Men weren’t safe with money. It was what appealed to her as an alewife. If a man came into her house, she could fill him with ale, feed him some bread and cheese, flirt and make him happy, reassure him that he was desirable, and send him away smiling, while she pocketed all his money. It was a silly game, life, but she played it for all she was worth. She enjoyed it again, now that her fool of a husband was gone. Never again! She had no need of a man!
No, all she needed were punters walking through her door, that was all. But just now there was no one to serve. Usually by this time, she’d have had at least a few of the locals in, demanding ale or cider to soothe parched throats.
As though on cue, a shadow fell over her threshold, and looking up she saw Serlo. ‘Ah, an ale?’
He glanced at her as though hardly seeing her. Then he nodded, thoughtfully wandering to the stool near the window.
‘Quiet today,’ she said as she passed him a large jug.
‘Reckon there’s something happening folks want to see,’ he grunted.
‘What’s that, then?’
‘Athelina. Heard she’s been found dead,’ he said, his face still and unemotional. ‘Silly bitch! She was useless in life, and now she’s killed herself.’
Chapter Seven
Muriel watched the proceedings, fascinated by the sight of the strangers. Many of the women were scared, she saw, but she concentrated on the two men in quality clothes talking to the priest.
She had been to see the smith for Serlo. His old shovel had finally given up the ghost, the steel rusting away completely, and Serlo had grumpily accepted that he needed a new one. Once she’d put in her order, she returned past the cottage, and saw the people gathering. Since it was her husband’s cottage, she wanted to know what all the fuss was about, and stopped to gawp and listen.
Poor Athelina! She must have been so desperate to have done a dreadful thing like that. Muriel hoped that the recent rent increase hadn’t tipped her over the edge. No, it couldn’t be Serlo’s fault. Athelina had always been a nervous type, a scrawny wench, too much like a game chicken, Serlo used to say, with her thin thighs. Well, she spent so much time hungry, it wasn’t surprising. But to kill her boys, that was terrible … Muriel couldn’t have done that, not in a hundred years.
‘Who are they?’ she asked a neighbour. It was young Gregory, and he was staring with his mouth agape at the sight of these strange men talking to Adam.
‘Foreigners,’ came the gruff whisper. ‘I think they only got here this morning, an’ soon as they came here, they found her. Do you think they murdered her? Might have. Can’t tell with foreigners. They talk funny, too,’ he added as an afterthought.
Muriel was about to comment when Nicholas came marching up with two men-at-arms. The three men stopped at the sight of the trio in front of the cottage, then made their way to join them.
From where Muriel stood, she thought that Nicholas looked wary, like a man who feared sudden attack. He stood slightly distant from the two strangers, his hand near his belt.
‘Lordings, Godspeed. I am the castellan, Nicholas of Bodmin. What is this about Athelina?’
Adam began talking quickly and in a high-pitched voice like a man who was close to tears but daren’t shed them, the words falling over one another. ‘She’s in there, Nicholas; she hanged herself and slit the throats of her boys! It’s awful in there. It’s a slaughterhouse! How could she?’
Muriel shook her head. It was appalling! Those poor boys! Unknowingly, she pushed her way through the crowds until she was at the front and could hear more clearly.
One of the strangers was taller and, although his hair was showing silver at the temples and he wore a beard that just followed the line of his jaw, he looked quite young. His movements were as precise and assured as a man in his early twenties, but somehow Muriel knew that he was a great deal older than that. He spoke now, waving a hand at the open cottage door.
‘Sir, my friend and I were with the good priest here when he was called to see this woman. My name is Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, and this is my good friend Bailiff Simon Puttock from the Stannary of Lydford. He is appointed Bailiff by Abbot Robert of Tavistock, and has helped the Devonshire Coroners in many murders. I myself am Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton. We have both some experience of murders, so we came as soon as we heard of this sad case, and we cut the woman’s body down.’
