The elder Callowhill boy, a pleasant, fresh-faced lad whose name I knew to be Martin, objected. ‘But would robberies have been attempted at all your houses? I mean, if someone who was at Tintern Abbey is the instigator of the break-ins. .’
‘One could be faked,’ I pointed out gently, and he let out a long, low whistle.
His mother frowned disapprovingly and glanced towards her husband. But the wine merchant issued no reprimand: he was busy wrestling with thoughts of his own.
He addressed me. ‘You’re thinking that if young Noakes did discover something, he might have planted it on one of us?’
‘Yes, in our baggage. You may remember that he ran back into the infirmary before escaping.’
Master Callowhill rose to his feet. ‘Let’s put this theory of yours to the test. I shall send one of the maids to Redcliffe immediately to enquire of Alderman Roper if anything is actually missing. If the answer is “no”, I think that will prove your point.’
‘Sir, it’s pouring with rain,’ I protested. ‘Send later in the day if you must.’
‘Pooh!’ My host rejected this argument with a wave of his hand. ‘A drop of rain doesn’t hurt anyone.’ And he left the room.
When he returned a moment or two later, it was to say that a girl had been despatched and would not be many minutes. Meantime, would I have more ale?
I accepted, although silently cursing this unlooked-for delay. It meant that the morning would be well advanced before I began my walk to Keynsham. But at least there was a chance that the rain might have eased off by then.
The conversation flagged due to the fact that Henry Callowhill seemed temporarily withdrawn, staring unseeingly ahead of him and occupied by his own thoughts. Then, suddenly, he burst out with, ‘No, no! I cannot believe that either Lawyer Heathersett or my good friend Gilbert Foliot would go to such lengths as to organize robberies in order to discover if young Noakes had hidden anything in our baggage. And who else is there? It’s utterly preposterous. For one thing, they wouldn’t know how to set about it. For another, they would only have to ask us. I repeat, the notion is ridiculous. Geoffrey, after all, is a man of the law himself. And Gilbert is one of my most respected friends. He has even offered to admit me to the Fraternity of St Mary Bellhouse. Only last week, he did the boys and me the honour of showing us all over St Peter’s Church. Is that not so, lads?’
Both boys nodded and Martin added eagerly, ‘Did you know, Master Chapman, that St Peter’s is built on the foundations of the old Saxon church? There is still a portion of the original crypt underneath the present bell tower.’
I smiled at his enthusiasm. He was obviously a boy with a thirst for knowledge. ‘And did you know,’ I asked him, remembering some of Brother Hilarion’s more subversive teaching, ‘that the Saxon term for a Norman was Orc? A term of abuse, of course. Or that our Saxon forefathers called the great battle near Hastings the Battle for Middle Earth? Middle earth being where we live, between Heaven and Hell.’
Henry Callowhill gave a loud cough, an indication that he considered the discussion had gone far enough. We were all English nowadays. Memories of the old, divisive times were not to be encouraged.
Luckily, as a rather heavy silence had descended, the young kitchen girl made her appearance, wet and out of breath. She bobbed a curtsey to her master and mistress.
‘Please sir, ma’am, the alderman says as how he can’t rightly find anything missing, but he’s sure there must be summat as’ll be discovered later.’
She made another curtsey and withdrew, hopefully to get warm and dry. My host pulled down the corners of his mouth.
‘It seems as if your theory could be the correct one, Roger. Well, as I have said, it can’t possibly be one of us. So who else could it be?’
I was not prepared to answer this and got to my feet. ‘Master Callowhill, I’m afraid I must bid you good-day. I’ve my living to earn and have determined to walk as far as Keynsham today. Don’t refine too much on anything I’ve said. I could be wrong in my assumptions. It’s probably no more than a gang of bravos working the Bristol streets. The Watch will soon have their measure and clap them behind bars.’
He looked unconvinced and when he accompanied me to the front door — a mark of respect he would never have accorded me in the past and yet another indication of my increased standing in the community, however undeserved — he said in a low voice, ‘You don’t really believe that.’
‘I don’t know what I believe,’ I told him. The rumours of a royal spy having been discovered in the town, or of a treasonable plot being hatched, seemed not to have reached him so I decided to say nothing further. But as he was a man of education and learning I asked him if he had any idea what might have been happening in the year thirteen twenty-six. ‘The year mentioned in those account books found in the abbot’s secret hiding place.’
But he was unable to help me. Nor, when they were applied to, were either of his sons. There was a limit to their knowledge.
I thanked them and set out once more, heading for the Redcliffe Gate.
The rain had ceased by the time I had walked a mile or so beyond the gate and a thin autumnal sun was trying to penetrate the clouds. The wayside shrines, dedicated to various saints, but mostly to the Virgin, glowed here in all the freshness of a new coat of paint, or showed there the battered, weather-beaten face of neglect. Yet none was truly neglected; even the most dilapidated boasted its posy of flowers or, now that November was almost half done, an offering of leaves and berries. I reflected how much the Virgin was beloved in this country. English names and places — marigold and Lady’s smock, Mary’s Mead and Ladygrove — all testified to the fact. Her image was everywhere, in gold and silver, alabaster and marble, and every statue studded with a plethora of gems. Poems abounded in her praise and Mary was the most common girl’s name in the English language. .
My ruminations were interrupted by the sound of cart-wheels just behind me, and the next moment, the cart itself had pulled up alongside, a handsome brute of a shire horse harnessed between the shafts. Seated on the box beside the carter was my acquaintance of the previous day, the cobbler’s wife from Keynsham, Mistress Shoesmith.
‘I thought it were you, young man,’ she said. ‘There’s not many of your height about. I’d like to thank ’ee again for your kindness of yesterday.’ She added, lowering her voice confidentially, ‘I decided to go home earlier than intended. My sister and I had a few words. We ain’t that fond o’ one another, but I feel I’ve got to visit her from time to time. She’s my only kith and kin. Apart from my Jacob, that is.’ She eyed me speculatively. ‘Where’re you bound?’
‘Keynsham,’ I said, ‘to sell my wares.’
She at once turned to the carter sitting stolidly beside her and poked him in the ribs. ‘Give him a lift, Joseph Sibley,’ she ordered. ‘I’ll pay you. There’s room enough if I squeeze up a bit. Or he can sit in the back on one o’ them crates.’ She turned to me. ‘There’s only candles in ’em.’
The carter, a man I knew vaguely by sight, having seen him on various occasions in the company of Jack Nym, grunted assent and shifted obligingly to the edge of the box. Mistress Shoesmith followed suit and patted the narrow space thus left. I heaved my pack and cudgel into the cart on top of the crates of candles and climbed aboard. There wasn’t much room and, to her obvious delight, I was forced to put an arm around my benefactress’s broad waist to prevent myself from toppling off.
‘Eh, lad,’ she gurgled, ‘this takes me back to my girlhood. I haven’t had a cuddle with a good-looking man since I married my Jacob.’ She grew serious. ‘Are you visiting your friend Sir Lionel Despenser again?’
The carter snorted with laughter, evidently taking this for a joke.
I let him think it. And in a way he was right. The knight, I was sure, only treated me with civility because Gilbert Foliot had warned him that it would be circumspect to do so. ‘No,’ I answered cheerfully. ‘Just hoping to make some money for my wife and children. I shall spend tonight at the abbey and return home again tomorrow.’