‘There, there! Don’t grizzle, Betsy. I didn’t mean it. Just get the pot back over the heat. This is a friend o’ mine, Roger, who’s going to stay a night or two. And when you’ve done that, you can take my bag upstairs. Where’s the master?’
‘Gone out, deliverin’ the mended shoes. ’E’ll be back soon.’
Her mistress nodded briskly. ‘Very well. Now stop gawping at Roger like you’ve never seen a good-looking man before and bustle about.’ The dame turned to me. ‘The accommodation ain’t much, lad, as you can see, but what there is you’m more than welcome to share for however long you want to stay. There’re two rooms upstairs, one that I share with my Jacob and a little one that Betsy sleeps in. But it won’t hurt her to sleep in the kitchen for a night or two.’
I immediately protested, at the same time trying to press my share of the carter’s fee on my hostess, who promptly rejected it with every appearance of being mortally insulted. In fact, she began to wheeze in such a distressed manner that I was forced to desist and assure her that I was only jesting. Also, when Betsy reappeared, she expressed perfect willingness to give up her room to me for as many nights as I wished, at the same time giving me such a broad wink, accompanied by an alluring swing of her hips, that I at once scented danger. If I didn’t find her in my bed, either that night or the one after, I should be very surprised. Disappointed, too. She was a cosy little armful.
Mistress Shoesmith and I had just finished our bowlfuls of rabbit stew, and I was about to start on my second, when we heard voices raised in the shop and, a moment later, the cobbler entered the kitchen, to be brought up short by the sight of his wife and a perfect stranger sitting at the table. Mistress Shoesmith greeted him rapturously.
‘I’ve come home early, my dear,’ she said, rising and casting herself into his arms. ‘Mary and I don’t rub along too well at the best of times, as you well know, and this visit she just ruffled me up the wrong way right from the start. So here I am, two days early. And this is a young friend of mine, Roger Chapman, who’s stopping with us tonight and tomorrow. He’s a pedlar and hoping to do a bit of trade today and make some money for his wife and kinder. Roger, this is my Jacob, what you’ve heard me speak about.’
Jacob Shoesmith was as skinny as his wife was plump, the classic pairing that I had noted so often in my life; the attraction of opposites. But in nature they seemed well matched, he accepting my presence without demur and indeed smiling a welcome without demanding any further explanation. He returned his wife’s embrace with a fervour equal to her own.
‘I’ve allus said your Mary’s a sharp-tongued shrew,’ was his sole comment before turning to the maid. ‘’Ere, Betsy, you seen a pair o’ black Spanish leather boots anywhere? I should’ve taken ’em with me to Sir Lionel’s, but somehow I mislaid ’em. . Ah! There they be!’ He pointed to a corner of the kitchen. ‘Now, how did they get in here? Must’ve walked by theirselves.’ He and the two women laughed heartily at his joke. Then he called out, ‘Found ’em, sir! They’re in here. I’ll bring ’em out.’
But before he could do so, another man entered the living quarters without so much as a by-your-leave and stood, looking contemptuously around him.
I knew at once who he was. He was the man I had seen in the courtyard of the Despenser manor house and, later, in Bristol, boarding the Breton ship.
SIXTEEN
Why did I feel so sure of that? At no time had I seen his features clearly enough to warrant such certainty. But there was something about his stance, the way he held himself, the arrogant set of his head on the broad shoulders, that left me in no doubt. I was also convinced that he was not Walter Gurney. His presence dominated the little room and he looked about him with a confidence that no servant, whatever his status, could command. He was a man used to consorting on equal terms with the very highest company. If he had indeed been Gilbert Foliot’s recent guest, I could understand the effort made to impress him; the silver, the glass, the leaping fire, the best armchair. The boots, too, which he almost snatched from the cobbler’s grasp, were fashioned from the very best Cordoban leather.
‘You’re a damn careless fellow, mislaying them like that,’ he said, and I noticed that his English was slightly accented, not so much in the manner of a foreigner speaking a strange tongue, but more after the fashion of a native who had spent many years abroad. Brittany, perhaps? With Henry Tudor?
‘I’m sorry, I’m sure, sir,’ the cobbler apologized. ‘I dunno ’ow they got in ’ere from the workshop. I ’ope it ain’t delayed Your Honour’s journey too much.’
The man vouchsafed no reply to this observation, merely repeating over his shoulder, ‘You’re a damn careless fellow. I don’t know why Sir Lionel puts up with you.’ The next moment he was gone, the curtain between the inner room and the shop rattling noisily on its rings.
‘The impudence of it!’ my hostess exclaimed wrathfully. ‘What did he mean by that? I think I’ll go after him and give him a piece of my mind.’
‘Now, now my girl,’ her husband said, laying a hand on her arm. ‘Not so hasty. The gen’leman’s got right on ’is side. I shouldn’t’ve forgotten ’is boots. Nor Sir Lionel’s red Moroccan slippers neither. I don’ know what’s got into me this morning. I’ll ’ave t’ go to the manor with them this afternoon.’
Mistress Shoesmith was not to be pacified. ‘That ugly brute,’ she declared hotly, ‘could’ve taken Sir Lionel’s slippers with him and saved you a journey. He must be staying at the manor. ’E wouldn’t be likely t’ be staying anywhere else.’
‘Now ’old yer ’orses, dearie. ’Old yer ’orses! First, it’s my fault entirely fer bein’ so bloody forgetful. Must be gettin’ old or something. Second, the gen’leman ain’t goin’ back t’ the manor. ’E ’ad ’is ’orse waitin’ fer ’im outside and ’e’s off down Cornwall way. Won’t be comin’ back. Leastways, so ’e says. And there ain’t no reason not t’ believe ’im. So I’ll just ’ave t’ trudge to the manor again. Serve me right an’ all. Maybe I won’t be so careless in the future.’ He turned towards me. ‘Now tell me again oo this is. Didn’t catch it proper the first time.’
So the introductions and explanations were gone through for a second time and Jacob Shoesmith welcomed me as warmly as his wife, generously bidding me to consider their home as mine for as long as was necessary.
‘And now, my dear,’ his wife exhorted me, ‘if you want t’ do some selling, you’d best get out right away. Fer it’s Sunday tomorrow and I heard you make arrangements with Joseph Sibley to go on to Glastonbury with him on Monday. Besides, it gets dark early these days. You’ll be back fer supper, o’ course.’
I took the hint and shouldered my pack somewhat reluctantly, the goodwife’s rabbit stew lying heavily on my stomach. But it also gave me the opportunity I had been looking for.
‘Let me take Sir Lionel’s slippers to the manor for you, Master Shoesmith,’ I offered, holding out my hand for them. ‘It will save you another journey.’
There was the inevitable argument of course, husband and wife both protesting that I didn’t need to go beyond the village, and certainly not as far as the manor, while I insisted that it made no difference to me whatsoever. In the end, of course, I won. I made certain of that. I had been wondering how I could get inside the manor again if I was refused entry on the grounds of peddling my goods, and this gave me the perfect opportunity.
So, with the slippers wrapped in a piece of old sacking and tucked safely under my arm, my pack on my back and my cudgel in my hand I set out, promising to return in due course for supper.