‘With gravy, of course,’ her friend had replied distantly.
She was tempted to mention this revelation to Nicholas, but something about his demeanour told her that he was in no mood for pleasantries. ‘You are very upset?’
He looked at her and smiled, but his face was quite pale. ‘I am sorry, my love,’ he said, his eyes going to her bump. ‘Are you all right? I don’t want to trouble you.’
‘I am all right,’ she smiled. ‘Please tell me.’
He nodded. ‘It’s Athelina, of course. Her corpse and those of her boys were hauled out for the jury, but as we were proceeding, Keeper Baldwin and Bailiff Puttock suggested that she was herself murdered.’
With a flare of pride, Anne recalled that it was she herself who had pointed out the grazes on the corpse’s throat. ‘Who could have wanted to kill her?’
‘A rapist? Someone who thought she had money to steal?’ he guessed, and then waved a hand in frustration. ‘Who would think that!’
‘What of poor Aumery?’
‘I forgot you were there.’ He studied her face a moment, anxious not to alarm her in her delicate state. ‘It was all Serlo’s fault. The idiot left the children with his sick wife. The family pig got in, and knocked a basinful of boiling pottage over little Ham. The poor lad was dead in an instant.’
‘Oh, poor Muriel!’ She put a hand to her breast to stop her heart’s fluttering, but no matter what she did, she could feel the beat racing. As if in sympathy, her baby gave a convulsive kick. Perhaps he was simply complaining, she thought, and then she felt her mood lighten. By now she was quite certain her child would be a boy. That was wonderful. Her husband would be delighted to know that he had an heir.
But then, looking at him again, she knew that this was the wrong moment to share her pleasure. ‘My love, you are very upset by all this, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Nicholas said heavily, his face still troubled. ‘But talking of Serlo – what did he want with you? I saw him approach you at the inquest. What was that about?’
She smiled at him, but it was some moments before she could trust her voice. ‘Why, nothing, dear. Nothing at all.’
Warin had stood at the back of the inquest, but left long before the arrival of Muriel with the body of Hamelin and the revelation about Athelina’s death. He had other work to do. Behind the churchyard he had left a horse. He went there now, and mounted it.
From the churchyard where the inquest was being held, the road led northwards past the spring called the Holy Well. It joined up with the road to the moors after a while, a long road that opened out after a quarter mile or so, away from the trees and low bushes that lay about the vill itself. Here the land undulated more smoothly, with sprinkles of bright yellow where the gorse flowered. Warin stopped once, staring about him at the view, and then took a deep breath before setting off once more.
His path took him up past the fields at Colvannick, and then on towards the vill of Temple. It was a place with which he was well acquainted, and he glanced at the fields approvingly. The harvest had been good this year, and it was pleasing to see that it had all been collected before the weather worsened.
The road to Temple was over the top of the moors, and he could feel the hot sun burning into his back. He took a drink from a spring at a high point, from where he could stare back towards the vill. The church stood proud of the landscape all about, a tall steeple with little decoration, a clear marker for those who had faith so that they knew where to go. Even the poor traveller who was desperate for a chance to pray, or perhaps merely seeking warmth and shelter, would be able to see this building from miles away. After crossing the worst of the moors, a traveller would be glad of such a sight.
And in the other direction there lay the strange little manor, once a part of the great organisation that owned so much of the country: the Knights Templar. Now destroyed, the Order existed still in stone and mortar in a thousand little manors and chapels up and down England. Across Europe most had been handed to the Hospitallers, in compliance with the Pope’s orders, but in England, the King preferred to protect them. He had kept several of the manors for himself.
This was not one of them, though. Too small to interest the King, it had been absorbed by a knight who had given Edward good service, as Warin knew; perhaps he was the only person in the Earldom of Cornwall to know that. But he had good reason to know. The new owner had instructed him to come here and look at the place, evaluate its worth, and decide what should be done with it.
That would not be too difficult, but the second of his tasks was to assess the loyalty of the men of the county, so far as he could. Not because Warin was a spy by nature, but because there must be one man in whom Sir Henry of Cardinham could trust, and who better than bluff, honest Warin?
Warin knew why he had been picked for this job, but he was also aware of the desperate need of Sir Henry to know the mood of the county. A single man could be an irritation in a vill; a vill like Cardinham in revolt could prove to be an annoyance for the Sheriff; a few places like Cardinham rising up could mean a civil war.
Many of the men from the Marches had been arrested and thrown into the Tower or executed since the last abortive uprising. The King had been defeated and his most trusted aides exiled, but then he had planned, as only a man like he could.
Warin was no cretin: he knew how devious King Edward II could be. He’d seen Edward and his lover, Hugh Despenser, plotting the overthrow of one man after another, even to the exclusion from his affections of his own Queen. At the first opportunity, Edward had baited his trap. One by one, the men who could have threatened his power were caught in his nets, even the most powerful, Lord Mortimer of Wigmore, who now mouldered in the Tower of London. He had been arrested eighteen months ago, and at first was threatened with execution, although he was later reprieved. However, Warin knew that Hugh Despenser, the son of the Earl of Winchester, was pissing in the King’s ear again, demanding Mortimer’s death.
