[Roger the Chapman 03] - The Hanged Man (9 page)

'What will you do now'?' Lillis asked me.

I put my hand inside my leather pouch and produced the letter. 'Alderman Weaver has kindly provided me with the means of introduction to Edward Herepath. I shall visit him this afternoon and hope to find him at home. If not, I shall return tomorrow.'

Both women were obviously impressed by the fact that my boast to know the alderman had been no idle one. At the same time, I again sensed that uneasiness in Margaret Walker as though, much as she wished to discover the truth behind her father's disappearance, she nevertheless was frightened by what I might uncover. She made no demur, however, at my plans, beyond remarking that Nick Brimble was bringing his truckle bed for me sometime today, and might have been glad of a helping hand.

'Tell me where he lives, and I'll fetch it myself this evening,' I offered promptly.

She shook her head. 'Lillis can aid Nick after she returns from the dyer's with the new batch of wool. And hurry up with those pots, girl!' she scolded. 'I need the room to get on with my spinning.'

Lillis's face darkened angrily, and I could foresee one of those furious spats which enlivened the existence of mother and daughter, but which were so distressing to outsiders. Cravenly I made my escape, thankfully latching the door behind me as, warmly wrapped in my good frieze cloak, I stepped into the street.

In spite of my letter from Alderman Weaver, I knew better than to knock on Edward Herepath's front door, if there were any other entrance. Having ascertained which house was his, I walked the length of Small Street and turned into Bell Lane, where William Woodward had lived. I looked curiously at the two rows of dwellings, one on either side of the roadway, but had no time just then for more than a cursory glance, as I had found what I was seeking. A narrow alleyway, such as served the houses of neighbouring Broad Street, also ran along the back of those in Small Street. High walls enclosed each plot of ground, with stout oaken, iron-studded gates giving access to the gardens.

At the third one, I stopped and tried the latch. It wasn't bolted. I opened the gate and stepped into a garden similar to that of Alderman Weaver. An apple tree raised naked and twisted branches towards the overcast sky, and nothing showed above the hard, brown earth which still bore traces of the morning's frost. In summer, it would be full of flowers and sweet fragrance; now all was as black and dead as the time of year.

Immediately to my left, just inside the gate, was a small stone outbuilding, two of its four sides being the garden walls which separated Edward Herepath's property from the lane and that of his neighbour. The sloping roof was made of good lead tiles and the door, again of stout, iron-studded oak, was set in the short wall which faced me. I glanced towards the house, but the back windows were shuttered to keep out the cold and no one had, as yet, espied me. Cautiously, I tried the door of the outbuilding which, in spite of its keyhole, and greatly to my surprise, I found to be unlocked. Feeling like a thief, I stepped inside.

Within, it was dank and cheerless, the only source of light coming from the open doorway. A few garden tools were ranged along one wall, and there was a shelf holding candlestick, flint and tinder, together with a pestle and mortar. A stool stood in one come,:, and there were some withered plant stems on the beaten-earth floor. I emerged once more into the garden.

My knock on what I supposed was the kitchen door produced no immediate response, but a second, louder rap brought the sound of a woman's voice, soil but speaking with authority. 'It's all right., Mistress Hardacre, I will see who it is. There is no need to trouble yourself. The sauce will curdle if you don't keep stirring.'

The door opened and a young woman stood on the threshold. An almost perfect oval face, with the creamiest, smoothest skin and bluest eyes that I have ever seen, stared back at me, the fair brows lifted in inquiry. She wore a blue woollen dress with long loose sleeves, tied at the waist with an embroidered girdle. Her hair, the colour of ripe corn and coiled around the shapely head in two thick plaits, was just visible beneath a white gauze veil. I have seen many women in my life, both before and since, far more beautiful than Cicely Ford, but never one who exuded such goodness and inner beauty. There was a strength and serenity about her which made me long to lay my head on her breast and unburden all my troubles.

'I... I have a letter for M-Master Herepath,' I stuttered, before pulling myself together. 'From his friend, Alderman Weaver.' I took it out of my pouch and handed it to her. 'If you would be so gracious as to take it to him and ask him to read it...' My voice tailed away like that of any green and tongue-tied boy.

