Luke began to laugh hysterically, rocking himself backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet. ‘And do you know what, chapman? The silly part of it is, that if I’d set out to do just that, I couldn’t have done it. I would have botched it. People like us don’t learn how to use weapons such as swords and daggers, now do they?’ He continued with his rocking and inane laughter for a few more seconds, long enough for me to rise from my stool and come round the table towards him. But then he snapped to attention, his face transformed into a mask of hatred. ‘Still, now I’ve killed a man once, maybe I can do it again.’
Before I had time to realize what he would be up to, he spun round and reached up to a shelf fixed to the wall behind him. When he turned back, he was holding one of his mother’s long-bladed kitchen knives in his hand.
He smiled. ‘If you’re dead, then who’s to know what really happened?’
I hastily put the width of the table between us.
‘Put the knife down, Luke,’ I said gently, trying to stop my voice from shaking. ‘Don’t be so foolish! How are you going to explain killing me?’
The smile broadened. ‘I’ll say you attacked me. I’ll say you tried to force me into confessing to the murder of Master Avenel so as to save your friend, Burl Hodge.’
He was talking wildly now, not considering what he was saying, and I regarded him warily. In normal circumstances, I was a good deal stronger than he was, but a desperate man, teetering on the edge of unreason, can often display a disproportionate strength. I moved cautiously in the direction of the door. He laughed and made a sudden rush at me, leaping the table.
I turned sideways on to him and felt the knife slash the top of my arm. I was unaware of any pain, only of the need to protect myself. I flung out both hands and grabbed the knife blade as it swooped once more towards me. I was vaguely aware of a cut hand and blood trickling down my left wrist and into my sleeve.
Help arrived in a most unexpected guise, as what appeared to be the three Furies burst through the cottage door and flung themselves on Luke Prettywood, taking him by surprise and bearing him easily to the ground. Bess Simnel and Maria Watkins then sat astride his chest while Margaret Walker, panting a little after so much exertion, clambered to her feet to see if all was well with me.
‘You’re bleeding like a stuck pig,’ was her comment once she had finished her examination, ‘but it’s nothing serious. You’ll live. Now run and fetch that useless lump, Richard Manifold. We three overheard everything that passed between you and this murderer here.’ Noting my puzzled frown, she deigned to explain. ‘When you left my cottage, we followed you — Maria and Bess and myself — to see what you were up to, and we’ve been listening outside the window ever since we arrived. We’ll confirm what was said.’ She gave the struggling Luke a venomous glance. ‘You may not have meant to kill Robin Avenel,’ she spat at him, ‘but you were quite prepared to let Burl Hodge take the blame. You’d have watched him hang just to save your own worthless skin. And no one in Redcliffe will ever forgive you for that.’ She collapsed heavily on to the hapless youth’s legs and glowered up at me. ‘For heaven’s sake, get on your way, Roger! Go! Don’t just stand there like the great, gormless idiot that you are.’
I stooped suddenly and kissed her, a big, smacking kiss full on her lips. She looked astonished, but not displeased.
I kissed her again and went.
There is not a lot more to tell.
Richard Manifold, who, I think, was beginning to have doubts, if not about Burl’s culpability, then certainly about his chances of making the case against him stick, was grateful for my proof of Luke Prettywood’s guilt and the three goodies’ testimony, which corroborated my story. Not that anyone would have known it from the surly way in which he behaved, berating me for withholding evidence and upbraiding Margaret Walker and her friends for putting themselves in danger. But he got short shrift from my three avenging Furies.
‘You’d have had another murder on your hands if we hadn’t followed Roger here,’ my former mother-in-law informed him roundly. ‘Luke was about to kill him.’
‘Kill him! Kill him!’ echoed Maria and Bess, wagging their heads vigorously and showing their blackened stumps of teeth.
The sergeant made a valiant attempt not to look too downcast by the fact of my survival as he marched his prisoner away under guard, flanked by Jack Gload and Peter Littleman. The former could barely contain his satisfaction at the outcome: he still bore the scars of Luke’s Midsummer Eve attack.
I went home, accompanied by Margaret Walker, to confess all to Adela, to be scolded, exclaimed and fussed over and made to feel a hero — which I wasn’t. I was also made to promise — although this was done so subtly that I hardly noticed it at the time — to concentrate on my work as a pedlar now that Burl’s innocence had been happily established. The cuts on my upper left arm and hand were bathed and bandaged with sicklewort leaves, in order to staunch the flow of blood. Then I was sent to bed with a potion of lettuce juice to help me sleep, while my womenfolk kept the children quiet and no doubt discussed my latest antics with pursed lips and much sad shaking of their heads.
By the time my younger son woke me, using the simple expedient of yelling at the top of his voice in my right ear, it was almost suppertime and I was ravenous. I sat up, my head ringing from Adam’s stentorian effort, hauled him on to the bed, tickled him mercilessly until he was almost choking with laughter, then, carrying him on my shoulders, went downstairs.
The news of Burl’s release from prison and of my part in the arrest of Luke Prettywood had spread like wildfire, and the house seemed to be overflowing with people. Half the denizens of Redcliffe, including the Hodge family, had crossed Bristol Bridge and were crowded into the Small Street hall, parlour and kitchen, helping themselves liberally to my ale and eating the food intended for my dinner. Jenny Hodge flung her arms around my neck and burst into tears of gratitude — I could feel myself flushing with embarrassment. Jack and Dick patted any part of my anatomy they could manage to reach, and even Burl himself, pale and sunken-eyed from his brief sojourn in prison, muttered a few awkward words of thanks. He couldn’t stop his envious glance from darting here and there, taking in every detail of a house he was sure I didn’t deserve, but he embraced me before departing.
‘Friends?’ I asked, thrusting out my hand.
‘Friends,’ he agreed, somewhat reluctantly, then suddenly grinned. ‘Oh, damn you, Roger!’ He thumped me in the chest. ‘How can folk stay at odds with you, when you go around pulling them out of trouble all the time?’
‘That’s enough of that sort of talk,’ Jenny admonished him sharply. ‘Just be thankful that there’s somebody who can!’
Eventually, my well-wishers dispersed, including Margaret Walker, who was borne off in triumph by Bess Simnel and Maria Watkins to recount their adventure and be fêted in turn by those Redcliffe neighbours who had not ended up in Small Street, eating and drinking me out of house and home.
Adela, the children and I settled down to a belated supper of mutton stewed with lentils and garlic and a much-depleted bowl of cherries, my favourite fruit (and, by the look of things, the favourite fruit of many of our uninvited guests). But we were not to be left alone for long. The arrival of Richard Manifold, to ask more questions, put paid to our peace.
He was not our only visitor. Accompanying him was Timothy Plummer, who had at last shed his various disguises and was restored to the full importance of his royal livery. His apparently sudden appearance had plainly disconcerted the sergeant, who was regarding him morosely. And my innocent revelation that the King’s Spymaster General had been in the city for several weeks, first as a beggar, then as a Dominican friar, only added to his resentment.