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.