It was daylight when I opened my eyes again, and a thin, watery sun was just managing to rim the shutters of the window under the eaves. Jack’s snoring had stopped and he was lying sprawled on his back, dribbling profusely from an open mouth, one booted leg and foot free of the blanket, most of which he had dragged off me during the night and now lay in a tangled heap at the foot of the mattress. It was no wonder, I reflected, that I was feeling cold. Annoyed, I scrambled to my feet and flung the shutters wide, letting the chill early morning air stream in on my bedfellow in the vindictive hope that it might rouse him. But he was still slumbering peacefully when, having hastily pulled on my clothes, I descended the stairs to the kitchen.
This seemed to be full of children and animals, three of the former — two boys and a girl — chasing one another round the table and screeching with laughter while their mother, ignoring their antics with practised ease, spooned hot oatmeal into a row of wooden bowls. One of the cats was sharing the baby’s cradle while the other was eating, together with the dog, from a plate of scraps and managing to grab more than the lion’s share. Eventually, however, order was restored from chaos. The children were persuaded to sit down on the floor and eat their oatmeal, the two cats were shooed out of doors and the dog was consoled with a large mutton bone. Of Thomas Baker there was no sign — he was, presumably, in the bakehouse or opening up his stall — so my hostess and I sat quietly at the table, eating our own oatmeal and drinking small beer. For the moment, peace reigned.
When, finally, I had eased my hunger and slaked my thirst, I said, ‘This Ralph Mynott whom you mentioned last night, Mistress, I think you said he lived near the East Gate, opposite the … er … the monks’ graveyard. Was that it?’
Cecily nodded. ‘Go to the bottom of the marketplace and turn left. You’ll see the graveyard on the other side of the road, in front of the abbey. Master Mynott lives in the third house from the gate, and the gate itself, in case the information is of any use to you, gives access to the monks’ mill ferry and the track to Bathwick.’
I thanked her but said that if Ralph Mynott turned out to be the man I was seeking, I should be returning home as soon as possible. I also begged her not to reveal my plans to her father and she smiled understandingly. I then offered her payment for my night’s lodging which, after a furtive glance around to make sure her husband had not silently entered the kitchen without her knowledge, she refused.
‘Any friend of Father’s can always be sure of a welcome from me.’
I felt I was accepting her hospitality under false pretences, but could hardly tell her so. Then, having shaved and collected my satchel and cudgel, I took my leave of her, burdened by guilt. I could only hope that, knowing Jack as well as she appeared to do, she was not altogether deceived.
The city was coming alive as I walked to the bottom of the marketplace, where some stalls were already open, while masters and apprentices were busy raising the shutters on others, and where various livestock were being driven into pens. But it was still a little too early to call on a respectable citizen who might be eating his breakfast, so I wandered around the streets for a bit. These were made from neatly laid, well compacted cobbles of limestone with a central band of iron slags to take the heavier traffic. The houses were mainly timber, but here and there a stone one, three or four storeys in height, indicated the home of a wealthier citizen, and there were a number of prettily laid out gardens to be seen amid the dwellings and almshouses, churches and workshops that cluttered the town. The abbey with its attendant buildings, including the bishop’s court and palace, occupied much of the ground below the East Gate, and water was piped into the city by a conduit that passed over the Avon Bridge and in through the South Gate, where there was also a public fountain. The chapel of Saint Laurence, halfway across the bridge, offered the weary traveller the chance of a moment’s peace and reflection before plunging into the noise and bustle of the crowded streets.
The sun was, by now, well above the horizon and the din of the traders’ cries was becoming deafening. I made my way back to the East Gate, which, like the other three, had a single, low tower atop it, counted back three houses from the archway and knocked.
It was one of the more imposing houses, three storeys high and made of stone with a gabled front. And the maid who answered my summons was not the usual flyaway Moll or Nell, but a neatly dressed, ruddy-faced young country girl, her hair tucked beneath a linen hood and a spotless linen apron covering her dress of brown burel.
‘Is Master Mynott at home?’ I asked. ‘Master Ralph Mynott.’
‘Which one?’ the girl replied, while dubiously eyeing me up and down. ‘Old master or young master?’
Did this mean Ralph Mynott had a son or an elderly father? On the whole, I rather thought the former.
‘The older master,’ I said. ‘He’d … he’d be about forty. Perhaps a little more or a little less.’
The girl’s suspicion increased. ‘And what would be your business with him?’
‘Who is it, Ruth?’ A more authoritative voice cut into the conversation. The maid was shouldered aside and a tall woman in a dark blue woollen gown trimmed with budge took her place; a thin-faced woman with a pair of piercing blue eyes, sharp nose and an uncompromising mouth. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’ she demanded.
I repeated my request, which was greeted with so haughty a stare that, to my chagrin, I found myself stumbling over my explanation that it was on the business of His Worship, the Mayor of Bristol.
‘A likely story,’ she snorted. ‘Off with you, or I shall have you handed over to the Watch.’
Fortunately, this annoyed me so much that I recovered my nerve, drew myself to my full height, had a flash of inspiration, and announced that unless I was allowed to see Master Mynott immediately, I should be forced to summon the Sheriff’s Officer who had accompanied me from Bristol and who was only a street or two away at the home of his daughter.
My luck was in: I had convinced the woman that I was someone of importance. Grudgingly, she stood aside and let me enter.
‘Tell the master he’s wanted,’ she told the girl, who promptly vanished into the back regions of the house.
The hall where we were standing spoke, if not of great wealth, then at least of a comfortable living. The beams and door posts were elaborately carved and painted in shades of blue and red with, here and there, a touch of golden yellow. A fire burned on the hearth, for the April morning was chilly, and the furnishings comprised two fine oaken chests, two armchairs, a corner cupboard containing the family silver and a bench on which were scattered some half-dozen red and green cushions. The walls, it was true, were bare of any coverings, but my impression was that Master Mynott did not suffer from a shortage of money.
The lady whom I presumed to be Mistress Mynott vouchsafed no further word, in spite of a half-hearted attempt on my part to engage her in conversation, staring down her nose at me with a disapproving gleam in her cold blue eyes. She turned with something like relief as the door at the back of the hall opened and a man in a long furred bed robe appeared.
‘Ah, here you are, my love,’ she said sharply, her tone belying the affectionate form of address. ‘This gentleman — ’ the word had a pejorative ring to it — ‘wishes to talk to you. He says — ’ again she threw scorn into her voice — ‘that he is on the business of His Worship, the Mayor of Bristol.’