[Roger the Chapman 06] - The Wicked Winter (8 page)

'Oh, I'm nothing to do with Brother Simeon. We met by chance on the road and just happened to arrive together. I'm a chapman, trying to make some extra money in this bleak mid-winter.'

A little kitchen-maid, whom I had not previously noticed, crept from the comer where she had been quietly observing the antics of her elders, her eyes round with anticipation of possible, unlooked-for delights.

'Got any pretty ribbons, Chapman?' she asked in a husky whisper.

'I may have one or two,' I answered, 'that will suit a pretty girl like you.'

She giggled, then self-consciously put up a hand to touch her face which was afflicted with the weeping pustules of youth.

'Go on with you!' She giggled again.

Brother Simeon rapped his knuckles on the table.

'Enough of this!' he exclaimed harshly. 'Things temporal are of no importance when God's work is waiting to be done.

As for you, my child -' he glared fiercely at the little kitchenmaid '- you would do well to contemplate the state of your immortal soul rather than consider ways of adorning your body.' He turned to the housekeeper. 'You may send to inform Lady Cederwell that I am here.'

Phillipa Talke hesitated, unwilling to disoblige a holy man, but even more afraid of defying her mistress's orders.

'You must seek her out for yourself, Father,' she answered, but with a hint of apology in her voice. 'When Lady Cederwell is at her devotions no one is allowed to disturb her. Anyone who did so would be severely punished. You, however, would suffer no such fate.'

Friar Simeon inclined his head.

'Your mistress sounds as if she is a woman after my own heart. What a truly fortunate lot yours must be -' he included all those present, except myself, in a comprehensive sweep of his arm '- to be in the employ of such a one.' He did not appear to notice the lack of enthusiasm and almost audible murmur of disagreement which his statement provoked, but continued, 'Where may I find your mistress?' The youngest of the women, if you discounted the kitchenmaid, which it was easy enough to do, now stepped forward, determined to establish her superiority over the others.

'I,' she announced grandly, 'am Adela Empryngham, the wife of Lady Cederwell's brother. Of course it goes without saying that I should not be punished were I to show you the way, but,' she added hurriedly, 'it is snowing again and I suffer from delicate health, so you will understand, Brother, why I cannot accompany you. You will find Jeanette in the tower which you may have noticed as you arrived on manor lands. It stands clear of the outbuildings, south-west by about the length of a furrow.'

I thought her estimate of the distance over-generous, but was willing to concede that my own first glimpse of the tower had been a cursory one, and it might well be further off than I had imagined. I had no time to pursue the thought, however, for at that moment there was an interruption. A man who could only be Sir Hugh Cederwell strode into the kitchen.

He had seen, I guessed, some forty or more summers, a handsome, florid man with brown eyes and an abundance of dark brown hair which clustered in thick waves and curls across the nape of his neck and around his ears, but which was starting to thin a little on the crown. He was heavily built, barrel-chested, but not short of stature due to long, tapering flanks and a surprising length of leg from knee to ankle. The whole effect was one of power but with a curious top-heaviness. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and resonant.

'What is going on here? Why all the noise? Where's Lady Cederwell?' He caught sight of the friar and myself. 'Who are these people?'

It was my companion who answered, silencing the women with an upraised hand.

'I am Brother Simeon of the Dominican Order, and I have been summoned here by your wife, for what reason I have yet to discover. I demand to be allowed to speak to her forthwith.'

The knight's forehead puckered. 'Brother Simeon? The same friar who has been preaching hell and damnation in these parts for the past two weeks?' When Simeon nodded, I thought I saw a sudden apprehension flicker at the back of the dark brown eyes, but it was too momentary for me to be certain. Sir Hugh gave a blustering laugh and continued, 'I might have guessed that my wife would wish to meet a man with such a pious reputation. She is a very devout woman.' The last words were spoken with what could have been a sneer. The friar certainly chose to imerpret it as such, and iris eyes sparked with fury.

