The Saint John's Fern (9 page)

‘You no doubt came by the ferry,’ she said. ‘I had to ride northwards a way, in order to cross the river by the Ebb Ford, at Crabtree.’

Curiosity made me impolite. ‘And you returned to Oreston?’ I frowned. ‘Surely there are easier ways of reaching Valletort Manor?’ I was half-hoping that she might reveal in which direction the manor lay.

Her face flushed a deep crimson, that had nothing to do with the heat of the fire.

‘You seem to have learnt a great deal about me, chapman. How do you know where I live?’

‘I spent last night with Mistress Cobbold, Master Capstick’s neighbour.’

Katherine Glover curled her lip. ‘That explains everything,’ she sneered.

‘I also have a passing acquaintance with Mistress Trenowth,’ I added.

The sneer became more pronounced. ‘Then you probably know as much about my affairs as I know myself.’ Katherine Glover, whose wide, grey eyes had been raised to mine, now looked away, staring into the heart of the fire. ‘As to why I didn’t ride straight home after crossing the ford, the answer is simple. It’s obvious that a storm is brewing. It was growing dusk early and those cross-country tracks are rough and lonely. It would be easy enough for the horse to stumble in the dark, and there are footpads and outlaws about to add to the danger. A woman on her own is never really safe. So I decided to ride here, to Oreston.’

I recalled my own crossing of the Ebb Ford the previous day, travelling in the opposite direction in the company of Peter Threadgold. ‘There’s an inn at Crabtree,’ I said, ‘to the best of my recollection.’

‘Well, I prefer this one,’ she snapped. ‘The owners are my uncle – my father’s brother – and his wife.’ She was angry now, as she had every right to be at my unwarranted questioning of her arrangements. ‘I’ll thank you to mind your own business and leave me to manage mine.’

At that moment, the landlord entered the taproom and, hearing Katherine’s raised voice, looked at me with hostility.

‘This pedlar annoying you, Kate?’ he demanded.

She hesitated, then shook her head. ‘It’s all right, Uncle. He’s come from Plymouth, and has been listening to gossip about Master Capstick’s death, with the result that he regards me as being under suspicion for harbouring a murderer. And he thinks this gives him the right to quiz me on all my movements. He’s not the first, however, nor will he be the last to make such an impertinent assumption.’

‘No, no!’ I protested feebly, knowing that she was right, and guessing that she had probably suffered from public calumny and intrusion into her affairs ever since the killing and Beric’s subsequent disappearance.

‘Well, if that’s the case, you can be on your way, chapman,’ the landlord informed me belligerently. ‘My niece has had enough to put up with from neighbours and folks in these parts generally, without perfect strangers giving her offence.’

‘Now, now, Maurice, let’s not be too hasty,’ said a voice behind him, and the goodwife of the establishment glided into view. A pair of very bright, almost black eyes looked me up and down, and the full, sensuous mouth curved into an approving smile. ‘Let’s not be turning good money away from the door. The lad didn’t mean to be inquisitive or rude, I’m certain. People’s interest is always aroused by a murder, and there’s no denying that Katherine’s name will be bandied about in connection with it, whether she likes it or not.’ She moved forward and laid a bony hand on my arm. ‘But whatever you’ve been told by the Plymouth gossips, our niece knows nothing of Beric Gifford’s present whereabouts, nor does she wish to. Her betrothal to him is at an end. Is that not correct, my dear?’ she added, glancing towards Katherine with raised eyebrows.

‘If you say so, Aunt Theresa,’ the girl answered, but did not turn her head.

‘I tender my apologies, Mistress,’ I said. ‘There is no possible justification for my prying into your affairs, or for questioning you as I did. I hope you’ll forgive me.’

‘Of course she will,’ the goodwife, whose name I now knew to be Theresa Glover, assured me before Katherine had a chance to reply. ‘That’s settled, then.’ She smiled at me. ‘Are you looking for a bed for the night, chapman? You’d be wise to stop here if you can afford it. The weather’s getting worse by the sound of it.’

At her words, we all paused to listen. Great gusts of wind, smelling of the sea, were hurling themselves against the shutters, which rattled dismally, like the loose teeth in an old man’s head. The rain drummed on the roof of the inn in a steady, relentless rhythm, and the quiet firelit taproom seemed a haven of warmth and security in the surrounding stormy darkness.

