to be made personally responsible for my welfare. When Bess had delivered both me and her mistress’s instructions to him, he looked annoyed, giving me one of his high-bred stares, which he plainly copied from my lady.
‘Surely,’ he protested, ‘this... this person can be seen to in the kitchen.’
Bess turned on her heel with a provocative swing of her hips. ‘Those were my instructions. I am simply the messenger. But you would be unwise to disregard them.’
She sent me a farewell glance across her shoulder, fluttered the long dark eyelashes and then was gone. Robert and I were left facing one another.
‘You’d better sit down,’ he said at last, indicating one of the benches drawn up to the table. He went to the door, opened it and yelled a name into the draughty corridor. After a lapse of some moments, a young boy appeared, knuckling the sleep from his eyes. The steward cuffed him. ‘Dozing again, in front of the range? Tell Cook to prepare some food and ale for the chapman here. My lady’s orders. Bring it in here when it’s ready. Now, get along with you, and don’t be all night about it!’
The lad was clearly glad to escape and vanished swiftly. Robert seated himself in the armchair and tried to ignore my unwanted presence. He, too, I judged to be of some thirty to thirty-five summers; a little older, possibly, than his mistress. He had sandy hair, and was not unhandsome if one overlooked a tendency to baldness. His high-bridged, aquiline nose was the strongest feature of a thin, almost cadaverous face, giving his features a misleading strength of character. But vanity sat in the pale blue eyes and gave him his dominant expression.
There was silence between us until the boy returned, bearing a mazer of ale in one hand and a loaded platter in the other, both of which he set down on the table in front of me. Then he slithered quickly from the room before there was time to incur any more of the steward’s bile. I addressed myself eagerly to the food. It was some hours since I had last eaten and I had not realized just how hungry I was.
There were several slices of thick black bread, cheese and butter, wrapped in dock leaves. A small bowl containing blackberries sweetened with honey, and a slice of curd tart flavoured with ginger and saffron completed the meal, which I munched my way through with relish. The cook had done me proud, considering that I was only a common chapman who could hardly expect distinguished treatment. Robert stared doggedly into the fire while I ate, but as I lifted the mazer of ale to my lips, he finally condescended to address me.
‘What was your business with my lady?’
I toyed for a minute with the idea of misleading him; pretending that Lady Mallory had wanted to buy some of my wares. Then I recollected that I did not have my pack with me. I had left it in what I trusted were the safe hands of the Hospital Warden. After a few seconds more of deliberation, I decided to tell the truth. Robert would probably learn it from Bess, if not from Lady Mallory herself, eventually.
So the story was repeated yet again, from my encounter with Marjorie Dyer in Bristol through to this present evening and my meeting with his mistress. I felt sometimes as though I could tell parts of it in my sleep.
When I had finished, Robert pursed his lips and frowned. ‘My lady wants him found, does she?’ he asked, referring to Sir Richard.
‘Does that surprise you?’
He shrugged, realizing that he had either given too much away or created the wrong impression, and hastened to put matters right.
‘I should have thought it obvious, after all these weeks, that Sir Richard is dead. I am merely surprised that my lady has consented to you wasting your time.’
I glanced at him and saw that he spoke more in hope than from any deep conviction. Nevertheless, the assumption of his master’s death was a reasonable one, unless he knew of circumstances which made it improbable. I probed
‘Surely,’ he protested, ‘this... this person can be seen to in the kitchen.’
Bess turned on her heel with a provocative swing of her hips. ‘Those were my instructions. I am simply the messenger. But you would be unwise to disregard them.’
She sent me a farewell glance across her shoulder, fluttered the long dark eyelashes and then was gone. Robert and I were left facing one another.
‘You’d better sit down,’ he said at last, indicating one of the benches drawn up to the table. He went to the door, opened it and yelled a name into the draughty corridor. After a lapse of some moments, a young boy appeared, knuckling the sleep from his eyes. The steward cuffed him. ‘Dozing again, in front of the range? Tell Cook to prepare some food and ale for the chapman here. My lady’s orders. Bring it in here when it’s ready. Now, get along with you, and don’t be all night about it!’
The lad was clearly glad to escape and vanished swiftly. Robert seated himself in the armchair and tried to ignore my unwanted presence. He, too, I judged to be of some thirty to thirty-five summers; a little older, possibly, than his mistress. He had sandy hair, and was not unhandsome if one overlooked a tendency to baldness. His high-bridged, aquiline nose was the strongest feature of a thin, almost cadaverous face, giving his features a misleading strength of character. But vanity sat in the pale blue eyes and gave him his dominant expression.
There was silence between us until the boy returned, bearing a mazer of ale in one hand and a loaded platter in the other, both of which he set down on the table in front of me. Then he slithered quickly from the room before there was time to incur any more of the steward’s bile. I addressed myself eagerly to the food. It was some hours since I had last eaten and I had not realized just how hungry I was.
There were several slices of thick black bread, cheese and butter, wrapped in dock leaves. A small bowl containing blackberries sweetened with honey, and a slice of curd tart flavoured with ginger and saffron completed the meal, which I munched my way through with relish. The cook had done me proud, considering that I was only a common chapman who could hardly expect distinguished treatment. Robert stared doggedly into the fire while I ate, but as I lifted the mazer of ale to my lips, he finally condescended to address me.
‘What was your business with my lady?’
I toyed for a minute with the idea of misleading him; pretending that Lady Mallory had wanted to buy some of my wares. Then I recollected that I did not have my pack with me. I had left it in what I trusted were the safe hands of the Hospital Warden. After a few seconds more of deliberation, I decided to tell the truth. Robert would probably learn it from Bess, if not from Lady Mallory herself, eventually.
So the story was repeated yet again, from my encounter with Marjorie Dyer in Bristol through to this present evening and my meeting with his mistress. I felt sometimes as though I could tell parts of it in my sleep.
When I had finished, Robert pursed his lips and frowned. ‘My lady wants him found, does she?’ he asked, referring to Sir Richard.
‘Does that surprise you?’
He shrugged, realizing that he had either given too much away or created the wrong impression, and hastened to put matters right.
‘I should have thought it obvious, after all these weeks, that Sir Richard is dead. I am merely surprised that my lady has consented to you wasting your time.’
I glanced at him and saw that he spoke more in hope than from any deep conviction. Nevertheless, the assumption of his master’s death was a reasonable one, unless he knew of circumstances which made it improbable. I probed
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