he’s hiding?’

Jack Golightly had stopped laughing and was regarding me earnestly. ‘If what you say really is true—’ he began, but broke off to protest, ‘No! Impossible! I find it hard to accept that he’d be so foolish. Do you have proof positive that it was him?’

‘I have to admit that I don’t know Beric Gifford except by report,’ I confessed. ‘But this man and Katherine Glover – who was spending the night at the inn, as I was – were behaving in a very lover-like fashion. And he was riding a black horse. I could tell that, even in the darkness.’

My host scratched his head. ‘It sounds as though it could have been Beric you saw, I’m bound to agree. But if that’s the case…’ He chewed his nether lip and pondered. At last, he went on, ‘If that’s the case, there’s only one place where he could be lying low with any measure of safety, and that’s in Valletort Manor itself.’

Chapter Nine

‘Why do you say that?’ I asked, frowning. ‘Surely the Sheriff’s men have searched Valletort Manor more than once and failed to discover Beric Gifford?’

‘And for that very reason, they are unlikely to search it again,’ Jack Golightly argued. ‘So what safer place for him to lie concealed?’

‘I don’t think you can rely on that. Furthermore, there must be servants,’ I persisted. ‘And however loyal the majority of them might be, there has to be one whose attachment is questionable, or whose devotion could be bought if the inducement were sufficient.’

My companion shook his head. ‘After their father’s death, the Gifford children fell on hard times. Servants were turned off one by one until, I believe, only three remained: three, that is, until Mistress Berenice decided to employ Katherine Glover as her personal maid.’

‘And who are these three?’ I asked. ‘Do you know their names or offices?’

Jack Golightly wrinkled his brow. ‘I understand there’s an old nurse, who has been with the Giffords since Noah was a lad, and who, no doubt, is completely trustworthy, as such women generally are. They regard each succeeding generation of the family children as their own, and lavish a parent’s love and care upon them. Of the remaining two, one, I think, is a groom, who has also been in the Giffords’ employ for many years, and the other is an ancient who was once the household steward, but who is now semi-blind, and probably deaf as well.’

‘But who does the sweeping and cooking and dusts the place?’ I asked, with all the newly married man’s awareness of such day-to-day practicalities. ‘Surely Berenice Gifford doesn’t clean the house herself?’

Jack Golightly shrugged. ‘These are questions I can’t answer, I’m afraid. My knowledge of Valletort Manor is limited to such gossip as comes my way.’

I forbore to comment that a great deal of gossip concerning the Gifford domain did apparently come his way. Instead, I gave voice to a sudden thought.

‘Where exactly is Valletort Manor situated?’

I half expected him to reveal that the Giffords were his nearest neighbours, but it appeared that this was not the case. By my host’s reckoning, the manor was a mile or two south of Modbury, on the peninsula of land that is bounded on two sides by the rivers Erme and Avon, and on- the third side by the sea. I knew, from having been in the locality, some years previously, that that particular stretch of coast was populated by several closely related families, all of them fishermen, whose isolation encouraged in them a disdain for the laws and customs of the outside world, and who ran their community according to their own self-imposed rules. And had not the cottager’s wife told me that Katherine Glover’s parents were fisherfolk? Was it not possible, then, that Beric Gifford had found sanctuary among these people, and was being protected by them?

But yet again, that one word ‘Why?’ returned to tease me.
Why
had Beric Gifford not escaped to France or Brittany by now, taking Katherine Glover with him?
Why
had he placed himself in such jeopardy that he was forced to put his safety in the hands of others?
Why
had his anger against his great-uncle not cooled overnight, after his first abortive attempt to murder Master Capstick?

The answer to that last question remained, as always, the same. Something had happened, some revelation had been vouchsafed to him, between his return home on the last day of April and the morning of May Day that had turned him into an avenging fury, whose anger against his kinsman could only be assuaged by the most extreme violence. But what it could be, I was unable to imagine, and I asked Jack Golightly if he had any idea.