The Prodigal Son (6 page)

‘Bereft?' Adela suggested.

I nodded.

I set out early the following morning, one of the first to pass through the Redcliffe Gate, taking with me my pack, my cudgel (my trusty ‘Plymouth cloak') and my dog.

The latter was full of energy, which was more than I was, Adela and I having made up our differences overnight in the time-honoured manner, not once, but twice; with the result that although I was a happy man, I was also a tired one. My children had waved me goodbye with their usual indifference, Adam punching me in the belly – admittedly the only part of my anatomy he was able to reach – as a parting reminder that he was growing up and not to be trifled with. (As if I'd dare!) Elizabeth and Nicholas were too used to my departures to regard them as anything other than a normal part of life and therefore wasted no time on unnecessary hugs and kisses. They just reminded me, by the simple expedient of patting my scrip, that they would expect a present or two in it when I returned. That I might, one day,
not
return never crossed their minds, but Adela, as she always did, clung to me and begged me to take care.

As Hercules and I left the walled seclusion of the city behind us, the sun rising steadily to reveal an almost perfect August morning, my spirits revived, and I began to stride out in a manner better suited to the dog's restless energy as he chased imaginary rabbits and rolled in the grass. The sky was almost colourless; inlets, rivers and creeks of palest blue flowed between sandbanks of cloud, while low on the horizon, the light was a dazzling transparency, shimmering with the first, faint warnings of noonday heat. I was where I liked most in the world to be; on the open road, on my own.

Well, when I say on my own I don't mean it literally, of course. At that time of year, high summer, the main tracks were crowded; parties of jugglers and mummers travelling from house to house, offering entertainment; itinerant friars, preaching hell and damnation; pilgrims heading for Glastonbury; civic messengers; now and again a royal messenger full of his own importance; family parties going on visits of either duty or pleasure to other members of their kinfolk; and plenty of fellow pedlars taking advantage of the fine weather to be out and about, selling their wares. In fact, if I wanted to be by myself, I was forced into the byways and lesser known tracks, many of which would only be familiar to a native of the area, such as myself.

I may have lost a little custom this way, but not very much. There were plenty of small settlements – mostly charcoal burners and their families – where the womenfolk were glad of needles and thread, a new spoon, either horn or wooden, to replace a broken one, or a good plain buckle for a belt that had seen better days. As for Hercules, he was happy to make friends with every mangy cur who invited him to cock a leg on a favourite tree, or enter into hostilities with any dog sufficiently foolhardy to offer him offence. Altogether, our first day's travel passed in a most satisfactory fashion, keeping us out of the blazing heat and putting enough money in my purse to justify the excursion even in Adela's eyes.

By dusk of that first day, thanks to a ride of some miles in a friendly turf carrier's cart, we had reached the banks of the meandering River Chew, and were directed by a local shepherd to an isolated, but by no means deserted hostelry some few hundred yards south of the main track. The landlord, a jolly, red-faced man by the name of Josiah Litton, welcomed me in, patted Hercules on the head, and, for an eminently reasonable charge, offered me the use for the night of a straw mattress on the stone floor, near the central fire. His only bedchamber, apart from his and his wife's, was at present occupied by a certain Sir Damien Chauntermerle, an important local landowner on his way home after several weeks in London. I was assured that the knight's squire and page would be joining me around the fire to sleep, so I need not be afraid of lacking company. (I groaned inwardly and prayed to the Virgin that neither of my companions snored. It would be bad enough with Hercules wheezing in my ear all night.)

The landlord then bustled about, bringing me a beaker of ale, bread, cheese and some of those small wild scallions, also known as buckrams or bear's garlic. (They are best eaten in spring, when juicy and tender, but even late in the year as this was, they can make a decent meal with cheese if freshly picked.) Sir Damien, it transpired, had supped earlier in his chamber, and the page and squire had gone out to join the groom in the stables for a game or two of hazard.

‘Don't suppose they'd object to a fourth,' my host suggested, when I had finished my meal.