'Never mock at the godly, Sir Hugh! It would be as well for you if all the females of your household were to follow the example of your lady. Our acquaintance has been brief, but they seem to me to be a pack of gibbering fools, concerned only with the material things of this world; with which one of them is of greater earthly importance than her sisters.' He rounded with such ferocity on the women that they drew back from him, huddling together in a frightened little group. 'You stupid creatures! As Our Lord reminds us in the Holy Scriptures, your soul may be required of any one of you this very night! What will it matter then, when the pit of hell yawns at your feet, who is in charge in this kitchen? What will it profit you?'

Sir Hugh interrupted without compunction. 'Are you sure Lady Cederwell sent for you, Brother? I have no knowledge of her doing so. Does she know you? Have you met?' The friar's lips thinned until they were almost invisible and he sucked in a rasping breath.

'No, she knows me only by reputation, but that is sufficient. Do you dare to suggest that I am lying? I, Simeon?' His thin chest swelled. 'However, I have a witness. The pedlar here can vouch for the veracity of my words. Tell him, Chapman!'

So I told Sir Hugh of my meeting with the two men at the mill, and confirmed that they had indeed been searching for the friar on the orders of Lady Cederwell. The knight looked grim.

'Can you describe them to me'?'

I did my best, which proved to be good enough, for both he and Mistress Talke said in unison, 'Jude and Nicholas.' Sir Hugh added bitterly, 'Of course! Her own men, brought with her from Campden.'

Adela Empryngham nodded in confirmation. 'My father-in-law's people were always noted for their loyalty to him.

Once he was dead, they transferred that loyalty to Jeanette and Gerard.'

Sir Hugh snorted derisively. 'I should take care how you link Jeanette's and Gerard's names, my dear Adela. I doubt that either Jude or Nicholas feel much loyalty towards a bastard.'

The silence which followed this last remark was broken by a snigger from the cook, Martha Grindcobb. Mistress Empryngham coloured painfully, her bosom heaving with anger and indignation.

'I always knew it was a mistake for us to come here with Jeanette,' she shrilled breathlessly, as soon as she could trust herself to speak. 'I've always known how you regard us; as poor dependants, with every penny grudged that's spent on our food and clothing. Many and many a time I have told Gerard that he should leave here and stand on his own two feet, so that we should not have to be beholden to you.' Sir Hugh lifted his lip.

'And what did Master Gerard say in reply?' Again the colour suffused Adela Empryngham's face.

'He won't go,' she mumbled. Then she added with greater spirit, 'He feels it necessary to remain with his sister...'
 

'His half-sister!' Sir Hugh cut in, but she ignored him.

'... knowing how unhappy she is.'

Sir Hugh laughed, but there was no mirth in the sound.

'Jeanette has always been unhappy and always will be. She is as God made her, and He made her, seemingly, to be one of the most miserable of His creatures.' He shrugged. 'How can it be otherwise when she spends three-quarters of her waking life upon her knees and the other quarter sniffing out the wrongdoings, real or imagined, of her fellows? However, I am delighted to know, Adela, that you at least have enough sense to see that Gerard would be best away from here, instead of battening on my goodwill. There's plenty of honest work to be had if he looks for it. Persuade him to return to the Cotswolds. Sheep country, where wealth abounds. There are any number of rich sheepmen who would offer him employment.'

Friar Simeon intervened. '

'Am I to be kept waiting here all day? I wish to be conducted to Lady Cederwell immediately.'

Sir Hugh answered indifferently, repeating what we had already been told, 'You will find her in the old Saxon tower, which you can see well enough if you cross the courtyard and go out by the little gate. It stands some way distant from the manor, on the mudflats of the estuary, and is her own domain. She has made it hers in the five and a half years since she first came here, turning the uppermost storey into a chapel, even though there is one here, in the house.' He went on, as if struck by a sudden thought, 'Our chaplain is sick at the moment. He has been for more than a week and is therefore unable to carry out his duties at present. Perhaps that's why my wife has sent for you, Friar. She is in constant fear for her immortal soul. She must confess her sins and be granted absolution every day or she cannot sleep at night.'
 

