“Perhaps I did. If you were to suggest something, I feel sure it might jog my memory.” He rapped the table again. “A nod’s as good as a wink to a blind man.”
From the corner of his eye, Justus could see Dominic staring mutely from one to the other. This was not Justus’s finest hour, he had to admit, but it was an opportunity for Dominic to learn that, at times, when the cause was just, one needed to be a little malleable; to bend the rules, only if ever so slightly; and that sometimes the wheels of ecclesiastical justice simply had to be greased.
Justus gestured irritably for the young friar to get scratching away with his quill. It was at last time to create the witness’s sworn testimony.
* * *
Tom Attwood sat at his usual seat in the alehouse, staring down gloomily at the half-empty beaker of ale clutched in his hand. He felt miserable. The bloody constable had as good as accused him of murdering that silly old fool, Roger Lacy. It was ridiculous. Yet, strangely enough, hardly anybody had come to the mill today. They had to be getting their grain ground somewhere and probably had chosen to go to that bastard Sam Bolder. And when he had walked into the village, bored and with nothing to do at what should have been his busiest time of the year, Tom had noticed all the sly looks and the way people slunk away when he approached, like he was clanging a set of leper’s bells.
Even Sally was giving him the stink eye, looking at him like he had sprouted a couple of horns out the top of his head and had a forked tail sticking out of his bleeding backside. Usually she would be laughing and joking with him, letting him play a little slap and tickle maybe, making sure she got her tip. But now she was hardly bothering to serve him at all and saying not a single word when she did. As if he hadn’t bounced her up and down on his knee when she was a little girl. Aye, and once or twice when she was full grown and all.
A smile flickered across his face, but only for a second or two, to be quickly replaced by another scowl. She wasn’t the only one. He saw the other folk in there, looking at him over their beakers, pretending not to. Mumbling to one another. He knew they were all talking about him. Stabbing him in the back, that’s what they were doing. How could any of them truly believe he was a killer? They had known him all their lives.
Bastards. That’s what they all were. Backstabbing bastards.
He took another deep swallow of ale, sloshing a little on the table as he set the beaker down unsteadily to continue his brooding.
Everyone was turning on him. He’d been having a drink or two at the end of the day with his friends every night for years, and now all of a sudden Will said his wife wasn’t feeling well, and Adam said he had to speak with the black friar. Now what could he possibly need to speak to that bastard about? Tom didn’t know, but he had a sinking feeling it couldn’t be good. Maybe Adam was telling tales about him. The very thought gave Tom the shivers. Adam was his closest friend, and there were some things he knew about Tom that were more than a little embarrassing—even sinful. Tom squirmed around on his bench and looked up to see Sally sneaking a peek at him from the corner of her eye before quickly averting her gaze. And there were other things he could say too. Oh yes, Adam had a whole bunch of secrets, and he could be spilling his guts to a bloody inquisitor right now, thinking to save his own skin!
It was enough to turn a man to drink. And it did. He had been steadily drinking throughout the afternoon and, beaker by beaker, his mood had turned dark and bitter, and he had begun to feel more and more sorry for himself. He should really have gone home, but there always seemed to be a good reason for just one more beaker, one more stoup, and one more mazer.
With a dismissive grunt, Tom picked up his beaker lazily and almost missed his mouth, much of the ale dribbling down his chin and neck. He slammed it down angrily and dragged his sleeve across his face. It was time to leave.
He staggered out of the open door of the alehouse, stumbling into the street. Even now he could feel their eyes boring into his back as he walked through the door, making his shoulder blades prickle. And he could hear the sudden murmur of conversation. Now wasn’t that a trick? Silent as the grave when he was in there, and now he had left, they were all chattering away like starlings. Talking about him, he was sure.
Tom weaved about a moment or two, allowing his head to clear. He had half a mind to go back inside and give them all a piece of his mind. Call them out for the backstabbing bunch of sheep-swivers that they were.
“Ah, they ain’t worth it,” he grumbled to himself.
So instead, he staggered off, weaving his way out into the field.