‘I’m hoping for supper as well as a bed, Mistress,’ I answered. ‘I can pay for both.’ And I patted the pouch at my belt.

Mistress Glover nodded briskly, not doubting my word. ‘In that case, I’ll go and prepare your room. As for food, there’s fish broth, half a cold capon, a pigeon pie, and some apple pasties that I baked myself only this morning.’

She hurried away, leaving me facing the still antagonistic landlord.

‘What do you say, Kate?’ Maurice Glover asked his niece after a moment or two. ‘Do you want him to stay? Because if you don’t out he goes, storm or no storm.’

‘Oh, let him stay,’ Katherine Glover answered indifferently. ‘He’s harmless enough. I can stand up for myself. Here, chapman, sit down and get dry.’

Her uncle grunted. ‘Oh well, if you’re happy … Do as she says, my lad. Sit down and I’ll fetch you a cup of ale.’ He took a wooden beaker from a shelf and went across to a row of barrels ranged against a wall of the room. Turning the tap of one of them, he filled the beaker with a flow of dark golden brown liquid, which he handed to me with the encouragement, ‘Drink up!’ and went away, presumably to help his wife.

‘I’m sorry I was so rude just now,’ I said, feeling the need to apologise yet again. ‘And, of course, had I realized from the outset that this inn belonged to your aunt and uncle, I should never have thought it strange that you chose to make your way here rather than remain at Crabtree.’

Katherine Glover shrugged, but made no answer, continuing to stare into the fire where the logs, shifting every now and again, revealed caverns of ruddy gold and sea-green-blue. She made it perfectly clear that she had no wish to indulge in further conversation, so I respected her silence, sitting down at the opposite end of the bench and stretching my long legs towards the flames. It was a silence that she maintained throughout supper, a meal shared with the landlord and his wife, there being no guests other than our two selves staying that night at the inn.

When we had finished eating, Katherine announced that she was ready for her bed, and, with a kiss for her uncle and aunt and a brief ‘Good night’ to me, went upstairs.

‘Your usual chamber,’ her aunt called after her, but there was no response.

Theresa Glover sighed. ‘This has been a bad business,’ she said. ‘Five months on, it’s still the talk of Plymouth, and the gossip shows no sign of dying down yet. Well!’ She rose to her feet and began collecting the dirty dishes together. ‘I told my brother-in-law and his wife at the time that no good would come of allowing Katherine’s betrothal to Beric Gifford. There was bound to be trouble over the inequality of the match. It stood to reason that old Oliver Capstick wouldn’t tolerate it, and he held the purse strings. Oh, it’s no good you frowning at me, Maurice, and shaking your head. The chapman’ll hear worse than that from other people, if he’s interested enough to listen. You go and make certain that all the shutters are secured against this wind. There’s one with a loose catch in the corner chamber, where I’ve put Roger.’ For she had prised my name out of me while we were having supper, and now used it, relishing the familiarity.

The landlord reluctantly departed to obey his wife’s instructions, grumbling to himself, but plainly used to doing as he was bidden.

When he had followed his niece upstairs and disappeared from view, I asked Theresa Glover, ‘What do
you
think has happened to Beric Gifford? The talk in Plymouth is that he’s eaten the leaves of Saint John’s fern and made himself invisible.’

I had expected her to deride this idea with all the contempt of which a strong-minded woman was capable. But, instead, she crossed herself and her eyes assumed a wary expression. ‘I suppose it is possible,’ she answered. She was silent for a moment, then said slowly, ‘The truth is, that there are some people in these parts – sensible people, not given to extravagant fancies – who are ready to swear that they’ve seen Beric. Not close to, perhaps, but recognizable, even though he was in the distance.’

‘I’d heard as much myself,’ I answered, ‘but was inclined to dismiss the possibility. But if these people are speaking the truth, then he must be in hiding somewhere, succoured by his sister and your niece.’

Theresa Glover shook her head emphatically. ‘Katherine has assured both her uncle and myself, as well as her parents, that she has done with Beric and never wants to see him again.’

‘Isn’t that what she would tell you?’ I asked sceptically. ‘Especially if she’s protecting herself and him.’

Mistress Glover looked uneasy, but said, ‘Katherine has always been very truthful, even as a child. Far too truthful on occasions, to my way of thinking.’