His companion had flesh that looked as though it had been bronzed by the sun, but now he was pale, his features stretched and haggard. It was an expression of anguish and horror, Muriel could see. When Aumery suffered from a nightmare, he often woke with that same look set upon his face, his eyes wild like this man’s. It made her realise just how hideous the scene must be in the cottage.
Sir Baldwin continued, ‘If you would care to follow me, I can show you the bodies. The woman is here, but her sons are still inside, covered by their palliasse. They should be left where they are for now, so that the Coroner can see them in situ, but that is no reason why you shouldn’t satisfy yourself about their situation.’
‘I have no need to see her or them.’
‘She must have been truly evil,’ one of Nicholas’s men commented, staring at the cottage with a curled lip.
At his side, Muriel saw her husband’s terrible enemy, Richer. He was pale and fretful. ‘She was a saint, you fucking cretin!’
Nicholas glanced behind him at the men of his party. ‘Silence, both of you! Richer: be still!’
‘She was a woman who had lost all hope,’ Sir Baldwin said with cold deliberation. ‘A woman who kills her children is one who has learned true despair. She saw no life for them. That was why she slaughtered them before hanging herself. You should pity her, not scorn her.’
Muriel looked at him sharply. She almost expected to see him draw steel, his voice was so harsh. It made her heart go to him, this odd knight, because he obviously felt compassion for poor Athelina. It was rare enough for anyone to feel something for a beggar like her, other than distaste.
‘Sir Knight, I am sure he didn’t mean anything by his words,’ Nicholas said, meanwhile giving his man a look of chilling contempt, ‘although a man may believe that a woman who murders her child must be particularly foul.’
‘I have seen too many real murders to believe that. If a woman has done this, it is because of desperation or lunacy, not innate evil,’ Baldwin said. He stared at the man-at-arms.
‘Do you think that this woman was lunatic?’ Nicholas asked.
‘It is possible. There are some diseases which can affect a person’s mind,’ Baldwin said. ‘You need only think of the rage which affects men after they have been bitten by a dog. It makes a man crave water, but when it is provided, he is driven insane. Perhaps this poor woman had a disease which made her lose her mind.’
‘Some sicknesses are terrible,’ Nicholas agreed thoughtfully. ‘Sir, I have sent a man to fetch the Coroner. Is there anything you observed in there which could be useful?’
‘She has grown stiff already, as have her children, so I should think that she was dead yesterday, or even before that. Perhaps Saturday – perhaps Friday. Only God knows. The smell is repellent, so it is possible that the blood has been upon the walls and floor for some days. Do you know when she was last seen?’
‘No. We can ask, though,’ Nicholas said, glancing at the silent, listening crowd. ‘Has anyone seen Alexander? Where is that Constable?’
The men had all gone, and Gervase saw Lady Anne at the door to the hall. She turned away as soon as she saw his eyes on her, the bitch!
He could have loved her – that was part of his problem. She was adorable. If unattached at that time, he would have tried his luck. Jesus! He would have considered marrying her, if he hadn’t realised that she was stale. That much was obvious as soon as he had seen her reactions to poor Nick. She’d been experienced beyond her years, and Gervase, with a punter’s knowledge of whores, had been able to see it, whereas poor Nick was so infatuated that he couldn’
t see it. And it wouldn’t serve to save him. No, he was bound to be made miserable by her.
Christ Jesus – wasn’t Gervase the man to prove it?
When a boy had been sent to fetch the Constable, Nicholas spoke quietly. ‘We’d best set a guard about these bodies until the Coroner arrives. Who actually found them?’
‘Me, sir.’
Muriel saw young Hob step forward. He was a close friend of Ben, Athelina’s oldest son.
‘What were you doing here?’ Sir Baldwin asked in friendly fashion. He appeared to lose the aura of authority which Muriel had detected before, and in its place was a curious youthfulness, as though he was actually nearer to Hob’s own age than his advanced years.
‘Sir, I was trying to get Ben to come with me. I had to go and scare the birds from the gleanings, and I thought he’d like to come too. I didn’t expect …’ The boy faltered. Tears shone in his eyes.
