Kate Sedley - The Weaver's inheritance

‘Can you and Elizabeth manage without me for a night or two?’ I asked Margaret one morning at breakfast.

‘I should think so,’ my mother-in-law answered drily. ‘We’ve managed without you for years. Why should it be any different now? I’m fully recovered.’ She eyed me thoughtfully across the table. ‘When you say a night or two…’

I tried not to look guilty. ‘Maybe a week. I have to go to Frome on business for Mistress Burnett. The Alderman’s cousin-by-marriage lives at Keyford.’ I knew I must sound self-conscious when I said the last word.

Happily for me, the name of the village meant nothing to Margaret, for I had made light of the events of last summer when recounting them to her after returning home. Indeed, I doubted if my story had lodged in her memory for the length of time that it had taken me to tell; and I had not dwelt on the fact that I had delayed my return still further in order to escort Rowena Honeyman from Keynsham to her aunt’s house at Keyford, for fear of giving myself away. For until I had set eyes on this beautiful girl, robbed of her father in such a painful and tragic fashion, I had never believed in love at first sight, nor had I had much interest in romances and the great lovers of history; Tristan and Isolde, Lancelot and Guinevere, Abelard and Eloise. Now, however, their stories were meat and drink to me. I lived, when left to myself, on what seemed a higher plane than the rest of my unfortunate fellow beings; I dreamed of doing impossible feats of chivalry which would win me the love and adoration of this lovely creature. In short, I was behaving like the most callow of youths, although at the age of twenty-four I should have known better.

Over six months had passed since I had last clapped eyes on the lady, and I hoped that sufficient time had elapsed for her to have put behind her the sad circumstances of our first and, so far, only meeting. If the coincidence of Baldwin Lightfoot also living in Keyford had not occurred, I should soon have made an excuse to visit the village. As it was, I could, with a clear conscience, combine my own most fervent desires with my promise to the Burnetts; and I set out at the beginning of April, in the direction of Frome, with a light heart and a spring in my step.

* * *

I have already written, earlier in this history, that while I was to play no active part in the political events which were unfolding in the country at large, I was, nevertheless, to be a close spectator and to have an intimate knowledge of them, simply because I chanced to be in the right place at the right moment. I had been at Tewkesbury in January, where I had learned from my old friend, Timothy Plummer, of what were thought to be the Duke of Clarence’s marital intentions, now that both his wife and Charles of Burgundy were dead; but after reaching Bristol, the gossip had gradually faded from my mind, there having been too many, and more personal, matters to absorb my attention. And as I approached Keyford on a seemingly quiet and uneventful morning, some three days after leaving home, nothing could have been further from my expectations than to witness another chapter in this sorry saga of royal brother versus royal brother.

My chosen route had eventually brought me out on to the high ground south-west of the old Saxon settlement of Frome, where the village of Keyford looks down on its larger neighbour. I had spent the previous night very comfortably on the kitchen floor of Nunney Castle, where I had begged admission just as it had been growing dark. Sir John Poulet, its present tenant, was from home, at his principal seat of Basing, in Hampshire, and the servants left to man the castle in his frequent absences had welcomed me in with open arms, glad of a fresh face and voice to break the monotony of existence. This morning, I had been up betimes and, fortunately for me, so had the cook. I had been feasted on buttered eggs, wheaten — not oaten — cakes and small beer flavoured with honey and cinnamon. Long before sun-up, I was walking steadily north-east to Keyford which I reached round about midday, having stopped for my dinner at a wayside cottage, where the goodwife, as well as feeding me, had also bought some things from my pack. Added to all this, I had the prospect of seeing Rowena Honeyman again. Small wonder then that I was whistling as I approached the huddle of houses whose roofs I could just make out ahead of me.

‘You’re very cheerful, Roger,’ a voice said reproachfully out of this seemingly empty landscape.

I nearly jumped out of my skin and whirled around, raising my cudgel, ready to strike.

‘For God’s sake, softly, man! Softly!’ urged the voice, which I now recognised as that belonging to Timothy Plummer.

A moment later, I saw him sitting beneath an ancient oak, some of whose branches reached out to spread across the road.

‘By the Virgin, you gave me a fright,’ I protested, clambering up a little knoll to join him and throwing myself down by his side. ‘What on earth brings you to this part of the world?’

‘You’re a great gawky fellow,’ he complained, forced to shift himself so that I could lean my back against the tree trunk. ‘What did your mother have in her milk to make you so big?’

‘Never mind that. You haven’t answered my question. What brings you here?’

‘Information,’ was the uninformative reply.

‘All right,’ I said, gathering up my cudgel and pack. ‘If you don’t want to tell me…’

He pushed me down again. ‘Don’t get offended.’ He nodded towards the sleepy houses, basking quietly in the sun, and I realised that from this vantage point, we could plainly see the whole of Keyford laid out before us. ‘It looks peaceful enough, doesn’t it? I’m beginning to wonder if I’m not here on a wild goose chase, after all.’

‘What are you expecting to happen?’ I asked curiously, adding, ‘Nothing much ever does here.’

The Duke of Gloucester’s Spy-Master rubbed the tip of his nose. ‘I don’t suppose much news of what’s been going on in the outside world has reached you in Bristol, has it? No, I thought not,’ he continued sourly, when I shook my head. ‘I never knew such a city for being so engrossed in its own petty affairs or in those of its immediate neighbours. The inhabitants always know more about Wales and Ireland than they ever do about London, let alone France.’

‘Tell me, then,’ I invited. ‘What has been happening in this great outside world of yours that’s so important?’

Timothy Plummer grimaced. ‘The Duke of Clarence, my boy! He’s what’s been happening.’

‘Brother George?’ I frowned. ‘I remember now that when we met in Tewkesbury, you told me that Duke Richard was afraid he’d offer for Mary of Burgundy’s hand in marriage … He didn’t, did he?’

‘Almost at once. And, of course, Dowager Duchess Margaret lent him all her support. But by God’s grace, and as Duke Richard had predicted she would, Mary refused him.’

‘But that wasn’t the end of the story?’

My companion shrugged. ‘Knowing Clarence, would you expect it to be?’

I reached into my pack and produced two apples that the goodwife had given me from her winter store, to sustain me during the remainder of my journey. I handed one to Timothy and we munched for a moment or two in silence.

‘I also seem to remember, ‘I said at last, ‘that at that same meeting, you prophesied Duke George would blame the Queen and her family if Duchess Mary did refuse him.’

Timothy took another bite of his apple and nodded gloomily. ‘Which is precisely what he has done. But then, you don’t need to be an astrologer to forecast Clarence’s reactions. All his life he’s been like a spoilt child, stamping its little feet and screaming, “Look at me! Look at me!’”