I scrambled to my feet, tossing my apple core into his lap, which he brushed clear of his excellent woollen hose with an exclamation of annoyance. ‘No, thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m happy as I am, being my own master. I must be going. How long do you intend to remain here?’
‘Until tomorrow perhaps, but no longer. Whereabouts does this Baldwin Lightfoot live?’
I nodded towards the scattering of buildings. ‘Mistress Burnett says his house stands a little apart from the others, with a high-walled orchard adjacent, and I can see only one that answers that description. In any case, if I should prove to be wrong, an enquiry or two should soon locate him.’
I did not add that a cottage in the foreground, with pens for hens and geese, and a small pond behind it for ducks, was the most urgent object of my attention. However, I had already decided that pleasure must come after business, and therefore, with Timothy’s eyes still upon me, I made my way along the street, pausing only to confirm from a passing stranger that Baldwin Lightfoot’s was indeed the house with the orchard.
My informant was a local man, a woodsman judging by the billhook that dangled from one hand and the axe slung across his opposite shoulder. ‘Ay, that’s where Master Lightfoot lives all right. And next to him is the Widow Twynyho’s, she as used to be one of the ladies-in-waiting to the poor young Duchess of Clarence, God rest her soul.’ There was evidently some pride in this royal connection.
I thanked the man and walked on through the quiet of the afternoon towards Baldwin’s house. As I approached it, I heard, very faint and as yet some miles distant, the rhythmic pounding of horses’ hooves; and, every now and then, so still was the air, the jingle of harness.
Chapter Twelve
Baldwin Lightfoot’s house was solidly built of local stone, too small to be a manor, but a substantial dwelling place, nonetheless. There was a capacious undercroft for storage, a paved courtyard in front and a garden behind. Alongside was the orchard, the tops of the trees just visible over the high wall that enclosed them.
I crossed the courtyard and knocked at the door. It was answered by an elderly woman in a gown of dark blue homespun and a bleached linen hood and apron, both of which were slightly soiled and crumpled. The bunch of keys jangling at her belt proclaimed her Baldwin’s housekeeper.
‘Is your master in?’ I asked.
She took one look at my pack and said, ‘Not to pedlars he isn’t. But the girl and I might be interested if you’ll come through to the kitchen.’
‘I’m not selling anything,’ I answered. ‘I’ve been sent with a letter to Master Lightfoot from his cousin, Mistress Burnett of Bristol.’
The housekeeper eyed me doubtfully, disinclined to believe my story, but at the same time recognizing a certain ring of truth about it. ‘Why would she send a chapman?’ she demanded.
Fortunately, before it became necessary for me to embark on any sort of explanation, I heard a door open somewhere, and the next moment a man strolled into view. ‘Who is it, Janet? Who is this person?’
He was tall, almost certainly over fifty, heavily built with what had once been a well-muscled frame now running to fat. In his younger days he had probably been very handsome, but his face had grown soft and flabby, melting into a travesty of its former good looks. The thinning brown hair, liberally streaked with grey, had receded far enough to reveal a high, domed forehead, and only the eyes, a clear, curiously light grey, retained any spark of youth. There were food stains on his clean-shaven chin, and an unpleasant, faintly sourish odour emanated from his clothes. Yet in spite of all this, he had a cocksure bearing and an air of self-satisfaction that instantly conveyed to the onlooker his pleasure in himself and in all his works.
‘This pedlar claims he’s been sent to you with a letter from Mistress Burnett, Master,’ the housekeeper said, confirming, if confirmation were necessary, that this was indeed Baldwin Lightfoot.
‘From my Cousin Alison?’ He frowned, unable, in common with Dame Janet, to understand his kinswoman’s choice of messenger. But the next moment, his attention, the attention of the three of us and indeed of the whole of Keyford, was distracted by what was taking place less than a hundred yards from his door.
While I had been standing there, the pounding hoofbeats had been growing ever louder, the jingle of harness more intrusive upon the ear, until now, suddenly, riders and mounts burst into view and were all about us in a flurry of plunging, rearing horses and shouted orders. Within moments of dismounting, armed men in the livery of the Duke of Clarence were smashing their way into a nearby house, not bothering to knock or wait for an answer to their summons, dealing summarily and brutally with anyone foolhardy enough to get in their way. From inside the walls there arose a terrible screaming, a female voice, hysterical with fear. A few minutes later, a woman, her arms pinioned, her face bleeding, was dragged outside and thrown across a saddle-bow with no more consideration than if she had been a sack of grain. Neighbours, lured from their houses by all the noise, stood petrified with terror by what was happening; by that constant and unseen danger which lurks in wait for all of us, and comes out of the blue to shatter our peaceful lives, even on the sunniest and quietest of days.
I turned, horrified, to Baldwin Lightfoot. ‘What are they doing to that woman? Who is she? What has she done? For pity’s sake, we must try to stop them!’ I gripped his arm.
‘Leave well alone, man! Leave well alone!’ He dislodged my hand from his sleeve. ‘It’s none of our business. Come away! Come indoors!’ And he fairly dragged me across the threshold, displaying an unexpected strength when roused.
It was my turn to fight free of him as I made once again for the door. ‘We can’t let her be abducted without raising a finger! If you and I and the rest of the men in this village stand together…’ I did not stop to finish the sentence, but lifted the latch and ran across the courtyard, heading for the street.
But Baldwin Lightfoot lived up to his name. He was nimbler and speedier than I would ever have credited him with being, and was after me in a trice, throwing his arms around me in a vice-like grip. ‘These people mean business,’ he hissed in my ear.
I struggled furiously. ‘Let me go! If you won’t come with me, let me do what I can on my own. No need for you to be involved.’
‘You’ve involved me already by being within my pale,’ he retorted, his arms tightening about my waist. ‘It will be noted that you came from this house and that will stand as a mark against me. Besides,’ he added on a triumphant note, ‘you’re too late. They’re on their way.’
He was right. The men-at-arms, having securely bound and gagged the unfortunate woman, and one of the bravos having mounted behind her, were off down the street as fast as they could gallop, and were soon nothing more than a cloud of dust on the horizon, a thudding of hooves growing ever fainter as they receded into the distance …
Silence seeped back again into Keyford, birds resumed their singing, sunlight dappled the grass and the rutted track, the delicate scent of apple blossom drifted over the orchard wall. The recent violence might have been no more than a bad dream but for the shattered door of the neighbouring house. It had all happened so fast and so unexpectedly that the inhabitants were wandering about in a daze, unable at first to speak. But gradually, they began to gather in little groups, muttering to one another, embracing one another for comfort, trying to make sense of what they had witnessed. Baldwin, releasing me, joined a knot of people gathered outside his gate.
‘Why,’ he asked no one in particular, ‘would the Duke of Clarence send to arrest Widow Twynyho? She was lady-in-waiting to the late Duchess and a member of his household.’
There was a mumble of agreement, and one of the women added, ‘Ankaret’s such a gentle soul. What can she possibly have done to incur the Duke’s displeasure, let alone be treated like that?’ She shuddered. ‘And we all stood by and did nothing.’