‘I like the fine ladies,’ Luke put in thickly, without bothering to clear his mouth of bread and cheese. ‘There’s always lots of them at fairs, looking for silks and velvets and ribbons to spend their money on. And in between, they stop to watch the jugglers and mummers. A lady threw me a gold coin once. A very beautiful lady. About three years ago, it would be, come Bartholomewtide. I’ve never forgotten because someone said she was the Duchess of Gloucester, come down from the north with her lord, for a visit. They hadn’t long been wed, only a few months I reckon. Their son, little Prince Edward, hadn’t been born then, at any rate. Whether it was true or not, I don’t know for certain, but it’s sure someone said it was Duchess Anne, and she gave me gold.’ In return for their confidences, I told some of my adventures since I took to the road, but nothing of any consequence.
I kept the stories light and amusing. I was too tired, and the hour too advanced to give details of anything other. The landlord had emerged from the cellar and was hovering nearby, waiting on our going. We took the hint and paid what was due, then went out into the Foregate.
The threatened rain had come to nothing, the clouds moving away southwards, leaving the heavens clear and starry overhead. Moonlight showed us a path leading up from St Peter’s Quay, ribbed by the shadows of tree trunks. The wagon stood on a patch of rough ground not far from Granny Praule’s cottage, in the lee of a cluster of brambles. Martin Fletcher and his two companions climbed in beneath the canvas awning, and, without even bothering to remove their shoes, stretched themselves out on top of the muddle of bedding and costumes. I guessed they would soon be dead to the world, weariness and the ale we had consumed at Matt’s tavern assuring them of a night’s sleep, oblivious to all disturbances.
Granny Praule had left the cottage door unbolted, as she had promised, and, as I entered, I could hear her snoring.
Bridget was nowhere to be seen, having decorously draped a much darned and patched sheet over a string, hung between two walls of the cottage. Her straw mattress, however, was plumped up invitingly and spread with clean linen. I carefully shot home the bolts, stowed my pack and cudgel close to the door, stripped down to shirt and hose and tumbled thankfully into bed. I, too, would sleep soundly.
Chapter Sixteen
I did not stir the whole night through, and awoke just after dawn to the distant crowing of a cock. There was a dull ache behind my eyes, which opened reluctantly upon the pallid daylight, only to shut themselves again as fast as possible. My mouth tasted as if I had swallowed pigswill, and when I moved, the stubble on my face scraped against the linen covering of the mattress. I had drunk more deeply the previous evening than I had realized at the time, and guessed that Martin Fletcher and his two friends must be sharing my discomfort. They, however, could afford to sleep a little longer in their wagon. I, on the other hand, must rouse myself at once, for I could already hear rustling sounds from the other side of the makeshift curtain, sounds which told me that Bridget was up and stirring. Granny Praule, also, for, a moment later, there was a familiar, if subdued, cackle of laughter.
I got up, trying to ignore the pain in my head, and pulled on my boots and tunic. I cleaned my teeth with willow bark, and taking one of the bone combs from my pack, ran it quickly through my hair. Until Bridget heated some water, could not shave. Sometimes I wondered if it would not be less trouble to grow a beard. Needing to relieve myself, I unbolted the door and went outside, round to the back of the cottage.
It was raining a little, not the thick pall of dense drizzle which, yesterday afternoon, had blotted out the far horizon, but bright, white spears of springtime rain, which would soon give place to sunshine. Fragments of blue sky were already showing through the cloud, promising another fine, warm day.
I returned to the cottage after a few minutes, to find Bridget and her grandmother both up and dressed, the former lighting a fire on the central hearthstone. Beside her, a leather bucket stood ready to fetch water from the well, farther up the hill.
‘Let me do that,’ I said, grasping the bucket’s handle.
The words were hardly out of my mouth when there was a frantic knocking at the cottage door. A voice I recognized as that of Peter Coucheneed, shouted urgently, ‘Roger! Roger Chapman! Are you there, man?’
‘Come in!’ I called. ‘The door’s unbolted.’
‘My, my!’ Granny Praule exulted. ‘What a to-do! Whatever can be the matter?’
The door opened and Peter Coucheneed burst in, forgetting to stoop and cracking his high, domed forehead against the lintel. Such was his perturbation, however, that he scarcely seemed to notice. His face was ashen, what hair he possessed awry, his clothes crumpled from sleeping in them. There was a smear of blood on one of his cheeks and another dark patch on the breast of his tunic. His hands, too, were liberally stained. Granny Praule gave a horrified shriek and Bridget looked as though she were going to faint. I dropped the bucket and guided her to a stool. Then I turned back to Peter.
‘What in God’s name has happened? Where are you hurt? Who has attacked you?’
‘Not me! Not me!’ he gasped, once he had found his tongue. ‘Martin and Luke, both murdered as they slept.’ He lifted one bloodstained hand and made a sawing motion across his neck. ‘Their throats are cut.’
Granny screamed again, but she was made of sterner stuff than her granddaughter, who gave a little moan, slid off the stool and sank, unconscious, to the ground.
‘It’s them wicked outlaws!’ Granny Praule wailed, going to Bridget’s assistance. She knelt down, gathering the girl into her arms. ‘Wake up, child! Wake up! This is no time to be losing your senses. Someone has to run for the Sheriff. What a piece of good fortune he’s here in the town.’
‘I’ll go,’ I said, but Granny shook her head. She let Bridget’s inert form slip back, unceremoniously, on to the beaten-earth floor, and scrambled with surprising agility to her feet.
‘You go to the wagon with this poor lad,’ she instructed, unhooking a rusty black cloak from a nail beside the door and draping it round her shoulders. ‘Wait with him till I come.’ She saw the worried glance I cast at Bridget, and added impatiently, ‘Let the silly child be. We can’t be bothering with the megrims at a time like this. She’ll come to, if you pay her no attention.’ And with this callous utterance, she was out of the door and off up the hill before I could stop her.
Peter Coucheneed was shaking from head to foot, so I found a pitcher of Granny’s damson wine and poured us both a generous measure. It was a potent brew. A slight colour crept back into his cheeks, and the palsied movements of his hands steadied a little. By this time, Bridget was beginning to stir, and I was able, with his assistance, to see her comfortably laid down upon Granny’s bed before we left the cottage.
The wagon stood a hundred yards or so to the south, not far from St Peter’s Quay, in the lee of some bushes which hedged the Cherry Cross estate. It was still not full daylight and few people had as yet strayed very far from home. No word of this new disaster had reached them, so at present, the cart was of no interest. It stood silent, its shafts empty, the mule some way off, contentedly nibbling the grass. As we drew close, Peter Coucheneed stopped and gripped my arm.
‘You must prepare yourself …’ he began, but was unable to say more, his voice clogged with horror, his eyes bright with unshed tears.