Kate Sedley - The Weaver's inheritance

For the past few minutes, customers entering the New Inn had been muffled in cloaks heavily caked with snow, and there was talk from the wiseacres of a protracted spell of bad weather. All the signs, they said, pointed to a very cold season, and it would be a foolish man who ventured far afield.

The sudden noise of voices raised in altercation sounded from the room overhead, followed by the clatter of feet on the stairs and the violent slamming of the door that opened on to the street. Very few of the New Inn’s customers took any notice, but Ned Stoner did glance up briefly towards the smoke-blackened ceiling.

‘Trouble?’ I asked.

He shrugged fatalistically. ‘Where there’s gambling there’s always trouble sooner or later. Too many young cocks nowadays, all swaggering and fighting with one another. They win money at dice or some such game of hazard, fill their bellies with cheap wine instead of decent ale, and think they’re lords of the dunghill — until they sober up again and find themselves locked in the bridewell or the castle dungeons. The youth of today have it too easy,’ he grumbled.

I hid a smile, for I knew him to be only a year or so older than myself. But I let it pass. ‘Do you think it could be one of these young bravos who was responsible for Imelda Bracegirdle’s murder?’

Ned grunted. ‘More than likely. But I doubt if he’ll ever be brought to justice. His friends’ll protect him. Swear he was in their company, whenever it happened. Another cup of ale?’ But his offer was half-hearted.

I refused and got to my feet. ‘I think we’d both best be off home before the weather gets any worse.’

Ned agreed, although our caution did not seem to be shared by the rest of the customers. The ale-room was just as crowded and noisy as when we arrived, and our seats were taken almost as soon as we vacated them. We threaded our way between the tables and out into the passageway, where two young men were just mounting the stairs to the upper room. A third stood inside the street door, stamping the snow from his boots, the light from a torch, in a wall-sconce above his head, illuminating his face.

Ned paused in surprise. ‘Hello, Master Clement! Been let out on your own, have you? And not before time if you ask me!’

Irwin Peto started at the sound of Ned’s voice, and I noticed that the hand which was fumbling with the strings of his cloak, was shaking badly.

‘Are you all right, Master — er — Weaver?’ I enquired solicitously, and received a black look for my pains.

‘I’m well enough,’ he snapped, and turned back to Ned. ‘My father doesn’t know I’m here. He thinks I’m asleep in bed, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention seeing me.’ He added on a note of desperation, ‘He keeps me like a prisoner, he’s so afraid of losing me again.’

‘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.’

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.