‘My dear sir, come in! Come in! You need a bed for the night and food. Janet’ — he turned to his wife — ‘rekindle the fire in the kitchen. There’s broth in the pot. I’ll tell your man to stable your horse, Master Anthony. Our only spare bedchamber, I’m afraid, is occupied by Sir Damien.’ He glanced hopefully at the knight. ‘If your worship would care to share your bed …?’
‘No I would not,’ snapped the older man angrily. ‘What I want is an explanation of where that man’s been all these years and what’s brought him home at last.’
Sir Damien’s squire and page had, by this time, tactfully withdrawn to a corner of the room, where they presumably hoped to remain unnoticed, as fascinated by the turn events had taken as I was. I remained in full view of everyone, my own man and answerable to no one. Not that I think Sir Damien was even aware of my presence, so incensed was he by this sudden and unlooked-for return of the prodigal.
The prodigal himself, having once recovered from the shock of meeting his brother-in-law so unexpectedly, seemed to be enjoying the situation. He drew up a stool to the damped-down fire and straddled it.
‘What’s brought me home, my dear Damien? Why, the news of my father’s death, of course, I understand that this — er — unhappy event occurred two years ago, but I was only told of it a month since, and that by pure chance. I’ve been living in the eastern counties for some considerable time now, and during a recent visit to Cambridge, fell into conversation with a man who also happens to be a native of these parts, although he’s not lived here since his boyhood. He corresponds with his sister, however, and knew that my father had died the year before last. He was even able to tell me the terms of the will.’ (The sister was plainly the sort of informant every brother would wish to have.) ‘Naturally, I settled my affairs in the east and started out for home the very next day. And so here I am, come to claim my inheritance. I can only hope that my mother and brother will be better pleased to see me than you are.’ But even as he voiced this pious wish, Anthony Bellknapp glanced at me and pulled a comical grimace.
‘Then you’re more of a fool than I took you for,’ Sir Damien snapped, ‘and all I can say is that I’m glad I shan’t be present to witness the meeting between you and young Simon. He’ll be in a state to cut your throat, so I’d watch out if I were you.’
Anthony laughed openly. ‘What you mean, dear brother-in-law, is that you’d like to see him try. No, no! You’d like to see him succeed. Then I’d be dead, he’d be hanged and Ursula would become my father’s sole heir.’
‘Nothing of the sort,’ the knight answered austerely. ‘Ursula’s dowry was more than adequate.’
The younger man straightened his back and stretched. ‘Oh, I know that. But enough is never quite enough, my dear Damien, now is it?’
‘I’m returning to bed,’ the knight replied. ‘I trust you’ll have the good manners to be gone before I get up in the morning.’ And he mounted the short flight of stairs to the spare bedchamber over the aleroom with a stateliness and outraged dignity it was a joy to behold. At least, I thought so, and, judging by the grin on his face, so did Master Bellknapp.
‘What a piece of work he is!’ he exclaimed. ‘He hasn’t changed at all in eight years.’
The landlord followed his wife out to the kitchen, and while they were absent, we were joined by Anthony Bellknapp’s servant, who announced that he had watered and fed their two horses and seen them settled for the night. He was a tow-headed lad, whose eastern counties speech fell oddly on my ears, and who smelled powerfully of sweat and bad breath. Nobody else seemed to notice, however, and Sir Damien’s squire and page came creeping back to the fire where they were soon in conversation with the young man, whose name, we learned, was Humphrey Attleborough. Anthony Bellknapp leaned forward on his stool, hands dangling between his knees, apparently listening to their idle chatter, but in reality, as I could see by his glazed expression, miles away in his thoughts.
I wondered what he was thinking about, although it took little imagination to guess. He had to be speculating on the nature of his reception at Croxcombe Manor when he arrived there the following day. If he had been entertaining a wild hope that he might be welcomed by mother and brother after his long absence, Sir Damien’s attitude must have warned him to expect the worst. And there was yet more grief to come when he discovered that his beloved Jenny Applegarth was dead, brutally murdered. Master Litton’s quickness of mind had prevented him learning the truth tonight, but it had only postponed the evil day.
The landlord reappeared, as though summoned by my thoughts, carrying two bowls of broth and the heel of a loaf which he handed to the new arrivals. Then he bade us goodnight and withdrew. I once again wrapped myself in my cloak and lay down beside Hercules, suddenly realizing how very tired I was after the exertions of the day, and hoped that the other four would soon follow suit. But I need not have worried. I had been up before dawn and covered, by my reckoning, a good eight miles before being rattled and jolted another eight in the turf carrier’s cart over rutted tracks baked hard in the summer heat. The voices of squire and page, master and manservant gradually faded until they were nothing but the echo of my dreams. Hercules snorted and wheezed; then he, too, became part of the distant chorus as I fell deeply and soundlessly asleep.
It might have been the sun streaming in through the open alehouse door that woke me; but I rather fancy it was Master Litton, who ‘accidentally’ tripped over my long legs as I sprawled beside the cold ashes of yesterday’s fire. I sat up with a snort to find that, apart from Hercules and the landlord, I was alone, my companions of the previous evening having all disappeared.
‘Where is everyone?’ I asked, still drugged with sleep.
‘You were tired, my lad,’ the landlord marvelled. ‘There have been comings and goings through here since daybreak, what with five breakfasts to see to, Sir Damien’s saddlebags to be packed and hauled downstairs and no one bothering to lower his voice. But you slept through it all like one dead. And that ill-favoured hound of yours.’ The intelligent animal lifted his lip and farted loudly just to show his contempt. Master Litton roared with laughter and continued, ‘Yes, they’ve all gone on their way, if not exactly rejoicing, then at least anxious to reach journey’s end before nightfall. You’re the only one left.’
I scrambled to my feet, noting that the sun was already halfway up the sky and climbing steadily, then staggered outside and held my head under the stable pump until I felt fit enough to face the new day. I combed my hair with one of the combs from my pack, cleaned my teeth with the piece of willow bark I always carried and went back indoors to a meal of oatcakes and (it being Friday) poached fish, which Master Litton assured me was no more than forty-eight hours old, having been purchased fresh from the Abbot of Glastonbury’s fishpond the day before yesterday.
‘How do I get to Croxcombe Manor from here?’ I asked as he placed a beaker of small beer before me and gave Hercules another bone to gnaw on.
‘Croxcombe Manor, eh? Well there! If you’d woken betimes, you could have accompanied Master Anthony. But on second thoughts, I’d give the manor a wide berth today, if I were you. Things are going to be pretty lively there, I reckon, when the prodigal turns up. I don’t suppose anyone but George Applegarth will be pleased to see him.’
I swallowed a mouthful of oatcake and asked, ‘Why not?’
The landlord cast a quick glance over his shoulder to make certain that Mistress Litton was nowhere about, then sat down opposite me at the table.
‘The Bellknapps aren’t near neighbours of ours, you understand. On foot it’ll take you the best part of the day to get there, especially as you’re already late setting out. On horseback, now, and with an early start, I daresay Master Anthony will arrive by midday. So, as I say, we’re not near neighbours, but not so far distant that one doesn’t hear things. And the Bellknapp family has been good for gossip in and around Wells these many years, what with Cornelius’s feud with the elder boy, Anthony’s disappearance and then, of course, the robbery and murder of Jenny Applegarth. And now’ — the landlord chuckled — ‘just as matters seem to have settled down, here’s the renegade marching back to claim his inheritance and put young Simon’s nose well and truly out of joint.’ He sighed. ‘I’d give my last groat to witness that encounter.’