The Prodigal Son (22 page)

The butcher reluctantly agreed, although he plainly would have preferred his wife to be less forthright about his limitations. Nevertheless, he, too, thanked the Bellknapps for their proffered hospitality. Only Ronan appeared less than happy with the prospect of a day spent on his best behaviour instead of being able to sneak away for some Sunday fun with his friends.

He had good reason. The day dragged. Rose recovered sufficiently to join her family, walking with them by the moat, attending yet another of the chaplain's sermons, preached in the chapel at midday, or chatting quietly to her mother, sitting on a bench in the sunshine watching the swans. The board games that had passed the time so pleasantly between breakfast and dinner were not suggested again. Indeed, Anthony disappeared for the rest of the day, taking Humphrey Attleborough with him, so I rescued Hercules from the kitchen and took him for another walk in Croxcombe woods in the hope of encountering Hamo Gough once more. But he, also, was making himself scarce. His hut stood empty, the fire smouldered away unattended and there was no sign of him anywhere in the area surrounding Hangman's Oak. The pit he had been digging in the morning had been hastily filled in and the spade left propped against the tree; but although I called several times, the charcoal burner, whether he heard me or not, failed to materialize.

I contemplated the ground around the oak and prodded it with my cudgel, but in spite of the rain, it was too well protected under the trees to have more than a surface softness. Hercules assisted me to the best of his ability, snuffling and rootling at the base of the tree, scrabbling furiously with his paws until, suddenly tiring of what seemed to be a pointless exercise, he sidled off about his own concerns. Eventually I, too, got bored, stretched my length on the damp woodland floor and was almost immediately asleep …

It was one of those dreams that I experience from time to time, when I'm aware that I am dreaming and can watch myself almost as an onlooker, detached and impersonal. I know the dream is trying to tell me something and that it will be up to my waking self to discover what it is. In this instance, I was back in the hall of Croxcombe Manor, but it was night-time and dark. There was moonlight seeping in around the frames of the shutters and, at first, I thought I was alone. Then I had a growing feeling that someone was there with me; I gradually became conscious of a woman's shadowy figure standing slightly behind me. I couldn't see her face and was unable to turn my head to do so. But in spite of this, I knew who she was without being told. I knew that she was Jenny Applegarth.

She remained motionless for what seemed like an age, before suddenly staggering backwards and falling to the floor, as if she had been struck by some unseen hand. I attempted to go to her aid, although I knew perfectly well that I couldn't move, being chained by the rules of my dream to the spot where I stood. But then the steward was kneeling beside her – in spite of the fact that I had neither seen nor heard him enter the hall – his right arm in a sling. With his left hand, he was shaking her by one shoulder, but as he opened his mouth to speak, the scene dissolved and reformed, becoming George Applegarth's private chamber. Anthony Bellknapp was questioning the steward about Jenny's murder. He was going on and on, while all his questions were parried with a stubborn politeness that hid a deep and inexpressible sadness, seeing which, I stepped forward to intervene … And was at once wide awake, looking up into the branches of the oak, while Hercules blew hotly in my left ear and licked my face, indicating that he had finished his business and was ready to move on.

‘What is it? No more rabbits around here that you haven't scared shitless?' I asked, heaving myself to my feet and all the time trying desperately to hang on to the rags of my dream. But although it took no great effort to recall it in total, I was at a loss how to interpret it, so stored it away in my memory to think about later when Hercules wasn't threatening to trip me up with his silly antics. I seized my cudgel and began walking back along the half-hidden track that led eventually to the edge of Croxcombe woods.

As we approached the clearing where Hamo Gough had his hut, I could see him crouched over his fire, feeding in more twigs and bits of coppiced timber from a basket on the ground, and which he had evidently collected during the course of the day. I was just going to hail him, when another man emerged from the trees opposite, calling his name. In the ordinary course of events, there would have been nothing in this to surprise me: there must have been plenty of people in the neighbourhood who knew the charcoal burner well enough to exchange greetings with him. But what pulled me up short and made me grab Hercules with a terse injunction to be quiet – he always understands when I'm in earnest, and I could feel him quivering with silent excitement under my arm – was the fact that the newcomer was the ‘lay brother' from Glastonbury who had warned us all of the effects of the storm on the road to Wells.

