Kate Sedley: The Prodigal Son

I nodded towards the horse and the saddle of tooled leather, hung on a nail at the back of the stall. There was also a richly embroidered saddle blanket and some of the harness fittings looked to be of gold.

‘A wealthy man, your master,’ I commented.

The squire laughed and the other two gave knowing grins.

‘He is now,’ the former agreed. ‘But ten years ago, it was a different story. Poor as a church mouse, was our Sir Damien. Kewstoke Hall was falling into disrepair; the roof was leaking, the rats were gnawing away at the foundations, and those of us who stayed with him did so because our fathers had worked for his all their lives and it was our home as much as his. Still, he’s been a good master and not stinted those of us who remained since he became rich.’ The other two nodded their approval of his words.

‘How did that happen?’ I asked. ‘And where is Kewstoke Hall?’

‘Away to the north-west of here, near the coast. As to the upturn in his fortune, death and remarriage, my lad.’ The squire thumped me on the back, reiterating, ‘Death and remarriage. His first wife died and he got wedded again, only this time he was careful to marry money and, of course, youth. The first time, when he was young and feckless, was for love. The second time was for security and comfort.’

‘Who was the lucky — and presumably rich — young lady?’

‘As a matter of fact, the daughter of a widow who lives in these parts. Ursula Bellknapp of Croxcombe Manor.’

‘Bellknapp? Of Croxcombe Manor?’ I tried not to sound too interested. ‘Isn’t that somewhere near Wells?’

‘Not many miles distant, yes. Sir Damien was thinking of paying a visit there before returning home, so he could give Lady Chauntermerle an account of her mother’s health, but … but …’

‘He decided against it,’ said the page with a giggle.

‘They don’t get on?’ I suggested.

‘We-ell, let’s just say Dame Bellknapp can be — er — difficult,’ the groom smirked, rattling the dice and looking hopefully at the rest of us.

We hastily declined another game and scrambled to our feet, stretching and yawning and generally intimating that it was time for bed.

He called us cowards and spoilsports, but grinned good-naturedly and wished us goodnight. He was bedding down in the stable with his master’s precious horse.

The landlord had damped down the fire in the aleroom, but it was still giving out a comfortable heat. He appeared from his own chamber when he heard us come in, brought the three of us another beaker of ale apiece and waited until, wrapped in our cloaks, we were settled for the night. Hercules opened one bleary eye, gave me a look, then closed it again with a contented sigh.

The inn was stuffy in the August heat and one of the shutters had been opened to reveal the moon, like tarnished silver, rising over the shadowy trees. Somewhere an owl hooted, sharp and clear, against the more muffled drumbeat of advancing hooves …

I sat up abruptly, disturbing my companions.

‘Whassa matter …?’ the squire demanded indistinctly.

‘Listen!’ I hissed. ‘Someone on horseback, approaching the inn.’

The landlord had also heard it and came out of his chamber, followed by his goodwife, both of them clutching stout-looking staves. I reached for my cudgel just as a voice from outside shouted, ‘Ho there, landlord! Travellers! Open up, I say!’ There was a loud thumping on the door.

The landlord raised his eyebrows at the rest of us: he couldn’t afford to deny genuine trade. We grouped ourselves around him as he cautiously drew back the bolts.

He need not have worried. A perfectly respectable, well-dressed man of about my own age entered and courteously doffed his hat. Beyond the open door, in the moonlight, we could see an equally respectable-looking servant, holding his horse.

The stranger opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word, a shocked voice sounded behind us.

‘You! What in the name of God and all His saints are you doing here?’

Iswung round to see who had spoken and was confronted by a tall, thin man with a rather small head perched precariously on top of a long, narrow neck. A pair of slightly bulbous brown eyes were, at this moment, wide with alarm and indignation, and the note of accusation in the surprisingly deep voice was unmistakable. The thinning hair was ruffled, as though the speaker had just risen from bed, a fact confirmed by the loose red velvet robe thrown on anyhow over the crumpled nightshift.

‘ You! ’ he repeated in horrified accents, as though unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes.

‘Sir Damien!’ the landlord exclaimed apologetically, confirming the gentleman’s identity, which I had already guessed. ‘I’m sorry that you should have been disturbed. A late night traveller, that’s all.’

The knight took no notice, continuing to glare at the new arrival like a rabbit transfixed by the eyes of a snake.

The stranger, whom I judged to be a year or so younger than myself and at least half a head shorter, had taken off his cloak, draping it negligently over one arm, and even in the failing light, I could tell that it was obviously fashioned from good broadcloth and lined with sarcenet. The rest of his clothes, including a pair of fine leather boots and a plume of jaunty feathers in his cap, suggested someone of adequate, if not substantial, means, while his general air and way of speaking indicated a person of breeding.

He, too, had been shocked by this unexpected encounter — he had started violently at the sound of Sir Damien’s voice — but he recovered his poise quicker than the older man.

‘My dear brother-in-law,’ he drawled, ‘what a pleasant surprise. I hadn’t counted on seeing any of the family until tomorrow at the earliest. My sister is well, I hope?’

Brother-in-law? Sister? This certainly wasn’t Simon Bellknapp who, according to Alderman Foster’s narrative, could only be fifteen or sixteen years of age. Therefore it had to be the renegade; the missing Anthony.

It was while I was brooding on the unlikelihood of such a coincidence that I realized the worst. God had His finger in the pie again, interfering in my life and manipulating me like one of those wooden puppets on strings that you see at fairs. Of course, as I’ve said so often before, I had a choice. I always had a choice. I could gather up Hercules and leave the alehouse now and not look back, for I’ve never felt that God would punish me if I did so: he would leave it up to my conscience. I had abandoned the religious life all those years ago and against my dead mother’s wishes, and the Almighty had offered me the chance to serve Him in another capacity, by using my deductive powers to bring the guilty to book. But in this particular instance, He had added an even greater inducement: He had brought me face to face with a brother I hadn’t even known I had. I was trapped. I acknowledged it. I was angry and resentful, but already committed. I was intrigued. I couldn’t walk away if I tried.

I took a deep breath of acceptance and immediately felt better. The landlord’s wife had meanwhile lighted a couple of tapers, and by their frail radiance I studied the stranger more closely. I saw a pleasant, roundish face under a thatch of curly dark hair (the young man had removed his hat) and a mouth with a full, if somewhat pouting underlip. It broke now into a broad grin and the stranger started to chuckle deep in his throat.

‘You look just the same, Damien, even after eight years. A little thinner and greyer, perhaps, but otherwise not very much altered. I trust Ursula is in equal good health?’

The knight ignored the question. ‘Where have you been all this time?’ he demanded furiously, but was interrupted by the landlord asking, ‘Master Anthony, is it really you?’