'Please come in.' She sounded as sweet as she looked, and I found myself blushing stupidly as I stepped inside the kitchen. A round, plump robin of a woman in a black dress and white hood was stirring the contents of a pan hanging from a hook over the fire. She glanced up, smiling vaguely in my direction, but her task absorbed all her attention and she quickly returned to it with anxious eyes.

If she were the housekeeper, as I supposed she must be, she seemed the very opposite of the dragon who ruled the alderman's household. But I was no more interested in her than she was in me: I was conscious only of an overriding impatience to see and speak to Cicely Ford again.

I realized suddenly that she had not told me her name, but who else could she be? She exactly fitted Margaret Walker's description of her, and such a woman would naturally excite Lillis's derision. One was as fair as the other was dark, as open and sweet-natured as the other was sly and secretive. It was ridiculous! I had known Cicely Ford for only a few moments, exchanged less than three dozen words with her, but I was falling in love.

She returned presently, a slight frown creasing her brow. She regarded me warily, hostility being foreign to her nature, but it was plain that I was not as welcome as I had been.

'Master Herepath will see you,' she said. 'Please follow me.'

She led me out of the kitchen, past the buttery and across the hall to the parlour. The hall was a fine room, hung with tapestries of hunting scenes in rich reds and greens and blues. A fire burned on the big, open hearth beneath the intricately carved stone mantel, which was also picked out in shades of red and blue; and at either end of the long trestle table which occupied the middle of the floor stood two handsomely carved armchairs. The parlour was smaller and snugger, and a second file burned on a hearth which shared the wide chimney of the hall.

A third armchair was pulled close to the warmth, a broad window-seat was strewn with green velvet cushions, a five-branched candlestick of latten tin stood atop a spruce coffer with delicate scrollwork round the lid and, luxury of luxuries, rugs, not rushes, were scattered over the floor.

Edward Herepath was obviously a very wealthy man.

As we entered, he rose to his feet, but I was not foolish enough to imagine that either the courtesy or the smile of welcome were for me. He held out his hand and drew his ward to him. 'Why don't you find Dame Freda?' he asked gently. 'She was complaining only this morning that your embroidery is still unfinished.'

Cicely Ford shook her head decisively. She was a young woman who knew her own mind and quietly, but determinedly, got her own way. 'If this conversation is to be about Robert, then I wish to stay.'

'It will only upset you, sweetheart. Go, to please me.' The sweet mouth set in stubborn lines and she once again shook her head. Tears brimmed in the cornflower blue eyes. 'And why should I not be upset?' her voice was bitter. 'What have I done that I should be spared Ins memory more than you? Did I remain loyal when he needed me most? Did I believe him any more than the jury when he swore he was innocent of murder'? Did I heed his plea to me from prison to go to see him one last time? No!' The cry was that of a mortally wounded animal and pierced me to the heart. She buried her face in her hands, sobbing in great distress.

I realized, as I had often done in the past, that uncovering the truth is a painful process and sometimes can do more harm than good. I was half inclined to turn tail there and then, to return to Mistress Walker and tell her that to pursue the quest would bring unnecessary suffering to one of the sweetest girls I had ever met. My mouth was even open to take my leave, but somehow the words would not come. Some instinct held me silent, and it was not just an unwillingness to face Lillis's mocking smile, nor simply my overwhelming curiosity in these matters.

I was seized once more, as had happened to me twice before, by the conviction that evil was at work and had to be destroyed, or God would never let me rest.

Accepting defeat, Edward Herepath turned his attention to me. Cicely Ford retired to the window-seat, averting her face until she had her features once more under control.

Her guardian resumed his seat by the fire and looked up, unsmiling. 'Well, Master Chapman, you see what a hornet's nest you are stirring up about our ears. But I owe it to my good friend Alderman Weaver at least to hear what you have to say.'