He was chuckling over this now with Hamo. ‘That storm was a godsend. Although I don't doubt I'd have thought of some other reason if I'd had to. So, who is it's so anxious to keep the Bignells at the manor for the night? And why?'

‘None o' thy business,' Hamo grunted. ‘Thee's done thy part.' He fished in the greasy pouch hanging from his equally unsavoury belt and produced some coins. I could hear them jingle as he passed them over, dropping them one by one into the other's outstretched palm. ‘It's never a good idea,' he added, ‘to enquire too closely into Bellknapp affairs.'

‘You're right there,' the second man agreed. ‘Anyway, thanks for thinking of me. As I said, the storm was a blessing in disguise, and claiming that the footbridge had been washed away was a cunning stroke, even if I say so myself. I suddenly remembered my lad, Dick – he's a friend of Ronan Bignell's – telling me that Thomas can't swim.'

The charcoal burner turned back to his fire. ‘Thee owes me a favour, so don't thee forget it.'

‘I shan't.' The ‘lay brother' led his horse forward from where he had tethered it among the trees, mounted and, picking his careful way, disappeared along the woodland path.

Still clutching Hercules in a warning clasp and moving as silently as I could, I followed a circuitous route back to the main track and set out in the direction of Wells. Some three-quarters of an hour later, I had reached the spot where the plank bridge spanned the admittedly swollen stream, but there was no question of it having been washed away, nor was there much flooding of the stream itself; certainly nothing that would have deterred a person set on reaching home, where hose and shoes could be hung out to dry.

Slowly, I retraced my steps in the direction of Croxcombe, Hercules running happily alongside me. The rain clouds had completely vanished by now, leaving behind a landscape of unrelieved green, heavy and monotonous beneath the unrelenting heat of the afternoon sun. I was in a quandary. I knew that I should warn somebody that the Bignells had been deceived into passing the night at the manor, but who? Which one of its inhabitants had arranged it, and why? Which of them could I trust? Suppose I confided in the wrong person? There seemed to be only one option open to me: I had to inform everyone of what I knew.

Supper was already halfway through by the time I reached the manor again. The Bignells were at the high table in the company of their daughter and son-in-law, Dame Audrea, Anthony and Simon Bellknapp. A place had been kept for me at one of the lower trestles, but I ignored it, marching straight up to the dais where, addressing no one in particular, I told what I had overheard between Hamo Gough and the stranger in Croxcombe woods.

When I had finished, there was a disbelieving silence. It was Thomas Bignell who spoke first.

‘That's nonsense!' he exclaimed. ‘I recognized the lay brother who brought the news. His son, Dick, is a friend of Ronan's.'

Ronan nodded. ‘Master Fossett wouldn't play a trick like that. And anyway, why should he?'

There was a general murmur of agreement. ‘You're having a joke with us, Master Chapman,' Anthony accused me, leaning back in his chair and regarding me through narrowed eyes. ‘I wonder why.'

‘I am not joking,' I protested indignantly. ‘I've walked as far as the footbridge and it's still in place. It hasn't been washed away. Someone in this house had deliberately set out to keep Master and Mistress Bignell at Croxcombe for the night. Don't ask me why! I can't hazard a guess.'

My sincerity was beginning to take effect, and everybody started to glance uneasily at everyone else until Anthony suddenly brought his fist crashing down on the table, rattling the plates and cups.

‘Whatever the purpose behind this stupid jest may be – if, that is, friend Roger is
not
enjoying a joke at our expense – then let me beg you, Master Bignell, to take no notice of it. Stay the night as we had planned. Rose and Edward will be pleased to have you here, and in any case the hour is now too advanced to set out for Wells on foot. Rest assured that no harm will come to you under
my
roof.' As he accentuated the word
my
, he smiled mockingly at his mother and brother as if inviting them to challenge his authority. (Simon was about to do so, but I saw Dame Audrea give his sound arm a restraining squeeze.)