Tired as I was, the evening was still far too light to think of sleeping, and I should only be roused when my two companions came to bed. Hercules was happily gnawing on a mutton bone, with which the landlord had thoughtfully provided him, so I decided to take Master Litton's hint, and went out to the stables.

These were a couple of stalls at one side of the inn, the first containing a bony nag, plainly belonging to the premises; which meant that the thoroughbred next door had to be the property of Sir Damien Chauntermerle, even had the fact not been made self-evident by the three men seated amongst the straw, playing at dice.

I introduced myself and was immediately welcomed into the circle with the blunt hope that I had sufficient money to cover my losses. I answered cheerfully that I didn't expect to lose, at which they all laughed so heartily that I insisted on inspecting the dice, suspecting them to be loaded. They had not been tampered with, however, and after several games of raffle and two of hazard, I realized that, in the groom, I was up against a master thrower, whose spin on the dice could produce an almost endless run of sixes. When I had lost more than I could afford, I at last called a halt, a move heartily endorsed by the squire and the, by now, nearly penniless page. The groom just grinned good-naturedly and gathered up his winnings. The rest of us leaned back against the bales of straw and reckoned up our losses, commiserating with each other as we did so.

I nodded towards the horse and the saddle of tooled leather, hung on a nail at the back of the stall. There was also a richly embroidered saddle blanket and some of the harness fittings looked to be of gold.

‘A wealthy man, your master,' I commented.

The squire laughed and the other two gave knowing grins.

‘He is now,' the former agreed. ‘But ten years ago, it was a different story. Poor as a church mouse, was our Sir Damien. Kewstoke Hall was falling into disrepair; the roof was leaking, the rats were gnawing away at the foundations, and those of us who stayed with him did so because our fathers had worked for his all their lives and it was our home as much as his. Still, he's been a good master and not stinted those of us who remained since he became rich.' The other two nodded their approval of his words.

‘How did that happen?' I asked. ‘And where is Kewstoke Hall?'

‘Away to the north-west of here, near the coast. As to the upturn in his fortune, death and remarriage, my lad.' The squire thumped me on the back, reiterating, ‘Death and remarriage. His first wife died and he got wedded again, only this time he was careful to marry money and, of course, youth. The first time, when he was young and feckless, was for love. The second time was for security and comfort.'

‘Who was the lucky – and presumably rich – young lady?'

‘As a matter of fact, the daughter of a widow who lives in these parts. Ursula Bellknapp of Croxcombe Manor.'

‘Bellknapp? Of Croxcombe Manor?' I tried not to sound too interested. ‘Isn't that somewhere near Wells?'

‘Not many miles distant, yes. Sir Damien
was
thinking of paying a visit there before returning home, so he could give Lady Chauntermerle an account of her mother's health, but … but …'

‘He decided against it,' said the page with a giggle.

‘They don't get on?' I suggested.

‘We-ell, let's just say Dame Bellknapp can be – er – difficult,' the groom smirked, rattling the dice and looking hopefully at the rest of us.

We hastily declined another game and scrambled to our feet, stretching and yawning and generally intimating that it was time for bed.

He called us cowards and spoilsports, but grinned good-naturedly and wished us goodnight. He was bedding down in the stable with his master's precious horse.

The landlord had damped down the fire in the aleroom, but it was still giving out a comfortable heat. He appeared from his own chamber when he heard us come in, brought the three of us another beaker of ale apiece and waited until, wrapped in our cloaks, we were settled for the night. Hercules opened one bleary eye, gave me a look, then closed it again with a contented sigh.

The inn was stuffy in the August heat and one of the shutters had been opened to reveal the moon, like tarnished silver, rising over the shadowy trees. Somewhere an owl hooted, sharp and clear, against the more muffled drumbeat of advancing hooves …

I sat up abruptly, disturbing my companions.

‘Whassa matter …?' the squire demanded indistinctly.

‘Listen!' I hissed. ‘Someone on horseback, approaching the inn.'

