Anthony bowed. ‘Dorcas, it’s good to see you again. You … You haven’t married, then?’
‘No.’ She gave him a challenging smile. ‘I resisted all attempts of family and clergy to make a respectable woman of me. My son and I live at home with my parents.’
‘A fine lad. He’s a credit to you.’ Anthony was making a brave effort to return the smile, but I could see he wasn’t finding it easy. It was more of a rictus grin.
‘Dorcas!’ Rose greeted the other woman with a kiss. Then, becoming aware of my presence, she said, ‘Master Chapman, this is the sister of Croxcombe’s chamberlain, Mistress Slye. And this is her son, Lucas.’
Dorcas Slye, as I had already surmised, had the round, healthy looks of the country girl, with the same blue eyes and short neck of her brother, Jonathan. Her skin was like the bloom on a ripe plum and was completely innocent of the white lead that fashionable women would have considered necessary to tone down its high colour. She was very pretty if you have a taste for the bucolic, which, at some time or another, Anthony Bellknapp plainly had had. There could be no doubt that Lucas was his son, even though Dorcas Slye, if I remembered correctly, had refused to name him as the father. Whether or not the resemblance had struck Rose, I had no idea: somehow I doubted it. There was an underlying innocence about her that belied the sharp, acquisitive gaze and predatory smile. But there could be little question that other people would remark on the similarity now that Anthony, whose features must have grown dim in their recollections over the past eight years, was once more before them. The gossip would flare up again; and although it seemed to be of little moment to Dorcas herself, her family would be bound to resent it. Jonathan Slye, the chamberlain, had probably recognized the danger as soon as he clapped eyes on the prodigal. Anthony Bellknapp’s tally of enemies was mounting fast. It was small wonder that George Applegarth had advised him to watch his back.
I became aware that Rose was inviting me to admire her new necklace. ‘Coral and jet,’ she said happily. ‘Jet to ward off evil spirits.’
I wondered if it might also ward off a husband’s jealousy, but saw that no such consideration had disturbed Rose’s peace of mind. Dorcas Slye was regarding the necklace with a mocking smile, doubtless recalling similar gifts in the past and all too conscious of their consequences. Anthony, too, suddenly looked uncomfortable.
‘Master Chapman,’ he said, ‘do you return with us to Croxcombe? I shall take up Mistress Micheldever behind me on my horse. Ronan Bignell will return the donkey to the manor when he brings the next delivery of meat.’
As I had no intention of following behind them like a humble retainer, I excused myself.
‘If you’ll allow me continued use of my donkey, I’ll ride in the direction of Wedmore and find my friends, the Actons. As I said, Master Bignell will give me more detailed directions.’
Anthony seemed a little taken aback, having quite correctly decided in his own mind that these friends of mine had been a hurried excuse to conceal whatever it was that Ronan and I had really been discussing. But my sudden decision to search out the Actons would both allay his suspicions and might also prove to be of some value to myself. Although what, I couldn’t imagine.
Half an hour later, I was jogging along the Wedmore track, on my own at last. Judging by the sun, it was now past noon, and here and there the silver trunks of birch trees rippled like water in the afternoon light. The countryside was looking beautiful. The feathered gold of ragwort caught my eye, white trumpets of bindweed were being crushed beneath the donkey’s hooves, and buttercups and golden-eyed daisies spangled the molehills. (The day’s eye, how well that little plant is named.) Altogether, it was a brilliant scene, the colours glowing jewel-bright under the sun, and making me glad to be alive.
According to Ronan Bignell, Edgar and Avice Acton scraped a living from a smallholding somewhere to the east of Wedmore, watered by a little tributary of the meandering River Axe. Greatly to my surprise, they weren’t difficult to find. Everyone of whom I sought directions seemed to be familiar with their names even if he or she was not acquainted with the couple in person. I gathered that they were an elderly pair who were probably either my half-brother’s grandparents or a great-uncle and great-aunt. As it turned out, the latter surmise was correct.
When I eventually came across them, the two were sitting contentedly outside their cottage, enjoying the sunshine and drinking small beer from horn beakers which were obviously home-made. As I approached, I saw the man take a handful of grain from a bag beside him and throw it into the dirt. With a great clucking and squawking and much flapping of wings, two hens, a goose and a duck went running after it, the duck being at a decided disadvantage because it had to lumber up from the stream that all but encircled the property. In a nearby sty a couple of pigs rootled and snorted; one a heavy-bodied, stumpy-legged creature with drooping, floppy ears, obviously a descendant of the wild boars that had roamed the woodlands for centuries; the other lighter-skinned, longer-limbed, with a pointed snout and bright, intelligent eyes. A Tantony pig as country people called it (or a Saint Anthony pig, if you wanted to give it its full name), the sort of porker most often seen for sale in town and city marketplaces. There were also a sheep, a goat and a cow, turned loose to graze the adjoining meadow.
I approached quietly, the donkey’s hooves making no sound on the lush grass, and was about to alert the Actons to my presence when Hercules did it for me, making a headlong rush at the poultry and scattering them in all directions. I slid from Neddy’s back, yelling ferociously at him to come to heel and startling the rest of the livestock in the process. After such an entrance, I could hardly have been surprised if the Actions had requested me to leave forthwith, but both husband and wife roared with laughter and Hercules, recognizing a couple of well-wishers, went to sit between them, daring me to touch him.
‘Nice li’l dog,’ the man said, tickling the miscreant’s ears.
‘Sometimes,’ I agreed, still advancing threateningly. Hercules barked at me and licked his new friend’s hand. (That animal can be such a sycophant!) ‘Master and Mistress Acton?’ I enquired.
They laughed again.
‘Don’ know about Maister,’ the man answered. ‘But I’m Edgar Acton and this here is my Goody. What can we do for you, young fellow?’
When you are less than two months off your twenty-eighth birthday, it’s not often you’re called a young fellow. I beamed and forgot to be cross with Hercules, stooping myself to tickle his ears. He allowed himself to be placated and condescended to lick my hand as well. Meantime, Goody Acton had gone into the cottage and fetched out another stool and beaker of ale, and before I was allowed to explain the reason for my visit, I was pressed to sit down and refresh myself.
‘It’s a danged hot day!’ her husband exclaimed. ‘Better fetch some water for that there donkey, my old sweetheart. And for this here dog.’
So it was not until the needs of Hercules and Neddy had been supplied that I was at last able to tell my story. I began by asking the couple if they were indeed kin to the Anne Acton who had married first her cousin, Ralph Wedmore, and then an Irishman, Matthew O’Neill.
The old man nodded. ‘Aye, Anne were my niece. My brother’s daughter. Bright, pretty lass, she were. Never could make out why she married Ralph. He were my sister’s son, but took after his father’s family. Miserable lot the Wedmores. Never had much to do with ’em after Jeanne died.’
‘Nor with your great-nephews, Anne’s sons?’
‘We did try once or twice,’ Avice Acton said defensively. ‘But it was soon plain we weren’t welcome. Anne only had the one lad then. John I think she’d named him. After her father, Edgar’s brother.’