I sat up. 'Priddis?'
Wilf's eyes narrowed. 'You know him?'
'Only by name. He is responsible for the Court of Wards in Hampshire.'
'He was one of the Sussex coroners then.'
'Did Mistress Fettiplace say how it happened that neither her father nor your friend escaped?'
'Peter's clothes were on fire and somehow Master Fettiplace's clothes caught too. So she said, and hers was the only evidence. The foundry was gone, nothing left of poor Peter or Master Fettiplace save a few bones. You are sure you don't know Quintin Priddis?' His look was anxious now.
'I have never met him.'
'I must go,' the old man said suddenly. 'My wife is expecting me back. How long are you staying in Rolfswood?'
'I leave tomorrow morning.'
He looked relieved. 'Then I wish you a safe journey. Thank you for the beers. Come, Caesar.'
He got up, the dog following. Then he paused, turned back and said, 'Talk to Reverend Seckford. Many round here think something was covered up back then. But that's all I'll say.'
He hurried out.
Chapter Twenty-two
I WALKED SLOWLY up the hill to the church. I was dusty, my legs and back stiff and aching, and I wanted nothing more than to rest. But I had little time here. I considered what old Wilf had said. He had seemed suspicious of the official version of what had happened at the foundry—but clearly knew nothing of a rape. I remembered Ellen's words, that terrible day she lost control.
The church was small, a squat Norman building. Within little had changed since popish days; statues of saints were still in their places, candles burned before the main altar. Reverend Broughton would not approve, I thought. An elderly woman was replacing candles that had burned down. I went up to her.
'I am looking for Reverend Seckford.'
'He'll be in the vicarage, sir, next door.'
I went to the adjacent house. It was a poor place, wattle and daub, old paint flaking away. But Seckford was a perpetual curate, subordinate to a priest who perhaps held several parishes. I felt guilty at the thought that I was about to lie to Seckford, as I had to Wilf. But I did not want anyone here to know where Ellen was.
I knocked on the door. There were shambling footsteps, and it was opened by a small man in his fifties, wearing a cassock that could have done with a wash. He was very fat, as broad as he was long, his round cheeks covered in grey stubble. He looked at me with watery eyes.
'Reverend Seckford?' I asked.
'Yes,' he answered mildly.
'I wondered if I could speak with you. About a kindness you did many years ago to a woman called Ellen Fettiplace. Wilf Harrydance suggested I call on you.'
He studied me carefully, then nodded. 'Come in, sir.'
I followed him into a shabby parlour. He invited me to sit on a wooden settle covered by a dusty cloth. He took a chair opposite, which creaked under his weight, and looked at me curiously. 'I think you have been travelling, sir.'
'Yes. I apologize for my dusty state.' I took a deep breath, then repeated the story I had told Wilf about a friend looking for Fettiplace relatives. Seckford listened carefully, though his eye occasionally strayed to the open window behind me, and to a large jug on the buffet, where some tarnished silver plate was displayed. When I had finished he stared at me, his face full of sadness.
'Forgive me,' he said quietly, 'but I hope your client's interest is no mere matter of idle curiosity. Ellen's is a sad, terrible story.'
'My—my friend, I am sure he would help her if he could.'
'If she is still alive.' Seckford paused, gathering his thoughts. 'William Fettiplace, Ellen's father, was a good man. He got little profit from that foundry but he was charitable, gave money to the poor and to the church. His wife, Elizabeth, died young. He doted on Ellen. Perhaps he indulged her too much, for she grew into a strong-willed girl. But kind, charitable. She loved the church: she used to bring flowers for the altar, sometimes for me too, to brighten this poor place.' His eyes went blank for a moment, then he continued. 'The fire was nineteen years ago.'
'Wilf said the August of 1526.'
'Yes. Next year came the harvest failure and the great dearth. I buried many parishioners then.' His eyes wandered again to the window. I turned, but there was only a little garden with a cherry tree.
'That day was cold and cloudy, as it had often been that summer. I was here. It was getting dark, I remember I had lit a candle, when there came a frantic hammering at the door. I thought it was someone needing the last rites, but it was poor Ellen that staggered in. Her hood was gone, her hair wild, her dress torn and stained with grass. She must have fallen on her way from the foundry in the dark.'
But, I thought, something else could have happened to explain that.
'I could get no sense from her. Her eyes were staring, she kept taking great whooping breaths but could not speak. Then she said fire, fire at the foundry. I ran and shouted for help and soon half Rolfswood was running there. I stayed with Ellen. They told me after that by the time people got there the whole enclosure was ablaze. All they found of Master Fettiplace and his man Peter Gratwyck was some charred bones. God rest their poor souls.'
'Goodman Harrydance said Ellen moved in here afterwards?'
'Yes.' He raised his chin. 'But there was nothing improper, I got Goodwife Wright, one of the Fettiplace servants, to come and stay.'
'How long did she remain?'
'Near two months. She never recovered from that night. At first she would barely talk at all, and would say nothing about what happened. If we asked her she would start crying or even screaming. It alarmed us. If someone knocked on my door she would jump or even scream and run to her room. After a while she could be got to talk a little of commonplace things, the weather and suchlike, but only to me or Goodwife Wright. And she wouldn't go outside, she would just shake her head wildly if I suggested it. She refused to see anyone else. Not even the young man people had said she would marry, Master Philip West, though he came several times. You could see in his face how troubled he was. I think he loved her.'
'He went to the King's ships, Goodman Harrydance said.'
'Yes, soon after. I think he had a broken heart. You see, the word was Philip West was going to propose to Ellen. His family had obtained a junior position for him at the King's court. He was often in London, but that summer the King had come on Progress to Sussex and Master West had ridden over to visit for the day.' Seckford shook his head sadly. 'Master Fettiplace would have been pleased for them to marry, for the Wests are a wealthy landowning family. And Master West was a handsome young fellow.'
'Are the West family still here?'
'Philip West's father died some years ago. His mother, Mistress Beatrice West, still manages his lands. He owns much round here, but leaves all the management in his mother's hands, only visiting when he is home from sea. She is a—formidable woman. She lives in a big house outside the town. Philip was here last month, when his ship arrived at Portsmouth.' He looked at me. 'I hear all the King's ships are coming there, and the King himself is on his way to review them.' The curate shook his head sorrowfully. 'We live in terrible times.'
'We do, sir.'
'I saw Philip West last month, passing down the main street on his horse. Still a handsome man but middle- aged now, and stern faced.' Seckford stood abruptly. 'Forgive me, sir. I made a resolution to drink no strong beer till the shadow on that cherry tree strikes the gate. But remembering all this—' He stepped to the buffet and took two pewter mugs. 'Will you drink with me, sir?'
'Thank you.'