The landlord had also heard it and came out of his chamber, followed by his goodwife, both of them clutching stout-looking staves. I reached for my cudgel just as a voice from outside shouted, ‘Ho there, landlord! Travellers! Open up, I say!' There was a loud thumping on the door.

The landlord raised his eyebrows at the rest of us: he couldn't afford to deny genuine trade. We grouped ourselves around him as he cautiously drew back the bolts.

He need not have worried. A perfectly respectable, well-dressed man of about my own age entered and courteously doffed his hat. Beyond the open door, in the moonlight, we could see an equally respectable-looking servant, holding his horse.

The stranger opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word, a shocked voice sounded behind us.

‘You! What in the name of God and all His saints are you doing here?'

I
swung round to see who had spoken and was confronted by a tall, thin man with a rather small head perched precariously on top of a long, narrow neck. A pair of slightly bulbous brown eyes were, at this moment, wide with alarm and indignation, and the note of accusation in the surprisingly deep voice was unmistakable. The thinning hair was ruffled, as though the speaker had just risen from bed, a fact confirmed by the loose red velvet robe thrown on anyhow over the crumpled nightshift.

‘
You!
' he repeated in horrified accents, as though unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes.

‘Sir Damien!' the landlord exclaimed apologetically, confirming the gentleman's identity, which I had already guessed. ‘I'm sorry that you should have been disturbed. A late night traveller, that's all.'

The knight took no notice, continuing to glare at the new arrival like a rabbit transfixed by the eyes of a snake.

The stranger, whom I judged to be a year or so younger than myself and at least half a head shorter, had taken off his cloak, draping it negligently over one arm, and even in the failing light, I could tell that it was obviously fashioned from good broadcloth and lined with sarcenet. The rest of his clothes, including a pair of fine leather boots and a plume of jaunty feathers in his cap, suggested someone of adequate, if not substantial, means, while his general air and way of speaking indicated a person of breeding.

He, too, had been shocked by this unexpected encounter – he had started violently at the sound of Sir Damien's voice – but he recovered his poise quicker than the older man.

‘My dear brother-in-law,' he drawled, ‘what a pleasant surprise. I hadn't counted on seeing any of the family until tomorrow at the earliest. My sister is well, I hope?'

Brother-in-law? Sister? This certainly wasn't Simon Bellknapp who, according to Alderman Foster's narrative, could only be fifteen or sixteen years of age. Therefore it had to be the renegade; the missing Anthony.

It was while I was brooding on the unlikelihood of such a coincidence that I realized the worst. God had His finger in the pie again, interfering in my life and manipulating me like one of those wooden puppets on strings that you see at fairs. Of course, as I've said so often before, I had a choice. I always had a choice. I could gather up Hercules and leave the alehouse now and not look back, for I've never felt that God would punish me if I did so: he would leave it up to my conscience. I had abandoned the religious life all those years ago and against my dead mother's wishes, and the Almighty had offered me the chance to serve Him in another capacity, by using my deductive powers to bring the guilty to book. But in this particular instance, He had added an even greater inducement: He had brought me face to face with a brother I hadn't even known I had. I was trapped. I acknowledged it. I was angry and resentful, but already committed. I was intrigued. I couldn't walk away if I tried.

I took a deep breath of acceptance and immediately felt better. The landlord's wife had meanwhile lighted a couple of tapers, and by their frail radiance I studied the stranger more closely. I saw a pleasant, roundish face under a thatch of curly dark hair (the young man had removed his hat) and a mouth with a full, if somewhat pouting underlip. It broke now into a broad grin and the stranger started to chuckle deep in his throat.

‘You look just the same, Damien, even after eight years. A little thinner and greyer, perhaps, but otherwise not very much altered. I trust Ursula is in equal good health?'

The knight ignored the question. ‘Where have you been all this time?' he demanded furiously, but was interrupted by the landlord asking, ‘Master Anthony, is it really you?'

The young man clapped him on the shoulder. ‘It's me, Master Litton. Back like a bad penny, as you can see. And your goodwife! As beautiful as ever!' And he planted a smacking kiss on the blushing Mistress Litton's cheek.