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| ISBN-13: | 9781448301034 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Severn House |
| Publication date: | 08/01/2013 |
| Series: | Severn House Large Print , #15 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 256 |
| Sales rank: | 586,279 |
| File size: | 357 KB |
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The Prodigal Son
By Kate Sedley
Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2006 [Kate SedleyAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4483-0103-4
CHAPTER 1
I first saw the strange young man whilst sipping a beaker of my favourite ale (the cheapest), sitting in a corner of the Green Lattis. Mind you, there was nothing unusual about seeing a stranger in Bristol at the beginning of August: it was the time of Saint James's fair.
The priory had originally been granted a nine-day charter for this annual event, but over the years its time had gradually lengthened, first to a fortnight, then to three weeks until, in this year of Our Lord, 1480, it seemed to the inhabitants' blunted senses to have been prolonged indefinitely. Although it was held outside the city walls, drunken brawls and dusk-to-dawn revelry meant sleepless nights for those of us who dwelt within earshot of the priory; and the house in Small Street, where I lived with my wife and three children, reverberated constantly to the shouts and cries of the hundreds of traders who converged on Bristol from all over the kingdom. It was the boast of the prior that Saint James's fair had become one of the most popular in the land.
By day, the city, and particularly Bristol's many alehouses and taverns, echoed with the strange and – to our west country ears – uncouth accents of certain parts of England that were as foreign to us as those of France or Brittany or the Low Countries. In fact, we had greater difficulty understanding our fellow countrymen from the unknown north and the borders of Scotland than we did the sailors from across the Narrow Sea, who disembarked from the ships that tied up daily along the Bristol backs and wharves.
So, as I said, seeing a stranger that sunny August morning in the Green Lattis was no more surprising than observing an ant on an anthill, and I probably wouldn't have spared him a second glance, had I not been seized by the sudden conviction that I recognized him. Well, perhaps not that, but his face was somehow familiar to me. I had either met him before somewhere, or he reminded me of someone I knew or had once known. Not that his looks were in any way remarkable. It was a small face under a thatch of dark hair, with a pair of equally dark, very bright blue eyes set a little too far apart, a sharp, inquisitive nose and a wide, thin mouth that seemed to be constantly on the verge of smiling. He was not old; certainly younger than myself, and I therefore judged him to be in his early twenties. (At this time, I was approaching my twenty-eighth birthday.) There was something of the Celt in his appearance. A Welshman, I thought, until he spoke. Then I could hear the soft, lilting cadences of southern Ireland.
After that, I lost interest. The only Irishmen with whom I was acquainted wouldn't show themselves openly in a respectable inn like the Lattis, but be tucked away in Marsh Street – Little Ireland as it was known – carrying on their nefarious and totally illegal trade of slaving. (Officially, selling your unwanted relatives into captivity in Ireland had been unknown in Bristol for several centuries. Unofficially, it lined a lot of people's pockets, including those of the great and the good. Especially those of the great and the good.) Needless to say, and as all readers of my previous chronicles will know without being told, my past and infrequent dealings with these gentlemen had been purely in the line of duty, whilst pursuing one of my investigations.
At present, after a short but successful visit to London in the late spring to solve a murder for my friend and patron, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, I had reverted to my proper trade of chapman, much to the relief of Adela, my longsuffering wife. With three voracious mouths besides our own to feed, and a dog who considered it beneath his dignity to provide himself with sustenance from amongst the vermin infesting the city streets, a steady supply of money was essential. High summer, of course, was the time to be striding along the open roads, free of family responsibilities; to be walking narrow, crooked paths or wide rutted highways; to be spending moon-washed nights sleeping in little, sweet-smelling copses, shaggy with leaves. Instead, my attempts at sleep were being rendered hideous by heat, noise and, as often as not, the nocturnal tantrums of my two-year-old son, Adam. But after being absent earlier in the year, I felt in duty bound to ply my trade nearer to home, in the villages and hamlets around the city.
Today, however, I had been restocking my depleted pack from the local market and from the ships at anchor along the banks of the rivers Frome and Avon. I had returned home for my dinner at ten o'clock, but been driven out again, not so much by Adela – who was always willing to allow me a short rest after meals – but by the antics of Nicholas and Elizabeth, my five-year-old stepson and my first-marriage daughter. Closer than two peas in a pod, and with the same predilection for rowdy games, they had, today, been running up and downstairs screaming and shouting at the tops of their voices. (And if you are wondering how a poor chapman came to be living in a two-storeyed house in Small Street, I refer you again to my previous works.)
I was feeling so fraught on leaving the house that a draught of ale in a quiet corner of the Green Lattis had become not merely desirable, but essential if I were to do any work for the remainder of the day. And it was while I was downing the contents of my second beaker that I spotted the stranger.
