Kate Sedley - The Weaver's inheritance

‘Nor is it.’ I chewed my lower lip thoughtfully. ‘He’s up to something. But what? How did you come to hear of this development?’

‘An Augustinian friar from All Hallows on the Wall, in London, has come to Bristol on business with his fellows at Temple Gate. This was one of the bits of news, amongst others, that he brought with him, and it was thought to be of sufficient importance, in view of its possible consequences, to pass on to the lord Sheriff.’

‘Is there more to the story than you’ve told us?’ Adela asked quietly, but with an edge of steel to her voice. ‘Or has some poor unfortunate retainer in Clarence’s employ simply been picked upon, as Ankaret Twynyho was picked on by Prince George, to be a scapegoat, in order to satisfy the Queen’s desire for revenge?’

Richard Manifold swallowed the remainder of his ale and glanced hopefully at the barrel on the far side of the room. When Adela ignored this hint, he sighed and continued, ‘He was apparently accused of sorcery by an Oxford clerk, whose name I can’t at this moment recall — Blake, was it? Thomas Blake? — who, in his turn, had been named as a necromancer by another Oxford clerk called John Stacey, a caster of horoscopes. So you see, Adela, this man has not been picked at random by the King and his officers.’

Adela smiled grimly. ‘And what, I wonder, have these other two, this John Stacey and Thomas Blake, been promised if they impeach some poor man of the Duke of Clarence’s household? Will they stand on the scaffold alongside him when he’s hanged, or will they mysteriously be forgiven for their sins?’

Richard Manifold clucked his tongue disapprovingly. ‘You’re becoming far too cynical, my dear. It’s not womanly. You’re allowing yourself to be influenced by others.’ He glared at me; and before a furious Adela could rebut his accusation, he had noticed the still damp, mud-streaked hem of her gown. ‘Don’t tell me you were gathering may this morning! No, no! This won’t do at all! At your age you really should know better.’

The reproof was meant for me. He was angry because he guessed that I had been her companion on an expedition that he would have liked to have shared with her himself. He spoke without thinking of the effect of his words upon Adela, and stared at her in astonishment when she rose wrathfully to her feet and ordered him from the house.

‘You forget yourself, Richard! I am not a child to be spoken to in such a fashion. I am twenty-six years of age, and I ask you to remember that. Nor am I answerable to you for any of my thoughts and feelings. Nor,’ she added significantly, ‘for my friends or the company that I keep. Please leave, and do not return until you are invited back.’

Like all red-haired people, he blushed easily, and the colour surged into his face in a fiery tide. ‘Now look here!’ he blustered, first thumping the table before standing up. ‘There’s absolutely no need…’

‘Please leave,’ Adela repeated in a quieter voice. Nicholas had crept to her side and was holding tightly to her hand, uneasy, as children always are, when their elders quarrel.

Richard Manifold looked like someone who had stepped into a quagmire where he had thought all to be firm ground. Then he jutted his chin belligerently. ‘You were always a stubborn woman,’ he taunted her. ‘If you hadn’t been, you’d never have married that weakling from Hereford, who died on you after only seven years.’ He drew himself up and puffed out his chest to demonstrate his own health and strength. ‘All right! I’m going. But you’ll soon be begging me to come back, see if you’re not!’ And on that valedictory note, he stalked to the door and let himself out into the soft May twilight.

Adela sucked in a deep breath and smiled tremulously at me. ‘I’ve been looking for an excuse to do that for months,’ she said. ‘I never liked him very much, not even when I was young. There was always something about him, some touch of arrogance, of self-importance, that irritated me beyond endurance. I’m not surprised he hasn’t married. No woman could put up with him.’

‘If he bothers you again in the next few weeks,’ I said firmly, ‘let me know.’

She laughed. ‘You won’t be here. You’ll be in London.’

Her words echoed the everlasting complaint of my mother-in-law, but they were uttered in a tone of amusement rather than reproach. Looking at her across the table, I remembered my first opinion of her as a self-contained and self-reliant woman, who, over the years, had taught herself to be emotionally as well as physically independent of other people. She would give her loyalty and her love without expecting too much in return. She would let a man go about the world and still welcome him back with open arms whenever he chose to come home. The man whom she eventually married would be extremely fortunate, and for a moment I felt almost jealous of him.

I only realized that I was staring at her when she lowered her eyes, obviously embarrassed by my steady scrutiny. ‘You’d better be getting back to Margaret,’ she said. ‘She’ll be waiting for you.’ She looked up once more and smiled, having recovered her composure. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll see you again before you set out for London. Take care. And God be with you.’

‘And with you.’ I kissed her proffered cheek and ruffled Nicholas’s hair. When I still hesitated, she laughed good-humouredly, anticipating my question.

‘Of course I’ll keep an eye on Margaret and Elizabeth for you. Nick would miss Bess if he didn’t see her every day, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?’

Nicholas nodded vigorously, understanding only the name and the fact that he was being asked to express his approval. ‘Like Bess,’ he affirmed. ‘Like Bess.’

I thanked her and glanced towards the spinning wheel in the corner. ‘All goes well with Alderman Weaver?’

‘Very well. I’ve as much work as I can handle and he’s a kind and considerate employer. I’ve seen him once or twice when collecting my daily supply of wool, and he always remembers my name and gives me a friendly word.’

I was interested. ‘Is his so-called son ever with him?’ I asked.

Adela clapped a hand to her forehead. ‘There! I meant to tell you when I saw you again, and I quite forgot. I met them together one morning while you were away. I’d gone round by the rope-walk in order to get a breath of fresh air and to stretch my legs before returning to Margaret’s to pick up Nicholas. Alderman Weaver was looking very unwell and leaning heavily on the young man’s arm. But in spite of that, I thought how happy and contented he appeared.’

‘How can he possibly be happy and contented,’ I demanded angrily, ‘when he’s prepared to rob his daughter of her rights? How can he allow himself to be taken in by this impostor?’

‘Well, that was the strange thing,’ Adela answered slowly. ‘The Alderman hadn’t noticed me. It was a chilly morning with a nipping wind, and he had his hat pushed forward, over his eyes, against the cold. But the young man saw me. He was looking straight ahead, and as I drew abreast, he said, “Hello, Adela. I heard your husband had died and I’m sorry. You’d best marry a Bristol man next time.”’

I shrugged. ‘There’s nothing in that. He could easily have heard the Alderman talking about you after you’d called to ask him for work.’

‘But he knew me,’ she insisted. ‘He recognized me.’

‘He must have seen you when you called at the Broad Street house. Of course! That would be how he and Alderman Weaver came to be talking about you. “Who was that?” our friend would have wanted to know, and then your history would have come tumbling out.’

Adela shook her head. ‘You’re forgetting,’ she said. ‘I didn’t call in Broad Street. It was Margaret who went on my behalf. If this man is an impostor, we had never set eyes on one another before that morning by the rope-walk, but he knew me at once for who I am. And what is more, although my youthful memories of Clement Weaver are hazy, there’s one thing about him that I do recall. Clement had a habit of looking you directly in the eyes when he spoke, as if everything he said was a challenge that he was expecting you to take up and contradict. This man looked at me in precisely the same fashion. You know, Roger, the more I think about it, the more I’m inclined to the view that he could well be who he claims he is.’