Kate Sedley - The Prodigal Son

The kitchen door stood wide open, as most do during the summer weather, but whereas the chatter of cook and attendant maids is usually little more than a subdued hum while they are working, on this occasion, the noise was like that of a flock of starlings whose peace had been disturbed by a slingshot in their midst. I didn’t need to ask myself why.

I rapped as loudly as I could on the door, but it was not until my third knock that anyone heard me. Then, gradually, silence filled the kitchen as all heads were turned slowly in my direction. The clacking tongues were stilled and the last ragged murmurings died away as one of the maids — a big, red-faced country girl — came forward to greet me.

‘It’s only a chapman,’ she informed the others, and gave me a welcoming grin. ‘Come away in, Master. I daresay there’s a few things we’re all in need of.’

I put on my best limp and most agonized expression. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve twisted my ankle,’ I groaned. ‘I tripped over a rabbit hole.’

They were good-hearted girls and immediately all sympathy, one dragging forward a stool for me to sit on, another running to the water-barrel to bring me a drink, a third attending to Hercules, whose imitation of a dog in the final throes of exhaustion never failed to win him ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of compassion from any females present. Even the cook left her pastry-making to come and pet him.

‘Have you come far?’ one of the girls asked me. ‘I’ve not seen you round these parts before.’

‘Bristol,’ I said, dragging off my pack. ‘Here!’ I pushed it towards them. ‘Have a look inside and see if there’s anything you want.’

The cook shook her head. ‘We daren’t stop at the moment, Chapman. We’ve supper to prepare and it had better be good. There’s enough trouble in the household at present without presenting the mistress and Master Simon with a burnt offering.’

‘Or Master Anthony,’ one of the girls said with a kind of gasp that was half laughter, half consternation.

So the gentleman had arrived! ‘Perhaps the lady of the house, or her maid, would like to inspect the contents of my pack,’ I suggested, ‘if you haven’t time at present. I’ve a pair of Spanish gloves and a length of Nottingham lace that might interest Dame Bellknapp.’

‘You know where you are, then?’ the cook queried sharply. ‘In spite of coming from Bristol.’

‘I was born in Wells,’ I said, as though that explained everything. ‘Do you think Dame Audrea would be interested in my wares?’

‘Normally, yes,’ the woman admitted. ‘But there’s been an upset today and she’s other things to think about.’ One of the maids giggled and was immediately frowned down. ‘That’ll do, Betsy. Get on with those vegetables. I shall want them for the pot in a minute.’

I wondered fleetingly why it was that kitchen maids all seemed to be named Betsy or Bess, but asked instead, ‘Then could I see the steward? With this ankle, I shall need a bed for tonight at least, maybe longer. If he’d allow me to sleep in a corner of the kitchen, or even the stable, for however long it needs to heal, I’d be grateful.’

There was another giggle, this time from all the girls, who nudged one another as they looked me over approvingly. (In those days I was still a handsome fellow, though I say so myself. Taller than most men and blond, like my Anglo-Saxon mother. My father had owed his appearance to his Welsh ancestry; looks he had passed on to his bastard son, my half-brother.) Nor was the cook immune to my physical charms — all right! I was a conceited oaf, I admit it freely, but it doesn’t make it any the less true — and after a moment’s consideration, while she pummelled her pastry into submission, she instructed the girl called Betsy to go and find Master Applegarth.

The girl returned after a minute or two to say that the steward had agreed to see me in his room. Admonishing Hercules to remain where he was and to guard my pack, I got to my feet with exaggerated difficulty and followed her out of the kitchen and along a passage to a door at the end. Having knocked, she then lifted the latch and pushed me inside.

I found myself in a decent-sized chamber, furnished with a bed, chair, stool, a plain but stout oak coffer for clothes, two brass candlesticks holding what were obviously the finest wax candles and, on the window seat, several cushions covered in a blue and yellow weave that matched the bed-hangings; a feminine touch that reminded me the steward had once been married to the murdered nurse.

George Applegarth himself was, at first glance, an undistinguished-looking man of middling height, somewhere around his fiftieth year, I reckoned, with thinning hair, originally brown, but now greying, and a long, thin face with a narrow, hawk-like nose and pallid lips. The sort of face, I thought, that could be seen in a crowd and forgotten almost at once — until, that is, I met his eyes. They were grey; not the washed-out blue that sometimes passes for that colour, but a deep, definite slate-grey, and the kindest I had ever met, in which humour, sadness and a love of his fellow man all seemed to mingle.

Seeing my plight, he motioned me to sit down, inviting me to take not the stool, but the carved armchair that had to be his own personal seat. I immediately felt guilty that I was deceiving him as to the severity of my injury, but consoled myself with the thought that it was necessary; that this was not a man who would wish to see an innocent person punished for something he did not do. Just for a moment, I was tempted to take him into my confidence and explain the real reason for my presence at Croxcombe Manor. After all, he had seen my half-brother when he had accompanied Dame Audrea to Bristol, but had so far refused to identify him as the missing John Jericho. But second thoughts prompted caution. If he was close to his mistress, duty might urge him to confide in her.

‘Now, Chapman,’ he smiled, ‘I understand you’re looking for a bed for the night.’

‘I’ve injured my ankle, Master Steward, as you see. I was hoping I might rest up here for a day or two. A corner of the kitchen, close to the fire, would suit my dog and me admirably. And we wouldn’t make ourselves a nuisance during the day.’ I was about to add the words, ‘I promise,’ but thought better of them. There was no need to lie more than I had to.

‘You have a dog?’ he queried, suddenly doubtful. ‘Does he chase geese or poultry?’

‘Not as long as I have him under control.’

The steward smiled faintly. ‘And how often is that?’

‘He mostly does as I bid him. He’s not a bad dog, and will generally come at my call.’

‘Mmm … Very well. I should be reluctant to deny you shelter while you’re crippled.’ The thin face was full of kindly concern. ‘And I feel sure, in the circumstances, that Dame Audrea will have no objection. We often give food and shelter to more than a single pedlar here, at Croxcombe. However, I must confess that today is not the best of days …’ His voice tailed off and he drew a deep breath. ‘But that’s not your concern, and my mistress may well have need of something from your pack. So, yes, you may stay here until your ankle heals. But unless summoned by Dame Audrea, remain in the kitchen quarters.’

I thanked him and rose to go, but as I did so, the door of the room burst unceremoniously open and Anthony Bellknapp strode in.

‘George,’ he was beginning, then stopped short, staring at me. ‘By all that’s holy!’ he exclaimed. ‘Fancy finding you here! You’re the chapman I met last night at the alehouse.’

I acknowledged the fact, and was starting to explain my present predicament when we were joined by a youth of about fifteen or sixteen years of age who I immediately recognized from Alderman Foster’s description as the younger Bellknapp brother. The same mouth which, in Anthony, curled up at the corners, expressed only anger and discontent in Simon. And from the lines running from nostrils to chin — far too deeply engraved for a boy of his age — I guessed his usual expression to be sulky. But at the moment, it was positively murderous.