‘Lord, no!’ Ronan Bignell was scathing. ‘Why else would the page have disappeared? What was he doing in Croxcombe woods when we saw him, if not running away? Why did he pretend to have something wrong with him so as to stay at home, instead of accompanying Dame Audrea to Kewstoke Hall?’
‘But how do you know — how does anyone know — that he was only pretending? Perhaps his illness was genuine.’
‘Well, even if it was, he took advantage of it for his own fell purpose,’ Ronan insisted.
I sighed inwardly. Further argument was fruitless in more ways than one. I wasn’t here to prove John Jericho innocent of the crime of which he stood accused, but to disprove, somehow or another, that he and my half-brother were one and the same person. And Ronan Bignell’s stories, interesting though they were, were of no help on that score whatsoever.
‘So this is where you two are hiding,’ said Rose’s voice, and, turning our heads, we saw her tripping towards us through Bishop Beckington’s archway. ‘Father’s been asking where you’ve got to, Ronan.’ She dimpled at her brother as seductively as she would have smiled at any man. ‘You don’t mind my having told Master Chapman about what you saw all those years ago, do you? I didn’t think it would matter after such a long time.’
‘You mean you couldn’t resist a handsome face,’ her brother retorted, then smiled and pinched her cheek. ‘But if I hear of you confiding in anyone else, there’ll be trouble. And there’ll be trouble, too, with Edward if you don’t watch your step, my girl. And don’t give me that innocent stare. You know quite well what I mean.’
And as if on cue, another voice, swollen by the echoing archway, boomed out, ‘Here you are, Mistress Micheldever. What a dance you’ve led me. Why didn’t you ask me to accompany you to Wells?’
It was Anthony Bellknapp.
Nine
I saw Ronan Bignell frown as the newcomer slipped an arm familiarly around Rose’s waist, but his disapproval turned to excitement as he recognized Anthony Bellknapp.
It was one thing to be told of the prodigal’s return, but quite another to see him in the flesh. That small corner of Ronan’s mind that had retained a vestige of disbelief was now forced to accept the truth of my and his sister’s story. After eight years without a word, the best part of a decade with no knowledge as to whether he was alive or dead, the elder of the two Bellknapp brothers stood before us, bronzed, fit, his dark brown curls well combed, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. Well dressed, too, and if his hose and tunic were not the extreme of fashion — and, let’s face it, the extreme of male fashion at that time was enough to make your average citizen laugh himself silly — they were made of good cloth and yarn and had been cut by an expert tailor. His riding boots gleamed with the gloss of the best Cordovan leather. Whatever else had, or had not, happened to Anthony during the years of his self-imposed exile, he hadn’t starved. In fact, he seemed to have done very well for himself. I wondered idly what he had been up to, and made a mental note to ask him whenever the moment seemed propitious.
Rose hurriedly introduced her brother, and immediately Anthony’s manner towards her underwent a change. It became jocular, almost fraternal, as he pinched her blushing cheek and then released her.
‘Ronan Bignell! Yes, I do remember you, even though you must still have been a lad at the time I left Croxcombe. Mind you, I wasn’t much past my seventeenth birthday myself, when I come to think of it.’ He turned back to Rose. ‘As I was saying, Mistress Micheldever, you should have waited for me before riding into Wells. I would have mounted you on a decent horse instead of letting you traipse around the countryside on a donkey.’
‘I didn’t know you were intending to visit the town, sir,’ was the demure reply, ‘and Master Chapman was anxious to speak to my brother.’
Anthony raised his eyebrows at me in a look of enquiry, but I shook my head, sending what I hoped was a warning glance at Rose.
‘Only some queries about old acquaintances of mine.’ I thought quickly. ‘The Actons.’ The name just came into my head, apparently from nowhere, and it took me some seconds before I recollected that it was an Acton who had been my father’s mistress and my half-brother’s mother.
To my astonishment, Ronan Bignell said promptly, ‘Oh, there are no Actons in Wells nowadays, but I know of a couple of that name living out towards Wedmore.’
‘Th-thank you,’ I stuttered. ‘If you’ll be good enough to give me more precise directions, I–I’ll pay them a visit.’
Anthony Bellknapp’s eyebrows rose even higher. He wasn’t deceived. ‘It’s taken you both a long time to establish that fact,’ he remarked drily, then let the matter drop. He offered Rose his arm. ‘Mistress Micheldever, now that I’ve found you, allow me to buy you a favour, some trinket or other, from one of the market stalls.’
Rose hesitated, but only for a moment. She obviously guessed that such a gift would be frowned upon by her husband, but she was unable to resist the lure of some free finery to adorn her person. She took the proffered arm, and Ronan and I followed her and Anthony back under the archway into the hubbub of the marketplace, which was now at the height of the morning’s trading.
Bakers, butchers and brewers, tinkers, tailors and weavers, shepherds and herdsmen, with animals they were hoping to sell, hot pie vendors yelling the attractions of their wares — ‘Pies piping hot! Good meat! No gristle! Come and dine! Come and dine!’ — and vintners shouting, ‘White wine, red wine to wash the food down. A beakerful free with every one you buy!’ made for a crescendo of noise that hurt my ears. I had forgotten how rowdy Wells market could be. It could compete with Bristol’s any day of the week.
The sensation created by news of Anthony Bellknapp’s return, followed by his actual appearance in their midst, seemed to be evaporating. People continued to stare at him as he moved among the stalls, and to whisper behind their hands, but business had resumed with its customary briskness. Ronan went off to join his father, and to receive, by the look of things, a furious reprimand for his prolonged absence. Meantime, I rescued Hercules from a confrontation with an angry goose, an encounter he was in serious danger of losing. As compensation for being again tucked unceremoniously under my arm, I let him share the meat pie I had bought and was eating.
There was a sudden gap in the surging crowd, and I saw Anthony and Rose standing at a little distance beside a stall that sold jewellery. While I watched, Rose slipped a necklace over her head and admired her reflection in the mirror of polished steel that the stallholder held up to her. Anthony passed some coins across the counter and I inched closer, curious to know what price he was prepared to pay for the possible future pleasure of laying his receiver’s wife. For there was no doubt in my mind that that was what he was after; and judging by the smile that Rose bestowed on him, he was already more than halfway to achieving his goal.
Another woman, who until that minute had been just a part of the milling crowd, suddenly stopped in front of Anthony, blocking his progress. Her back view, which was as much as I could see at that moment, in its plain blue gown and linen coif suggested a well-fed, well-built country girl, and her hands, roughened by work and weather, upheld this impression. Her left was on her hip, in that stance a woman adopts just before giving you a piece of her mind (and heaven help you when she does); the right one clasped that of a young boy, some nine or ten years old, who was half turned towards me, and who bore a striking resemblance to the Bellknapp family, particularly to Anthony. I saw the latter’s eyes flicker as he, too, recognized it.
I edged closer, easing myself unobtrusively around the woman to stand next to Rose.
‘Anthony!’ the woman exclaimed, looking him up and down. ‘So, it’s true. You’ve returned at last.’ She glanced down at the boy. ‘Lucas, this is Master Bellknapp. Anthony, this is my son, Lucas Slye.’