Kate Sedley: The Hanged Man

It is one thing to do something of your own free will, but from a sense of duty it is quite another. The old feeling of being trapped returned to haunt me. I pecked Lillis's cheek, ignoring her cries of rapture at my declaration.

Her mother's stern features relaxed, and she heaved a great sigh of relief. 'I'm glad to hear you say so, lad. Sit down, sit down. You must be tired after your journey. Eat first and tell us your adventures after.' She began ladling stew into a bowl. 'Did you find out what you hoped to?' I shed my cloak and put my cudgel and pack in their usual comer. It struck me that I was indeed at home here now, and beginning to form domestic habits. The walls seemed to step a little closer, but I answered all their questions as cheerfully as I could, interspersing them with many of my own concerning Lillis's health. She appeared to be thriving, and it had only needed my return, Margaret said, for her to achieve perfect contentment. I had no doubt this was true, and tried hard to reconcile myself to the change of circumstances. After our meal, and when the pots had been washed and cleared away, we sat around the fire, talking. Lillis, uninterested in anything else, wanted to make plans for our marriage, but Margaret, satisfied now as to my intentions, was happy enough to want to listen to stories of my travels, and curious enough to want to know what I had discovered, if anything, about her father.

'Are you any wiser?' she asked me, and I nodded.

'I know where he was and I think I know why he was there. I also think I know who sent him, and why his life was attempted.'

Margaret Walker thought about this for a moment, then nodded. 'Someone tried to kill Father? Yes, I think perhaps, deep down, I have always suspected that. The beating had plainly been severe, more than a footpad would administer to steal a few trinkets, and certainly more than Irish slavers would mete out if they wished to sell their victim for a reasonable price. You are saying that he was left for dead?' Her interest sharpened suddenly as she realized that I had indeed made some discoveries worth the telling. She continued eagerly, 'You went to Gloucester to find out if Master Herepath was there when he claimed to be. Was he?'

'Oh, yes,' I said. 'So, if you'll listen a while, I'll tell you all I know and all I think I know. But answer me one thing first. You told me that Cicely Ford brought broth to your father when she visited him, after his return. Did he drink it?'

Lillis cut in scornfully: 'The first time he did. But after that, he complained of it tasting bitter. And so it was.

You'd think a man of Edward Herepath's wealth could afford a better cook. Why, even I could make a tastier broth than that!'

I felt that the 'even I' boded ill for my stomach's future well-being, and trusted that Margaret would continue to preside over the cooking-pots when Lillis and I were married.

Margaret hushed her daughter, no doubt reading my thoughts aright, and said quickly, 'There was something wrong with the soup. Tainted meat had been used. The cook probably had instructions not to use the best ingredients, for it was only out of the kindness of Mistress Cicely's heart that she brought us anything. After all, neither she nor Master Herepath had cause to love my father, however little he could be blamed for what had happened.'

I shook my head. 'It wasn't bad meat nor even bad broth, and the cook was innocent of one of the contents.

Now, listen to me, both of you, and I'll tell you what I think really became of Master Woodward.'

It was well after noon when I finally quit the cottage, leaving behind me a dazed and shaken Margaret Walker, who still refused to believe the truth of what I had told her. Lillis had been easier to convince for, in spite of her childishness in some things, she was readier to accept that there was an evil side to human nature than her mother.

She understood the baser emotions of greed and hate and envy because she was a prey to them herself, and therefore did not doubt that they existed also in other people.

As I made my way back to the centre of the town, candles were being lit, processions beginning to form, as Guild members and others assembled to worship at the various churches: the weavers at that of their patron saint — Catherine — in Temple Street; the kalendaries, who tend the sick, provide masses for the dead, and keep the charitable records of a city, at All Hallows; the rich merchants at St Ewen's. But there was one man of wealth and substance who, I suspected, would stay at home if he possibly could, to preserve himself from those 'splendid buildings and gaudy decorations' which, Wycliffe had maintained, 'drew away the mind of the worshipper'.

On this occasion, I approached Edward Herepath's house from the front, and was rewarded by the sight of Cicely Ford and Dame Freda just emerging into Small Street as I turned the corner. Each woman held a lighted candle and a missal.

'Master Chapman.' Cicely gave me her sweet, sad smile. 'Which church are you hurrying away to? Come with us to St Ewen's,' she added, ignoring, as always, her companion's scandalized protest.

'I'm afraid I cannot,' I said, bowing gallantly and recollecting how, a few weeks earlier, such an invitation would have made my heart sing. 'I have business to attend to. Master Herepath does not go with you?'

'No. He is unwell. Something he has eaten, I fear, has disagreed with him.'

'Nor Master Avenel?' I suggested with a faint lifting of my eyebrows.

She laughed. 'He would have escorted us, but I refused his offer.' Dame Freda snorted and Cicely turned towards her. 'Dear ma'am, I know you find me unreasonable in this, but believe me it's for the best. It would be most unfair to Robin to encourage him.'

The older woman looked as though she would burst into tears. 'Sweeting, if only you would rid yourself of this foolish notion of entering a religious order! I can only trust that when Master Herepath knows what you are about, he will forbid it.'

Cicely sighed. 'Poor Edward. It will hit him hard, I know. But he will not change my mind. Master Chapman, adieu. We shall be late if we do not hurry.' I watched them go, continuing slowly in the opposite direction, until they had turned into Corn Street and disappeared from view. Then I retraced my steps to Edward Herepath's door and knocked for admittance. My first summons was ignored, so I knocked again, this time with greater urgency. After yet another delay, the latch was raised and Edward Herepath himself stood on the threshold. This did not altogether surprise me, for I had guessed that the servants would have been given leave to attend church and take part in the processions.

He stared at me in astonishment. 'What do you want?' he demanded angrily. 'There is nothing further we have to say to one another.'

He started to close the door, but I put my foot between the jamb and the leaf. 'There is much we have to say, Master Herepath, believe me. Have you never wondered what happened to William Woodward during those months that he was missing? Well, I can tell you.' I saw his hand tremble on the latch. His face, healthy looking enough before, in spite of his reported sickness, was now drained of colour, his eyes narrowed, half in disbelief, half in fear that I meant what I said. Would he take a risk and dismiss me with contempt? Or would his natural curiosity to discover how much I really knew get the better of him? After a moment, he held the door wide and bade me enter.

I followed him across the hall, with its rich reds and greens and blues, into the parlour beyond, where the green velvet cushions on the window-seat glowed in the firelight, and the polished lid of the spruce coffer reflected the flames of candles in the holder of latten tin. All was as snug as I remembered it from my previous visit.