by C. B. Hanley
This took Alys’s thoughts on to the other women. Had Rosa been there? She couldn’t recall at the moment. But the usual gaggle of good-wives, the chatterers from the well and the village oven, they had been there. Could William have been murdered by a woman? He was a grown man, to be sure, but a cripple, and if he had been pushed or tripped from behind while he was already unsteady on the hill, it would not have taken great strength to put him flat on his face. But could a woman then have done what must have been done next – put her foot on the back of his neck and hold down his struggling form until the last breath left his body? But how could anyone, man or woman, do such a thing?
Alys shuddered and came to herself in the room again. Cecily was still asleep, but she would no doubt wake soon, and it would be good to have some broth or pottage ready for when she did. She stood and tiptoed out of the chamber into the cottage’s main space.
The fire had died down, so she took a little while to bring it back to life before hanging up the smaller of the two cooking pots. Some barley had been soaking overnight, so that went in; there were some leeks on the side table, picked from the garden yesterday, so she chopped up a couple of those, and then added a handful of peas. That would do; in an hour Cecily would have something soft to eat, easy to get down past the lump that would be in her throat.
But it needed more water, otherwise it would boil dry. Alys looked around, but the covered bucket was almost empty; they had left the cottage so early that morning that they hadn’t filled it. Still, she needn’t leave Cecily and go all the way to the well; after this much rain the butt in the garden should be full.
She opened the door and found herself face to face with Young Robin.
Her jerk of surprise caused her to drop the bucket, which fortunately had the effect of making him step away from her.
‘How long have you been there?’ was the best Alys could manage, as she sought to regain control of her suddenly wild heartbeat.
‘Since Crispin went away. He had to get back to work.’ He leaned in towards her, his bruised face uncomfortably close. ‘Standing here, thinking about you being in there all alone.’
‘Cecily is here.’
He smiled. ‘And fast asleep, or so I hear. She wouldn’t hear a thing.’
He put out a hand towards her and she smacked it away.
Immediately his smile vanished. ‘I’d be careful if I were you. I –’
‘You stop that!’
The voice came from the street, and Alys was surprised to find Robin the carpenter coming to her rescue.
He entered the gate and walked right up to his son. ‘Have you no respect, boy? William dead only this morning and look at you! Now get back to work, or you’ll feel the back of my hand.’
Young Robin was some inches taller than his father, but parental authority still held. ‘Aye. Well, I’ve got plenty to do.’ He murmured under his breath to Alys. ‘And you’re not going anywhere in the meantime.’
He strode off, and Robin turned to Alys. ‘I’m sorry, mistress. He’s not a bad boy, he just doesn’t know how to behave himself around women. No mother, you see.’ He paused. ‘And …’ His face twisted with emotion. ‘How is Mistress Cecily? After …’
There was little comfort Alys could give him. ‘She’s sleeping, but she’ll soon stir. She was in a terrible state earlier, and I’ve no reason to think she will be any different when she wakes.’ She was amazed that her own voice was so steady, but she’d already cried herself out over the last few days; all she felt at this moment was an extreme weariness.
She belatedly realised that Robin was still there, standing in silence and looking at her with some sympathy. ‘So,’ she continued, ‘I just came out to get some water for the cooking pot.’
Robin looked into the butt near the door. ‘You don’t want this – all that rain must have knocked some muck off the roof into it.’
The water was indeed murky. She’d have to empty the butt and clean it before it could collect any water that was usable, which at this moment seemed like a much bigger task than she could cope with.
‘I’ll get you some fresh.’
She ought to protest, but she couldn’t summon the energy to fight against kindness, so she simply stood as he carried the bucket to the well, filled it and returned.
‘I’ll be back to work,’ he said, as he handed it over, ‘but I can send one of the girls round later if you need anything. Just shout.’ Alys watched him go, without replying.
A knot of young women was nearby, no doubt ready to gossip about what they’d just seen, but she didn’t care. She started to turn.
Rosa broke off from the others to hurry over. ‘Are you … do you want some company?’
‘I have to go back in.’ But her hand was hesitating on the door. ‘Actually … yes please, just for a moment.’
Alys didn’t want to talk about Cecily, or about William, so she cast her mind about for a different subject. ‘The carpenter,’ she said, nodding towards the workshop he was just entering, and remembering something she’d heard. ‘Did he have another daughter? Older than Avice?’
‘Yes.’
The curt answer surprised Alys enough to continue. ‘What happened to her?’
Rosa blushed. ‘She got married and moved away.’
‘And …?’
Rosa looked about her, as if to make sure they weren’t being overheard. ‘It’s only gossip. Well – at least, we all know it’s true, but we’re not supposed to talk about it.’ She put her head close to Alys’s and whispered. ‘You know Robin’s wife has been dead for years, and he hasn’t got married again. So he … well.’
Alys was obviously supposed to infer something from this, but she didn’t know what. ‘And?’
Rosa leaned even closer. ‘Well, when Ida got married, to a fellow over near Wath, she was already with child.’
Alys wasn’t shocked. ‘It’s awkward, but it does happen, surely?’ Indeed, she could think of several young women in Lincoln who had married in haste because of just such a reason.
