Kate Sedley - The Weaver's inheritance

It had stopped snowing, but was freezing hard, making conditions underfoot extremely treacherous. On inspection, the handle of the local pump was found to be immovable and the well water inches deep in ice. As soon as it was light, therefore, the men of the surrounding houses, including myself, were set to shovelling frozen snow into iron pots, which the women of the household then heated over the fire. I was thrown into the company of Jack Nym and Nick Brimble, both of whom were already in possession of the story concerning yesterday’s assault on William Burnett.

‘You and Ned Stoner discovered him, so I’m told, Chapman,’ Nick Brimble said, pausing to wipe the moisture from his face, for, in spite of the cold, the exercise was making him sweat.

‘And went home with him,’ I agreed.

‘They’re saying — ’ this was Jack Nym — ‘that Mistress Burnett is laying blame for the attack on this fellow who claims to be her brother, and that Master Burnett also believes it might have been him.’

I wondered how, in the name of Saint Michael and all the angels, had he got hold of that piece of information? However dark the night, however appalling the weather, there must be constant communication between one household and the next, from one side of the bridge to the other. I hastened to set them straight on the matter.

‘Master Burnett, it’s true, did at first encourage her in that belief, but only for a moment. When he had had time to think about it properly, he denied it utterly and has forbidden her to spread the rumour. The misunderstanding was, according to my mother-in-law, in some respect my fault,’ I admitted, and explained what had happened. ‘My own feeling, for what it’s worth, is that William Burnett knows who his attacker is, but isn’t saying.’

Nick Brimble and Jack Nym glanced at one another and guffawed. ‘Daresay he does know,’ said the former.

‘One of Jasper Fairbrother’s men, no doubt,’ agreed Jack, stretching his arms with the air of a man who had done quite enough shovelling on an empty stomach.

I knew of this Jasper Fairbrother by repute, and he had been pointed out to me on several occasions. He was a master baker who constantly flouted the law — in particular a city ordinance made four years earlier, protecting the livelihoods of the women hucksters whose right it was to sell loaves and pastries — but who escaped punishment by threatening his victims with condign retribution if they laid a complaint against him. He employed three or four hefty young bravos solely for this purpose, and had once, in a very roundabout fashion, tried to recruit me, but I had given his messenger extremely short shrift.

‘What would Jasper Fairbrother have to do with William Burnett?’ I asked, puzzled.

Nick Brimble grinned. ‘They both like games of chance, dicing and suchlike. And they also share the shortcoming that afflicts a lot of rich men: they resent parting with their money when they lose. Word at the Lattis is that William Burnett has had a run of bad luck in recent months and owes Jasper Fairbrother a goodly sum, so I reckon Jasper has at last lost patience and given him a warning. And if I’m right, it wouldn’t be surprising if William wanted to keep Mistress Burnett in ignorance of what really happened.’

I grasped my shovel in one hand and picked up the iron pot full of frozen snow with the other. ‘It would explain a good deal,’ I admitted. ‘I didn’t know William Burnett was a gambler.’

‘Always has been, like his father and grandfather before him,’ said Jack Nym. ‘They were rich men and could afford it, and so can William. It’s just that he has this mean streak which makes him reluctant to discharge his debts until forced to do so. He’s the same with his taxes, by all accounts. Mind you, he’s generous to himself; never stints on any item of his dress or comfort for his home. Keeps a good table.’

‘Simply doesn’t like paying out money for anything that doesn’t show a return,’ added Nick Brimble.

I returned to the cottage, where my mother-in-law was waiting impatiently for the pot of snow, which she immediately placed on the fire. I retired to a corner, out of the women’s way and until Margaret was ready to dole me out a measure of hot water for shaving, to mull over the information just imparted by Nick Brimble and Jack Nym. I had no doubt that what they had told me about William Burnett was true, for Bristol was their city and they were more attuned to its gossip than I was; for although I had lived there now for over three years, I was absent for long periods and had not the interest of a native in my neighbours. All the same, I had the temerity to question their judgement. On the face of it, it explained satisfactorily all that had happened; it made sense of my conviction that William Burnett knew his attacker — or at least understood the reason for the attack — and was therefore anxious to divert his wife’s suspicion into a different channel. And yet, I could not bring myself to believe that this was really the answer. I felt there was a deeper mystery that I had not yet fathomed.

My mother-in-law’s voice cut imperiously across my reverie. ‘Roger! Here’s some hot water and your razor. Get shaving, for heaven’s sake! If you want to see Adela settled in during the best of the morning’s daylight, you’ll have to bestir yourself.’

Her words recalled me to my more immediate duty and I hastened to comply. Adela sent me a small, half-apologetic smile, which Margaret intercepted.

‘I hope you’re happy with what you’re doing, Cousin,’ she scolded, ladling oatmeal into the remains of the boiling water, ‘taking a child of Nicholas’s tender years to a cottage where there’s been a murder only three days since.’

‘Why should that bother me?’ Adela enquired placidly, setting spoons and bowls on the table. ‘Nick is too young to know what happened there, or to be disturbed by it if he did. As for myself, I can see no danger. Lightning rarely strikes in the same place twice, and I shall be very careful to bolt and bar the door and window at night.’

And with this, my mother-in-law had to be content. No doubt, she felt, virtuously, that she had done all in her power to persuade her cousin to stay, and was secretly pleased that her efforts had been resisted, provided that the two households remained in close touch. The one thing she obviously feared was that Adela and I would foil her plans for our marriage.

‘You mustn’t be afraid to call upon Roger whenever necessary,’ she insisted at parting. ‘And the children must spend some time together each day. They’re fond of one another.’ This was so indisputably true as to require no answer. My mother-in-law continued, ‘I shall speak to Alderman Weaver about finding you work as a spinner this very morning.’ She turned to me. ‘Roger, it will be your job to purchase a spinning wheel for Adela, which will be our gift to you, my dear, in your new home.’ And as her cousin started to protest, she lifted an admonitory finger. ‘We shan’t be denied, shall we, Roger?’

As we walked up High Street some twenty minutes later, Adela carrying her bundle of worldly possessions, I with Nicholas in my arms and both of us struggling to keep our feet on the hard-packed snow, my companion said quietly, ‘You need not think that I’m unaware of Margaret’s hopes and plans for us. Indeed, I think I guessed them before ever we reached Bristol, your manner was so distant and cautious towards me. And why else, I asked myself, had she sent you now, instead of waiting for Jack Nym to fetch us in the warmer weather?’ Adela drew a deep breath. ‘What I’m trying to say is that these schemes for our future are no more welcome to me than they must be to you, so please have no fear that I expect anything other than friendship between us.’