They were both quite adamant on that score. The stranger had continued climbing, and they had watched him until he was out of sight. So I requested their names — Will Shapely and Tom Lovat — found out which holdings they came from, warned them against baiting any more dogs, at least while I was around, thanked them politely for their help and resumed my walk to the high ground above the city.
I knew a little about the college at Westbury, the village some few miles outside Bristol, situated on the river Trym. I knew that in Saxon times it had been a Benedictine monastery, but had eventually become wholly collegiate, control of the establishment passing from the abbot into the hands of a dean and canons. In recent times, under the auspices of Bishop Carpenter, who had died two years previously, the college had been rebuilt, and was now a much more imposing edifice, surrounded by a turreted wall. William Canynges, the great benefactor of Saint Mary Redcliffe Church, had retired there to be a canon, finally becoming dean in 1469, two years before I first arrived in Bristol. The college’s most dubious connection had been with the arch heretic John Wycliffe, who, in the last century, had been given a prebendal stall at Westbury by Pope Urban V. But, so far as I was aware, that was the only breath of scandal that had ever touched the college’s good name, and no one at the time could have foretold the future course of the young prebend’s life.
That was not to say, however, that there was no one among the present priestly brotherhood who had Lancastrian sympathies, or who was prepared to take orders from the Tudor court. There were probably more people, throughout the country, than I cared to think about who would be only too eager to help bring down the House of York. But, for the moment, my sole object was to establish the stranger’s innocence of the murder of Jasper Fairbrother; to satisfy myself that he had indeed been out of Bristol on the night of the killing. Whatever else I learned in the course of my enquiries I could pass on to Richard Manifold and leave him to deal with any sedition involved.
As I trudged wearily on through the heat of the afternoon, I laid my plans. Approaching the dean directly would be useless. He would immediately be suspicious, and rightly so, of my interest in the stranger, and, anxious for the good name of the college, would deny all knowledge of him. The canons would be similarly instructed; and whatever internal enquiry the dean might instigate afterwards, I should be sent away no wiser than when I arrived. I should do much better, therefore, to call on the villagers, hawking my wares from door to door, and find out what they knew. In my experience, a stranger in any village was instantly spotted and became the immediate focus of all eyes and ears.
As it turned out, Westbury villagers were no exception to this rule, and within five minutes of knocking on the door of the first cottage, next to the forge, I had a full description of my stranger and knew the precise hour at which he had arrived on Monday evening. I visited five cottages, including the blacksmith’s and the miller’s, sold a satisfactory number of items from my pack — enough to convince Adela of my industry, at any rate — and learned that the ‘foreigner’ had stayed two nights at the college, finally departing only a short while before my arrival.
‘I reckon he passed by here less than half an hour ago, going towards Bristol,’ the blacksmith’s wife told me, bringing me a cup of cider fresh from the press. And to corroborate her story, she called on a neighbour who was spreading some washing over a hawthorn bush to dry.
‘That’s right. Saw him myself not an hour since,’ the woman agreed. ‘Same man we saw Monday evening and who’s been mewed up at the college ever since.’
I cursed silently. The stranger and I must have passed one another, but not close enough for me to recognize him. The downs were a vast open space and there were many different paths criss-crossing the plateau and descending the slopes to the river-basin that cradled the town.
I discovered that the stranger had not spoken to anyone on his way through the village, either on arrival or departure, so I was unable to test my theory that he might be a Welshman. In any case, I was now anxious to be on my way, not only because I hoped to catch up with my quarry, but also because the afternoon was well advanced, and if I didn’t hurry, I should be late for Vespers. As it was, I should be too late to return home first, and thanked my lucky stars that I had instructed Adela to carry on to the convent without me. I was resigned to the fact that I was going to be in bad odour with my womenfolk, and that the subject of my unreliability would prove a fruitful topic of conversation between Margaret and Adela during the coming days, if not weeks and months.
I set out, back the way I had so recently come, lengthening my stride and trying to ignore the heat, which had not yet begun to slacken in spite of the creeping shadows. I kept my eyes on the horizon in the hope of seeing the stranger ahead of me, and subjected every dwelling I passed to careful scrutiny, in case he had stopped at one of them for refreshment. But although I met or overtook a number of people, not one of them was the man I was looking for.
Perhaps, after all, he was not heading back towards Bristol. Maybe he was travelling north, in the direction of Gloucester, in order to spread his message — whatever it might be — further afield. If that were indeed the case, there was nothing I could do about it. But at least I now had sufficient names and directions of witnesses to convince Richard Manifold and his superiors that the stranger was innocent of Jasper’s murder. What action they took concerning his other activities was up to them. I could make my peace with Adela and settle down to enjoy both Saint James’s Fair and, on the first of August, the Lammas Feast.
As I began the long descent of the track that would eventually lead me to Saint Michael’s Hill, I became aware that I was not alone. From time to time, small, snuffling noises made themselves heard, and when at last I glanced down, I saw the stray dog that I had rescued trotting at my heels. I stopped.
‘Go away!’ I ordered firmly, pointing up the hill. ‘I don’t want you!’
Liquid brown eyes were raised soulfully to mine. I hardened my heart.
‘You’re nothing to do with me,’ I said, raising my voice. ‘Go home!’ Of course, I knew very well he had no home to go to.
He sat down in the dirt and wagged a stumpy, flea-bitten tail, but made no attempt to move.
I tried ignoring him and started walking again. He was up and following at my heels in an instant. I turned and took a swipe at him. The wretched animal dodged the blow, then continued the chase, keeping just out of range of my arm. I stopped for the second time to pick up a piece of broken branch lying beside the track. I threw it as hard as I could, back up the hill, and had the satisfaction of seeing the dog scamper after it. I began to run. Moments later, I almost fell headlong as the branch was dropped in front of me by a demented little creature, barking like a fiend from Hell.
‘Damn you!’ I roared. ‘Go away!’ He poked the branch with his nose, indicating that I should throw it a second time. I tried reasoning with him. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘if my children clap eyes on you, there will be no parting with you. Be sensible. You don’t want an already overcrowded home with a poor man who can’t feed you properly and a baby who’ll keep you awake at nights, now do you?’ He wagged his tail even more furiously and started barking again. With a sigh, I decided to ignore him, and continued on my way.
As I reached the top of Saint Michael’s Hill, I could hear the bell ringing for Vespers. I quickened my step, but even so, by the time I reached the nunnery, the peals had stopped and the door to the Magdalen nuns’ chapel was shut. The sisters and their guests were already inside.