At least Mary had stood by him. She had told him to ignore them, that it was all nonsense and would blow over soon enough. A good woman, she was. He hadn’t always appreciated her enough and hadn’t done right by her. He would do so now. He’d stop drinking and pay more attention to her. He’d buy her a nice new kirtle; one of those fancy fitted ones from Grantham. She’d like that. And he wouldn’t touch that Sally again. Certainly not after the way the cow had treated him the last couple of days. No more slap and tickle for her, and she could forget her tips and all.
Hell, he wouldn’t be going to the alehouse anymore anyway. Not after tonight. Mary deserved better than that. Why, he would go home now and show her his appreciation. Give her some real attention. Show her exactly how much she meant to him. She’d like that too.
Why not? The boys would be asleep, and she was still a fine-looking woman. Maybe she had a little more meat on her bones now after the children, but he liked that, and she was as fine to him now as the day they were wed. And she enjoyed a good tumble, did Mary, and never made him feel like she was doing him a favor. Not like bloody Sally—always leading him on. All skirts, no stockings, that one. Why had he ever wasted his time mooning over her when he had such a fine woman waiting for him back at home? It all seemed so silly now. Oh yes, a fine woman. He grinned and felt a familiar stirring in his loins.
Tom tugged at his clothes and lifted his cap so he could comb his fingers through his wiry hair. It looked like he had spilled something on his tunic. He sniffed cautiously at it and jerked his head back. Sweet Jesus, was that puke? Funny, he did not remember spewing over himself. He brushed at the stain but it stubbornly refused to come away and just smeared across the cloth and made his hand sticky. It was no good.
Suddenly his stomach clenched. Tom staggered unsteadily for a moment or two, a strange but familiar sensation overcoming him, and then lurched to the side, bent over, and threw up onto the grass and all over his shoes. He stood shakily with his hands on his knees, waiting for the sensation to pass. His stomach flip-flopped, and he was once more overwhelmed and sprayed out another gout of foul-smelling liquid.
“Bloody hell!” he gasped and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. He must have drunk more than he thought, and his head was swimming. He should have had something to eat. The ale and the chill night air had done for him, and no mistake.
Tom’s ardor collapsed like a pricked bladder. There was no way Mary would entertain him now. And he was not sure he was up to it anyway. She’d like as not kick him out to the byre quick as you like, with a fierce tongue lashing to take with him. She might even take the switch to him. It wouldn’t be the first time. Aye, perhaps he’d best sleep it off after all. He would go to his mill. She was used to him doing that, and he wouldn’t be disturbed there. A bit of rest was what he needed. Some sleep would take his mind off everything, and maybe tomorrow things wouldn’t seem so bad. Maybe tomorrow he could spend some time with his missus.
Tom stood up, swayed about for a moment like a reed of grass in the wind, and then lurched off in the direction of the river and his mill.
When Tom pushed open the heavy door of the millhouse and walked inside, a shape suddenly erupted from the shadows. Tom sensed something looped over his head and felt a rope cord brush roughly against his neck. As drunk as he was, he half-stepped, half-fell backward into the wall, which was a good thing because in crashing against it, the assailant’s grip loosened, and he wa
s able to turn to face him, dragging him around to his front. The attacker was not perhaps so big as Tom, but he was strong. Tom could feel his muscles flexing as he strained against him, still trying to force the rope around Tom’s neck.
Tom was having none of it. Even in his sodden state, he somehow knew he was in a fight for his life. He did not pause to think but, with the instincts of a wrestler, wrapped his thick muscled arms wide around his foe. They struggled in silence, reeling about like two drunken dancers in a grotesque embrace, feet scuffing, shuffling, and stomping, each of them grunting and straining, each trying to spread his arms wider so he could get the better grip.
Tom had been the village wrestling champion in his younger days. He was the veteran of many a friendly Mayfair brawl, and his old skills had not left him. The cloaked and hooded figure struggling with him clawed at Tom’s eyes. But that was an old trick. Tom kept forcing his arms down, to keep the hands away from his face, working all the time to get the outside grip. And then he had it, and he began to squeeze. His attacker was trying to stamp on his instep, to butt him in the face, and even bite him—every dirty trick ever thought of. But he was no wrestler. His moves were predictable and clumsy; and even dulled by drink, the miller had no difficulty countering them.