'A truly godly woman,' breathed Simeon. 'A shining example to us all. Her like is to be treasured, Sir Hugh, not held up to ridicule. Now, with your leave, I shall go to her and discover what it is she wants of me.'

His tone implied that he would do so with or without our reluctant host's permission, and I was not surprised to see Sir Hugh's grimace of resignation.

' You must do as you wish, Brother. I will call one of the men to show you the way.'

'There is no need to trouble anyone.' The friar drew his cloak more tightly about his emaciated frame. 'I can follow your directions well enough.'

'I'll come with you,' I volunteered. 'In this weather the ground can be treacherous. This time, you might be glad of my arm in support.'

Simeon made no response as he turned and left the kitchen, but as he did not positively say me nay, I dropped my pack by the table and followed him, also wrapping myself in my cloak.

It was beginning by now to grow dark. The early January dusk was closing in, the sky black and louring, showing few rifts of light in the low-scudding clouds. It was still snowing, faster than it had been and rapidly covering the ground with a carpet of white. Simeon and I crossed the courtyard, skirting the fish pond and making for the barn and attendant outhouses which formed the southern boundary of the manor. Between the laundry and the dairy was a narrow gate, set into the short stretch of wall which connected the two buildings. It was not yet locked and swung outwards on its hinges at the first touch of the friar's hand.

The open country beyond it was also covered in snow, but I could feel the tough, coarse grasses, which are to be found in coastal regions, crunch beneath our feet. The cries of the seagulls, as they wheeled inland, scavenging for food, sounded mournfully in our ears. Even Friar Simeon shivered a little as we made our way towards the tower, but whether from cold or from a sense of the desolation of the place I was unable to guess.

Mistress Empryngham had been right: the tower stood clear of the manor by very nearly the length of a furrow. As we approached, I could see that it was in a state of disrepair, some of the stones chipped and crumbling. Efforts had been made, however, particularly about the first and second storeys, to renew the mortar and render the building sound enough for habitation. Facing us was a door, and as we drew close, I saw that it was slightly ajar, a drift of snow already covering the floor immediately inside it.

I turned my head and glanced questioningly at the friar, but his steady pace did not falter. He strode ahead of me, pushed the door wide and entered the tower.

Chapter Six

It was dark inside. What daylight there was, apart from that admitted by the open door, filtered through four slits in the circular wall. It was just possible, however, to make out the shape of a small table standing in the middle of the room, on which was placed a tinder-box and a horn lantern. By the time I had used the one to light the candle inside the other, Friar Simeon was seething with impatience.

'Why are you so slow?' he complained. 'Get on with it! Get on with it!' He walked to the foot of the staircase, winding its way upwards into the gloom, and shouted, 'Lady Cederwell! Are you there?'

When he received no reply, I reminded him, 'Sir Hugh said that the chapel was on the uppermost floor of the tower. She cannot hear you. You may as well save your breath.' I closed the lantern and raised it above my head. 'Let me go first. These steps are narrow and badly worn.' We proceeded cautiously, with the friar hanging on to my cloak, while I directed him, as far as I was able, where to place his feet. A flight of some two dozen stairs brought us to the second storey and another circular room almost as empty and as cold as the one immediately below it. The lantern's pale rays showed us a stool, a slightly larger table than the one downstairs, on which were scattered two or three well-thumbed folios, and a bench alongside it. That was all. There was nothing here, not a single wall hanging nor even any rushes on the floor, to relieve the general austerity.

'Lady Cederwell!' Simeon shouted yet again. And again there was no answer.

'She's either praying or has fallen asleep at her devotions,' I suggested. 'If, as the housekeeper told us, she has been here since daybreak, I should fancy the latter.'

Simeon made no response and, without this time waiting for me to lead the way, started up the stairs to the final storey.