Kate Sedley: The Prodigal Son

‘Weren’t you afraid Hamo would tell the authorities when he discovered your escape?’

John took a swig of ale from his freshly filled beaker and shook his head.

‘No. He’d have been forced to admit that he’d been sheltering me from the law, and would himself have fallen foul of it. All the same, I travelled by night and lay low by day until I reached Bristol, where I easily found a ship sailing to Waterford. And nothing,’ he added violently, ‘would have tempted me back to this part of the world had it not been for Colin’s being a part of this fated expedition of Master Jay’s. There’s no news of the ship, I suppose?’

Gloomily, I had to admit that no sighting had as yet been reported. ‘But you must stay with us,’ I went on, ‘until something definite is heard, or … or until …’

‘Or until it’s plain that the ship and all her crew are lost,’ he finished for me. ‘It might be months. Are you sure your wife will want me?’

But when we returned to Small Street, Adela was at pains to assure her new-found brother-in-law that he would be more than welcome to remain with us if he had the strength to endure the curious attentions of three small children and the vagaries of an undisciplined dog. John grinned and said he thought he might manage it. So for the next couple of weeks, to keep himself busy and his mind from dwelling too often on the possible fate of his brother, he accompanied me on my expeditions in and around the city, learning the art of peddling and eventually getting so good at it that he thought he might try earning a living by the same means when he returned to Ireland. And it was one afternoon, as we were returning home for supper through Redcliffe, and as we approached Bristol Bridge, that we saw an elderly, grey-haired man pacing around, muttering busily to himself and making copious notes in a notebook.

‘What’s he doing?’ John asked, breaking the miserable silence that had engulfed us ever since the Redcliffe gatekeeper had assured us that no news had been received during our absence of Master Jay and his crew.

I drew in my breath sharply. ‘I believe I might know who he is,’ I said.

As we approached the gentleman, I doffed my hat. ‘Master Botoner?’ I enquired.

He frowned. ‘I prefer to be called William Worcester,’ he corrected me. ‘But how do you know who I am, Master?’

‘Oh, your fame precedes you, sir,’ I said. ‘An acquaintance met you in Cambridge. You were able to give him some information regarding his family in Wells, learned from your sister, Mistress Jay.’

‘I remember,’ he answered shortly. ‘The Bellknapps.’ Fortunately, he seemed disinclined to pursue the subject further, merely waving his notebook in my face and asking, ‘Do you know that this bridge is seventy-two yards long and five yards wide? That the Chapel of the Blessed Mary, in the middle, is twenty-five yards long and seven yards wide? That the Back to the west of it, where the River Frome flows, is two hundred and twenty steps, or three times sixty, plus forty?’

‘Amazing,’ I said inadequately, not knowing quite what else to say. ‘Are you … are you measuring the whole city, sir?’

He nodded briskly. ‘That is my intention. You may like to see my calculations.’

I took the proffered book, but the closely written pages were written in a sort of dog-Latin that was almost impossible to read. I handed it back with a smile that suggested I’d understood every word.

‘Mistress Jay must be worried about her brother-in-law. My kinsman, here, also has a brother on the voyage.’

Master Worcester nodded at John. ‘Then you have my sympathy, young man. The Isle of Brazil, indeed!’ He didn’t say, ‘What nonsense!’ but he plainly thought it. ‘Yes, it’s a worrying time, Chapman, particularly as she has been recently widowed. I am here to sort out her affairs, but I shall stay now until there is some news. I shall keep myself occupied, as you see, writing the topography of Bristol and its environs in this year of Our Lord, 1480. Well, well! I must get on. There’s much to do. Much to do.’

We were dismissed, but as we made to move on, I turned back and said, ‘Let me recommend to you, Master Worcester, a talk with the ferryman at Rownham Passage. A veritable mine of information, sir.’

‘Thank ’ee! Thank ’ee!’ he exclaimed. ‘I shall take your advice, young man. God bless you!’

Another week went by and September was already half done. It was still warm and one golden day succeeded another, the haze of late summer hanging over the thickly wooded hills and clouding the valleys in a shimmering veil. Only the faint yellowing of the leaves and a sudden sharp bite in the air, night and morning, hinted that autumn was not too far away. And then, three days before the feast of Saint Matthew, we were just sitting down to dinner when the clanging of the common bell arrested us with our spoons halfway to our mouths. Adam immediately bellowed in competition, furious that anything should be allowed to make more noise than he did. Nicholas and Elizabeth screamed briefly in sympathy, then defied my strict instructions to remain where they were and, struggling down from their stools, beat me to the street door by a hairsbreadth. Adela and my half-brother followed so hot on my heels that they nearly managed to trip me up.

Small Street, like every other, was crowded with people, most interrupted in the middle of their meal, some still holding spoons and even bowls, all making as fast as possible for the High Cross at the junction of High Street, Wine Street, Broad Street and Corn Street. We pushed and jostled our way as close as we could to the crier, who, when the common bell at last stopped its insistent tolling, informed us that news had just come from Ireland that John Jay’s ship and all his crew were safe and sound in Waterford. They had limped into port there early the previous morning and word had been carried urgently to Bristol on the next ship leaving harbour. The Isle of Brazil still remained, alas, an unrealized dream, but no lives had been lost and the ship was unharmed. Thanksgiving would be offered for God’s great goodness at every church throughout the city, whose bells were already beginning to ring out in celebration, as no doubt they also were across the water, in Ireland.

The following day, I said goodbye to John Wedmore as he boarded the same ship that had brought the happy news to Bristol and was now returning home.

‘Don’t forget me,’ he said, gripping my hands. ‘Apart from the fact that I owe you more than I can ever repay, we are brothers. We share the same blood. If ever you should come to Waterford, ask for Matthew O’Neill. Everyone knows him in those parts. You’ll be treated like a hero. If not, my mother will want to know why.’

We embraced and I watched him walk up the gangplank. At the top he turned and waved, grinning in the same way that I could just about remember my father grinning when I was a child. He was going home to his family, and I had a sneaking feeling that I would miss him more than he would miss me. The brother I had never known I had, and of whose existence I had only recently been made aware, was going out of my life before I had hardly got to know him.

I sighed and turned away from the quay. But then my pace quickened. I had my own family, waiting eagerly for my return. Well, Adela was, and that was all that really mattered.