My journey, in the end, took five days, for I carried my pack into isolated hamlets and villages where the inhabitants were delighted to receive any traveller at that season of the year, and particularly one who was able to replenish the women's store of needles and thread, offer the men a new hunting-knife, and the young girls ribbons for their hair. I could have sold three or four times as much as I had in my pack, but my stock had been low when I set out, and I often cursed myself that I had not replenished it at Bristol dockside before leaving. But I suppose it would have delayed me even more and, as it was, on reaching Gloucester, my purse was as full as it would hold.
It was almost dusk on Thursday as I passed beneath the porch of the West Gate into the still busy street, where the bustle of the day's market was just beginning to wane. I stopped at a haberdasher's, where I bought a fresh pair of hose — the ones I was wearing being soaked through — and a jaunty russet hat which cost me sixpence; then at a pie-stall for my supper. The refilling of my pack, I decided, could wait for the moment, and I went in search of St Oswald's Priory, which I discovered in the shadow of the great cathedral church of St Peter. Here I slept on the floor of the guest hall, with several other travellers who were seeking a night's asylum from the elements, and awoke in the morning to a breakfast of dried fish and oatmeal, a reminder that Friday had come round again. As I doused my head under the pump and tried to hack the beard from my chin with a blunt razor, I thought of Lillis, of warm water and a knife-blade always carefully sharpened. I was missing her; I was missing my bodily comforts. To my amazement, freedom was beginning to pall a little. I was actually looking forward to going… yes, to going home.
Chapter Seventeen
Overnight, the rain had stopped and the sky cleared. It was one of those days when everything has an edge to it; the distant trees and roof-tops seemed carved from thunderclouds. Later on, it would rain again. I recognized the signs but, for the moment, sunlight glittered on a thin scattering of snow across the cobbles. The air was cold against my face and the windows of the houses I passed rattled in response to a rising breeze.
Following my instinct, I made my way straight to the inn close to St Peter's Abbey, built over a hundred years earlier to accommodate pilgrims visiting the murdered Edward II's tomb, but still known locally as the New Inn.
And I was right to do so, for in the few minutes' conversation, obligingly spared me by the harassed landlord, I garnered much necessary information. Sweating profusely in his leather apron, his bald head shining in the early morning light, he was summoned by a pot-boy from the kitchens, where he was overseeing the cooking of breakfast for his numerous guests. In such circumstances, he might have been forgiven for a show of ill-temper, but he was one of those rare souls who have courtesy and patience for all their fellow men, be they of high or low degree.
'Last March,' he murmured, scratching his ear with a greasy forefinger. 'By the Virgin, that's a fair time ago, Master. The Day of the Annunciation… Now, wait a minute! I do remember something. A biggish man, you say, this Master Herepath. A gentleman, well-dressed and riding a roan mare… Yes, I have him. He arrived late in the evening, after the goodwife and I returned from Compline. We had been unable to go to church earlier, but would always wish, you understand, to pay devotion to Our Lady. He was heavily mired about the legs and feet, having come, he told us, from Bristol, riding throughout the day, and took our best bedchamber, together with a private parlour. Yes, yes! Of course I remember, now you jog my memory.'
'How long did he stay?'
The landlord considered my question, his head thoughtfully tilted to one side, and ignoring vociferous demands for his presence from the ale-room. He was quite content for the present to stand in the yard and give me all his attention.
'He stayed… Yes, he remained two nights, the Thursday and the Friday. And it comes back to me that on the Friday morning he had a visitor, a man I know by sight who lives on the edge of town, close by the Grey Friars.
They went off together somewhere, and then what happened? Let me see… Yes, I have it! Master Herepath returned leading a horse, a big, handsome black gelding with white stockings. He asked for extra stabling for the night, and the next day set out again for Bristol, riding the black and with the roan on a leading rein, tethered to his bridle.' The landlord broke off to call to a hurrying pot-boy: 'Tell the gentlemen I'm coming. I shan't be much longer.'
'And Master Herepath remained at the inn for the rest of the day?' I pressed, sensing that! was beginning to lose his interest.
'He certainly slept here,' the landlord conceded, 'but he was away and busy about his own pursuits for the hours of daylight. Indeed!' The ear was vigorously rubbed once more as animation returned. 'Now I think carefully, he arrived back at the inn some time after dark… and came in, I recall, with the ringing of the curfew bell!' The landlord was pardonably triumphant at these prodigies of recollection. 'He said he was the last man in at the West Gate before it was closed for the night. He had missed his supper, but my wife who, I have to admit, is susceptible to a handsome face, gave him soup and bread and cheese and ale in his room. And now, Master, you must excuse me. My guests are shouting for me, as you can hear. I trust I've been of some assistance to you.'
'You've been more than helpful, and I thank you. Just one more thing before you go. What was the name of the man from whom Master Herepath bought the gelding?' The landlord paused in the open doorway of the aleroom, his honest brow furrowed. As the clamour from within grew too loud to be ignored any longer, he flung over his shoulder, 'Master Richard Shottery, if I remember rightly.'
This tallied with what Edward Herepath himself had told me, and I therefore set out with confidence for the Franciscan friary and the network of streets and alleyways surrounding it. A very few inquiries directed me to the home of Richard Shottery, a hatchet-faced sharp-nosed man who was as reluctant to talk to me as the inn-keeper had been willing. Fortunately, I had left my pack behind at the priory, and so was able to disguise my true calling, for he would never have stooped to speak to so humble a person as a chapman. As it was, I was kept standing in his presence.
'You say you are a servant of Edward Herepath? Don't tell me there's anything wrong with the black I sold him, for I shan't believe you. As fine a piece of horseflesh as you're likely to find anywhere in the kingdom.'
'No, no,' I assured him hurriedly, 'my master is more than satisfied with the animal, but he is a man who likes to keep precise details of all his transactions. He is unsure of the day on which he bought the gelding from you, and as I was passing through Gloucester on his business, he commissioned me to approach you in this matter.' And God forgive me, I thought, for the lies I am telling. I prepared myself to do penance after my next confession.
Master Shottery snorted indignantly. 'And he sends you to trouble me on this paltry matter? It was last March. The day after Lady Day.'
'In the morning?'
'God's Nails, what does it matter? Morning, afternoon, evening… Yes, yes, in the morning, for he was very laggard in making up his mind and I was afraid I would have to ask him to stay to dinner. Not that I should have minded, you understand, but my wife was recovering from a sickness.' Richard Shottery glowered at me from beneath his thick eyebrows, plainly annoyed at finding himself on the defensive. 'Now, unless you have any other questions to ask me, I have business to attend to.' I bowed obsequiously, as became a good servant, and took my leave, well-satisfied with this corroboration of the landlord's story. I returned to St Oswald's Priory where I collected my pack and then went in search of one of the brothers who might be at leisure. My first thought was for the infirmary, and here, indeed, I found several elderly monks recovering from winter ailments, either in bed or huddled together for warmth around the fire burning on the hearth. They willingly made room for a stranger in their midst, eager to exchange their small store of gossip for my larger one of the outside world. After a while, I was able to bring the talk round to the increasing spread of heresy among the poor, particularly that disseminated by the followers of Wycliffe, at which there was an instant hiss of indrawn breath and much shaking of venerable heads. Gloucester, it seemed, was nearly as big a hotbed of Lollardism as Bristol, and the pernicious evil was spreading westwards into Wales. Only last year, one of the brothers told me, his few remaining teeth clicking together in horror, three Lollards had been apprehended on the other side of the Severn, preaching their heretical message throughout the villages and hamlets of the forest, as they made their way through the marches which separate England and Wales.