‘Let’s go back,’ Dudley said.
I followed him, feeling sad to the soul. What if Amy had been lying about her illness to see what response she’d get from Dudley? What if she was suffering from no more than a malady of the mind, grown out of a profound loneliness?
A plea for love answered by death.
XXIII
Dark Alleys
WE WALKED BACK into the town, me in a grey fog, to find that a crowd was gathered around the sheriff’s house. Pitch torches blazed either side of the gates, their reflected flames riffling like lilies on the puddles where a group of men had dismounted, ostlers hurrying to take the horses.
The sheriff’s company was back and without Prys Gethin. I saw Vaughan addressed by a red-faced man in a muddied jerkin and moved closer to listen.
‘… his humour, Roger?’
Vaughan muttered something, and the red-faced man groaned, threw up his hands, then turned and addressed the crowd.
‘Too foul, it is, see. Not safe to make the journey before nightfall. Not with a prisoner the Welsh want back.’
Evidently this year’s sheriff, Evan Lewis. His promise to ride out again to New Radnor on the morrow brought a sour response, a man asking, with sarcasm, what would happen if it was pissing down again.
‘Let him go, is it, Evan, so he’ll catch a cold?’
A rope of damp pennants fell from the darkening sky, evidently cut down. Made a mocking garland around the sheriff’s hat, Lewis wrenching it away, shouting over a river of laughter.
‘We’ll hold the trial at New Radnor, then. That what you want? Is it?’
I turned to Dudley.
‘That even possible?’
‘He’s jesting. You think he’d deprive the goodfolk of Presteigne of an entertainment they’d waited twenty years for?’
‘This talk of curses…’
‘Talk of curses? God’s bollocks, John, looks to me that Plant Mat’s brought nothing but good fortune to this town. Given it the Great Sessions, and now a good hanging? They should throw a feast for the bastard before he dangles.’
I’d found it interesting, though, the way the sheriff had said the Welsh wanted Gethin back. As if it was accepted that Presteigne was not truly Wales. Admittedly, we hadn’t been long in the town, but I’d yet to hear someone speak the language.
Evan Lewis, scowling, passed through his own gates to face the judge. Dudley turned away, in the direction of the Bull, and I was about to follow him, when someone stepped purposefully between us.
‘Dr Dee?’
By a torch’s fizzing light, I marked a man of about my own height, perhaps a few years older and fairer of hair and skin. Clad as a country gentleman in fine leather jerkin and boots that stood well in foot-deep puddles.
‘Nicholas Meredith,’ he said.
‘My God, we were trying to find you…’
I held out my hand; he didn’t take it, and it was knocked aside by a fellow pushing past. Nicholas Meredith braced himself against the sheriff’s wall. I smiled.
‘Good to meet you at last, cousin.’
‘I received a letter from you this morning, Dr Dee.’ The border accent was in his voice, but so also was an education. ‘Replying to it at once, with proper civility.’
‘Well, yes—’
‘Evidently a waste of my time. Why would you write to me, knowing you were coming here? And saying nothing of that.’
‘Cousin Nicholas, I wrote before I knew I’d be coming.’
Telling him about the providence of the judicial company. Thinking he’d understood when the dazzle of the pitch torch made it seem as if he was smiling.
In fact he was not.
‘You’ve made me look a fool, Dr Dee. Fetching up without a word, taking a chamber at my inn.’
‘Your inn? I didn’t even know that. We were simply told it was the best inn in Presteigne. My…’ I made a gesture towards Dudley. ‘This is my colleague, Master Roberts, an antiquary. We were both—’
‘Your letter’ – my cousin didn’t even look at Dudley – ‘suggests you’re here in search of treasure.’
‘Of a kind.’
‘Well, well…’ Nicholas Meredith jutted his chin. His short beard was combed to an elegant point. ‘How like your father.’
No mistaking his expression this time; I’d seen too many sneers. A low growl from Dudley.
‘That knave,’ my cousin Meredith said.
I had no response, was held in shock. Not two hours ago, the innkeeper had talked of my cousin’s pride in my father’s position at King Henry’s court. All the talk was about him. And me too. All this man’s letters to me had been invariably cordial.
‘I don’t understand,’ I said at last. ‘The innkeeper said you spoke well of my father. How close he was to the old king.’
‘I’m sure he was,’ Nicholas Meredith said. ‘Close enough to pocket the spoons.’
A long hissing breath came out of Dudley, but he was yet ignored. A few men had made a half circle around us, in the way that men do, scenting the approach of violence. Meredith raised his tone.
‘You think we’re so removed from London, Dr Dee, that we hear nothing of what goes on there? You think we know nothing of your father’s crimes? You think we weren’t dishonoured by him?’
‘I know not what you’re—’
‘In your ill-writ letter,’ my cousin said, ‘you ask if I know of the whereabouts of a gemstone, formerly the property of the Abbey of Wigmore. Possibly misappropriated. Hah, methinks, how can this man talk so loftily about the misappropriation of church treasures when his own father—’
‘My father was a kind man,’ I said softly. ‘A generous man.’
‘Particularly with the property of others.’
I’m not good at conflict, have no ready store of oiled ripostes. I stood in silence, aware of a greater gathering of onlookers and Dudley at my shoulder.
‘Forgive me for intruding, John, but why don’t we just beat the piss out of this muffin?’
I could feel how badly Dudley wanted this to become a fight, if only to relieve himself of weeks of stored-up rage. And still, Nicholas Meredith behaved as if he wasn’t there.
‘Were you about to deny that Rowland Dee, when churchwarden at St Dunstan’s in London, stole church plates left in his charge?’
Dudley’s right hand was at his belt, where he’d keep a dagger.
‘No,’ I said quietly.
Dudley stiffened. Nicholas Meredith smiled.
‘You asked about Abbot Smart? My letter, when you receive it on your return, will tell you he’s long gone. Probably into France. You’ll learn that nobody here has seen him for years. So if you’ve somewhere else on your treasure-hunting itinerary, I suggest you depart for it at first light.’
As he turned away, my hose was soaked at the groin by a splash of fire-bright water thrown up by his boot.
In my haste to avoid a further exchange, I’d walked the wrong way, and we found ourselves down by the church and the river. A mean river compared with the Wye, and the bridge was wooden and creaked when I stood upon it, but at least we seemed to be alone.
‘… doesn’t matter if it’s true,’ Dudley was hissing. ‘You don’t let any man who spoke thus walk away undamaged.’
‘It does matter,’ I said. ‘Matters to me. My father sullied his status as churchwarden at St Dunstan’s. He sold plate that certainly wasn’t his to sell. He’d lost his place at court and his business was ruined – through no fault of his own, I’d guess. I’m sure he… would have made good, when his fortunes improved.’