I was surprised into silence. This was the first mention there had been of a family; but, looking back, I realized that I had merely assumed that Mistress Fettiplace was either a spinster or a childless widow, like her two sisters. In order to conceal my astonishment, I asked, ‘Your husband and son, have they gone far?’
‘Only to Exeter,’ she answered cheerfully, ‘on business.’ She added, ‘You’ll find a chamber pot under the bed, and I’ll bring you up a pitcher of water in case you want to wash away the dust and grime of the day.’
‘I’ll take it with me,’ I said. ‘There’s no reason why you should wait on me. I’m grateful enough for your kindness as it is.’
She filled a large jug from the water barrel that stood just outside the cottage door and handed it to me. ‘Have a good night’s rest,’ she smiled, ‘and in the morning, I’d be glad to hear any news you might have gleaned on your travels.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I seem to have talked of nothing but Master Capstick’s murder. But, in truth, there’s little news of any interest abroad at the moment. The Duke of Clarence is still under arrest in the Tower, but nothing, it appears, has been decided as to his fate. Other than that, there are no current rumours of any great doings. For the time being, at least, the country is quiet.’
‘Well, we should thank God for that, I suppose,’ Mistress Fettiplace said devoutly, but not without a trace of regret. ‘There have been too many alarms and excursions during my lifetime, what with this noble at war with that one, and that one at war with the other. And kings coming and going and changing places like so many children playing at musical chairs. I’ll say good night to you then, chapman, and hope that I don’t disturb you when I come up to bed myself. I’ll try to be quiet.’
* * *
Whether she was quiet or not, I had no idea, for I was asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow and knew nothing further until the sun, forcing thin, probing fingers through the cracks of the shutters, stroked me gently awake.
I felt completely refreshed and, getting out of bed, opened the window to reveal a beautiful October morning, hazy with autumnal sunshine, houses and trees outlined in gold against the rapidly dispersing mist. Modbury was already awake. I could hear the lowing of cattle as they were driven to pasture, voices upraised in greeting as people went about their daily business, and the ringing of the church bell as it summoned its citizens to the first worship of the day.
My conscience nudged me. It was some time now since I had last confessed myself or sought out God’s House to ask His forgiveness for my sins. I decided, therefore, that I would visit the church after breakfast and rectify this omission. Over a plentiful meal of gruel and dried herrings, together with oatcakes warm from the oven, I asked Mistress Fettiplace if I might leave my pack and cudgel in her keeping until I returned, and was given her wholehearted blessing.
‘It’s nice to see young people mindful of their duty to God,’ she approved. ‘There’s too much free thinking nowadays, and much of it not short of heresy, if you ask my opinion. Lollards,’ she added darkly, nodding in a portentous way.
I have always been glad that God made our thoughts secret, kept them hidden from view, for I wouldn’t like others to see too often inside my head. What’s between God and me is a score only for Him to settle, but there are too many people in this world who think that they know His mind and have the right to speak for Him. Any poor soul who challenges their interpretation of His word risks his soul and maybe his life.
As I climbed the hill towards the church, I was greeted with the greatest friendliness by everyone I met; and by the time I had been stopped three or four times by locals anxious for news of the country in general and London in particular, the service was over and the worshippers beginning to disperse. Nevertheless, I pushed my way past them, determined to say a prayer for myself and my loved ones, and perhaps find a priest to hear my confession.
The interior of the church, which was dedicated to Saint George, was extremely dark, the more so because of the blinding sunshine out of doors. I stood at the back, just inside the porch, blinking at the distant chancel lights and waiting for my sight to clear. Above my head soared the arches of the nave. Slowly and carefully I inched my way forward into the gloom, pausing to bend my knee and cross myself as I approached the altar.
I looked for the priest, but he must have withdrawn to his house, eager for breakfast, as soon as the Mass was over, for there appeared to be no sign of him. So much, I thought, for my good intentions. I knelt down on the hard tiles and asked God to keep Adela and our children safe from harm during my absence, and could not help reminding Him that I was, after all, here on his business. ‘For you know very well that it was You who sent me to Plymouth in the first place,’ I added sternly.
God, as usual, vouchsafed no answer, and I got up from my knees feeling slightly irritated. I was about to leave the church and return to Anne Fettiplace’s cottage to collect my pack, when a sudden movement to my left made me start. Remembering the attempt on my life of the night before last, I spun around, hands clenched, ready to defend myself if necessary.
But it was not necessary. The figure that emerged from the North Transept was that of a woman, and my eyes were by now sufficiently accustomed to the darkness to recognize that she was richly dressed. I stood respectfully aside to let her pass before following her outside, into the sunshine. At the church door, she turned to thank me, and by the light of day, I saw that although she was not beautiful in the accepted sense of the word, she had finely chiselled features, with skin as brown as a hazel nut. Her eyes were also brown, dark and velvety, and the lashes that fringed them almost black. The effect was highly dramatic, and any man would have given her a second look.
‘Berenice,’ said a voice behind us, ‘are you ready to go home yet?’
We both glanced round, and there, coming along the path towards us, was Katherine Glover.
Chapter Twelve
She did not see me at first. Her eyes were fixed upon her mistress.
‘The horses are growing restless. You’ve been a long time,’ she said.
‘I stayed behind to pray after the rest of the congregation had left,’ Berenice replied. ‘I lit a candle for Great-Uncle Oliver.’
I saw Katherine Glover’s unguarded look of astonishment and her open mouth, as if she would make some remark. But then she noticed me and her expression turned to one of shock, then of resentment.
‘What are you doing in Modbury, chapman? Are you following me about?’ Without waiting for my answer, she turned to Berenice. ‘This is the pedlar I told you of. The one I met at the Bird of Passage Inn. The one who’s so inquisitive concerning our affairs.’
Her mistress regarded me quizzically. ‘So you’re the man, are you?’ The dark eyes were filled with sardonic amusement. ‘But you omitted to tell us, Kate, how extraordinarily handsome he is.’
I felt the beginnings of a blush, and in order to change the subject I said quickly, ‘When you refer to “us”, Mistress, I take it that you mean yourself and your betrothed, Master Bartholomew Champernowne.’
The laughter vanished and the strongly marked eyebrows rose. ‘Now how do you know that?’ she asked.
‘As far as your betrothal goes, I was told by someone in Plymouth that you and he were to marry. And because of what happened afterwards, I’m sure that he was with you when Mistress Glover returned home after our meeting at the inn.’
This time the eyebrows drew together in a frown.
‘What happened afterwards?’ Berenice demanded, and listened intently to my explanation. ‘The fool!’ she burst out angrily when I had finished. ‘If any of this — the suborning of witnesses, attempted murder — comes to the Sheriff’s ears, Bartholomew will be in very deep trouble indeed.’ She glanced anxiously at me. ‘Can I rely on your discretion, chapman, not to mention this story to anyone else?’