There were a lot of people in the Lattis that morning, and this stranger seemed intent on speaking to as many of them as possible, wandering from bench to bench and obviously asking some question; a question to which he was getting no satisfactory answer, judging by the number of shaking heads, pursed lips and expressions of regret on people's faces. It was as he approached my corner that I heard the Irish lilt in his voice, yet at the same time, oddly, I thought I also recognized an underlying west country burr. This, together with the growing conviction that I had met him somewhere before, a long time ago, made me follow his progress around the taproom with the greatest interest.
As though suddenly conscious of my eyes boring into his back, he swung abruptly in my direction and returned my stare with an intensity I found unnerving. Hurriedly, I looked away, swallowing the rest of my ale and, at the same time, fumbling with the pack at my feet, preparatory to leaving. My dog, Hercules, a small mongrel with big ideas, whom Adela had insisted I bring with me, sat up and barked.
'He's a nice little dog,' the stranger remarked, sitting down on the bench beside me, where there just happened to be an empty space.
'He thinks so.'
The Irishman laughed, showing a mouthful of extremely good teeth. Then he hesitated, as though uncertain how to continue, a reticence I hadn't noticed in his dealings with the other customers.
'You're making some enquiries,' I prompted. 'At least, that's my impression.'
The young man nodded. 'That's right. My brother – my younger brother – joined the crew of Master Jay's carvel when it anchored in Waterford harbour about three weeks ago. I was hoping to glean some news of its return, or at least to hear that it had been sighted somewhere by one of the ships putting in to port today. But it seems there's been no word. You wouldn't happen to know anything, I suppose?'
'No, I'm afraid not.' My companion looked crestfallen and I tried to cheer him. 'Three weeks isn't so long, is it? Not when you're searching for something no one is sure really exists.'
It was in fact nearly four weeks since most of Bristol had turned out to give a rousing send-off to one of their own, John Jay, together with his master mariner, the Welshman, Thomas Lloyd, and their crew on a voyage of discovery to find the Isle of Brazil, which, in those days, everyone believed lay somewhere off the west coast of Ireland. Mind you, as far as I could gather, most of the stories concerning the existence of this island were hearsay; and as a mere landlubber, I considered it foolhardy in the extreme to go sailing off into the blue without knowing exactly what it was I was looking for. But what did I know? I wasn't even a Bristolian, as I was constantly being reminded. I wasn't born with the tang of the sea (or the rivers Frome and Avon – something altogether different, I can tell you) in my nostrils. I came from inland Wells, at the foot of the Mendips.
'I suppose not,' the stranger conceded. 'It was foolish of me to expect any news just yet. But my mother's worried. Colin's her baby. He's only just twenty. She didn't want him to join the ship in the first place. Did everything she could to dissuade him. But he was always mad for adventure, even as a tiny boy. I'm his elder by three years, but he was always the one who got me into trouble when we were young, not, as you might expect, the other way around.'
'Did your father have nothing to say in the matter?'
My companion shook his head. 'Matthew O'Neill is our stepfather. He'll offer advice, but he won't interfere in our lives. He says that's up to our mother.'
'You're not an Irishman by birth, then,' I hazarded. It was a guess, but that faint, underlying west country intonation and the increasing certainty that he and I had met before, made it a possibility.
He smiled. 'No. My name's John Wedmore, and that's where I was born, like my – my father, Ralph, before me.' He gave me a quick, sideways glance, as though afraid I might have noticed that slight hesitation, but I played the innocent and smiled blandly. 'I grew up on my grandparents' sheep farm. But I'm boring you.'
'Not at all,' I protested politely, far more interested than I was prepared to let on. 'Your own father died?' I made it a question.
'Ten years ago this month. I was thirteen, Colin nearly eleven. The following year, my mother met and married Matthew O'Neill while he was on pilgrimage to Glastonbury, and we went to live with him in Ireland. He's a farmer, like my mother's first husband, except he doesn't raise sheep. Cattle, horses, pigs ... Southern Ireland's pasture is as rich as that of Somerset and Devon. Richer, probably.' He spoke with simple pride, a man happy in his adopted land.
Hercules jogged my right knee with his cold, wet nose, leaving a dirty damp patch on my breeches and reminding me that we had been stationary long enough. Outside, the sun was shining and it was time to be on our way again. But I was reluctant to leave. Two things intrigued me. First, why had this stranger, this John Wedmore, thought it worthwhile to give me his life's history? With no one else in the Lattis had he exchanged more than a few words. He had asked his question, received an answer and moved on, ignoring any attempt to detain him in idle chatter. But with me, he had sat himself down and plunged into conversation. All right, I know I'm nosy. Enough people have told me so for me to accept that it must be true (even if I prefer to call it being interested in my fellow men. And women, of course. That goes without saying).
Second, I had noted – without, however, showing any sign of doing so – his curious reference to 'my mother's first husband'. An odd way, to say the least, of referring to his father.
Hercules gave me another prod, then tried to scramble into my lap, thus ensuring that he could no longer be ignored. If I wasn't careful, he would perform his favourite trick and cock his leg against one of mine; and I had no desire to stink of dog pee for the rest of the day. I rose and offered the stranger my hand.
'I must go,' I said, adding truthfully, 'I've enjoyed our talk. I hope you soon get news of your brother.'