‘No, of course not,’ Sir Baldwin said kindly. ‘Was the door open?’
‘I … yes, I think so. A little. It never closed well.’
‘And you walked straight in?’
‘Well, I called out first. Then I went in.’
‘And saw them?’
‘I only saw her. Didn’t see them.’ He shuddered violently.
‘When did you last see Ben?’
‘Saturday.’
‘Two days ago. That would make sense,’ Baldwin said.
Nicholas was frowning, as was Muriel herself. What did the knight mean by that?
‘Why do you say that?’ Nicholas asked.
‘Because of the way that the bodies are lying. The two boys were killed on their palliasse in the corner. As I said, they died some little while ago. It was dark in there because the shutter is pulled across the window, so I think it could be that this woman killed them at night. That would explain why the two boys died together. She slit their throats when they were asleep. Then she covered them with blankets, horrified with what she had done, and hanged herself, dropping her knife as she died. Both lads were asleep, so neither could give the alarm to the other. She must have planned this. Poor woman.’
‘Poor children, more to the point,’ Nicholas said, and Muriel had to agree with him. She could feel little empathy with a woman who could slaughter her own children like lambs for the pot.
The scene was terrible, and although she would have liked to see the bodies removed, because all men and women must be intrigued by death, yet she was suddenly taken with a feeling of guilt, as though she was intruding. Athelina must have been dreadfully depressed to have committed this grievous crime, and listening to these men speculating on her last moments felt almost blasphemous.
At the mill, when she returned, she told Serlo about the woman’s death.
He was quiet for a few moments as he absorbed her words, but then, when he turned to her, his face twisted petulantly. ‘Bugger! It’ll take an age to clean all the blood away. How are we going to get money in from the place if it stinks like a charnelhouse?’
She was left with the impression, as he walked off, that he had already known of the matter, and she wondered why he hadn’t admitted it. Serlo was not the type to bottle up such things. If he thought that he knew more than another, he would gladly boast about it. Most unlike him, she reckoned, but then she heard Aumie cry, and her maternal instincts took over for a while. It was only later that she returned to the theme. ‘It was terrible, Serlo!,’ she told him. ‘Those two poor boys, dead like that! I don’t know what to say!’
‘Then shut up,’ he said unsympathetically. ‘I don’t give a toss for that beggarwoman or her brood. Now what’s for supper?’
She couldn’t ignore his mood. All too often in the past when he had been in this frame of mind, he had beaten her. Rather than risk that, she offered him a thickened pottage with some lamb meat, and left him to his solitary contemplation of the fire, walking out to watch over her children as they played in the yard. She was still there a while later when he came out.
‘I’m going to see my brother,’ he said, and strode off up the road towards the vill and his precious Alexander.
He was a hard devil to please sometimes, that husband of hers.
Lady Anne heard the men return from the vill and, rather than wait for her husband, she walked carefully down the stairs to greet him and learn what had been happening.
He was still in the yard when she reached the top of the staircase outside the hall. Like so many newer castles, this one was built with a view to defence, so the hall was up a flight of stone steps; beneath was a large undercroft for storing foods. From her vantage point, she could see that Nicholas was visibly upset. He had the expression that he usually wore when a dog misbehaved and sprang the game too early, or when a peasant didn’t turn up for his traditional labour days. He carried his head lower, like a bull preparing to charge, and his brows came together above his nose, giving him, so Anne thought, a deliciously aggressive aspect.
Others would quail in his presence when he wore that expression, but not Lady Anne. She knew her man better than that. For her, there was no danger from him. Although he could be as terrifying as an ogre to the men-at-arms about the castle, towards her he was ever a polite and kindly gentleman. Even now, she saw the two new men-at-arms, Richer and Warin, receiving a blunt reproach from Nicholas. Richer, she noted, looked close to answering back. For a moment Anne actually thought he would, but then Warin took his shoulder, and he calmed down. Fortunately, Nicholas hadn’t noticed; he was shouting at a groom for being lazy.
