‘You’re not going away so soon?’ Adela demanded indignantly when I had made my plans known to her.
‘Only for a night. Two nights at most. As long as it takes me to walk to Keynsham and back again. I won’t carry my pack. I’ll be quicker that way.’
‘Well, see that you are. And you can take Hercules with you. The walk will do him good. He’s getting far too fat and lazy.’
The sagacious animal, sprawled inelegantly beside the fire, opened one eye and gave her a baleful stare.
Nevertheless, he seemed willing enough to accompany me when I set out early the following morning. It was still dark as we passed through the Redcliffe Gate and a sickly sliver of moon rode high in the heavens, appearing and disappearing between the storm-driven clouds. A strong wind, soughing through the scrubland on either side of the track, sounded like the hushing of the sea.
‘I’m afraid we’re in for a wet walk, old friend,’ I said, pulling my cloak more firmly about me and my hat down over my ears.
Hercules, however, was already investigating various promising scents and noises coming from the bushes and tufts of long grass growing by the side of the road, and was not yet in the mood for playing a dog who was being hard done by. That would come later when he decided it was time to be carried. Adela was right about him, I decided. He had put on weight since I went away.
As a reluctant and watery sun rose over the distant hills, painting the landscape a pale and dirty yellow, the track began to get busier. Hercules and I met an increasing number of farmers and smallholders driving or walking their goods to Bristol market. A weary friar, his bare feet blue and swollen with sores and cold, gave me a cheerful ‘God be with you!’ and would have paused for a word with Hercules, but the ungrateful beast only growled and went off in pursuit of an imaginary rabbit.
The rain which had threatened since dawn was, in spite of the scurrying clouds, still holding off by the time we sighted Keynsham somewhere around mid-afternoon. The rest of the journey had been as uneventful as its beginning. And with only one stop in the lee of a hedge to eat the bread and cheese provided by Adela, we had made excellent progress. But with daylight already fading, there was no doubt that we should be forced to find accommodation for the night.
But as I passed along Keynsham High Street, I could see no sign of an inn. I had always thought it a mean place, with little besides the abbey to recommend it. The houses were, for the most part, crudely built, one-storey, daub-and-wattle dwellings with thatched roofs and single windows closed by wooden shutters. No worse than many other places of its size and kind, I supposed, and the Romans hadn’t spurned it. At least, I had once been shown bits of pottery and tessellated pavement that had been discovered in the bed of the River Chew, the muddy tributary of the Avon which encircled the village.
Enquiries for Sir Lionel Despenser’s holding led me up the steep hill at the eastern end of the main street and in the direction of Bath for perhaps some half a mile or so. I was just beginning to fear that I had lost my way when an arched gateway rose in front of me, suddenly appearing out of the gathering gloom and with the light from a wall torch illuminating the massive bell-pull.
An overzealous tug on the rope caused the bell itself to clash loud enough to waken the dead in the abbey graveyard and to provoke a furious response from the guard dog on the other side of the gate. This affront to his dignity sent Hercules into a positive frenzy so that by the time the gatekeeper arrived, Sir Lionel himself had emerged from the house to demand what, in God’s name, was going on.
‘Who’s there, Fulk? Why is the dog making all this racket?’
‘Dunno, master. There seems to be someone outside the gate.’
‘Of course there’s someone outside the gate, you dolt! He rang the bloody bell!’ Sir Lionel had by now hushed his own dog and I had picked up Hercules, holding him firmly under one arm. ‘Ask who it is.’
I saved the man the trouble. ‘It’s Roger Chapman, sir. You promised me I might have a word with your groom, Walter Gurney.’
There was a sudden silence, all the more profound after the recent cacophony. A moment or two later, the knight said slowly, ‘So I did. You’d better come in.’
The man he had addressed as Fulk drew back the bolts and eased the gates open just enough for me to pass through.
I found myself in an impressively large courtyard surrounded on three sides by the house itself and its outbuildings. The guard dog was now under the control of a third man who, at a nod from Sir Lionel, led him away towards what I presumed were the kennels. But I was taking no chances: I still held fast to Hercules.
The knight and I sized one another up, then he smiled. ‘Have you walked here?’
I nodded.
‘You’d better come inside, then. You must be tired. It’s all right, Fulk. I know this man. He won’t harm me.’
The retainer grunted, closed and bolted the gates again before slouching off into the darkness. Sir Lionel led me indoors, into a great hall with elaborately carved and painted beams, the reds and blues and greens embellished here and there with gold leaf which shimmered in the firelight. On a dais at one end of the chamber a substantial meal had been set out on a long trestle table, and an armchair with a brocaded seat had been pushed back at right angles to it. The knight had obviously been disturbed in the middle of his supper. A tall, lean man who was presumably his steward (his wand of office was propped against the back of his chair) and one or two other household officials were seated at either end of the board, but there was no sign of any female company. I recollected that Sir Lionel was a bachelor.
He slapped me on the shoulder. ‘Come and eat with me,’ he invited. Taking my acceptance for granted, he addressed a server who had just appeared from behind the kitchen screen, carrying a covered dish. ‘Robin, set another place beside mine.’ He indicated Hercules, now struggling to be put down. ‘And take the dog to the sculleries and find him some water and scraps.’
I wasn’t sure that Hercules would go with him — he was wary of strangers — but to my surprise, he trotted off at the fellow’s heels quite happily. He had evidently decided that there was nothing to be afraid of.
I took my place on the dais next to Sir Lionel and was soon tucking into baked carp in a galentyne sauce — if this was an ordinary midweek supper, then my host lived in a very high style — followed by a syllabub of pears. I couldn‘t help wondering why I was being treated with such unprecedented courtesy (for a common pedlar, that is) and came to the conclusion that Gilbert Foliot had imparted his quite erroneous belief that I was an agent for King Richard to his friend.
When I had finished eating, but not before, I once again broached the possibility of a private word with Walter Gurney.
‘Ah!’ Sir Lionel gave a wry smile. ‘Unfortunately, that’s impossible.’ I said nothing, waiting for the explanation which I felt sure would be forthcoming. ‘Walter has, unhappily, left my employ.’
‘Left?’
‘I’m afraid so. The day after I gave him your message, he packed his things and went, taking one of my best horses with him. As payment of wages I suppose.’
‘Do you have any idea why he departed so abruptly?’
My host snorted with laughter, but he was plainly not amused.
‘My dear fellow, I should have thought that was obvious, wouldn’t you? Your message frightened him away.’ He produced a wintry smile. ‘I don’t know what your business is with him. Nor do I wish to know. It seems to be a matter better kept between the two of you. But whatever it is, he was scared of meeting you.’