Tom’s eyes gleamed in triumph as he reached that point where could sense he had the upper hand. He was going to win. He had no doubt. The villain was pummeling at him uselessly, but with his upper arms practically pinned to his sides, and at such close distance, the blows were ineffective, falling wildly and without force. Tom could not even feel any pain, probably the one benefit of the drink. Sensing that victory was close, he squeezed harder, spreading his feet for purchase, readying himself to hook his man behind the knee, to heave him up and send him crashing to the ground with one of his favorite throws. It would be over then. Nobody had ever broken free once Tom had him in that grip
“I’ve got you now, you tosser,” he hissed into the man’s face, blowing a gale of ale and puke breath over him. “I’ll have you on the floor trussed up in no time now, you backstabbing bastard.”
His opponent was thrashing wildly now, becoming ever more desperate, bucking and twisting about hopelessly. Tom grimaced and shuffled his feet just a little wider. A little more purchase and a little better grip, and then he’d have him down. And it was then that his right foot slipped. His leg went out from under him and he was falling, flailing backward, his grip broken. His opponent howled in triumph and, not being drunk like Tom, had the presence of mind to twist about, turning Tom to the side mid-fall so he went down hard on his face and stomach, driving the wind from his lungs.
Stunned as he was, Tom could still have got up and made a fight of it, but the ale had made him stupid and slow, and his assailant was on his back whip-fast, pressing a knee hard into him with his full weight behind it, wrapping the rope around Tom’s neck and hauling it tight. Tom awoke to the danger and thrashed about with desperation, fighting for his life, but with his head hauled back and the knee forced into his spine, he could not break free. He tried to buck, but he had no leverage, and the man on top of him, for all that he was smaller, was also strong.
Tom clawed at the rope, trying to get his fingers underneath. He felt hard knuckles grinding into the back of his neck, twisting the rope, again and again, ever tighter. His face was going numb, and he could feel the blood welling in his neck. It was hard to breathe, and he could feel the relentless pressure on his neck and spine. And there was pain now—a lot of it. Tom’s struggles became ever weaker, and then there was a loud crack, and his body sagged, limp and lifeless.
* * *
Hunydd led Thomas by the hand through the manor gardens. He could smell the mint, fennel, and mustard. Thomas wondered for a moment why Hunydd was not wearing any clothes, but let it go when she looked back shyly at him, smiling, the sweet dimple flashing in her cheek, a crown of anemone blossoms atop her raven-black hair. She walked on tiptoes, and though he tried his best not to stare, he would not have been human had he not noticed her slender figure, curved in all the right places.
And then she brushed his cheek lightly with the back of her hand and glided away from him with one last smoldering look over her shoulder. Another hand had taken his. Soft. Feminine. Gentle at first, but then insistent. Cecily pulled him closer and melted against his chest, lifting her face up to him, her lips inviting and her eyes that mesmerizing shade of blue. He could feel her arms about him, pulling him toward her. Strangely enough, she was naked as well. He felt her flesh press against him, her body demanding a response from him, her breath hot against his neck, and he remembered the Bishop of Lincoln’s words: “I am sure if you chip away diligently enough at the ice, there is a deep pool of lust beneath just waiting for you to dive in and splash about.”
It had been a long time since he had felt such desire. He leaned down, closed his eyes, and pressed his lips to hers.
And his world shook. It literally shook. He staggered clumsily. And then another quake rocked the ground, and he staggered again. Cecily had pulled away, a bewildered, hurt look on her face.
Thomas’s eyes opened wide, and he found himself staring up at the broad face and large broken nose of the constable.
“Come on, wake up, will you?” he bellowed, his heady breath instantly dispelling the remaining fragments of the dream.
The constable shook him again. He was trying to be gentle, but he was a strong man and Thomas rocked heavily from side to side.
