Kate Sedley: The Saint John's fern

Clouds were gathering on the horizon, the first indication of a squall rolling in from the still distant sea, and a sharp tang of salt was borne on the freshening breeze. All about me lay the low curves of the moor, rising steeply in places to rocky outcrops of granite, poised between heaven and earth like mysterious elfin castles. Patches of fern and bracken glowed faintly bronze-coloured in the fluctuating light, a reminder of autumn, in spite of the warmth of the October morning.

Looking back now from the safety of old age — and seventy-five is a good ripe age for a man to reach — I can see myself clearly as I was then: young, vigorous, healthy, having just achieved my twenty-fifth birthday. And I marvel how unafraid of life I was. It never worried me what that fickle jade might have in store for me, for I had the utmost confidence in my ability to extricate myself from any and every untoward situation. (This is a slight exaggeration, perhaps, for I put my faith in God as well; but then, it was usually He who landed me in all my difficulties in the first place.)

Those of you, my children, and, maybe, grandchildren, who have taken the trouble to read these chronicles of mine so far, will know that when I flouted my dead mother’s wishes and forsook my novitiate with the monks at Glastonbury for the freedom of the open road, it seemed that God had determined to make use of me in some other fashion. He wasn’t going to let me escape my obligations quite so easily, and decided to employ my talent for unravelling those mysteries which had defeated the powers of other people, to bring various evil villains to book. That may sound somewhat conceited, but I believe we all have a special aptitude, an accomplishment not shared by everyone, and the ability to solve knotty problems was mine.

Mind you, I can’t pretend that I was always, if ever, a willing tool in the Almighty’s hands, and I had a good many one-sided arguments with Him, which, naturally enough, He totally ignored, simply giving me the choice to do His will or not — which, of course, as He knows full well, is no choice at all. And I had an uneasy feeling, as I made my way along the ancient ridge-road running across the great empty spaces of Dartmoor towards the town and port of Plymouth, that some agency other than my own free will was directing my footsteps.

To begin with, in this early October of 1477, I had been less than four months married — and very happily married — to my second wife, Adela. With her little son, Nicholas, now only two weeks short of his third birthday, and my daughter, Elizabeth, a mere four weeks younger again, I found myself, for the first time since early childhood, at the centre of a warm and happy life. The one-roomed cottage that I rented from Saint James’s Priory in Lewin’s Mead in the city of Bristol was undoubtedly cramped, partly because of my great height and girth, but we failed to notice it, unaware that we were treading on each other’s toes or that we were falling over one another. The two children had been friends from their very first meeting, while my love for Adela grew deeper by the day, as I had every proof that hers did for me. In addition, my mother-in-law from my first marriage was a kinswoman of my present wife, and was more than content to play grandmother to us all, visiting us from her home in Redcliffe at least two or three times every week.

In these circumstances of domestic bliss, with no sense that they were about to pall or grow stale, why had I suddenly been seized with my old, familiar restlessness? Why had I felt a terrible urge to visit Plymouth once again? My mother-in-law — for, having no other, I should always think of Margaret Walker as that — made no effort to hide her disappointment and disapproval, understandably regarding my desire to be off on my travels as a typical attempt to shirk my husbandly and parental responsibilities.

‘Put your foot down,’ I had overheard her advising Adela. ‘Start as you mean to go on or you’ll find yourself bringing up Nick and Elizabeth all on your own.’ I had imagined her lips folding themselves into an almost invisible line. ‘I know. Haven’t I raised Bess here practically single-handed since Lillis died? There’s plenty of money to be made peddling his wares hereabouts if Roger would only put his mind to it. No need for him to be wandering off to foreign parts.’

But Adela had only laughed. ‘Margaret, he’s not my prisoner. Roger knows that he’s free to come and go as he pleases. It was part of our bargain when we married, and, besides, I enjoy my own company now and then.’

No more had been said as the two women had, at that moment, become aware of my lurking presence, but I realized even more fully what I had known all along, that I had married a woman in a thousand; and I shuddered to remember how nearly I had let her slip through my fingers. Nevertheless, the desire to escape in no way abated, and at the beginning of August, a mere eight weeks after my wedding to Adela, I set out southwards, with Plymouth as my destination. But it wasn’t until that warm October morning, the goal at last within reach, that I suddenly began to question this strange urge that possessed me. Why, in spite of my happiness with my wife and children, had I felt impelled to leave them? And why had the town of Plymouth, which I had visited only once before, four years earlier, sprung so insistently and vividly to mind?

I stopped in my tracks, in the grip of a deep and most unwelcome suspicion. ‘Lord,’ I demanded aloud, ‘is this Your doing? Tell me! Is it?’ There was, unsurprisingly, no answer, but I had no need of one. I dropped my pack — now considerably lighter than when I had left home — to the ground and leant heavily on my cudgel in order to ease my aching shoulders. ‘Very well!’ I muttered angrily. ‘That’s that! I’m retracing my steps. You can’t force me to continue.’

The unexpected sound of wheels made me jump and glance around, and there at my elbow, blowing gustily through its nostrils, was an old brown cob harnessed to a cartload of peat. The driver, perched on his box and looking down at me with a pair of smiling blue eyes, was almost the same colour as his horse, his deeply tanned face surmounting leggings and tunic of coarse brown homespun, a piece of sacking draped over his head to protect it from all weathers.

‘I’m going as far as Plympton Priory,’ he informed me. ‘If you’d care for a ride, chapman, jump up.’

He must have thought me a great gaby for I had neither seen nor heard the cart approaching until it was alongside me, and consequently I stood goggling at its driver for several seconds in open-mouthed astonishment.

‘Th-thank you,’ I stammered at last, and before I had time to recollect my resolve to proceed no further, I had clambered up beside him, my pack and cudgel lodged uncomfortably at my feet.

‘Where are you making for?’ the carter enquired, as, in response to a flick of the reins, the old brown cob moved sluggishly forward.

‘Plymouth. Er — that is,’ I faltered, ‘I haven’t quite made up my mind.’

‘Know the town, do you?’ my companion asked, ignoring my indecision. ‘Been there before, perhaps?’

‘Once,’ I acknowledged.

‘Get around a lot in your trade, I dare say. Where have you come from?’

‘Bristol. My wife and family are there. But I was born and brought up in Wells.’

My companion shook his head. ‘Don’t know the place. Nor Bristol, though I know of it, of course. What’s the news in that part of the country, then? You must have plenty of truck with London. What’s happening there?’

I eased my cramped legs. ‘Word is that all’s quiet in the capital at the moment. The Duke of Clarence is still a prisoner in the Tower. Do you know about that?’