Kate SEDLEY: The Eve of Saint Hyacinth

‘I have and will willingly sell them to her if you’ll give me more precise directions.’

‘The boy can show you,’ was the answer. ‘There’s only these two old tups left to wash and I can handle them well enough on my own. Jed, take the chapman to my cottage, there’s a good lad. But mind you return here afterwards,’ he continued on a minatory note, as the boy abandoned his job with an alacrity which his master plainly found ominous. ‘These beasts will need careful watching until their fleeces are dry and the yolk gets back into the wool. The natural grease,’ he added for my benefit, noting my puzzled look.

I followed my guide along a narrow track which led upwards to higher ground, where the close-cropped turf would have indicated the presence of sheep even had I not already known of it. The shepherd’s cottage, a rough, stone-built, one-storey dwelling, stood in the lee of a clump of trees, all now wearing their delicate, early-summer green.

‘That’s where Jack Shepherd lives,’ the boy told me, dragging his feet at the prospect of returning to his work once his errand was done. Inspiration struck him. ‘I’d best come and make you known to the goodwife, you being a stranger hereabouts.’

I placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘My pack will speak for itself. You’d best run along before Master Shepherd accuses you of skiving and recommends to Sir Cedric Wardroper that he employ a new boy.’

The lad looked sullen, but finally, with a heart-wrenching sigh, thought better of any gesture of defiance which might cost him his place. He set off down the slope again and vanished from sight, with just one last, yearning glance over his shoulder. I went forward and rapped on the cottage door.

My knock was answered by a sharp-featured, middle-aged woman, wearing a dress of grey brocella, together with an apron and hood of coarse, unbleached linen. My first impression was of someone of a slightly sour disposition; which only served to demonstrate how deceptive appearances can sometimes be. For on closer acquaintance the shepherd’s wife proved to be a pleasantly spoken, friendly woman about the same age as her husband, who welcomed me in with a smile.

When I had told her of my conversation with her man she urged me to one of the two seats in the room, a three-legged stool uncomfortably close to the hearth, and pressed me to take refreshment.

‘I’ve just this moment finished baking a fresh oatcake,’ she said and began scraping away the hot ashes from around an upturned pot. When she had removed the pot, she took a clean cloth and lifted the cake from the hearth-tiles, placing it carefully on the table. Then she produced butter, wrapped in dock leaves to keep it cool, filled a wooden cup with ale from the barrel in one corner and bade me draw up my stool and eat.

‘And while you do so,’ she said, ‘if it’s acceptable to you, I’ll look through your pack.’

I readily agreed and spread out its contents on the other end of the table, just as I had done that morning for Mistress Gentle. The shepherd’s wife, too, fondled the violet leather gloves with the same mixture of longing and regret.

‘I was advised to show them to Lady Wardroper,’ I said, and the woman nodded.

‘Ay, she’ll buy them, no doubt, and be glad of the chance, for she likes fine things and we’ve had no pedlar pass this way for weeks and weeks, as my husband told you. But we’re off the beaten track a little here and can easily be missed by travellers. That’s not to say that no one penetrates as far as Chilworth. We had a travelling musician here only last month, who entertained Sir Cedric and my lady and spent the night in the guest hall. They were especially pleased, I remember, because Master Matthew was still at home, kicking his heels and waiting to take up his new appointment in the Duke of Gloucester’s household.’

‘I know all about that,’ I said, washing down a piece of oatcake with some ale and wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. And in answer to her inquiring lift of the eyebrows I added, ‘Mistress Gentle, the butcher’s wife in Southampton, told me.’

My companion laughed, much as her husband had done. ‘Well, that explains it. She enjoys a good gossip, does Joan Gentle.’ She threw up her hands. ‘But who am I to point a finger? I’d be a rich woman if I had a groat for every time my goodman’s said to me, “Millisent, your tongue will swell up and turn black one of these fine days if you don’t curb your appetite for pushing your nose into your neighbours’ affairs.”’

I grinned sympathetically. ‘My mother used to tell me much the same thing when she was alive, God rest her soul! “Your long nose will be the undoing of you, my son,” she used to say.’ I wet my forefinger and gathered up the last crumbs of oatcake from the board. ‘That was excellent, Mistress.’ Millisent Shepherd smiled and refilled my cup from the pitcher of ale which she had earlier thought to place on the table. She was still examining the contents of my pack, so I settled myself comfortably on my stool and prepared to slake not only my thirst, but also my curiosity. ‘How did young Master Wardroper come to enter the service of the Duke of Gloucester, then?’

The woman paused, her fingers hovering above a length of silk ribbon, which it was obvious that she would dearly love to have purchased instead of a knife, but did not dare to do so for fear of her husband’s displeasure.

‘I don’t know exactly all the details of the appointment,’ she admitted a trifle shamefacedly, as though it were her bounden duty to be aware of everything pertaining to Chilworth Manor, ‘but I believe my lady has a distant kinsman already well established within the Duke’s household. I forget what position he holds, but Mary Buck, the laundress, told me that it was of some importance. And when it became necessary to find a new place for Master Matthew Lady Wardroper naturally thought of this Lionel Arrowsmith and sent a message to him. Up north somewhere. Wherever it is the Duke lives when he’s not in London.’

‘Middleham Castle, probably,’ I said. ‘It’s high on the Yorkshire moors, or so I believe, and it’s where Duke Richard spends most of his time. Where the duchess and their little son live.’

Millisent Shepherd looked at me with sharpened interest. ‘You know a lot,’ she approved admiringly. ‘But then, in your line of work you hear a deal of gossip I dare say.’

‘A certain amount. Tell me, why did it become necessary for Matthew Wardroper to find a new place? Surely, at his age, his future must have been already secured?’

‘Ay, it was. He was sent away young, as all boys of his sort are, to be brought up by a friend of Sir Cedric – Sir Peter Wells, I believe his name was. It was a fair bit up-country, a long way from here, at any rate. Near Leicester, I think I heard someone tell. But last Christmas this Sir Peter dies with neither chick nor child to succeed him. His wife retires into a convent and the household’s disbanded. Master Matthew returned home to Chilworth and there he was, seventeen years old and no place in the world.’ The goodwife grimaced and hunched her shoulders. ‘Well! Sir Cedric’s not the man to want a high-spirited boy kicking his heels around the manor. He’s older than my lady by a good twenty years, if not more, I’d reckon, and it wasn’t long before he and young Master Matthew were at loggerheads over one thing and another. Or so my friend the laundress informs me. Not surprising, really. From a baby, Matt was always the spitting image of his mother: eyes, hair, features. And they do say that people who look alike are alike in other ways, don’t they?’

I cautiously acknowledged this theory. ‘Although I have known cases where even twins, identically matched, had differing natures.’