Nicholas nodded vigorously, understanding only the name and the fact that he was being asked to express his approval. ‘Like Bess,’ he affirmed. ‘Like Bess.’
I thanked her and glanced towards the spinning wheel in the corner. ‘All goes well with Alderman Weaver?’
‘Very well. I’ve as much work as I can handle and he’s a kind and considerate employer. I’ve seen him once or twice when collecting my daily supply of wool, and he always remembers my name and gives me a friendly word.’
I was interested. ‘Is his so-called son ever with him?’ I asked.
Adela clapped a hand to her forehead. ‘There! I meant to tell you when I saw you again, and I quite forgot. I met them together one morning while you were away. I’d gone round by the rope-walk in order to get a breath of fresh air and to stretch my legs before returning to Margaret’s to pick up Nicholas. Alderman Weaver was looking very unwell and leaning heavily on the young man’s arm. But in spite of that, I thought how happy and contented he appeared.’
‘How can he possibly be happy and contented,’ I demanded angrily, ‘when he’s prepared to rob his daughter of her rights? How can he allow himself to be taken in by this impostor?’
‘Well, that was the strange thing,’ Adela answered slowly. ‘The Alderman hadn’t noticed me. It was a chilly morning with a nipping wind, and he had his hat pushed forward, over his eyes, against the cold. But the young man saw me. He was looking straight ahead, and as I drew abreast, he said, “Hello, Adela. I heard your husband had died and I’m sorry. You’d best marry a Bristol man next time.”’
I shrugged. ‘There’s nothing in that. He could easily have heard the Alderman talking about you after you’d called to ask him for work.’
‘But he knew me,’ she insisted. ‘He recognized me.’
‘He must have seen you when you called at the Broad Street house. Of course! That would be how he and Alderman Weaver came to be talking about you. “Who was that?” our friend would have wanted to know, and then your history would have come tumbling out.’
Adela shook her head. ‘You’re forgetting,’ she said. ‘I didn’t call in Broad Street. It was Margaret who went on my behalf. If this man is an impostor, we had never set eyes on one another before that morning by the rope-walk, but he knew me at once for who I am. And what is more, although my youthful memories of Clement Weaver are hazy, there’s one thing about him that I do recall. Clement had a habit of looking you directly in the eyes when he spoke, as if everything he said was a challenge that he was expecting you to take up and contradict. This man looked at me in precisely the same fashion. You know, Roger, the more I think about it, the more I’m inclined to the view that he could well be who he claims he is.’
Chapter Fifteen
I have mentioned on at least two previous occasions in this narrative, the fact that throughout this strange case of Clement Weaver I was destined to be an observer of great events, simply because God decreed that I should be in the right place at the right moment. And so it was that during the last week of May, a few days after the execution of Thomas Burdet, I was passing through the city of Westminster when Clarence stormed his way into the palace council chamber to protest his henchman’s innocence.
I had taken almost a month over the journey to London, not hurrying, going out of my way to visit the remoter communities of Wiltshire and Berkshire and the city approaches, allowing the quiet of the countryside to act as balm to my bruised and battered spirit. I had set out from Lawford’s Gate still convinced of my undying passion for Rowena Honeyman, only to discover that by the time I reached the scattered hamlets and holdings of Savernake Forest, a whole day would go by without my once conjuring up her face. Indeed, as the fitful showers of early May gave way to more smiling weather, and as the white stars of the campion flowers began to displace primroses and sweet wild violets, I found that I might not think of her for several days together, until something happened to jog my memory. And even then, the sadness and regret did not last beyond an hour or two.
There was so much to be observed, and occasionally to be done when my services could be of any use, that I had little spare time for repining. May is the month for rethatching roofs after the depredations of winter, when torn and loosened straw must be flattened down and stitched into place; for threshing grain when the weather is kind; for planting peas and weeding autumn-sown corn; for draining grassland. It is also the season for the start of the summer activities.
On Whit Sunday, after Mass, I clapped and cheered the Morris dancers on the green of some village whose name I have long since forgotten, although I shall never forget the mouthwatering taste of the Whitsun cheesecake given to me by one of the local Goodies. The pastry which encased it was light as thistledown, while the flavours of clove and mace were so skilfully blended with the curds and egg yolks that there was no bitterness or stinging of the tongue. And when I fell asleep that night, beside that same Goody’s damped-down fire, I was undisturbed by dreams of a little, straight nose, periwinkle-blue eyes and a small, determined chin, all in a frame of silky fair hair. The following morning I awoke refreshed, and, if not entirely carefree, then certainly without that weight of misery that I had carried with me for so many miles at the beginning of my journey.
I was even prepared, when at last I reached it, to look with a tolerant eye upon the city of Westminster with its teeming streets full of aggressive Flemish merchants, not so much trying to sell their wares as to force them at knife-point on innocent passersby. Lawyers, in their long striped gowns, and Sergeants-at-arms, in their silken hoods, strutted in and out of Westminster Hall with as much pomp and inconvenience to other people as they could possibly manage. Furthermore, the city, then as now, has always been a hotbed of thieves and pickpockets who can be out by the gate and halfway along the Strand towards London before their victims realize that anything is missing.
That particular morning, I pushed my way through the crowds, brandishing my cudgel as a warning, letting everyone know that I should defend myself if the need arose. The pack on my back also served as a handy weapon, for although it was not so heavy as when I first left Bristol, it was still weighty enough to give any rogue a hefty blow to arm or face if I swung my body in his direction. Coupled with my girth and height, this proved to be deterrent enough, and I was untroubled even by those most determined of cutpurses who operate the stretch of ground between the waterfront and the Abbey.
As I headed towards one of the many cookshops, their goods displayed enticingly on trestle tables set up in front of their booths, I recalled the last time I was in Westminster, two years previously, when, on the eve of the English invasion of France, I had seen the Duke of Gloucester, at the head of his retinue, ride by on his way to London. The thought was barely formed, before I and my fellow citizens found ourselves being unceremoniously pushed to one side in order to make room for another lordly procession, this time entering, not leaving, Westminster, its banners and pennons all bearing the insignia of the Duke of Clarence. The Duke himself led the cavalcade, his handsome, florid face contorted with an anger that was akin to hatred. In front of Westminster Hall, he reined in with a violence which must have torn at the delicate skin of his horse’s mouth, and almost threw himself from the saddle, beckoning furiously to a man who rode just behind him. A palace official tried to bar his way, but was thrust roughly from his path.
‘I must and will see my brother!’ declared the Duke, his voice carrying clearly to our straining ears.
‘His Highness has left for Windsor,’ spluttered the outraged steward, still valiantly trying to prevent Clarence’s entry.
‘But the Council is still in session?’
‘It is.’ The affirmation was reluctant. ‘But I have no authority to admit Your Grace.’