The Prodigal Son by Kate Sedley Page B

said so often before, I had a choice. I always had a choice. I could gather up Hercules and leave the alehouse now and not look back, for I’ve never felt that God would punish me if I did so: he would leave it up to my conscience. I had abandoned the religious life all those years ago and against my dead mother’s wishes, and the Almighty had offered me the chance to serve Him in another capacity, by using my deductive powers to bring the guilty to book. But in this particular instance, He had added an even greater inducement: He had brought me face to face with a brother I hadn’t even known I had. I was trapped. I acknowledged it. I was angry and resentful, but already committed. I was intrigued. I couldn’t walk away if I tried.
    I took a deep breath of acceptance and immediately felt better. The landlord’s wife had meanwhile lighted a couple of tapers, and by their frail radiance I studied the stranger more closely. I saw a pleasant, roundish face under a thatch of curly dark hair (the young man had removed his hat) and a mouth with a full, if somewhat pouting underlip. It broke now into a broad grin and the stranger started to chuckle deep in his throat.
    â€˜You look just the same, Damien, even after eight years. A little thinner and greyer, perhaps, but otherwise not very much altered. I trust Ursula is in equal good health?’
    The knight ignored the question. ‘Where have you been all this time?’ he demanded furiously, but was interrupted by the landlord asking, ‘Master Anthony, is it really you?’
    The young man clapped him on the shoulder. ‘It’s me, Master Litton. Back like a bad penny, as you can see. And your goodwife! As beautiful as ever!’ And he planted a smacking kiss on the blushing Mistress Litton’s cheek.
    â€˜Oh, get on with you! You haven’t changed a bit. You always did know how to wind a woman round your little finger. That poor Jenny Applegarth never stood a chance where you were concerned.’
    â€˜Ah, my dearest Jenny! How I’m looking forward to seeing her again! How is she?’
    There was a moment’s silence, then the landlord hurriedly placed an arm about Anthony Bellknapp’s shoulders and urged him farther into the aleroom.
    â€˜My dear sir, come in! Come in! You need a bed for the night and food. Janet’ – he turned to his wife – ‘rekindle the fire in the kitchen. There’s broth in the pot. I’ll tell your man to stable your horse, Master Anthony. Our only spare bedchamber, I’m afraid, is occupied by Sir Damien.’ He glanced hopefully at the knight. ‘If your worship would care to share your bed …?’
    â€˜No I would not,’ snapped the older man angrily. ‘What I want is an explanation of where that man’s been all these years and what’s brought him home at last.’
    Sir Damien’s squire and page had, by this time, tactfully withdrawn to a corner of the room, where they presumably hoped to remain unnoticed, as fascinated by the turn events had taken as I was. I remained in full view of everyone, my own man and answerable to no one. Not that I think Sir Damien was even aware of my presence, so incensed was he by this sudden and unlooked-for return of the prodigal.
    The prodigal himself, having once recovered from the shock of meeting his brother-in-law so unexpectedly, seemed to be enjoying the situation. He drew up a stool to the damped-down fire and straddled it.
    â€˜What’s brought me home, my dear Damien? Why, the news of my father’s death, of course, I understand that this – er – unhappy event occurred two years ago, but I was only told of it a month since, and that by pure chance. I’ve been living in the eastern counties for some considerable time now, and during a recent visit to Cambridge, fell into conversation with a man who also happens to be a native of these parts, although he’s not lived