Rosa shook her head. ‘It’s more than that. It wasn’t his, you see – and though she’s got a fine little boy, we all know that he’s her brother as well as her son.’ She stepped back. ‘I should go.’
It took Alys a moment for the enormity of that statement to sink in. That could only mean that … she looked over at the carpenter’s workshop and felt her cheeks redden. Then she went inside and shut the door.
The meal wasn’t quite ready when Cecily woke, so Alys sat with her, ready to talk or to remain silent, as the older woman preferred. To start with, Cecily just stared into space, and then she reached out her hand for Alys to take.
‘It was always likely that I would outlive him,’ she began, still looking at the wall. ‘He’s older than me, and his injuries meant that he’s been finding it harder every winter. But for this to happen …’ she tailed off, and Alys felt her hand being squeezed.
‘Edwin will find out who did it.’ Alys spoke with more confidence than she felt, for how could he, in such a short time and with everyone seemingly against him?
‘Oh, I hope so,’ said Cecily, turning her hollow eyes to Alys. ‘And when he does, when he finds William’s murderer, I will be there to watch that man hang.’
There was a knock at the door. They exchanged a glance, and then Alys got up. She opened it just a crack, but when she saw only the little boy who had run errands for William, his face grubby with wiped-away tears, she let him in.
‘Who is it?’ came Cecily’s voice from the chamber.
‘It’s me, Mistress. Wulfric,’ piped the boy. ‘Come to fetch Mistress Alys to the church, as Edwin wants to speak to her.’
Alys was torn. She needed to help, but as to leaving Cecily …
But Cecily was already appearing in the doorway, pinning her wimple in place. She held out her arms to the boy and he ran to her, pushing his face into her apron.
‘There, there.’ She looked at Alys over Wulfric’s head. ‘I won�
��t be the only one who misses him.’ And then, in more like her usual tone, ‘Now, Alys, if Edwin needs you, you must go. I’ll be all right here.’ She looked into the pot, and then down at Wulfric. ‘There’s plenty here and I expect you’re hungry.’
She bustled about, ladling some into a bowl, and held it out to the boy. ‘Here. Keep your strength up.’
By the time Alys had found her shawl and wrapped it about her, Wulfric had already finished, so he came out with her, slipping his hand into hers as they made their way to the church.
Edwin sat behind the table, forcing himself not to try and hear anything that might be coming from the sacristy. Dragging himself away had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done – what if the conversation there could save his life? But listening to another man’s confession was a heinous sin, and if Edwin really was going to die within the next couple of days, he couldn’t imperil his immortal soul. All he could do was hope and pray either that Osmund’s confession was nothing to do with the situation at hand, or that, if it were, he would hear about it by other means.
At Edwin’s request, Everard sent young Wulfric to fetch the reeve, and Edwin tried to compose himself for a long day of questioning and thinking.
The reeve arrived, and Edwin immediately sensed his hostility. Instead of standing before the table he sat down and folded his arms. ‘Well?’
The best way to approach this was probably to go on the offensive. ‘Do you think I’m a murderer? Truly?’ he asked, while looking pointedly around him to remind the reeve that they were in a church.
‘I can’t see into other men’s souls. You can’t have killed William, I’ll give you that, but you’re too friendly with those foreigners, so who’s to know you didn’t help one of them? And now you’re bothering us and keeping us from our work instead of doing your duty and standing up for us.’
‘I am doing my duty, which is to find out who killed Ivo and William.’
The reeve made an angry gesture. ‘You see? You’re doing it again. We know who killed Ivo, he’s up in a cell. And if it wasn’t exactly him who did for William – God rest his soul – then it was one of the others. They’re all strangers.’
Edwin felt like he was banging on a door that was locked and bolted from the other side. ‘Have you genuinely no interest in finding out the truth? What if the murderer is someone from the village, and we let him get away with it, and he kills again?’
The reeve leaned forward. ‘We’re not killers. We’re peaceful men, and we always have been. It’s only since the likes of you have got above yourselves that this sort of thing has happened. Get rid of those foreigners, and everything will go back to normal. And for the love of God stop asking so many questions!’
Edwin paused, wondering why the man in front of him was so agitated. It could surely only be because he had something to hide. But what was it, and did it have anything to do with the murder?
‘Have you finished with me now? Because I’ve got work to do.’
It was on the tip of Edwin’s tongue to say ‘so have I’, but before the words could reach his lips, Osmund came out of the sacristy. He seemed about to hurry past them, his face averted.
Edwin let the reeve depart and called out. ‘Osmund! We may as well speak to you next, seeing as you’re already here.’ He saw the man stop, then brace himself before he turned. Then he came to stand before the table. He looked upset. But how to get anything out of him without infringing on the sacrament of confession?
The silence lengthened as Edwin considered what best to say, but as it happened, this was enough on its own: Osmund could stand it no longer and fell to his knees, his hands grasping at the front edge of the table.
‘Oh please, you have to forgive him – even if he did do it then he didn’t mean to, he didn’t know what he was doing!’
‘He? Do you mean Gyrth?’ Edwin’s mind began to work, reaching several steps ahead before Osmund had even finished replying.
