‘I shan’t say anything, you can be sure of that,’ Ned answered cheerfully. ‘Enjoy your freedom for a while. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight,’ I echoed, and followed my drinking companion outside.
It was a fairy world. All Hallows raised a ghostly head, and every contour was rounded and softened by a mantle of glittering white. There was already a hint of frost in the air and, later on, it would freeze; but for the moment, Ned and I were almost blinded by a curtain of whirling snowflakes. As we emerged into the Corn Market, we could just make out, on the opposite side of the thoroughfare, the entrance to Small Street, and the church of Saint Werburgh standing sentinel on the corner. All sound was muffled, and we had taken several steps in the direction of the Tolzey, where Ned and I would part company, when we both stopped and glanced enquiringly at one another.
‘Did you hear someone groan?’ I asked.
My companion nodded. ‘I thought I did.’ We listened carefully and the sound came again. ‘Back there,’ he said, indicating the way that we had come.
We retraced our steps, the noise guiding us to the church, where, in the porch, a man lay huddled on the ground. I went down on one knee, gently turning him over so that we could see his face in the light from the lantern hanging from the ceiling.
Ned gasped. ‘It’s Master Burnett,’ he said. ‘And he’s been pretty badly beaten, by the look of him.’
Chapter Nine
William Burnett was unconscious, but beginning to rouse a little, groaning and mumbling broken words. I bent lower, hoping to catch some of them, but they were too jumbled to make any sense. The weather was worsening and he must be got under cover as soon as possible.
I looked up at Ned Stoner, who was peering anxiously over my shoulder. ‘Run and get two of the Burnetts’ men to bring a litter. Meantime, I’ll get him into the church where he will at least be out of this bitter cold.’
Ned said, ‘Right!’ and sped off down Small Street, while I pushed open the door of Saint Werburgh’s and lifted Master Burnett inside. I hadn’t long to wait. Indeed, I had only just laid my burden down again, when the door burst open and Alison appeared. The hood of her cloak had fallen back unheeded, and her hair was wet with snow. She was still wearing her velvet house shoes, not having paused either to change them or to strap on her wooden pattens. They and the hems of her gown and cloak were sodden.
‘William!’ she cried, crouching down beside her husband. She raised her eyes to mine. ‘What’s happened?’
I had no time to answer then, as the arrival of the Burnetts’ menservants, carrying a hastily improvised litter of a blanket knotted between two poles, precluded any further conversation until we had William safely within doors. Once in the candlelit warmth of the Small Street house, it was easier to ascertain how badly he was hurt. No bones appeared to be broken, but he was, nevertheless, severely bruised about the face, with a swollen and bloody nose, one eye half-closed and the other already beginning to discolour. The women of the household fussed and clucked about him, and Alison Burnett sent one of the maids to rouse the physician who lived nearby, in Bell Lane.
‘And don’t come back without him,’ she instructed the hapless girl. ‘The old charlatan won’t want to come out on a night like this if he can help it. And you!’ She rounded on one of the men. ‘Go and inform the Watch what has happened. As for you, Ned Stoner, you can be off and take the news to my father. Not that I suppose he’ll care!’
As she addressed no remark to me, I lingered, hoping that when William Burnett recovered his wits, he might be able to say who had attacked him. I suggested, therefore, that I carry him up to bed, an offer which was gratefully accepted. So, with the assistance of the other manservant, who took his feet, I manoeuvred William’s inert form up the narrow, twisting stairs to the bedchamber he shared with Alison, and laid him tenderly on the red damask silk coverlet. As I did so, he stirred and opened his eyes.
‘William! What happened?’ his wife demanded, bending over him. ‘You’ve been badly beaten. Who did it?’ William stared blankly at her for a moment, then turned his head restlessly on the pillows. ‘Who did it?’ she repeated.
I was standing in the shadows, unnoticed by the injured man, but able to see him quite clearly in the light from the candle placed near the bed. His eyes opened again, but this time to full consciousness and, I could have sworn, to complete knowledge of what had befallen him. There was the sudden intake of a short, painful breath, and an awareness in every line of his face which told its own story. I felt sure that William Burnett knew who had set upon him and why …
His eyes glazed over, his features grew slack and his head rolled back towards Alison. ‘Someone attacked me,’ he muttered.
And very little more could be got from him in spite of her persistent probing. He had, as he reminded her, been on his way to the New Inn for a rummer of ale when, as he turned the corner of Small Street into the Corn Market by Saint Werburgh’s church, a man with his hood drawn forward over his face had waylaid him, demanding money. When he had refused to surrender his purse, he had been beaten about the head and body until he lost consciousness, and knew nothing further until this minute.
I said quietly, ‘Ned Stoner and I saw Irwin Peto in the Lattis, a few minutes before we found Master Burnett.’
William jumped at the sound of my voice as I stepped forward into the circle of light. ‘Who … who’s Irwin Peto?’ he quavered.
I explained. ‘Surely you must have been told the name by which Clement Weaver says he was known during all those lost years,’ I added.
Alison snorted. ‘Maybe we were informed of it, but we took no notice. We’re not interested in the creature and his lies.’ Her eyes kindled with sudden anger. ‘William, do you think he might have attacked you? Perhaps he saw you, quite by chance, and decided to take his revenge because we refuse to acknowledge his claim.’
‘Well, yes … I suppose it could have been him,’ her husband admitted slowly. ‘But I’ve no proof. And why should he demand money from me?’
‘To throw you off the scent, of course.’ Alison’s face set in rigid lines of disdain. ‘If Master Chapman and Ned Stoner hadn’t seen him in the Lattis, we shouldn’t have known that he was anywhere near at hand.’
‘When the man hit you,’ I put in, ‘the strength of the blow might well have caused his hood to fall back from his face. Think, sir! Do you recall getting a glimpse of his features?’
William shook his head. ‘The first blow knocked me clean out of my senses.’ He looked at his wife. ‘But you may well be right, my love. It could have been the creature.’
I was puzzled. I remained convinced that William Burnett had recognized his assailant, and that it was not Irwin Peto. And in any case, why was it necessary for him to put a name to his attacker? Every town and city in the kingdom, then as now, is full of these birds of prey who haunt the streets after dark, robbing, maiming and murdering. If William insisted that he had been set upon by a common cutpurse, no one would think to query it. But if Alison carried an accusation against Irwin Peto to her father, as she was very likely to do in her present mood, it would only give the Alderman greater cause for offence than already existed.
The thought seemed to strike William at the same moment that it occurred to me, and he roused himself in sudden agitation, clasping his wife’s arm. ‘No, no! It wasn’t the creature! I’m sure of it now! Alison, I forbid you to go to your father with this story. The man who set upon me was an ordinary footpad. You must believe me.’
His tone was urgent. Obsessed with keeping his secret, he had foolishly allowed himself to implicate another man, and he was now likely to rue this deception unless he could convince his wife of his change of heart. But it was obvious to me that Alison now considered the situation between herself and her father to be as bad as it could get, and she seemed to have abandoned all hope of a reconciliation. Her one pleasure, henceforth, would be to prove to the Alderman, as often as possible, the depraved nature of the man who claimed to be his son. It was also obvious that Alison regarded her husband’s sudden retraction as no more than a ploy to curb her animosity; her soothing reassurances that of course she believed him, only serving to underline her incredulity. William must have realized this, too, for after a time, being in considerable pain, he gave up the struggle to convince her and lay back against the pillows, closing his eyes.