‘No! I’m sorry,’ I apologized. ‘Forgive me! That was unpardonably rude. Please …’ Almost without realizing what I was doing, I stepped towards her and embraced her gently. ‘Don’t cry,’ I murmured.
It was inevitable that Adela should walk into the parlour at that precise moment, carrying a tray with two beakers of her elderflower wine.
I stood there like the miserable fool I was, knocked sideways by the realization that I had just put my marriage in jeopardy, and that my long-dreamed-of ambition to hold Rowena Honeyman — Hollyns — in my arms meant absolutely nothing to me now that I had finally achieved it.
Adela made no comment. She put the tray down on top of the chest and left, closing the parlour door quietly behind her. She hadn’t looked directly at me or our visitor, but she could not have avoided seeing us, nevertheless.
Rowena angrily released herself and refused my offer of refreshment. She had stopped crying, and now had her emotions well under control. I didn’t delude myself for a second that I was responsible for her unhappiness, but undoubtedly my abruptness had been the immediate cause of her distress.
‘So? What can I do for you, Mistress Hollyns?’ I asked, motioning her to take a seat again.
She declined, standing stiff and straight beside the chair, one hand resting lightly on its arm.
‘I am here merely as an envoy for Mistress Alefounder,’ she said. ‘She would be pleased if you would call on her this evening, sometime after supper and before curfew. She feels she owes you an explanation.’
‘And you? Do you feel that you owe me an explanation, also?’
She stared. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
I sneered. ‘Not so honest as your mistress, eh? Very well! Tell Mistress Alefounder I’ll wait upon her after supper, between five and six o’clock, at Master Avenel’s house in Broad Street.’
There seemed nothing more to be said, so I escorted her to the street door and stood watching as she turned in the direction of Bell Lane. Then I went back inside and made my way to the kitchen in search of Adela.
Ten
We made our peace, after a fashion.
I grovelled. Adela admitted that she had not been as affectionate as she might have been of late. In short, we both blamed ourselves rather than each other.
Supper was in preparation. Adam, seated in a corner, was unusually quiet as he investigated his bare feet with studied concentration. Elizabeth and Nicholas were upstairs re-enacting the Battle of Hastings, if the shouting and stampeding feet were anything to judge by.
‘So what did Mistress Hollyns want?’ Adela asked, dropping chopped vegetables into a pot of boiling water. But when I told her of Mistress Alefounder’s invitation, she turned to look at me, genuinely worried. ‘You won’t go, of course,’ she said.
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because it’s obviously a trap of some sort.’ She came across and put her hands on my shoulders, giving them a little shake. ‘For heaven’s sake, Roger, the woman has tried to kill you once already.’
‘She isn’t going to murder me in her brother’s house!’ I protested. ‘Especially when she must realize that I would have told you where I’m going.’
‘She could have you waylaid somewhere. Bell Lane, perhaps? The houses there are closer together than most.’
‘In that case, I’ll go by Corn Street. There’s always plenty of activity there of an evening on account of the Green Lattis.’ I put my arms around her, half expecting a rebuff. But none came, although she made no move to respond. ‘I have to find out what she wants, sweetheart. You must see that.’
Adela sighed. She would not attempt to dissuade me further. That was not her way of doing things. She was far too shrewd for that.
Supper was a quiet meal, the two older children having exhausted themselves with playing. Adam, tied into his little chair, was niggly but not obstreperous, as he so often was. And Adela and I were both preoccupied with our own concerns. The memory of Rowena Hollyns, and of my arms about her, still lay between us.
We discussed the coming festivities of the next two days, and my wife reminded me that we had to be up before dawn the following morning, Midsummer Eve, in order to gather the necessary herbs with which to ward off midnight’s evil spirits. I groaned inwardly, as I frequently did, at the practice of these ancient customs, whose origins were lost in the misty past of our Saxon and Celtic forebears. But I acquiesced meekly, knowing how much their observance meant to Adela.
It was well past five o’clock before I made my way to Broad Street and knocked on the door of Robin Avenel’s house. While I stood waiting, I reflected it would once have been Marjorie Dyer, then Dame Pernelle, Rob Short or Ned Stoner who answered my summons, or perhaps even Alison Weaver herself. But Marjorie and Alison were both dead, Rob and Ned had found new masters and Dame Pernelle had gone to live with her sister, Alice, in London. This evening the door was opened by a young maid who was a stranger to me.
‘I wish to see Mistress Alefounder,’ I said politely. ‘She’s expecting me. I’m Roger Chapman.’
The girl eyed me up and down, rather suspiciously I thought. Then she sniffed and held the door wide.
‘You’d better come in,’ she conceded reluctantly.
I reflected that I must be losing my touch; my irresistible boyish charm had failed to work its magic.
I was left to kick my heels in the hall while the girl went in search of Mistress Alefounder. I looked about me. How familiar it all was; the windows, giving on to Broad Street, shuttered below but the top halves fitted with rare and expensive glass panes; the doorposts and the ends of the roof beams carved in the likenesses of birds and flowers and picked out in red and gold; and the beautifully carved staircase spiralling upwards to the floor above. The two armchairs, which had stood on either side of the fireplace, had given way to a single, elaborately decorated, high-backed settle, while rushes and dried flowers had been discarded as floor covering in favour of crimson and blue woven rugs.
‘Oh! It’s you!’ exclaimed a voice. ‘What are you doing here?’
I spun round to confront Marianne Avenel. She was dressed for going out, with a light cloak clasped around her shoulders over a dress of emerald-green sarcenet and a jewelled belt that served to emphasize her slender waist and hips. Her winged headdress and veil were also made of silk, and I noticed for the first time that her eyebrows had been modishly plucked. Unlike her husband, however, she was sensible enough to avoid the extremes of fashion and had refused to shave her forehead or to ruin her complexion with applications of white lead.
‘I’m waiting for Mistress Alefounder,’ I said. ‘She’s asked to see me. Mistress Hollyns brought the message this afternoon.’
Marianne looked puzzled and would plainly have liked to question me further, except that she was in a hurry to be gone. She hesitated for a second or two, then wished me a hasty, if somewhat unwilling, farewell and vanished through the door.
She was not a moment too soon. As it closed, Robin Avenel descended the stairs, shouting, ‘Marianne!’ He pulled up short at the sight of me.
‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded, echoing his wife.
I was growing tired of this.
‘Why don’t you ask your sister?’ I snapped. ‘She’s the one who sent for me.’
‘Oh.’ He seemed as nonplussed as his wife had been, but a great deal more worried by the information. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘I have no idea.’
We stared at one another, me in my dirty working hose and jerkin, he a particoloured vision in orange and white. It made my eyes hurt just to look at him.
‘Oh,’ he said again, then enquired, ‘You haven’t seen Mistress Avenel by any chance?’
‘She’s just gone out. Didn’t she tell you?’
‘No,’ he answered with a scowl that boded no good for the absent Marianne.