Kate Sedley: The Lammas Feast

Before I could cross the road, however, to demand that he explain his interest, Jasper took him by the elbow and ushered him back indoors. I toyed with the idea of going over and knocking for admittance, but then told myself not to be so foolish. The Breton’s interest in me was undoubtedly no greater than mine in him: he had seen me staring and was mildly curious to know my reason for doing so. He and the baker had merely retired in order to settle whatever point of difference there was between them, rather than stand quarrelling in the street.

Adela touched my arm.

‘Roger, we must go. We’re keeping Master Overbecks from his work.’

The baker disclaimed the suggestion, but waved us goodbye with an air of relief. A queue was already forming in front of the counter to buy his cakes and buns, and as we passed Saint Mary le Port Street, I could see several of the hucksters on their way back to collect more loaves. Inside his shop, John Overbecks was whistling merrily.

There was a happy and contented man.

I saw Adela and the children safely home to Lewin’s Mead, the other side of the Frome Gate, then set off back again to Redcliffe and Margaret Walker’s cottage to pick up my cudgel and chapman’s pack. I had left them there rather than struggle with their unwieldy proportions in addition to my growing family’s demands on my time and energy.

It was a beautiful morning, the sun high in a cloudless sky, the narrow streets slabbed with shadow. Reflected light from the River Frome rippled up and over the ships moored along its banks, as it murmured on its way to its conjunction with the Avon. The city of Bristol, snug within its walls, was cosily ensconced between the two rivers.

The Redcliffe Ward was on the far side of the Avon, almost like a separate town, cocooned in a loop of that particular river, with a wall on its landward side, securing it from the wider world. Outside the Redcliffe Gate stood William Canynges’s church of Saint Mary the Virgin and, beyond Temple Gate, lay the road south. It was still, as it had always been, a close-knit weaving community, and for most of her adult life, Margaret Walker had worked as a spinner for Alderman Alfred Weaver. Now that he was dead, and his looms sold by his heir and brother, who lived in London, she continued to work for his successor, Master Thomas Adelard.

She was spinning when I re-entered her cottage. She had cleared away the dirty dinner bowls and dishes, and settled back at her wheel, humming to herself as she did so. Seeing her so busily employed, I hoped to pick up my pack and leave with nothing more than a friendly nod and a smile; but after five years of her acquaintance, I should have known better. She stopped the wheel and fixed me with a gimlet eye.

‘You need to find a bigger cottage, Roger,’ she said without preamble. ‘Elizabeth and Nicholas are growing up. You and Adela must find things very difficult, all of you together in one room.’

I knew what she was getting at, but chose to play the innocent.

‘But I’m out nearly all day,’ I answered cheerfully. ‘And I’m the one who takes up most space.’

She tapped an impatient foot. ‘You know what I’m talking about. Those children are beginning to notice things. They’ll be asking awkward questions soon. You and Adela need some privacy. Or will do, just as soon as she recovers from Adam’s birth.’ I must have coloured slightly because she snorted. ‘Don’t pretend you’re embarrassed at a little plain speaking.’

I wasn’t embarrassed, not really. But I didn’t want to discuss the intimacies of Adela’s and my life with Margaret. All the same, I could no longer pretend to be ignorant of her meaning.

‘You and your husband brought up two children in this cottage,’ I pointed out.

‘So I know what I’m talking about. Like most other people, Adam and I didn’t have any choice in the matter, but you do. Ask that precious Duke of yours for some money. You’ve done him enough favours, by all accounts.’

I thought once more of the two gold pieces secreted under our cottage floor, and had to concentrate hard in order to prevent myself from blushing guiltily. Margaret could read my mind at sixty paces.

‘The Duke of Gloucester has retired to his Yorkshire estates,’ I said. ‘I doubt he’ll come south again in a hurry. He hates the Queen’s family too much; even more so now that they’ve at last managed to have Clarence executed.’

‘Oh, politics!’ Margaret shrugged. ‘I know nothing about them, and don’t wish to. But Duke Richard owes you something, Roger.’

I picked up my things, echoing her shrug with one of my own.

‘I’ve no desire to be beholden to any man. What services I’ve rendered the Duke in the past, I’ve done because I wanted to.’ Not strictly true, but Margaret wasn’t to know that.

She prepared to resume her spinning. ‘I wash my hands of you, then. You always were a stubborn, proud, independent — ’ she paused, looking me up and down — ‘handsome great lummox,’ she finished with a rueful smile. ‘Oh, go away! I can’t stay angry with you for long, more’s the pity. I blame your parents. They should have leathered some sense into you when you were young.’

I grinned. ‘My father died before I was four, but my mother had a good, strong arm. Unfortunately, I soon grew as big as she was, which made beating me difficult.’ I kissed her cheek and shouldered my pack, then left before she decided to reopen the subject. My former mother-in-law was a persistent woman.

Nevertheless, there was a lot in what she said. The tiny, single-roomed cottage that I rented from Saint James’s Priory was getting too crowded for three children and two adults (not to mention the dog we had yet to acquire, but which we surely would if Elizabeth and Nicholas had anything to say in the matter). And although it was as much as the majority of people achieved in a lifetime, I could now afford better.

But for the moment, I was loath to commit my new-found wealth to any project. I had discovered a miserly streak in my naturally sunny, open-handed nature, and for the present was quite happy simply to contemplate the existence of those two gold pieces tucked away in their hiding-place. Of course, this sense of security couldn’t possibly last. Adela was bound to discover their existence sooner or later and then the fat really would be in the fire. She and Margaret would be making plans for their disposal almost before she had finished jingling them in her palm.

However, the only decision I was prepared to consider just now was in which direction to peddle my goods, having visited the hamlets and outlying houses south of the city earlier that morning. I walked the few paces from Margaret’s cottage through into Temple Street, and was still debating whether to go north, west or east, when a sudden influx of travellers entered by the Temple Gate. There had evidently been some hold-up — probably while the gatekeeper sobered up after too much ale with his dinner — and I found myself surrounded by people. I was jostled back against the wall of a house with such violence that I was almost brought to my knees.

When I recovered my balance, I glanced round angrily for the ill-mannered yokels who had elbowed me aside with such ferocity, and found myself looking after the retreating backs of two men who were, surprisingly, both bigger than myself. They were obviously a pair, laughing and talking together, and I hesitated for the best part of half a minute, debating the advisability of picking a quarrel with either of them. Everyone else was giving them a very wide berth. In the end, however, anger got the better of common sense, and I caught them up as they veered to their left, towards Bristol Bridge. I tapped the slightly smaller of the two on his arm.