Mortimer, as Despenser knew, was a risk as long as he was alive. One of a few men who were competent to lead others, as he had proved in Ireland, he was a threat to the rule of the Despensers. For that reason, Roger Mortimer would be dead before the end of August. That was the rumour. Despenser had demanded his head.
In this year of 1323, the Despensers, father and son, held sway. There was no theft, no act of brigandage, no extortion, which could persuade the King to remove them. Of course, it was likely that the King didn’t hear the murmurings of unrest. All the reports he received came through his most trusted adviser, Hugh Despenser, and all Hugh ever wanted was more money, land and property. The man got away, literally, with murder, since none would dare to speak ill of he whom the King most trusted – and loved.
Another reason for Warin’s being sent so far from the court was to protect him in the event of a fresh coup in the King’s Household. Such things, Warin knew, could suddenly spring up. In the last decade he had seen the deaths of many men. And when such men were executed, they left behind them the disgruntled and the avaricious, who craved vengeance or their own rewards. Knowing this, Warin was only too happy to be away from court.
Especially now, in mid-August. If the rumours were true and the traitor Mortimer was to be executed later in the month, Warin knew that the end of so powerful a nobleman, once the King’s trusted friend and ally, could cause mayhem on a scale unforeseen by either Edward or Despenser. London no longer felt like a safe city. The apprentices were always an unruly band, and just recently they had been worse than usual. There had been reports of gangs of them wandering the streets just before he and Richer had left Kent.
He clattered along a stretch of almost metalled track, and then found himself on a well-made road which, although it had not been properly maintained for some while, was still perfectly usable. This took him past a few small buildings, and then he was in a wooded area. The road led on straight ahead, but he took a well-used track southwards, and here, a short way down the path, he fou
nd the church. He swung himself down lightly, and tethered his mount.
It was a small church, some six and twenty feet long, maybe fifteen wide. The altar was a simple slab of moorstone, while the walls were decorated with vivid scenes from Hell: there were beasts of all sorts, reptilian, human in body but with animals’ heads, or scaled and twisted, all wielding tridents and bills, pushing the wailing, weeping naked souls of the damned into the flames of the pit.
Warin studied the pictures with some interest for a few moments, but then he heard a cough, and he looked up to observe a slender figure beneath the small tower. ‘Godspeed, Father.’
‘Godspeed, my son. If you wished for a prayer on your journey, I can help you shortly, but …’
‘No, Father John.’
‘You know me?’
‘I have heard much about you. I am not here for a prayer,’ Warin said. He watched as the priest approached him, smiling a little uncertainly.
‘No? Then how can I help you?’
‘You can talk to me about the wench living with the priest at Cardinham, for a start,’ Warin said, and then he smiled wolfishly as Father John’s smile froze on his lips.
Chapter Sixteen
It was no noisome hovel, this tavern, but as soon as Baldwin, Simon and Jules entered, the lusty singing and roaring which they had heard from outside died down and the whole room became as quiet as a church at dawn.
There were many vills where those in a tavern would behave in a similar manner, but here, Baldwin was sure that there was a reason other than the usual one of local suspicion of foreigners. Here it seemed more likely to be alarm at finding three men-at-arms in the doorway.
That was true except for one man: Serlo. The miller was slumped on an old barrel, his legs spread wide and a pot gripped in his fist. About him was a small group of local men, from the look of them.
‘What, come to demand more questions of me, have you?’ he slurred rudely at Baldwin. ‘Thought you’d get a poor miller when he’s down on his luck and his brat’s been scalded? Or do you want to accuse me of his murder – is that it, you curs whelped by devils!’
Baldwin set his jaw and walked to a heavy table, sitting with his back to the wall so he could see Serlo and the door. He could not blame the man for his mood after all he had endured that day, but he wasn’t sure that Simon or Sir Jules would be capable of controlling their anger should Serlo continue to insult them. He considered walking out again, but to do so would leave them open to ridicule. Their offices required respect.
In preference, he beckoned the only woman in the place. She made to go to him immediately, wiping her hands on a grubby cloth bound about her middle by a piece of string. ‘Master—’ she began anxiously, but he cut her off.
‘Mistress, fetch me a jug of your best wine, and my friends here will have …?’
Sir Jules ordered wine, but Simon, who was desperately thirsty, demanded a quart of cider. When they had done, Baldwin leaned forward. ‘Mistress, we shall be here for one drink, and we shall not leave under the threats of the miller, but please order him to be silent. We are officers of the King, and if he abuses us, we shall have to respond.’
‘I’m sure he’s not serious, master,’ she replied, wiping her hands more vigorously in agitation. She was a pretty woman, Baldwin thought, with a round face, bright blue eyes and hair the colour of straw at harvest-time, more yellow than gold, which hung in natural ringlets about her features, unflattened by her coif. ‘He lost his son today and—’
‘We know, but he cannot insult a Coroner and a Keeper of the King’s Peace with impunity. Make him silent, or command him to leave.’
‘I will.’
