To begin with, I felt certain that Elizabeth Alefounder’s appearance and continued sojourn in Broad Street was no mere family visit to her brother, but had had, from the outset, a much more sinister purpose. Robin Avenel had been under suspicion of being a supporter of the Lancastrian, and therefore of Henry Tudor’s, cause since the previous summer. But in my estimation he had never been decisive enough to hold any opinions of his own without having them formed for him by someone of far more positive views. His father, Peter Avenel, was a straightforward man who, I suspected from the little I knew of him, would always support the ruling faction in the interests of a quiet and prosperous life. He would change his political coat as often as he changed his everyday apparel and shy away in horror from any hint of treason. But somebody had persuaded Robin to dabble his toes in the murky waters of sedition, and that person, I felt sure, was his strong-minded sister.
So, I had established to my own satisfaction that Elizabeth Alefounder had arrived in Bristol with some nefarious purpose in mind; some purpose which involved Robin Avenel renting the old Witherspoon house at Rownham Passage for a night at the beginning of June. He had told the apothecary that the accommodation was needed for two men, although when, the following day, I had made my own ill-fated entrance upon the scene, I had only been aware of the presence of one man — a man I now thought, from his speech, might have been a Scot.
But that, I had to admit, was no more than guesswork. There had indeed been trouble in Scotland, according to the Dominican friar who had stopped to refresh himself at the Full Moon. King James III had quarrelled with his brothers: one, the Earl of Mar, had died in suspicious circumstances; the other, the Duke of Albany, had fled, no one knew whither. But supposing he was here, in Bristol … Yet what possible connection could there be between Lancastrian supporters of Henry Tudor, such as Elizabeth Alefounder and Robin Avenel, and a royal duke of Scotland escaping his brother’s wrath?
To add to my confusion, I was also faced with an Irish slaver who — it seemed likely — had been about to double-cross the Avenels and who had been summarily murdered for his pains by a pair of ruthless women, who had at first mistaken me for him. And now Robin Avenel himself was dead, but by whose hand? And why had he risked breaking into my house a week and more ago? What had he been hoping to do or find?
My head was beginning to ache, and not just because of the sun’s relentless glare, but I did my best to ignore it and continue with my train of thought. Although Edgar Capgrave had observed Rowena Hollyns returning with her mistress from Rownham Passage, her gown muddied and wet, he swore that she could not have left by the Frome Gate earlier that same day without him having seen her. Or, rather, without him remembering to have seen her. There was a difference, and it might be that his memory was not as infallible as he thought it.
All the same, had not Jess, the kitchen maid, told me less than an hour since that the blue brocade gown belonged not to Rowena, but to Mistress Avenel? And that her mistress complained of not being able to find it? If that were so, had it merely been mislaid or had it been taken by someone else? And if so, by whom and why? Jess had also denied Rowena’s ownership of a pair of red shoes. Indeed, I already knew that Robin Avenel had possessed red shoes; one of them still reposed in my secret hiding place, along with the ring I had found in the ‘murder’ house. But I was still uncertain of the significance of either item …
I was beginning to nod off by now, and made a determined effort to keep myself awake, sucking in great gulps of air and agitating my feet in the river. But it was no good. Fatigue and heat won the unequal contest, and I was vaguely aware of my chin falling forward on my chest before I was lost in a scene that seemed to have no connection with any of the myriad thoughts milling around inside my head.
I think I have said somewhere before in these chronicles that my mother was gifted with the ‘sight’, something that I have inherited but which visits me very rarely and then only in the form of dreams …
Now, I was standing in the crypt of Saint Giles, but the rows of shelves and coffins had disappeared and I was at the bottom of the steps leading down from the nave. But it was not the present staircase; indeed I knew — although how I knew was a mystery — that the church was a different building. It was not even a church any more.
Above my head, I could hear a mob baying for blood, hammering and battering at the outer door, screaming filth and imprecations in the mindless way that only a crowd can do. I have seen it happen too often: people lose their souls; all vestige of human dignity and kindness desert them and they turn into ravening beasts. I could feel the hair rising along my scalp, even though, in the strange way of dreams, I knew I was not their quarry.
I moved forward effortlessly, weightlessly, skimming the ground along the length of that great cellar. From somewhere overhead came the sound of rending wood and the crash of the door caving in. Blood-curdling shouts of triumph preceded the rush of feet towards the cellar stairs and my heart started to beat so fast that I could scarcely breathe. People were in danger and I had to reach them before their persecutors did …
I could see them now, faint shapes in the darkness, illuminated by the flickering glow of rushlights and candles. There were about a score, all men, and wearing — judging by some ancient illustrations I had seen — the Jewish gabardine.
‘What are you doing? Why are you still here?’ I yelled, but although my lips moved no sound came out. ‘The others have all gone! Why haven’t you gone with them?’
But they couldn’t hear me any more than I could hear myself. They turned and looked straight through me, foreknowledge of death already written on their faces.
‘Why did you wait?’ I demanded again. ‘Why didn’t you leave with the others?’
But they took no notice, blowing out the candles and all pressing hard up against the furthest wall. Then, in a great rush of noise and movement, the mob was upon them, slaughtering them like beasts in the shambles until the floor and walls ran red with blood. One of the crowd set fire to a man’s gabardine with his torch, another dashed someone’s head in with his club. And yet a third took hold of me by the shoulder and shook me violently, urging me to move. I spun round, fetching him a blow across his cheek, and found myself flat on my back on the river bank, staring up stupidly into the cowled features of one of the Dominican friars.
‘Riding the night mare, Roger?’ enquired a familiar voice ruefully as the man rubbed his face where my hand had caught him. ‘If all that snorting and threshing of limbs is anything to judge by, you must be suffering from a very bad conscience. Or I suppose, knowing you, it might just be too much ale and victuals.’
‘T-Timothy?’ I stuttered, my brain still feeling as if it were stuffed with feathers, and trying desperately to shake off the clinging remnants of my dream. ‘Timothy Plummer?’
He sat down beside me on the grass, tucking surplus folds of the habit, which was far too large for him, around his knees.
‘The very same,’ he grunted.
My mind was beginning to clear and I sat up with such force that I almost knocked him over.
‘Where have you been?’ I roared. ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere for days. And what in heaven’s name are you doing dressed up as a Dominican friar?’