He clasped my hand, holding it for perhaps a little too long, and I had the distinct impression that he was on the verge of telling me something important. But if he had been, he suddenly changed his mind.
'Of the ship and all its crew,' he amended, adding with a slight smile, 'You're not from Bristol, are you? At a guess, I'd say you were born in or around Wells.' My surprise must have been obvious and he laughed. 'Not all west country people speak alike, whatever foreigners might think. My mother comes from there, and I recognize the accent. Her name before her marriage was Ann Acton. Perhaps you might have heard of her? Or of the family?'
Regretfully, I shook my head. Cudgel my brains as I might, I could recall no one of the name of Acton.
'No, I'm sorry.'
He grimaced wryly. 'There's no need to be. I doubt that there's anyone of the name left nowadays. To be honest, Mother never talks of her family, and I've never met a single member of it ... You'd better go. That hound of yours is giving you the evil eye. I don't think his intentions towards you are honourable.'
I grinned. 'You're right. He has a very obnoxious habit when annoyed.' I held out my hand for the second time. 'I'll wish you good-day, then, Master Wedmore.'
If I didn't exactly forget the stranger, there was enough going on during the next few days for me to push him to the back of my mind.
I was at last managing to get more sleep at nights as Saint James's fair drew to a close; but by day, all roads leading from the city were choked with the carts and pack horses of the departing merchants and stallholders. I pleaded the impossibility of selling anything in the countryside at present given such competition; for none of the travellers was averse to making detours into the villages and communities they passed, in order to make a little extra money. (Although, heaven knew, they must have made sufficient money to tide themselves and their families through the harshest of winters and the bleakest of springs in the greatest comfort imaginable, in spite of the depredations of cut-purses and pickpockets, who must also now be looking forward to a life of unparalleled luxury.)
Adela, however, woman-like, refused to accept this eminently sound piece of reasoning and accused me, point-blank, of laziness. Me! A hard-working husband and father ever striving to do his best for his nearest and dearest. I was hurt, and said so. She told me not to be such a hypocrite; and what started as a half-friendly spat might easily have turned into a full-scale domestic war had Adam not chosen that particular moment to tumble downstairs. He wasn't really hurt, but throughout his life, Adam has always been able to turn a very small molehill into a very large mountain by making the greatest possible noise about everything. And this occasion was no exception. His shrieks, cries and groans brought everyone, including Hercules, to his assistance, and it was some time before he could be mollified. And of course it was just my luck that he was still sobbing pathetically on Adela's lap when Margaret Walker, my quondam mother-in-law and Adela's cousin, decided to pay us a visit from her home in Redcliffe.
'That child is allowed too much freedom,' she opined, at the same time eyeing up and down a rather bedraggled Nicholas and Elizabeth. 'They all are, if you want my opinion. Those two look as if they've been playing on the Avon mud-banks.'
They probably had, but both Adela and I denied the accusation hotly, once more close and united in defence of our offspring. I even went so far as to pat Adam's curly head, and was promptly thumped for my pains by the ungrateful little sweetheart.
Margaret turned on me. 'Why aren't you working on such a fine day?'
I repeated my excuses, which were dismissed with even more scorn than that shown by my wife, but Adela was always loyal – one of her many virtues – and would allow no one to criticize me except herself.
'Why have you come, cousin?' she asked quietly.
Margaret bridled with indignation at the suggestion that her visit might have any other motive than to see her granddaughter, Elizabeth, and how we all went on. But she obviously had various titbits of news she was anxious to impart, amongst others that there was growing anxiety and unease in the city concerning the disappearance of John Jay's ship somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean.
'There's been no positive sighting of it for some time now. And to make matters worse, Maria Watkins informs me that John Jay has died during this past week.'
'John Jay?' I queried, bemused. 'How can anyone know that if he's at sea?'
Margaret sighed, as one dealing with an ignoramus.
'Not that John Jay. His half-brother. The one who married the Botoner girl. They're both sons of John Jay the elder.' I frowned. It seemed to me that the Jay family had singularly little imagination when it came to naming children. Margaret went on, 'I suppose your ignorance is forgivable. You weren't born in the city, after all.'
But mention of the missing carvel had recalled the stranger to mind and set me off on my own train of thought, so that I missed the beginning of her second item of news.
'... insists he's called John Wedmore and comes from Ireland. It leaves poor Dick Manifold in a dilemma, not knowing who to believe.'
'John Wedmore?' I interrupted, startled by what seemed like thought reading on Margaret's part. 'What's happened to him?'
Adam had stopped crying and was falling asleep in Adela's arms, snuffling and dribbling in a most unattractive manner. The other two had grown bored with adult conversation and vanished about their own secret business.
'What ... Who are we talking about, Mother-in-law?' She still liked me to call her that from time to time, even though it was getting on for six years since Lillis, my first wife and her daughter, had died giving birth to Elizabeth.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Prodigal Son by Kate Sedley. Copyright © 2006 [Kate Sedley. Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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