Kate Sedley - The Weaver's inheritance

He was tall, almost certainly over fifty, heavily built with what had once been a well-muscled frame now running to fat. In his younger days he had probably been very handsome, but his face had grown soft and flabby, melting into a travesty of its former good looks. The thinning brown hair, liberally streaked with grey, had receded far enough to reveal a high, domed forehead, and only the eyes, a clear, curiously light grey, retained any spark of youth. There were food stains on his clean-shaven chin, and an unpleasant, faintly sourish odour emanated from his clothes. Yet in spite of all this, he had a cocksure bearing and an air of self-satisfaction that instantly conveyed to the onlooker his pleasure in himself and in all his works.

‘This pedlar claims he’s been sent to you with a letter from Mistress Burnett, Master,’ the housekeeper said, confirming, if confirmation were necessary, that this was indeed Baldwin Lightfoot.

‘From my Cousin Alison?’ He frowned, unable, in common with Dame Janet, to understand his kinswoman’s choice of messenger. But the next moment, his attention, the attention of the three of us and indeed of the whole of Keyford, was distracted by what was taking place less than a hundred yards from his door.

While I had been standing there, the pounding hoofbeats had been growing ever louder, the jingle of harness more intrusive upon the ear, until now, suddenly, riders and mounts burst into view and were all about us in a flurry of plunging, rearing horses and shouted orders. Within moments of dismounting, armed men in the livery of the Duke of Clarence were smashing their way into a nearby house, not bothering to knock or wait for an answer to their summons, dealing summarily and brutally with anyone foolhardy enough to get in their way. From inside the walls there arose a terrible screaming, a female voice, hysterical with fear. A few minutes later, a woman, her arms pinioned, her face bleeding, was dragged outside and thrown across a saddle-bow with no more consideration than if she had been a sack of grain. Neighbours, lured from their houses by all the noise, stood petrified with terror by what was happening; by that constant and unseen danger which lurks in wait for all of us, and comes out of the blue to shatter our peaceful lives, even on the sunniest and quietest of days.

I turned, horrified, to Baldwin Lightfoot. ‘What are they doing to that woman? Who is she? What has she done? For pity’s sake, we must try to stop them!’ I gripped his arm.

‘Leave well alone, man! Leave well alone!’ He dislodged my hand from his sleeve. ‘It’s none of our business. Come away! Come indoors!’ And he fairly dragged me across the threshold, displaying an unexpected strength when roused.

It was my turn to fight free of him as I made once again for the door. ‘We can’t let her be abducted without raising a finger! If you and I and the rest of the men in this village stand together…’ I did not stop to finish the sentence, but lifted the latch and ran across the courtyard, heading for the street.

But Baldwin Lightfoot lived up to his name. He was nimbler and speedier than I would ever have credited him with being, and was after me in a trice, throwing his arms around me in a vice-like grip. ‘These people mean business,’ he hissed in my ear.

I struggled furiously. ‘Let me go! If you won’t come with me, let me do what I can on my own. No need for you to be involved.’

‘You’ve involved me already by being within my pale,’ he retorted, his arms tightening about my waist. ‘It will be noted that you came from this house and that will stand as a mark against me. Besides,’ he added on a triumphant note, ‘you’re too late. They’re on their way.’

He was right. The men-at-arms, having securely bound and gagged the unfortunate woman, and one of the bravos having mounted behind her, were off down the street as fast as they could gallop, and were soon nothing more than a cloud of dust on the horizon, a thudding of hooves growing ever fainter as they receded into the distance …

Silence seeped back again into Keyford, birds resumed their singing, sunlight dappled the grass and the rutted track, the delicate scent of apple blossom drifted over the orchard wall. The recent violence might have been no more than a bad dream but for the shattered door of the neighbouring house. It had all happened so fast and so unexpectedly that the inhabitants were wandering about in a daze, unable at first to speak. But gradually, they began to gather in little groups, muttering to one another, embracing one another for comfort, trying to make sense of what they had witnessed. Baldwin, releasing me, joined a knot of people gathered outside his gate.

‘Why,’ he asked no one in particular, ‘would the Duke of Clarence send to arrest Widow Twynyho? She was lady-in-waiting to the late Duchess and a member of his household.’

There was a mumble of agreement, and one of the women added, ‘Ankaret’s such a gentle soul. What can she possibly have done to incur the Duke’s displeasure, let alone be treated like that?’ She shuddered. ‘And we all stood by and did nothing.’

‘What could we have done?’ someone else demanded angrily.

But it was becoming obvious by the way in which people suddenly avoided one another’s eyes, that a feeling of guilt was beginning to plague them. Yet it was sadly true that there really had been nothing that any of us could have done against armed men, not even if we had all banded together and acted in unison; and the element of surprise had robbed us of even that forlorn hope. Who, in any case, would dare to brave the wrath of the mighty Duke of Clarence, when his retribution was so terrible and swift? Whatever it was that Ankaret Twynyho had done to offend Brother George, nothing, surely, merited the sort of treatment meted out to her.

Brother George … The slightly derogatory title brought Timothy to mind, and I realized that I had, for the last fifteen minutes or so, completely forgotten his presence here. I glanced around, hoping to catch a glimpse of him, and was rewarded by seeing him skulking on the fringes of the crowd. I left Baldwin Lightfoot, still talking in low, incredulous tones to his neighbours, and made my way to his side. Timothy, however, saw me coming and withdrew even further apart, as though hoping to deter me. But I was not to be put off.

‘Well, is this what you were waiting for?’ I asked. Taking his silence for assent, I went on, ‘What can it mean? I understand that the poor creature arrested, the Widow Twynyho, was lady-in-waiting to Duchess Isabel, and therefore presumably trusted by both her and the Duke. And why use her with such violence? Why does it need God knows how many armed men to arrest one defenceless woman?’

Timothy shrugged. ‘To impress the incident on people’s minds, maybe. To make sure it’s talked about, that it’s heard of well beyond the confines of Keyford and Frome. To publish the fact that this woman is a dangerous criminal. To make the world aware that George of Clarence is a very important person and that no one lightly invites his displeasure. Your guess is as good as mine at the moment, Chapman, but time will very quickly tell. In a week or two, probably less, we shall have the answer to this riddle. And now I have to return to my inn and collect my horse. I must be on my way to London within the hour. Duke Richard has come down from the north again to try to keep the peace between his brother, and I was ordered to report to him there as soon as possible should anything happen.’

He moved off briskly, not even pausing to say goodbye, and I stared after him for a moment or two before rejoining Baldwin Lightfoot. The latter seemed not to have noticed my absence, so engrossed had he and his neighbours been in a discussion of the last hour’s events. An air of unreality still hung over them like a pall; their eyes and movements were those of sleepwalkers, but sleepwalkers who were afraid to wake up. Their small, cosy world had been shattered by a terror they did not understand, and it would never be the same again.