‘Everyone’s capable of lying,’ I argued, ‘particularly if he or she is guarding something or someone precious.’

My companion was loath to agree, but eventually admitted, ‘You could be right, I suppose.’

Her husband came back into the room, a disapproving look souring his face. ‘Still gossiping?’ he snapped. ‘I thought you’d have had these dishes cleared away and washed by now.’

If he had hoped to discomfit his wife, he was mistaken. ‘Are you certain that everything is secured upstairs?’ she countered waspishly. ‘Have you repaired that catch in the corner bedchamber?’

‘I’ve done my best,’ he answered sulkily. ‘It shouldn’t give you any trouble, chapman.’

I thanked him and said that, with his and Mistress Glover’s permission, I would retire. ‘It’s been a long day,’ I added: and indeed it seemed an age since my talk with Mistress Trenowth that morning. Moreover, my previous night’s sleep had been disturbed.

I was given a candle to light my way upstairs, and Theresa Glover insisted on accompanying me in order to show me my room. But when she would have entered with me to assure herself, as she said, that all was well, I bade her a firm good night and shut the door behind me.

As far as I could see, the Bird of Passage boasted only three bedchambers, and I guessed that the one at the front of the inn was used by the Glovers themselves. Its door stood wide open, showing an empty bed, whilst that of the chamber next to mine was tightly closed. Doubtless, the room was occupied by Katherine Glover, already sound asleep. There was little furniture in my own room, but the bed looked clean and comfortable and there was an iron chamber pot in one corner. Having relieved myself, I divested myself of most of my clothes and climbed thankfully between the sheets, tucking the coarse woollen blanket well up under my chin.

I lay for a little while, listening to the wind buffeting the house, soughing through the branches of the trees and rattling the shutters of my window. But I was too tired to stay awake for long, and with thoughts of Adela uppermost in my mind, I, too, was soon lost to the world.

Chapter Seven

During my years as a novice at Glastonbury Abbey, the discipline I most hated was having to leave my bed in the early hours of the morning for the service of matins, and again at sunrise for lauds. However uncomfortable my pallet, it was infinitely preferable to the chill of the night stairs and the empty, shadowed reaches of the great church, cold even in the heat of summer. Consequently, my worship was never more than half-hearted, and it was not unknown for me to fall asleep and have to be nudged into wakefulness by my neighbour.

But God has had His revenge. Although I long ago left the monastic life behind me, I frequently find myself, even now, in old age, waking up in the small hours of the morning, condemned to a period of restlessness before I can fall asleep again. And that night at the Bird of Passage Inn was no exception. But as I struggled back to consciousness through the clinging threads of dreams, I realized that there was another reason for my arousal. The faulty latch, mentioned by Theresa Glover, had obviously sprung again, with the result that both shutters were swinging loose in the wind, banging every now and then against the outside wall.

Cursing, I got out of bed, crossed to the window, opened the inner casement, then leant out to take hold of the shutters, one in each hand. The rain had ceased and a thin wisp of moon appeared from time to time, scudding across the sky between the blown wrack of clouds. Apart from the noise of the wind, which had considerably abated, and the distant hushing of the sea, all was quiet, so that the high-pitched whinny of a horse came clearly to my ears. Katherine Glover’s palfrey was also restless, I thought, until a sudden flash of movement away to the left, drew my attention to the stand of trees.

I froze into stillness. I had almost closed the shutters, but not quite. A gap of some three or four inches remained between them, a wide enough aperture for me to see through without being seen in return. And provided that I held them still, I doubted if the fact that they were open would be noticed from the ground. I had no notion what I expected to happen next, but something was afoot, and I felt the hairs on the nape of my neck bristle in anticipation.

After a few moments, the figure of a man, muffled in a dark cloak and wearing a flat-crowned hat, emerged from the trees and approached the inn, stooping on his way to scoop up a handful of loose stones and small clods of earth, which he flung without hesitation against the closed shutters of the window next to mine. (‘Your usual chamber,’ Theresa Glover had told her niece.) He was forced to repeat this manoeuvre several times before he was rewarded with the cautious opening of the casement and the emergence of Katherine Glover’s head. To be truthful, this was beyond my range of vision, but I guessed that she must have appeared when I heard her sudden, startled cry and the hiss of her indrawn breath.