‘It was Athelina? She is dead?’ she asked Nicholas, running down the stairs to his side.
‘Yes,’ he responded. His eyes met hers for a moment, and then he roared at a servant to fetch him wine. ‘She killed her boys, too. No one’s seen them for a couple of days, not since Saturday evening, so we think she did it then. Christ Jesus, but I have no idea why! What can she have been thinking? Oh, my love, I am sorry!’
Anne had winced on hearing his words, a hand instinctively rising to her belly as though to shield her child’s ears. She could feel herself blench even as her husband rested his hands upon her shoulders, his eyes full of compassion. ‘My dear, I wasn’t thinking.’
‘It was a terrible thing to kill the boys,’ she said.
‘Dreadful! The pair of them lying there, their throats …’ He looked drawn. Anne put her hand up to cover his on her shoulder as he continued. ‘I’ve seen enough of rapine and murder in war – you expect it. Every man’s heart hides a wild brute, and it’s only in time of war that the beast is released to act as it wishes … but this? It’s abnormal wicked to see children murdered by their own mother – the woman who’s supposed to seek only their safety and protection.’
‘It is the way sometimes, though,’ she said. He was haunted by these deaths, she saw, and she wanted to comfort him, but wasn’t sure how. She’d never seen him so affected. Yet it was natural, surely, for an honourable man to feel this way? Especially when his wife was expecting her own first child, she told herself with a faint sinking sensation in her heart.
She loved him. She adored him. How could God have deceived her so and made her betray him?
‘Who’s that?’ Letitia muttered as she heard the footsteps, but she needn’t have wondered. There was only one man who would walk to Alexander’s door at this time of night without hesitating.
‘Where is he?’ Serlo demanded, seeing her at the hearth.
‘If you mean your brother, I expect he’s still at Athelina’s. Someone has to keep an eye on the place until the Coroner arrives, and goodness knows when that will be.’
‘I want to see him,’ Serlo said.
Letitia saw how he grimaced as he said it. There was something on his mind that he knew was going to annoy her husband, and she stood up, wincing slightly as a knee clicked. She knew that she was intimidating to Serlo; it had something to do with her height, for she was at least two inches taller than him, but it was also her manner.
She had
been born into the family of a merchant in Bodmin, a wealthy enough man, and when she agreed to marry Alex, it was a move designed mostly by her father. Alex was even then a forward-thinking man, and his fame was travelling farther than merely Bodmin.
She deliberately used her ‘older sister’ tone. It was the same tone she had used to intimidate her younger brother when they were children, and she had always found that it suited her perfectly in dealings with Serlo. Standing taller than him, she inclined her head until she was looking down her nose at him. ‘What have you done now?’
‘I ain’t done anything!’ he snapped. ‘Least, nothing much.’
‘Have you been demanding money from travellers again? You’ve been warned already by that fool Richer only yesterday. Alexander was very upset to hear that. You were stealing from us – from him. If he learns that—’
‘I’m not scared of that scrote Richer. He can go and—’
‘Save your great oaths for your customers, Serlo. I have no use for them,’ Letitia said, holding up her hand. ‘All I want to know is, what’s upset you this time?’
‘It’s nothing. I’ll find him myself. He’ll be at Athelina’s place, you say?’
‘I imagine so. You should try there first,’ she said, with a distant expression. If the fool didn’t wish to confide in her, that was fine, she thought, but as he slammed the door behind him, she could have kicked the hearth in annoyance. The ridiculous fellow! Walking in here as though he owned the place! He’d probably been caught with his fingers in someone’s sack of grain again. The idiot was so incompetent, he couldn’t even rob his customers without being found out.
He was looking very sad, though. Letitia began to wonder whether there wasn’t something more important at the heart of his strange behaviour. But for the life of her, she couldn’t think what it could be.
The Tolls of Death: (Knights Templar 17) Page 10
