Kate Sedley - The Three Kings of Cologne

‘I’m not afraid of Dick Manifold,’ I snorted crossly. ‘He’s too fond of getting his great feet under my table for me to have anything to fear from him. Too fond of my wife, as well,’ I added darkly. ‘He won’t risk upsetting Adela.’ A sudden suspicion crossed my mind. ‘He didn’t put you up to this, did he?’

‘Up to what?’ Jack sounded defensive.

‘Coming to see your daughter because he’d found out that I was coming to Bath?’

‘Course not!’ The denial was unconvincing.

‘He did, didn’t he?’ I persisted. ‘It’s not a big place, and even if you hadn’t fallen in with me on the road, you could easily have sought me out. With a valid reason for coming here, Sergeant Manifold sent you to warn me off.’

‘You’m talkin’ moonshine.’ Jack turned over and humped his back towards me, indicating that our conversation was at an end. Then he decided on one last warning.

‘I could see the way your mind was working downstairs. This Ralph Mynott’s name means summat to you. But I’d forget it, whatever it is. You go straight home tomorrow morning and tell Mayor Foster you don’ want no more to do with this murder. You leave it to Sergeant Manifold and me.’

The ‘and me’ really made me laugh, but fortunately my companion was too sleepy by this time to take offence — I doubt if he even heard me — and was snoring, with a distressing whistling accompaniment, almost immediately. I rolled once more on to my side, facing away from him, and by burying one ear in the pillow and pulling the blanket well over the other, I was able to fall asleep far quicker than I had expected with that din filling the tiny room.

It was daylight when I opened my eyes again, and a thin, watery sun was just managing to rim the shutters of the window under the eaves. Jack’s snoring had stopped and he was lying sprawled on his back, dribbling profusely from an open mouth, one booted leg and foot free of the blanket, most of which he had dragged off me during the night and now lay in a tangled heap at the foot of the mattress. It was no wonder, I reflected, that I was feeling cold. Annoyed, I scrambled to my feet and flung the shutters wide, letting the chill early morning air stream in on my bedfellow in the vindictive hope that it might rouse him. But he was still slumbering peacefully when, having hastily pulled on my clothes, I descended the stairs to the kitchen.

This seemed to be full of children and animals, three of the former — two boys and a girl — chasing one another round the table and screeching with laughter while their mother, ignoring their antics with practised ease, spooned hot oatmeal into a row of wooden bowls. One of the cats was sharing the baby’s cradle while the other was eating, together with the dog, from a plate of scraps and managing to grab more than the lion’s share. Eventually, however, order was restored from chaos. The children were persuaded to sit down on the floor and eat their oatmeal, the two cats were shooed out of doors and the dog was consoled with a large mutton bone. Of Thomas Baker there was no sign — he was, presumably, in the bakehouse or opening up his stall — so my hostess and I sat quietly at the table, eating our own oatmeal and drinking small beer. For the moment, peace reigned.

When, finally, I had eased my hunger and slaked my thirst, I said, ‘This Ralph Mynott whom you mentioned last night, Mistress, I think you said he lived near the East Gate, opposite the … er … the monks’ graveyard. Was that it?’

Cecily nodded. ‘Go to the bottom of the marketplace and turn left. You’ll see the graveyard on the other side of the road, in front of the abbey. Master Mynott lives in the third house from the gate, and the gate itself, in case the information is of any use to you, gives access to the monks’ mill ferry and the track to Bathwick.’

I thanked her but said that if Ralph Mynott turned out to be the man I was seeking, I should be returning home as soon as possible. I also begged her not to reveal my plans to her father and she smiled understandingly. I then offered her payment for my night’s lodging which, after a furtive glance around to make sure her husband had not silently entered the kitchen without her knowledge, she refused.

‘Any friend of Father’s can always be sure of a welcome from me.’

I felt I was accepting her hospitality under false pretences, but could hardly tell her so. Then, having shaved and collected my satchel and cudgel, I took my leave of her, burdened by guilt. I could only hope that, knowing Jack as well as she appeared to do, she was not altogether deceived.

The city was coming alive as I walked to the bottom of the marketplace, where some stalls were already open, while masters and apprentices were busy raising the shutters on others, and where various livestock were being driven into pens. But it was still a little too early to call on a respectable citizen who might be eating his breakfast, so I wandered around the streets for a bit. These were made from neatly laid, well compacted cobbles of limestone with a central band of iron slags to take the heavier traffic. The houses were mainly timber, but here and there a stone one, three or four storeys in height, indicated the home of a wealthier citizen, and there were a number of prettily laid out gardens to be seen amid the dwellings and almshouses, churches and workshops that cluttered the town. The abbey with its attendant buildings, including the bishop’s court and palace, occupied much of the ground below the East Gate, and water was piped into the city by a conduit that passed over the Avon Bridge and in through the South Gate, where there was also a public fountain. The chapel of Saint Laurence, halfway across the bridge, offered the weary traveller the chance of a moment’s peace and reflection before plunging into the noise and bustle of the crowded streets.

The sun was, by now, well above the horizon and the din of the traders’ cries was becoming deafening. I made my way back to the East Gate, which, like the other three, had a single, low tower atop it, counted back three houses from the archway and knocked.

It was one of the more imposing houses, three storeys high and made of stone with a gabled front. And the maid who answered my summons was not the usual flyaway Moll or Nell, but a neatly dressed, ruddy-faced young country girl, her hair tucked beneath a linen hood and a spotless linen apron covering her dress of brown burel.

‘Is Master Mynott at home?’ I asked. ‘Master Ralph Mynott.’

‘Which one?’ the girl replied, while dubiously eyeing me up and down. ‘Old master or young master?’

Did this mean Ralph Mynott had a son or an elderly father? On the whole, I rather thought the former.

‘The older master,’ I said. ‘He’d … he’d be about forty. Perhaps a little more or a little less.’

The girl’s suspicion increased. ‘And what would be your business with him?’

‘Who is it, Ruth?’ A more authoritative voice cut into the conversation. The maid was shouldered aside and a tall woman in a dark blue woollen gown trimmed with budge took her place; a thin-faced woman with a pair of piercing blue eyes, sharp nose and an uncompromising mouth. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’ she demanded.

I repeated my request, which was greeted with so haughty a stare that, to my chagrin, I found myself stumbling over my explanation that it was on the business of His Worship, the Mayor of Bristol.

‘A likely story,’ she snorted. ‘Off with you, or I shall have you handed over to the Watch.’

Fortunately, this annoyed me so much that I recovered my nerve, drew myself to my full height, had a flash of inspiration, and announced that unless I was allowed to see Master Mynott immediately, I should be forced to summon the Sheriff’s Officer who had accompanied me from Bristol and who was only a street or two away at the home of his daughter.