The smell of the stew was even more delicious, as though some delicate herb or spice had been added since my departure. I sniffed appreciatively as Thomas met me just inside the doorway.
‘Sorrel,’ he said, laughing. ‘I always add a little to my soups and stews. How did your day go? Did you make any money?’
I grinned and jangled the coins in my pouch. ‘Enough to buy me the best supper you have, breakfast in the morning and pay for my night’s lodging, as well. Tomorrow, I hope to do even better.’
He threw up a hand in protest. ‘I’ve told you, any friend of Marjorie Dyer’s sleeps here free.’ He jerked his head towards the door at the far end of the passage. ‘The well’s in the yard, near the stable.’
I thanked him, left my pack and stick inside the ale-room and made my way outside. I drew up a bucket of ice- cold water, bathed my face and hands, shook off the surplus drops and let my skin dry in the chill evening air. The red roan shifted restlessly in its stall, kicking with its back hooves against the flimsy door. I guessed that it belonged to Gilbert Parsons, the hapless litigant mentioned by Thomas and Abel.
By the time I returned indoors, Gilbert had put in an appearance; a painfully thin man with the melancholy expression of a bloodhound. He was seated in the ale- room, eating his supper, which, as well as the stew, consisted of bread and cheese, a dish of rampion — the root boiled and served in a thick white sauce — a dish of orache, also boiled, and to follow, a sillabub decorated with sugared almonds. Just the sight and smell of it all made my mouth water, and I hoped fervently that we would be eating as well in the kitchen. We did, washing everything down with a fine Bordeaux wine, the like of which I had never tasted before and rarely have since. Thomas Prynne had not exaggerated when he said that he and his partner bought only the best to put in their cellar. Even my untutored palate could appreciate its velvety texture and contrast it with the rough red wine we novices had occasionally been given to drink at the abbey. I’m afraid I made a pig of myself that mealtime, gorging until I could eat and drink no more.
‘I’m glad he’s able to pay for his food,’ Abel remarked to Thomas, ‘or we might have found ourselves sadly out of pocket.’
Thomas nodded in agreement. ‘You’re a good trencherman,’ he said, addressing me. ‘Mind you, you’ve a big frame to keep going. It’s natural you should be a hearty eater.’
I smiled at him. Or at least I tried to smile, but my lips refused to obey me. The heat of the kitchen, the enormous meal, but above all, the wine to which I was unaccustomed, had all combined to make me stupid and sleepy. I gave a prodigious yawn and stretched my arms until the bones cracked. I should have liked to go to bed, but it was not yet dark and curfew had still not sounded.
‘Come and sit by the fire,’ Thomas Prynne suggested, indicating what I presumed to be his own chair, as it had arms. ‘You can sleep off the effects of your supper while we prepare for Master Farmer from Northampton. He must be here soon if he wants to avoid putting up for the night outside the city. The gates will shut within the hour. Abel, be a good fellow and look outside to see if he’s coming.’
I watched Abel leave the kitchen through a sleep-drugged haze, sinking into the chair and stretching my legs out before me. My eyelids were already closing. In half an hour or so, I promised myself, I would go into the yard to get some air. But for the present, replete, I was content to let food and wine and the heat of the fire do their work. I drifted over the borderline of sleep.
Chapter 13
Suddenly I was wide awake Jerked into awareness by the sound of my own snoring. For a moment or two I was completely lost, unable to make out where I was or remember the earlier events of the evening. Then memory came crowding back, and I realized that I was no longer seated in the chair before the kitchen fire, but stretched full length on a bed, where, presumably, Thomas and Abel had carried me. I must have slept deeply and dreamlessly for several hours, the landlord and his partner finding it impossible to rouse me when it was finally time to retire for the night, so they had been forced to hump me upstairs between them. I sat up cautiously and peered around, my eyes slowly growing accustomed to the dark.
I felt dreadful. My head thumped and pounded as though my brain were trying to burst through my skull. The inside of my mouth was dry as tinder and tasted appalling. My limbs were as limp and as useless as those of a sawdust-stuffed doll, while my head swam every time I tried to focus my eyes. Hurriedly I closed them again and slumped back on the bed.
I swallowed the bile which rose in my throat and waited patiently for the nausea to subside. I had at least learned a valuable lesson: I had no head for wine. After what seemed like an hour but was probably no more than a quarter, I began to feel a little better; enough, at any rate, to sit up again and ease my feet to the floor. Moonlight rimmed the shutters, inlaying them with a faint mother-of-pearl radiance, and I made myself stand up, tottering slightly, then go across and set them wide. The storm clouds of early evening had vanished, torn to rags by a rising wind. They slid by, unveiling the stars, and somewhere close at hand the breeze took hold of a loose shutter, rattling it on its hinges. I peered out into the darkness, but could see nothing. I was staring-down at the yard at the back of the inn, and all was still and silent. Even Gilbert Parson’s horse was sleeping.
I closed the shutters and turned back once more into the room, my eyes now able to see quite plainly. Apart from the narrow bed on which I had been lying, there was nothing except an oak chest supporting a tallow candle in its holder and a tinder-box. This, obviously, was the chamber kept for passing strangers when the other two rooms were full, or for people without much money, who, like me, were simply glad of bed for the night and not too fussy. The rushes on the floor smelled musty, as though they had not been changed for a couple of days.
I was suddenly conscious that my bladder was overfull, a result of all the wine I had drunk at supper. Many people, then as now, would not have hesitated to urinate in a corner, but I have always had a fastidious streak, inherited from my mother, which others are inclined to jeer at. I know my fellow novices at Glastonbury thought it hilarious when I insisted on going outside to piss, even in the depths of winter. They used to pass all sorts of obscene remarks, but I never minded, because I was big enough to accept that kind of teasing with good humour. I suppose physical height and strength do tend to make one placid.
I struck the steel against the flint and lit the candle from the burning tinder. Then, shutting the box and replacing it on the chest, I quietly opened the door of my room and stepped into the darkened corridor. As silently as I could, so as not to disturb the other inmates, I crept down the stairs and made my way along the passage to the door at the back of the inn. I reached up to the great iron bolt at the top, only to discover that it was already withdrawn from its socket. Glancing down, I saw that the one at the bottom had not been shot home either. And when I tried the key, I found that that, too, was unturned. Surely Thomas Prynne and Abel Sampson were not the kind of men to be so careless. I felt a sudden frisson of fear, as though something evil was lurking on the other side of the door, waiting to grab me.
I noticed my hand was shaking, the wavering candleflame sending shadows flickering drunkenly over the walls, and I pulled myself together. Everyone was careless now and again, I told myself severely; even the best of us had moments of forgetfulness and did stupid things. Resolutely I lifted the latch and stepped outside, into the moon- washed courtyard. In the distance I could hear the tolling of a bell and realized what had really roused me from my drunken stupor. Not my snoring, but the old habit of waking at two hours past midnight for the office of Matins and Lauds. It was too strong even for the potency of Thomas Prynne’s good wine: