‘Give my regards to your goody and thank her for the dinner,’ I said. ‘If ever I’m this way again, I’ll look you up.’
‘Do, lad! Do! We’ll be pleased to see you.’ And with that, he smote me again on the shoulder before turning and walking in the direction of his cottage where his wife was waiting for him, woodchopper in hand. I saw her gesture towards the pile of logs, and, smiling to myself, I set out once more on the next stage of my journey to Yealmpton.
* * *
It was little more than an hour’s walk from Brixton to the neighbouring village, and I could have done it in less time had the track not led through some dense woodland, where the afternoon sun could barely penetrate the cathedral-like vaulting of the trees. The going was slow there, and twice I stumbled and almost fell over roots that snaked across the path. It was not easy trotting for horses, either, although the several riders I encountered, travelling in both directions, guided their mounts over the obstacles with all the confidence that familiarity with the ground inspires.
Eventually, however, the trees began to thin and give way to more open pasture. A spiral of smoke in the distance told me that I was nearing a homestead or outlying farm, and that Yealmpton could not be far away. I judged from the position of the sun that it was now about mid-afternoon, and my stomach was telling me that it would soon be suppertime. It was a few hours now since my belated dinner at the home of the goodman and his wife, so I decided to stop at the first dwelling place I came to, where I would try to buy or beg something to eat. I might also, if I were lucky, learn the name of that smallholder who had been on his way to market when he had encountered Beric Gifford returning from Plymouth and his murderous mission. Then I recollected Bartholomew Champernowne, and wondered if he would have been before me, suborning yet another witness into denying his former evidence.
Ten minutes more brought me to the cottage with smoke spiralling through the hole in its roof. It was surrounded by an expanse of comfrey, that useful plant whose root, pulped, strained and packed inside a splint, is invaluable for setting broken bones, and whose juice cleanses wounds, helping them to heal. There was also a bed of coltsfoot, which makes a soothing decoction for all ailments of the chest, and another of coriander, whose seeds disguise the unpleasant taste of physic. Undoubtedly, the owner of this holding sold his produce to the physicians and druggists of Plymouth and other nearby towns; everything was grown in too great a profusion to be merely for his own use or for that of his immediate neighbours.
At the back of the cottage was a small enclosure containing several geese and chickens, and a nanny goat tethered in one corner. A tall, very thin man, with sparse straw-coloured hair and pale blue eyes, was scattering corn from a bucket hooked over one arm. Assuming him to be the cottager, I did not bother to knock at the door, but approached him directly. Before I even had time to hail him, however, he glanced up, saw me and said, ‘Ah! You must be the pedlar I was warned about. I’ve been expecting you.’
I smiled grimly. ‘In that case, you must be the man who encountered Beric Gifford on the morning of his great-uncle’s murder.’ He looked disappointed at my lack of surprise, and I went on, ‘Bartholomew Champernowne has already bribed Gueda Beeman to deny the evidence she gave to the Sheriff’s officer five months ago, as I discovered this afternoon when I went to see her.’
The man upended the bucket to get rid of the last of the corn, then walked across to join me at the fence. He frowned, sucking his yellow teeth consideringly. ‘So, what’s your interest in stirring the matter up again, just when the Law is beginning to lose interest in the killing?’
‘I don’t like villains who get away with murder,’ I answered promptly. ‘Do you?’
He regarded me speculatively for a moment or two before jerking his head in the direction of the cottage.
‘My name’s Jack Golightly. You’d better come in. You can share my supper, if you’re hungry,’ he offered.
I needed no second invitation, and when he had shut the enclosure gate behind him, I followed him indoors as fast as I could, before he changed his mind.
‘I’m a childless widower and I live alone,’ he said by way of explanation, and with a sweeping gesture that embraced the unmade bed, the still unwashed dishes, the plain, beaten earth floor that needed brushing, and the dust lying thick on every surface. But to offset all that, there was the most delicious, savoury smell emanating from the iron cauldron hanging from a hook over the fire in the middle of the room. I could have tolerated a great deal more disorder than I saw about me to sample a plateful of Jack Golightly’s stew.
‘You seem very snug, all the same,’ I answered, slipping my pack from my shoulders and heaving it into a space between the water butt and a wooden rack where some apples were set out, coated with melted beeswax to preserve them for the winter. I looked thoughtfully at my host as he wiped two bowls clean with a handful of grass, then filled them with stew. ‘If you can cook like this, you have no need of a wife.’
He raised his eyebrows but made no comment on this rather crass remark, merely motioning me to draw up a stool to the table and pushing aside the remains of his previous meal, which had not yet been cleared away. He gave me a spoon and a slice of black bread, bidding me ‘Fall to!’ and pulling up a second stool for himself. For several minutes, there was no sound except the two of us eating.
Eventually, however, when I had blunted my appetite with two helpings of stew, I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand, propped my elbows on the table and said thickly, ‘I guess that Master Champernowne must have been here. And did he try to bribe you to deny the truth of your story concerning Beric Gifford, should I pay you a visit? I think he must have done, or you wouldn’t have been expecting me, would you? Did he give any reason for his request?’
Jack Golightly laid down his spoon and picked a sliver of meat from between two of his front teeth with a grubby fingernail before replying to my questions with one of his own.
‘You say “try to bribe”. What makes you think that he didn’t succeed?’ he asked with a grin. And fishing in the pouch at his belt, he produced three or four coins, piling them up on the table in front of him.
I looked from his face to the little pile of money and back again. ‘You neither act nor speak like a man who is about to tell me a pack of lies,’ I said. ‘And yet … Are those your own coins or his?’
‘Oh, his!’ my host exclaimed cheerfully, picking them up and returning them to his pouch with every indication of pleasure. ‘But you’re quite right. I don’t aim to mislead you, or tell you anything but the truth. I did meet Beric Gifford on my way to Plymouth market. So, what else is there that you want to know?’
‘But…’ I protested feebly, and Jack Golightly laughed.
‘You wonder why I took young Master Bartholomew’s money,’ he said, ‘when I had no intention of doing what he asked of me. Well, for one thing, I’m a poor man and must take my chance where I can to eke out an uncertain livelihood. For another, I made him no promises. It’s not my fault if, in his arrogance, he assumed that I would bow to his demands. But if you want the real reason why I deceived him, it’s because he’s a Champernowne.’ And he uttered the last word with such a weight of loathing that it was almost like a curse.
There was a moment’s silence. Then I said, ‘You obviously dislike the family. Can I ask why?’
My companion got up and poured two cups of ale for us from a pitcher standing on a smaller table where a few more dirty dishes were stacked. When he returned and had seated himself once again, he answered, ‘I don’t mind telling you. There’s no secret about it.’ He took a swig of his ale, which, to my mind, was rather tasteless and flat, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his smock. ‘My family have always been loyal to the Courtenays, and therefore to the Lancastrian cause. The Champernownes are for the House of York.’