The Bignells were looking hesitant, as though not quite sure what to make of it all, and still half inclined to suspect me of making up the story.

‘Perhaps …' Mistress Bignell began shyly, nudging her husband gently in the ribs, ‘perhaps if, after all, the bridge isn't broken …'

‘I won't hear of your leaving,' Anthony said firmly. ‘I shall consider myself deeply insulted if you go. My mother, also.'

Dame Audrea had, perforce, to agree. She had her reputation for hospitality to consider.

‘Please stay,' she said graciously to the Bignells. She eyed me with dislike. ‘I'm still not altogether convinced that this is not some sort of stupid jest on the pedlar's part, but otherwise, I can only echo my son's assurance that nothing untoward will happen to you under this roof. You will be perfectly safe.'

S
unday evening passed as slowly as the rest of the day, except that there was now an atmosphere of unease and suspicion – although I had to admit to myself that the suspicion was directed mainly at me. For some reason, my story was only half believed, and my suggestion that someone should be despatched to Croxcombe woods to confirm it with Hamo Gough was ignored. Of course, there was one person in the household who would have obstructed the proposal, but there was no cause for him – or her – to raise objections while no move was made by anyone to contact the charcoal burner. When I protested, Anthony, as master of the house, merely shrugged and said he would have a word with Hamo in the morning. But as, by then, I would have started my journey back to Bristol and the Bignells would have returned to Wells, it was small consolation. I doubted if Anthony would bother. As he pointed out to me, whoever had wanted the Bignells to remain the night at the manor, and for whatever purpose, the culprit would hardly make a move against them now.

I sulked; and after evening prayers – conducted by an even more nervous Sir Henry, conscious of Anthony's growing impatience with his stammering speech – I retired out of doors to a bench beneath one of the hall's open windows and angrily discouraged anyone who tried to join me.

‘Oh, behave like a child, then!' Rose shouted, rebuffed in her attempt to sit alongside me, and flounced off to walk with her father and Anthony, who were strolling, deep in conversation, beside the moat.

I felt guilty when she had gone: she was so plainly worried by my story, wishing to discuss it with me, that I tried to recall her, but by that time she was out of earshot. Ten minutes or so later, I felt even guiltier when Anthony and Thomas Bignell ambled back into view, once more on their own, obviously having rid themselves of her unwanted presence. I guessed that she might be the subject of their conversation and would therefore have been an embarrassment to them.

I was not alone in this suspicion. Edward Micheldever's voice sounded suddenly just above my head, and I realized he was standing on the other side of the open window, in the hall.

‘What plot is that bastard hatching now? Look how busily he's talking to Thomas. He's made a dead set at Rose ever since he clapped eyes on her. I wish to God he'd never come back. I'd like to see him dead!'

‘Be quiet,' George Applegarth's voice answered him sternly. ‘That's no way to speak of your master. And, whether you like it or not, Ned, by the terms of his father's will, he is the master here. You'd do as well not to forget it. Besides, nothing he can say to your detriment can alter the fact that you're Rose's husband in the sight of God and the Church. Thomas Bignell's a pious man. He won't be swayed by any inducements Anthony Bellknapp offers him. Good God! He isn't the sort to encourage his daughter to become another man's mistress, however rich that man might be. And in any case, Anthony's not as rich as all that. He has a mother and brother to support, even though he might hope to disregard the fact, land to maintain, a large household to run, hospitality to dispense. He's more likely to be on the lookout for a wealthy wife than saddle himself with a demanding mistress. And in the end, Rose's morals are her own, not her father's.'

‘Rose doesn't have any morals where men are concerned,' snarled the receiver. ‘Haven't you realized that by now, George? A word of encouragement from Thomas and she'd have no qualms whatsoever at becoming Bellknapp's whore. I knew what she was like when I agreed to marry her, but I thought she was safe from temptation here. Apart from Kilsby, there's no one to take a girl's fancy, and Reginald's been too occupied trying to snare Dame Audrea's affections to look elsewhere.'