Kate Sedley - The Three Kings of Cologne

The manor of Clifton lives up to its name; the cliff town perched on the edge of Ghyston Cliff, the great rock face on the Bristol side of the gorge that rises sheer from the bed of the River Avon. It still being very early, and not wishing to disturb Emilia Virgoe’s slumbers, should the old lady not feel the urge to rise at the crack of dawn, Hercules (long since let off his leash) and I made our way to the great tump, about a quarter of a mile from the edge of the cliff. Here we sat down and from my satchel I produced the hunk of rye bread and scraps of meat that Adela had given me. There was also a piece of cheese wrapped in dock leaves, but Hercules turned his nose up at that, so I had it all to myself. Then we both stretched out on one of the grassy mounds of the tump and let our tired limbs slowly recover from the rigours of the climb.

The tump is a strange place, full of ghostly echoes. Some say that our Celtic ancestors used it as a fort until the Romans drove them out and turned it into a look-out post from which they could survey the river and its approaches, so that raiding parties of Welshmen shouldn’t take them by surprise. Then there are other wilder stories that the mound was built by either the Saracens or the Jews. Ridiculous, of course, but these odd notions take a hold in the minds of country people, often gaining ascendancy over the far more likely, rational explanations. And then there’s the legend of how the gorge itself was hewn out of living rock by the two giants, Goram and Vincent, using one pick which they threw back and forth to one another until the latter accidentally killed the former, and spent the rest of his life in prayer and good works in order to atone.

The memory of this tale reminded me that if I walked down a narrow cliff path I would come to Saint Vincent’s chapel and hermitage, perched high above the gorge like a nesting bird, where Hercules and I might be offered a drink of water and I could make enquiries as to the whereabouts of Mistress Virgoe’s cottage. It turned out that the path was narrower and slightly more dangerous than I had supposed, viewing it in the past from the ground, and rather than risk Hercules plunging to his death over the edge, I carried him in my arms. This proved to be a mistake as he wriggled indignantly throughout most of the descent and I was forced to grab on to the pitifully inadequate rope railing, fastened to the cliff face, with all my might.

The hermit, whose abode was a cave alongside the tiny chapel, greeted us without much enthusiasm; a thin, ascetic-looking man with untidy strands of hair plastered to his otherwise bald pate, watery hazel eyes and rheumatic joints. Very much, I suppose, as you would expect a hermit to be, except that this one seemed to bear a grudge against the world in general and against me in particular for disturbing his morning rest. He took an immediate dislike to Hercules, whom he bade me leave outside, which I refused to do.

‘He’ll be over the cliff edge as soon as I take my eyes off him,’ I protested, ‘and I’m fond of him.’ I was suddenly conscious of the fact that this was true. ‘Besides, I won’t trouble you long. I just want to know where I can find Emilia Virgoe.’

‘Why do you want to know?’

The man smelled offensively, a sour mixture of dried sweat, vomit and old food. The cave was a shallow one, going back only six or seven feet into the rock face and containing nothing but a straw mattress covered by a moth-eaten grey blanket, a couple of pots for cooking, a tinderbox and a knife on a shelf near the entrance. The man’s brown robe was stained with food and various other marks on whose origin I preferred not to speculate. Living in such circumstances, perhaps anyone would be short-tempered and suspicious. On the other hand, living close to God and contemplating the work of His creation was surely intended to make one humble and happy.

‘I wish to ask Mistress Virgoe some questions,’ I said.

The hermit sneered. ‘About that strumpet, Isabella Linkinhorne, I suppose. Oh, don’t think we haven’t heard about the discovery of her body up here! News travels fast where death and scandal are concerned.’

‘Scandal?’ I queried innocently.

‘That girl was a disgrace,’ he declared viciously.

‘You were acquainted with her?’

‘I knew her. I was about her own age and lived on the manor. She was brought up to be a decent, God-fearing girl, and could have had a decent, God-fearing husband had she so chosen. Instead of which, she preferred the ways of Satan.’

Oho, I thought, so you were after her, too, my lad, were you? Except, of course, he was no longer a lad, but a sad, middle-aged man who had embarked on the life of a solitary as a shield against his bitterness and frustration.

‘So,’ I said, ‘these men I’ve been hearing about really did exist, did they? They weren’t just figments of other people’s imaginations? Jonathan Linkinhorne told me that Isabella always denied them.’

‘The man is a fool!’ the hermit rapped back violently. ‘He and his wife believed what they wanted to be true — until it was too late and Isabella had gone. They ignored what everyone told them because they were too old to face up to unpalatable facts.’

‘Did you ever see Mistress Isabella with one of these men?’

‘With all three at one time or another.’ My companion’s voice was full of loathing and resentment, yet tinged with a longing that indicated more clearly than his previous contempt just what his true feelings had been.

‘Where did you see them?’

‘I had an aunt who lived near Westbury College. She’s long dead, but in those days I often used to walk over to see her.’ More often than was necessary, I surmised. ‘Westbury was a convenient rendezvous for all three men to meet Isabella. I’m sure one of them came from Bristol, but not having been there for many, many years I wouldn’t know if he were still living there or not.’

‘And the other two?’

The man shrugged. ‘From round and about. No one I ever spoke to seemed certain of their origins. There was talk of Gloucester and Bath, but whether that was true or not, or just guesswork on the part of others, I had no means of knowing.’ The skinny chest swelled. ‘I did once try reasoning with Isabella, when I met her in Westbury village, but she laughed at me and her companion threatened me with his riding crop and told me to mind my own business or he’d lay it about my sides. I was so incensed that when I returned to Clifton, I went straight to Master and Mistress Linkinhorne and laid the facts before them.’

‘And?’

The hermit’s face darkened with anger. ‘They refused to listen. Accused me of being like everyone else who attempted to make them see reason. Accused me of trying to destroy Isabella’s reputation because she had refused my suit. My suit! I had never offered for the trollop!’ Only because he had had a good idea of what, and how scathing, the answer would be, I was sure. ‘Besides, I was already experiencing a calling for the religious life.’

Hercules, whom I was still holding, nudged my face with his cold, wet nose to remind me that we had been stationary for long enough and that it was high time we were moving. I scratched his ears with my free hand and gave him a little squeeze.

‘Had you taken up your office of manor hermit before Isabella disappeared?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘The job didn’t fall vacant until three or four years after that. When the old hermit died, Lord Cobham offered it to me, knowing from his chaplain that I had a religious bent and had no intention of marrying.’

I moved the few steps towards the cave mouth, as if about to leave, but turned back at the last moment as though struck by a sudden thought.