‘Yes, oh yes. You see, it was that morning when Ivo’s body was found. Gyrth, he had blood on his hands.’
Edwin held up a hand. ‘But we’ve all seen him with blood on him. We all know it’s because he doesn’t like the slaughtering. What makes you think that day was different?’
‘Because it was too early. It was hardly light, and they don’t start with the slaughtering until the sun comes up. So how could he have blood on his hands? And then when I saw –’ He broke off.
‘Saw what?’ That was Everard.
Osmund, still on his knees, looked straight at Edwin. ‘I saw your wife helping him to wash it off.’
‘What?’ Edwin was half on his feet.
‘Outside your house.’
Edwin pressed his hands together in front of his face, closing his eyes for a moment and trying to marshal his thoughts. This conversation hadn’t taken the turn he was expecting. ‘Just a moment.’ He looked up, hoping his face was calm. ‘And this is why you were so ready to believe that I had something to do with it.’
Osmund nodded.
‘All right. That makes sense. Now, tell me again about that morning, and tell me exactly – I want to know what you saw, and it’s important that it’s all in the right order.’
‘We woke before dawn, like usual. Gyrth took his bit of bread off the table and put it in his pouch to take with him.’ He looked up at both of them. ‘He’s out all day, you know, and he’s a growing lad.’
‘Of course. Now, carry on – what happened next?’
‘I was a little after him – takes me longer to get up in the mornings these days. My back gets stiffer every winter. I put on my boots, put some barley to soak in a bowl so we could eat it that evening. Then I went out.’
‘Then what?’
‘I saw Gyrth. He was coming the wrong way, back towards me, and he had this blood all over his hands. I started to go to him, but he went into your garden and in your sty. He hides sometimes when he knows he’s done something wrong. I was on my way over when your wife came out and saw him, so I stayed back – I don’t think she saw me. She helped Gyrth wash his hands, and spoke to him to calm him down. I didn’t hear what she said.’
‘But how did you –’
‘So I looked up the street, and I seen Gyrth’s stick lying on the ground outside the bailiff’s new house, so I went up there to see what was what, and looked inside to see if anyone was there who might have scared him, and that’s when I saw the body and I knew that Gyrth must have killed him.’ He had tears in his eyes.
Edwin held up a hand to silence him while he tried to think his way through everything. He cast his mind back to the morning in question. He had left the house before Alys did, so Gyrth must actually have been in the sty as he walked past it. Which meant that …
‘Fresh blood, or dried?’
Osmund was momentarily confused. ‘I … I’m not sure. But does it matter? Please, the important thing is that he’s not right in the head, he didn’t know …’
Everard spoke, and Edwin heard both the sympathy and the relief in his tone. ‘We’ll see what we can do. Look, if Gyrth did it then at least we know Edwin is innocent, and so you’ve saved his life by speaking up. He’ll put in a good word for the lad, I’m sure. And we all know what he’s like – God must have made him like that for a reason.’
Edwin was still looking at Osmund, whose face contorted at these last few words. He nodded to himself. ‘And that’s what you wanted to confess,’ he said, gently.
Osmund’s face creased, and tears squeezed out of his eyes.
‘What?’ Everard hadn’t kept up.
‘When he went to see Father Ignatius, he said he wanted to confess. He wanted to confess. He thinks that Gyrth killed Ivo, which isn’t his sin, so he must have wanted to admit to something for himself. And the only logical explanation is that he felt responsible for what Gyrth had done.’
Osmund was now twisting his cap in his hands. ‘Everyone’s always been so kind to him. But it’s because they think the Lord made him th
at way. But it wasn’t the Lord, it was me.’ Tears coursed down his face, making tracks through the embedded grime. His voice became hoarse. ‘I dropped him. On his head. When he was a baby.’
Edwin heard Everard take in a sharp breath as he understood the implication.
Osmund continued. ‘I was playing with him, bouncing him up and down. I was young, and glad to have a son, and he smiled at me. But then he slipped.’ His voice cracked. ‘I don’t know how, but he just slipped out my hand, and he fell head first down on to the stone round the hearth. He didn’t even cry, or scream, or anything. He was just quiet.’
He began rocking back and forth. ‘I thought I’d killed him. But he was breathing, and he looked normal apart from a lump on his head. And that went down eventually, so I never told anyone.’
‘Not even your wife?’
‘Well, her, of course. She noticed the lump as soon as she came back in. But she died not long after – you were only a tot at the time, you wouldn’t remember – and then it was just him and me. And he grew up … wrong. In his body he’s fine, but his head just don’t work properly.’
He wiped the back of his hand across his face, calming a little now that the worst was over. ‘Couldn’t afford to get married again, and who’d have me anyway, with Gyrth to look after? So it’s just him and me. And every time I hear someone say “God made him like that” I sink a bit deeper and it gets harder to say what really happened. So I never have, until today.’
Osmund hauled himself to his feet. ‘But if he’s done wrong then we both have to face it, and I can’t let you hang in our place. Your mother and father were always good to us, and it’s not right.’ He squared his shoulders. ‘But the fault is mine, not Gyrth’s. I made him the way he was.’
