Read Online 16 - The Three Kings of Cologne by Kate Sedley - Free Book Online
Authors: Kate Sedley
Ads: Link
eyes back to my face.
‘The descriptions didn’t tally,’ he said, at last raising his beaker and taking a few sips of ale. He licked his lips and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘One account was of a tall, fair man, very handsome. Another described a stocky, sandy-headed fellow, while a third fitted neither of those descriptions.’
‘What was that?’
‘Oh, brown-haired, blue-eyed, nothing remarkable or noteworthy. A man like a hundred others. Although …’ My companion broke off, pressing a hand to his forehead, peering back into the dim recesses of the past and trying to conjure up a memory. ‘Someone said – I think it was of him, and yet I wouldn’t be sure – that he was a jolly fellow, always laughing. Or was that one of the others?’
I struggled against a growing sense of disbelief.
‘But you and your wife never saw any of these men? You never thought to follow your daughter when she went out riding? You mentioned a nurse. Could she not have ridden with Isabella?’
Jonathan Linkinhorne grew testy, snapping at me, suddenly impatient.
‘You can’t have been listening, Master Chapman. I told you, my wife was over forty when our child was born. I was forty-five. So by the time we are now talking about, Amorette and I were both over sixty. Indeed, my wife had celebrated her sixtieth birthday shortly before Isabella disappeared. And Emilia – Emilia Virgoe, Isabella’s nurse – as well as being in her forties, was no horsewoman. There was no possible way that either one of us could have kept up with my daughter when she was on horseback.’ He was beginning to sweat and jerked his stool away from the fire’s heat before continuing. ‘You must understand that Isabella had an instinctive bond with horses from the moment she first clapped eyes on one. She was a superb horsewoman. There was no possible way anyone could have kept up with her, followed her, if she didn’t wish it.’
I, too, was starting to sweat, the heat on my back making me feel slightly sick and light-headed. I got up and walked round the table to sit beside my reluctant host. My mouth was parched, and I looked longingly at Jonathan Linkinhorne’s still quarter-full beaker of ale. He pushed it towards me.
‘Take it,’ he muttered. ‘Small beer’s all you get here and I can’t bear the stuff. Wine’s the only fit drink for a civilized human being.’
‘If you can afford it,’ I retorted, swallowing the remains of the ale in a couple of gulps.
‘Oh, I could always afford it,’ he declared, suddenly boastful. ‘The holding I worked for Lord Cobham was a flourishing one. Four or five hands I had under me at one time, and two girls to do the milking and feed the hens and work in the house. I provided near enough the whole manor with vegetables, and sufficient over to sell in Bristol market at least once, sometimes twice a week.’
He was silent again, staring into space. Then, after a while, he buried his face in his hands.
‘Master Linkinhorne?’ I murmured, gently squeezing his shoulder, aware, as he apparently was not, that his conduct was beginning to attract attention. Nudges, winks and nods were being exchanged among the other old people nearby, who, although probably at least partially deaf, had nevertheless been taking a close interest in our conversation. My brief acquaintance with my companion had convinced me that he would hate to make himself conspicuous in any way, or be the subject of whispered speculation among his fellow inmates, all of whom, I felt sure, he deeply despised. He was that most pitiable of creatures; a man with more than his fair share of pride, fallen on hard times. I lowered my mouth to within an inch of his ear. ‘Master Linkinhorne, people are looking.’
He raised his head, sat up straight and gazed belligerently around him. There was an uneasy shuffling of feet, an awkward avoidance of glances before the others turned back to what they had previously been doing; playing board
‘The descriptions didn’t tally,’ he said, at last raising his beaker and taking a few sips of ale. He licked his lips and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘One account was of a tall, fair man, very handsome. Another described a stocky, sandy-headed fellow, while a third fitted neither of those descriptions.’
‘What was that?’
‘Oh, brown-haired, blue-eyed, nothing remarkable or noteworthy. A man like a hundred others. Although …’ My companion broke off, pressing a hand to his forehead, peering back into the dim recesses of the past and trying to conjure up a memory. ‘Someone said – I think it was of him, and yet I wouldn’t be sure – that he was a jolly fellow, always laughing. Or was that one of the others?’
I struggled against a growing sense of disbelief.
‘But you and your wife never saw any of these men? You never thought to follow your daughter when she went out riding? You mentioned a nurse. Could she not have ridden with Isabella?’
Jonathan Linkinhorne grew testy, snapping at me, suddenly impatient.
‘You can’t have been listening, Master Chapman. I told you, my wife was over forty when our child was born. I was forty-five. So by the time we are now talking about, Amorette and I were both over sixty. Indeed, my wife had celebrated her sixtieth birthday shortly before Isabella disappeared. And Emilia – Emilia Virgoe, Isabella’s nurse – as well as being in her forties, was no horsewoman. There was no possible way that either one of us could have kept up with my daughter when she was on horseback.’ He was beginning to sweat and jerked his stool away from the fire’s heat before continuing. ‘You must understand that Isabella had an instinctive bond with horses from the moment she first clapped eyes on one. She was a superb horsewoman. There was no possible way anyone could have kept up with her, followed her, if she didn’t wish it.’
I, too, was starting to sweat, the heat on my back making me feel slightly sick and light-headed. I got up and walked round the table to sit beside my reluctant host. My mouth was parched, and I looked longingly at Jonathan Linkinhorne’s still quarter-full beaker of ale. He pushed it towards me.
‘Take it,’ he muttered. ‘Small beer’s all you get here and I can’t bear the stuff. Wine’s the only fit drink for a civilized human being.’
‘If you can afford it,’ I retorted, swallowing the remains of the ale in a couple of gulps.
‘Oh, I could always afford it,’ he declared, suddenly boastful. ‘The holding I worked for Lord Cobham was a flourishing one. Four or five hands I had under me at one time, and two girls to do the milking and feed the hens and work in the house. I provided near enough the whole manor with vegetables, and sufficient over to sell in Bristol market at least once, sometimes twice a week.’
He was silent again, staring into space. Then, after a while, he buried his face in his hands.
‘Master Linkinhorne?’ I murmured, gently squeezing his shoulder, aware, as he apparently was not, that his conduct was beginning to attract attention. Nudges, winks and nods were being exchanged among the other old people nearby, who, although probably at least partially deaf, had nevertheless been taking a close interest in our conversation. My brief acquaintance with my companion had convinced me that he would hate to make himself conspicuous in any way, or be the subject of whispered speculation among his fellow inmates, all of whom, I felt sure, he deeply despised. He was that most pitiable of creatures; a man with more than his fair share of pride, fallen on hard times. I lowered my mouth to within an inch of his ear. ‘Master Linkinhorne, people are looking.’
He raised his head, sat up straight and gazed belligerently around him. There was an uneasy shuffling of feet, an awkward avoidance of glances before the others turned back to what they had previously been doing; playing board
Similar Books
