He hissed, ‘Don’t be such a bloody fool! You can achieve nothing by this.’ I had by now managed to scramble on to the dais myself, and was close enough to catch his following words uttered in almost a whisper. ‘Leave it to your mother and me.’
I doubted if anyone else had heard them. They were all making too much noise. Anthony was cursing and swearing and trying to get at his brother but being hampered by both Edward Micheldever and the chaplain, whose high, fluting voice was begging, ‘D-d-don’t, Ma-Master Anthony. D-don’t!’
Anthony’s fury bubbled over. ‘D-don’t?’ he mimicked. ‘D-don’t? You bleating old bellwether, let me go! At once, d’you hear me? That murderous little pimp just tried to kill me! I’m going to wring his neck before the hangman does it for him.’
The chaplain coloured painfully, but, to his credit, he refused to release his grip on Anthony’s wrists, while the receiver tightened his hold on the upper arms. At this point, the steward and chamberlain returning to the hall, George Applegarth immediately took charge.
He nodded at Simon. ‘Go to your bedchamber, Master, and stay there. Your lady mother has had enough for one day, without you brawling with your brother all night. And the same goes for you, Master Anthony, and all the rest of you.’ He turned to a stout woman with an imposing bunch of keys dangling from her belt, and who must, therefore, be the housekeeper. ‘Mistress Wychbold and I will lock up and see all safe. Now, go!’
Anthony, his good humour seemingly restored, burst out laughing and clapped the steward on the shoulder.
‘George! You’re wasted as a mere household officer. You ought to be the one making sheep’s eyes at my mother, angling to be her husband. You’d be of far more use and support to her than that great lummox over there.’ And he waved a derogatory hand at Reginald Kilsby, who was standing with his arm about Simon’s shoulders. ‘Oh, you needn’t think I haven’t noticed, Master Bailiff,’ he mocked. ‘I’m neither a fool nor blind. I was watching you during supper and after. Well, let me tell you this!’ There was an ugly gleam now in Anthony’s eyes. ‘While I’m master at Croxcombe, I won’t be having you for a stepfather, you can make up your mind to that.’
I saw the bailiff’s free hand clench at his side, but he said nothing, merely urging Simon towards the door, muttering something in his ear. Anthony turned to me.
‘Master Chapman, if you’re ready, our bed awaits. With your permission, I’ll lead the way.’
With a sigh of relief, after a long day packed with incident, we both shed our clothes, pissed into the chamber-pot and rolled between clean sheets into the comfort of a goose-feather mattress. Anthony’s servant, Humphrey, picked up our discarded garments, placing them tidily on the lid of a chest, pulled the bed-curtains and retired to a truckle-bed in one corner of the room. Silence and darkness enveloped us.
Until that moment, I would have sworn that I was too tired to utter a word, or even to prop my eyelids open. But, perversely, I was suddenly wide awake. I turned my head on the pillow and looked at the muffled form beside me. Anthony was lying on his back, and I could see the white of the eye nearest to me. He, too, was awake and staring at the bed canopy overhead.
‘Why are you doing it?’ I asked. ‘Why are you set on antagonizing everyone?’ When he didn’t answer, I went on, ‘All right! I know it’s not my business, but I’m the curious type. I should have thought you’d need all the goodwill you can muster.’
Again, it seemed as if he wasn’t going to reply, and I was preparing to wriggle on to my side — my right, so as not to aggravate my injured left ankle — when my bedfellow gave a deep-throated chuckle.
‘Now, why should you think that? Surely the boot is on the other foot. Everyone at Croxcombe needs my goodwill. I’m the master here. They all have to dance to my tune, including my mother and brother. Besides, apart from George Applegarth, I don’t have a liking for any of them.’
‘Does that include Dame Audrea and Master Simon?’ I asked.
‘Most certainly.’ He also turned his head so as to look at me. ‘You’ve seen us together, and I’m sure a “curious type” like you will have pieced together something of my family history by this time. There’s no love lost between us. Indeed, my mother never had any love for me. She disliked me from birth: I don’t know why. But I owe her nothing.’
It being more or less what Alderman Foster had told me, there was really no answer that I could make.
‘It just seems a shame,’ I protested feebly, ‘that now you have at last returned home after all these years, there should be so much discord.’ He moved restlessly, so I changed the subject. ‘You’ve been in the eastern counties, I think you said. I’ve never seen those parts. What’s it like?’
‘Flat,’ was the brusque reply; then, relenting, my companion added, ‘It’s fen country mostly. I missed the hills and valleys of the west. In all the time I lived there, I only ever met the one west countryman.’
‘The one who told you your father had died? I seem to remember you said he has a sister who lives in Bristol.’
‘That’s right, he has. In fact, he, too, is a native of the city, for all he calls himself William of Worcester. His real name, he told me, is Botoner.’ The name was one I had heard mentioned recently, but I couldn’t immediately place it. Anthony continued, ‘As a matter of fact, when I encountered him, he was on his way to Bristol. First time he’d been back in years, but his brother-in-law died recently and there are family affairs that need his attention. And there was a tale about his brother-in-law’s brother. He’s missing at sea, I gathered. Looking for some island or other.’
Of course! Margaret Walker had mentioned that John Jay, the one who was dead, had married a woman called Botoner. I gave Anthony a brief history of the Jays. Extremely brief: I knew next to nothing about them.
‘What was this William Botoner, or William Worcester, doing so far from home?’ I enquired.
‘Oh, he’s lived in the eastern counties the greater part of his life. In fact, he regards them as his home, far more than Bristol. He’s quite an elderly man. Sixty. Sixty-five. He was secretary for years to a Sir John Fastolfe, who was quite an important man, it seems. Fought at Agincourt — Sir John I’m talking about — was made Lieutenant of Normandy, later Governor of Maine and Anjou. But then he was accused of cowardice when he retreated before the forces of the Great Whore, Joan, at Patay, so he returned home and concentrated on his English estates. I think that was when my informant went to work for him. Sir John was a very rich man by that time. Made a lot of money in the war. Mind, Master Worcester reckoned he’d always been pretty well breeched. Property in London, including the Boar’s Head tavern and other premises. And he built himself a castle somewhere in Norfolk. Not the sort of thing you and I would have the money for, friend.’
I laughed and agreed. ‘Does this William Worcester still work for him?’
‘Lord, no! I think Master Worcester said Sir John died more than twenty years ago. But then there was a lot of trouble connected with his will. Litigation with a family called Paston, in which he — Master Worcester, that is — was heavily involved for quite a long time. Don’t ask me what it was all about. He did try to explain, but I lost interest, I’m afraid. As you may imagine, I was far more concerned with what he’d told me about my father’s death and will, which, of course, was old history to him — over two years old — but was fresh news to me. I knew I had to get home as soon as possible and claim my inheritance. He suggested we rode as far as Bristol together, but I couldn’t wait. I didn’t want to be hampered by a fellow traveller. Particularly by one who’d let drop that his pet hobby was making notes and measuring the dimensions of every town and village that he passed through.’