Kate Sedley: The Weaver's inheritance

I was about to offer our apologies when Adela cut in, asking the same question as before.

‘Didn’t you hear it?’ She turned to the Porter. ‘Did you hear a cry as though someone were in distress? I feel certain it came from one of those houses over there.’ And she waved a hand in the direction of Lewin’s Mead.

The Porter shrugged. ‘Probably some drunk. Or some goodman beating his wife. Or some wife taking a broomstick to her husband. It’s always happening round here.’

‘But you heard nothing?’

‘Not a thing.’ The Porter was running out of patience. ‘How could I be expected to, with your husband shouting at me at the top of his voice?’

Adela was momentarily diverted from her purpose. ‘He’s … he’s not…’

Taking advantage of her confusion, I put my free hand under her elbow and steered her forward, wishing the Porter a firm goodnight. As we started to cross the Frome Bridge, I heard, behind us, the bolts of the gate being rammed into their sockets.

‘Not much further now,’ I said encouragingly. ‘We’ll soon be home.’

Adela slowed to a halt, leaning on the parapet of the bridge and staring down into the waters of the Frome, as it flowed towards Saint Augustine’s Back and its conjunction with the River Avon.

‘I did hear something,’ she insisted, ‘and it wasn’t just an ordinary cry. Whoever made it was very frightened.’

‘I believe you,’ I said, ‘and I’m sorry if I implied just now that I didn’t. Was it a man’s voice or a woman’s?’

‘It sounded like a woman.’

I sighed. ‘Well, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about it. Try to put it out of your mind. We must get on. I can’t carry Nicholas for very much longer.’

She was immediately contrite and tried to take the child from me.

‘No, no!’ I said testily. ‘I can manage well enough for the little distance left. I simply want to get home, that’s all.’

We passed under Saint John’s Archway into Broad Street where candles were already being lit, their dim radiance piercing the encroaching gloom. Soon, shutters would be closed upon the panes of horn and oiled parchment, but in one dwelling at least, the flicker of flame and candleshine would continue to illumine the darkness. This was Alderman Weaver’s house, where the upper windows of the hall were made of glass, a newfangled conceit of the well-to-do to let in more light.

We were abreast of the Alderman’s door — Adela gratefully leaning upon my stick, footsore after so much weary walking — when it was thrown violently open and a woman ran out. Her voice was raised in anger.

‘You’re unjust! You’re unjust, Father! You weren’t always so, but William’s right! Old age has addled your brain!’ The wail rose to a shriek. ‘You’ve been deprived of your wits by a conniving, unprincipled rogue! William! William, where in heaven’s name are you? I’ve had enough of this! I’m going home.’

With a shock, I recognized the woman as Alison Weaver, now Mistress Burnett, and remembered how close she had once been to her father. What could have happened to so turn her against him? She was growing hysterical, pounding with her fists against the outside wall of the house and screaming, ‘You’re a fool, Father, a fool, and I hate you!’

Two men came to the door to reason with her, trying to urge her back inside, and, framed by the light from the hall, I could see that they were the Alderman’s servants, Ned Stoner and Rob Short. Her husband, on the other hand, seemed to be ignoring her pleas for support, in spite of her repeated calls for ‘William!’ Eventually, the two men prevailed, more by dint of brute force than persuasion, and Alison was lifted bodily over the threshold. The door slammed shut.

Adela and I resumed our homeward journey, for both of us had stopped, spellbound by the scene unfolding before us.

‘Your return to Bristol is proving to be more eventful than you could possibly have imagined,’ I remarked flippantly. ‘Cries in the night and now this! There’s bound to be a third thing.’

It was a moment or two before she answered, but at last she replied quietly, ‘Whatever you may think, I did not imagine that cry. You were shouting to the Porter and might not have been listening. But I heard it plainly. I thought you said you believed me.’

‘I’ve told you I do.’ I shifted the sleeping Nicholas to my other arm and quickened my step. She was such a serious woman: there seemed to be no laughter in her. She rarely smiled, although when she did, I had to admit there was great sweetness in it.

As we hurried down High Street, it began to rain, a cold, thin drizzle which cut all exposed flesh like a knife. People that we passed huddled into their cloaks, pulling the collars up around their ears, while the beggars, usually so importunate, slunk away to find shelter in the alleyways between the houses and the doorways of churches. We crossed the bridge spanning the Avon, the shops and dwelling-places on each side affording us some relief from the cold, which was increasing with every moment. Then we were in Redcliffe with its rows of weavers’ houses, its tenting fields and rope-walk, and ahead of me, I could see the church of Saint Thomas. A few minutes later, I pushed open the door of Margaret Walker’s cottage and ushered Adela and the still-sleeping Nicholas inside.

* * *

The cousins embraced, but neither was of a demonstrative nature and the greetings were restrained. On Adela’s side, there was no indication that she was delighted to be back in her native city, while my mother-in-law gave no hint of that former urgency which had sent me tramping through the winter countryside to fetch her kinswoman home. Nevertheless, there was an air of quiet satisfaction about both women’s demeanour, and to be fair, they had much to occupy them. Margaret had to set about the immediate preparation and cooking of a meal. Adela had Nicholas to attend to, as well as familiarizing herself with the cottage and the location of the outside pump and privy. Afterwards, she unpacked the meagre belongings which she had carried with her, in a linen bag hooked to her belt.

In spite of this seeming indifference however, I was conscious of the covert glances being directed at me by my mother-in-law, and of the scarcely repressed speculation in her eyes. Nor did Adela escape her share of this veiled scrutiny, but to her it meant nothing and she remained unaware of it, so I was able to continue to treat her with the same unaffected camaraderie which had characterized our relationship so far. I noted with amusement Margaret’s growing disappointment but, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I also saw the stubborn jut of her mouth and jaw. She had set her heart on my marrying Adela from the first moment that Jack Nym had mentioned her name and she knew that her cousin was now a widow. All her previous attempts at matchmaking on my behalf had been as nothing compared with this; and my mother-in-law could be a very determined woman when she wanted something badly enough. Well, I should just have to be on my guard, and prove to her that I could be equally stubborn.

I had received my usual rapturous, and thoroughly undeserved, welcome from my daughter, but the unexpected presence of another child had soon drawn her attention away from me. I discovered to my surprise that I was inclined to be jealous and a little hurt by her desertion, but the sight of her and Nicholas playing so happily together on the floor, soon made me ashamed of such emotions. They took to one another from the first, and I saw the triumphant smile curl Margaret’s lips as she, too, observed them. I tried to ignore it, telling myself that the children’s friendship would have no influence on my own with Adela, and affecting deafness on several occasions when my mother-in-law directed me, quite unnecessarily, to assist her cousin. Instead, I ostentatiously attended to my own duties of chopping logs and topping up the water barrel.