‘Half-nephew,’ I corrected her.
She went on as though I hadn’t spoken. ‘I have no family of my own, and the neighbours have shunned me since Luke was born. As far as they’re concerned, I’m no better than a whore. So I decided I must take John’s advice and seek you out and ask for your help. But when I got to Bristol, you weren’t at home and your wife didn’t know when to expect you.’ Juliette put up a trembling hand to her mouth. ‘I didn’t know what to do. The story was too difficult and too complex to explain to a stranger and I felt so ill. Oh, I know that’s no excuse, but I just said the first thing that came into my head, that the child was yours and asked her — your wife — to take him in. Of course, I knew I’d done wrong as soon as I’d said it. My only comfort was that she didn’t seem to believe me.’
‘Maybe not at once,’ I answered grimly. ‘But Adela had time to think things over before I got home and decided there might be some truth in your story. As I told you, she left me for a while and I had to follow her to London.’ There was a strained silence between us which I eventually broke by getting to my feet and saying, ‘Well, at least now I know the truth, I shan’t think quite so badly of you.’
‘Would. . Would you like to see Luke?’ she asked tentatively.
I shook my head. ‘No.’
I think she knew by my tone of voice that it was useless to persist.
I shouldered my pack, took a grasp on my cudgel and left.
SEVEN
Then I went back.
Some sixth sense must have told her that I would, because Juliette opened the door before I had time to knock. I followed her into the parlour only to find Jane Spicer also there with the child, a boy about ten months old, rather small for his age — but then, both parents were on the small side — with his mother’s colouring of copper-red curls and large brown eyes. Held upright in the older woman’s arms, he surveyed me critically before giving vent to an enormous yawn and lowering his head to Jane Spicer’s shoulder. Plainly, I was dismissed as being of no interest, but not someone to be afraid of, either.
‘Mistress Gerrish,’ I said, ‘I want you to understand that I really can’t help you. I accept that I’m your son’s uncle. There’s no possible way you could know about my half-brother by hearsay alone. You must have met him — ’
‘John Wedmore is Luke’s father,’ she cut in earnestly. ‘I swear it.’
‘I believe you,’ I assured her. She didn’t have to convince me, either, that she was dying. ‘But there’s nothing I can do about it, you must see that. Between us, my wife and I already have three children and we are not rich people. To ask Adela to take in and rear my half-brother’s bastard is more than I can find the courage to do. If Luke were a girl it might make a difference. A very slight difference. Our daughter, Elizabeth, is mine, not hers, and she lost a daughter of her own. But another boy. . No! You must see that it’s impossible.’
Juliette sat down rather suddenly, her face ashen, obviously in the grip of pain. The jug of wine was still on the table and she poured some into her mazer with a shaking hand, swallowing it almost at a gulp. Then she looked pleadingly at Jane.
I saw something like a spasm of pity crease the other woman’s face, but the next moment her features had hardened again.
‘It’s no good, Juliette,’ she said. ‘I won’t be persuaded to change my mind. At my age I’m not prepared to look after a young child single-handed. The Virgin knows I’m fond of him, but not enough to take on that responsibility. If Walter had married me as he promised, it might have been a different matter.’ Her lip curled. ‘But when I was fool enough to mention the possibility to him, you know very well what happened. He ran away.’
Juliette looked distressed. ‘I thought he went only to take up this new position in Somerset because of the money. I thought. . I thought he might send for you, or come back and fetch you when he was settled. Maybe,’ she added, brightening a little, ‘this Sir Lionel you mentioned might not have employed him after all. Perhaps he’ll come home any day now.’
‘He’s been gone more than four months,’ Jane Spicer said drily. ‘Walter’s not coming home again, ever. I didn’t expect that he would. Any man who wants the best for his horses would be a fool to ignore Walter’s way with the animals. He only has to whisper to the most savage brute to have it eating out of his hand. His name was a byword in these parts. His former master begged him on bended knees not to leave. And I don’t believe he would have done — there have been Gurneys hereabouts for hundreds of years — if, as I say, I hadn’t mentioned to him about keeping Luke when. . when. .’
‘When I’m dead,’ Juliette finished for her. ‘But you don’t know for certain that that was what made him go away.’
Jane Spicer snorted and shifted the now sleeping child to her other arm. ‘I know Walter Gurney,’ she said emphatically. ‘And I tell you, Juliette, that as soon as that travelling barber mentioned this Sir Lionel Despenser to him, and that he’d just lost his head groom — ’
‘Sir Lionel Despenser?’ I questioned sharply. ‘Not of Keynsham, in Somerset?’
Both women turned to look at me. ‘You know him?’ Juliette asked.
‘I know of him. He has an estate near Keynsham Abbey, and the village itself is about five miles or so south-east of Bristol, on the road to Bath. He comes into the city on occasions. He’s the friend of our chief goldsmith, Gilbert Foliot.’
As I uttered the last few words, it seemed as if a giant hand had squeezed my entrails. Here was coincidence with a vengeance. Or was it? Until now, I hadn’t been aware of God taking a hand in this affair. Indeed, why should He? So far, I couldn’t think of anything that might interest Him. I still couldn’t. But as I keep saying, I don’t like coincidences; and so often in they past, they have meant that God was poking His nose into my business once again.
Juliette was addressing me eagerly, clutching at straws. ‘Roger, when you get back to Bristol, could you — would you — go to this place and talk to Walter Gurney? Try to persuade him to. . to. .’
‘Come back and marry me?’ Jane Spicer finished bluntly. ‘He won’t, of course.’
‘Why not?’ Juliette cried.
Jane Spicer shrugged as well as she could with the sleeping child’s arms entwined about her neck. She made no reply, but I guessed her thoughts. If her mistress couldn’t see the reason for herself, it wasn’t worthwhile trying to explain.
‘You will, Roger, won’t you?’ the younger woman insisted. ‘Promise me.’
What could I say? When a dying woman asks for help, it would take a harder man than I am to refuse, however useless my intervention was plainly destined to be. ‘Very well,’ I said.
‘Promise!’
‘I promise. And now I must go. God be with you.’
And this time, I really did take my leave.
I finally arrived back in Small Street on Monday, the third day of November and, although I would not learn this until the beginning of the following week, the day after Henry, Duke of Buckingham was publicly beheaded in Salisbury marketplace. The Welsh rebellion had been crushed and the king was on his way to Exeter to deal with the western uprising in an equally ruthless and efficient manner (but always, as was his way, tempering justice with mercy).
It had taken me somewhat longer than I expected to travel from Gloucester to Bristol, largely due to the state of the roads, never good but even worse than usual after the recent two months of appalling weather. This, at last, seemed to be on the mend, but the almost incessant wind and rain had left devastation in their wake. Fields were flooded, tracks ankle-deep in mud, bridges washed away, rivers in spate and fords impassable. I got a lift with a carter only once, and even then he had been unable to reach his intended destination at Fairford and been forced to turn back halfway.
Before I left Gloucester, I had followed Oliver Tockney’s example and replenished my pack with a number of items including two pairs of Spanish gloves, a set of very pretty carved bone buttons and a knife with an ivory inlaid handle, all of which I knew I could sell at a substantial profit. Unfortunately, I had been so carried away with my Gloucester bargains that I had added considerably to the weight of my pack, a fact which, as well as the conditions underfoot, had impeded my progress more than a little.