Chapter Eight

Edward Herepath was a handsome man, tall, broad shouldered, with a heavily jowled face and a square chin made even more so by a short, square-cut beard. Both beard and hair, the latter modishly cropped just below the ears, were dark brown, shot through with glints of red, and the eyes were that indeterminate shade of blue which in certain lights can easily be mistaken for grey. His tunic of russet-coloured wool was not so short as might have been worn by a younger man - the male fashion in those days was for an almost vulgar emphasis on loins and buttocks - but neither was it so long as to risk being dubbed outdated. His shoes, of fine green leather, were fashionably piked, but again reasonably so, the pointed toes still allowing ease of movement. Altogether, I decided, a man who took pride in his appearance, but also one conscious of his dignity and not prepared to sacrifice it by succumbing to the extreme follies of youth.

'Well?' he prompted, after a moment of tongue-tied silence on my part. 'You wish to talk to me about my brother. You are lodging, so Alderman Weaver informs me, with Mistress Walker and her daughter, Lillis.'

'Yes. I was taken ill some weeks ago, on my arrival in Bristol, and these women were good enough to take me in and nurse me back to health. In due time they told me their story. It distresses them that people look at them askance, as though they were privy to whatever happened to Master Woodward. I have therefore promised that, insofar as it is possible, I will try to discover the truth.'
 

Edward Herepath raised strongly marked eyebrows. 'And you desire my blessing?' His voice grew harsh. 'What is done is done, and nothing you or anyone can find out now will give my brother back his life. It is a tragedy which Mistress Ford and I must learn to live with, but at least time may reconcile us in some small degree to the dreadful consequences. If, however, you rake over the dead ashes of our grief, then you risk inflaming them anew:'

Before I could make reply, Cicely Ford slid off the window-seat and came forward to stand behind her guardian's chair, one delicate, blue-veined hand pressing his shoulder.

'Edward,' she said quietly, 'I understand how you feel. Indeed, who better? But the truth can harm no one. Perhaps we ourselves would benefit from knowing exactly what happened. And we cannot let the innocent suffer unjustly. If, as Master Chapman says, Mistress Walker and her daughter are being held responsible for Master Woodward's actions by some members of the weavers' brotherhood, then that is unfair, for I would stake my life that they knew no more than he did, poor man. I only wish you had felt able to visit him with me, for you would have seen for yourself that he had been so greatly abused that he retained no knowledge of what had befallen him. And the women were equally bewildered.'
 

Edward Herepath raised one of his hands and covered hers, but did not speak for several moments. It was plain to me that he was in a dilemma. His natural instinct was to let sleeping dogs lie, or, as he himself had put it, not to rake over old ashes. At the same time he wanted to please Cicely. If she had the courage to face renewed suffering in order to alleviate that of other people, then he had no wish to appear a coward in her eyes. To refuse my request would make him seem callous, indifferent to Margaret Walker's situation.

He twisted round and looked at her. 'Sweetheart, are you sure of this? Is it what you really want? Consider! Just by coming here this afternoon, Master Chapman has already caused us both great pain, and will probably grieve us more before he has finished. And for what? There is no certainty that he will be able to discover anything. Indeed, I consider it highly unlikely. I made what inquiries I could at the time, as did Alderman Weaver on behalf of Mistress Walker and her daughter. But to no avail.' He gently squeezed Cicely's hand. 'Will you not be guided by me, and let the matter rest?' Cicely stooped, kissing him lightly on the forehead, and as she did so, I noticed how convulsively his other hand gripped his chair arm. It came to me that Edward Herepath, too, had fallen under the spell of this lovely girl; that he felt more for her than just the protective affection of a guardian. My heart went out to him, for it was not simply that he was so much older than she, nor that the love she felt for him was so obviously filial, but that even if he were able, eventually, to overcome both these obstacles, he could never hope to rival a dead man. And not just a dead man, but one who commanded Cicely's eternal devotion and penance. For whatever Robert Herepath's shortcomings in life, however much misery he had caused, the nature and circumstances of his death ensured him the status of a martyr in her eyes. Her fragile shoulders were bowed down by a weight of guilt almost too great for her to bear. And against all that, how could Edward Herepath possibly compete?