“Come on. Wake up!”
Thomas felt irritable and more than a little guilty. Brushing John’s hands aside, he sat up and scrubbed at his eyes. As his head slowly cleared, he remembered where he was—Bekley cottage, the house De Bray had gifted to him. It was a modest home, little more than a yeoman’s cottage really, and no grand manor by any means, but it had been expanded at some point to add a second floor and had its own enclosed garden with flower beds and fruit trees that should provide a welcome shade come summer and from all sides offered bucolic views of the Vale. Not perhaps a home that a fine lady such as Cecily would appreciate, but they had done well by him, and he only hoped that he might prove worthy of the gift.
“What in God’s name are you up to, John? What time is it?” he asked, squinting out from under his lids at the gray light filtering in through the cracks in the shutters.
“It’s not yet dawn, but we’ve got to go. We have a problem. Its Tom Attwood—he’s only gone and bloody hanged himself at the mill, hasn’t he!”
* * *
When they arrived at the mill, they found the miller’s wife weeping against Father Elyas’s chest. The poor man had folded her in his arms and was doing his best to provide comfort, but looked no less miserable than her. On seeing Thomas, he whispered in her ear and passed her to the care of her kin.
“How is she, Father?”
The chaplain’s shoulders slumped. “Beyond consolation. Perhaps with time, she will recover.”
Elyas looked wretched himself and wrung his hands together miserably.
“Oh, Thomas, this is a terrible thing, and I am to blame.” He looked like he might burst into tears at any moment. “Had I acted when you spoke to me, had I done something, had I reached out to him, then perhaps he would still be alive today.”
“I asked you not to do so. If any bear the guilt, then it is I,” reasoned Thomas.
“No. I cannot accept that. It would be a cheap consolation to blame another for my own failure. I was his confessor. Perhaps not his parish priest, but I was one of those who had served that role since the passing of Father Oswin. I was his spiritual guide. His soul was in my care, Thomas. My care! And now it is damned.”
He stifled a sob, took Thomas’s elbow, and drew him farther away from the wailing miller’s wife.
“You must understand, in taking his own life, he has condemned himself to the eternal flames. We cannot lay him to rest in the churchyard. To my shame, I do not even know when last he confessed. No, I should have spoken with
him, Thomas, and I shall have to bear that guilt for the rest of my life. And he leaves behind a family—two young ones and another on the way.”
Thomas clapped him on shoulder. “Bear up man! The people here have need of you, especially now. You must be strong for them. How will it be if they see you so forlorn?”
The chaplain inhaled sharply through his nose at the reminder of his duty.
“You are right, of course. Thank you. Forgive my weakness. God shall give me strength. I shall do what I can.” His face took on a fierce look of determination, and he stood visibly taller. “I shall speak with Lady Cecily at once. They shall be cared for. I shall see to it. Whatever he did, they share no blame. They will want for nothing.”
He gestured to the body hanging from the mill’s rafters, two guards standing nearby. “I pleaded with them to cut him down, but they insisted on waiting for you to arrive. Can you imagine? Forcing the poor woman to see her husband swinging from the rafters. Ghastly. My stomach turned at the sight.”
Thomas glanced across to where the body hung from the great crossbeam, the face slack and lifeless, a swollen black tongue protruding from blue lips. The body did not swing; it merely hung still like a lumpy sack, twisted at a strange angle from the neck. A stool lay on the ground beneath the feet, tipped onto its side as though kicked away. Coins and a leather purse were scattered across the floor.
Thomas caught the eye of one of the guards and indicated he should cut the man down.
The chaplain’s visage collapsed again as he watched in horror. “This is all so horrible. When will it end?”
He quickly turned and rushed across to shelter the miller’s wife from the view, wrapping her in his arms once more, as much for his own comfort, thought Thomas, as for hers.
The constable walked up, his boots squelching in the mud, and spat to the side, the remnant of a pagan custom to ward off evil. Thomas caught himself fingering the iron of his talisman for the same unspoken reason.
“Well, that’s that then,” said John.
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