She threw Serlo an anxious glance and made her way back towards him. She had set up her bar at the far end of the room, near to where he sat, and as she served the cider and drew off two jugs of wine, she leaned towards Serlo and spoke.
There was silence. At first Baldwin thought that the man had taken the hint and would leave them in peace, but then he saw the slow dawning of anger on Serlo’s face. The miller reddened, then his scowl grew into a ferocious glare. He said nothing, but sat staring fixedly at Baldwin and the other two while the woman served them.
She returned to the table and set their drinks before them, saying in an undertone, ‘I hope he’ll be sensible, master. Don’t think too harshly of him. He’s been very unlucky today. To lose a son …’
‘We all know of his misfortune,’ Baldwin said, ‘but he must respect our offices, whether he likes us or no. Make him remain silent like this, and we shall leave as soon as we have finished our drinks, mistress.’
She flashed him a smile. ‘You can call me Susan, master. Everyone else does about here.’
‘Thank you. Tell me, Susan, how has he been? He looks as though he’d like to begin a fight. Is that how he reacts to ale?’
‘In all truth, yes.’ She allowed her gaze to float over them. ‘I don’t think he’d try his luck with three armed men though, Sir Knight.’
‘You may call me Baldwin,’ he said. ‘Well, that at least is a relief.’
‘He’s a bully, Sir Baldwin. The only person who’s likely to feel his fist is his wife.’
She spoke with some contempt, and Baldwin thought to learn more if he could. ‘This Athelina: I heard that she was widowed some nine years ago. Yet she still lived in her own little house. How did she support herself?’
‘Not in the usual way,’ Susan said with a broad grin. ‘Any man asking Athelina to whore for him would end up with a blackened eye, no matter what some men might say.’
‘He has made some comment about her?’ Baldwin enquired, seeing her gaze harden as she glanced at Serlo again.
‘He was talking in his ale earlier, that’s all. Said she should have whored and paid him that way for the house. He’s all mouth when he’s been drinking. I think it’s because he never had a mother. His own died when he was a babe, and he was brought up by his brother.’
‘A hard life for a child,’ Baldwin mused. ‘This Athelina … if she didn’t rely on the old profession, how did she earn money?’
‘She enjoyed the support of the church. And there were the gleanings, alms, money from the castle. Many here are very poor, so she often went to the castle.’
There was a subtle alteration in tone that caught Baldwin’s attention. ‘So she would go to the castle for food and perhaps …’
Susan smiled again. ‘Like I said, no whoring for Athelina. No, she was the sort of woman to give herself entirely, never by halves. She loved her old man, Hob, and when he died, she never looked at another local man again so far as I know.’
Baldwin thought he caught that curious intonation once more, but as he glanced up at her, her face hardened. ‘Perhaps Athelina had a lover, one who was not a “local man”?’ he wondered. ‘One of the castle’s men-at-arms?’
‘Perhaps. She was still a handsome woman.’
‘How could she afford the house? The miller over there was apparently making money from her, and the first reason why everyone assumed that she had committed suicide was her inability to pay an increase in rent. How did she manage to pay before?’
‘I don’t know,’ the alewife said, making as if to leave.
‘Wait, Susan,’ Baldwin said firmly. He remembered the Coroner, who sat silently without evincing the faintest interest in the conversation. ‘We are investigating a murder, and the Coroner here is interested in all aspects of her life.’
Sir Jules coughed slightly to hear this. He had been enjoying his wine without being plagued by questions he must ask or people he should see. When Baldwin started questioning this maid, he had thought it was because the knight was interested in her for himself; he hadn’t realised it was in order to further the inquest. So far as he was concerned, the investigation could wait until his official inquest. All this was speculation, nothing more. He tried to appear interested.
‘So, Susan,’ Baldwin continued, ‘do you know how she earned money before?’<
br />
‘No,’ she said, a hint of sulkiness in her tone. ‘It wasn’t my business. All I can say is, she was fine until a year or so back, and suddenly life was more difficult. Recently she’d been worried about money.’
Sir Jules decided to show he was also listening and wiped his mouth. ‘So you think that she might have grown despondent about money, and that made her occasionally lose her reason?’
‘Maybe. Sometimes.’
‘And what about the boys? How were they?’
‘They were worried about her, I suppose.’
Sir Jules said, ‘If she was murdered, who was most likely to kill her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What of the miller there?’ he asked. ‘He’s a bully, cruel by nature. He could beat his wife, you say, but he holds his tongue against us – he sounds just the sort of man to kill a defenceless woman. Maybe this mention of whoring is because he desired her?’
Baldwin shook his head. ‘What do you think, Simon?’
‘I think he had no reason to kill. Perhaps he desired her, but so what? He probably desires you too, Susan. You’ve certainly the looks and figure to make a man love you …’
She dimpled.
‘But,’ Simon continued, ‘there would have been no purpose to his hurting her. He wanted her money, didn’t he? Anyway, she started getting strange a while ago, before Serlo increased her rent, which shows that there was something else that made her depressed.’
‘I agree,’ Baldwin said. ‘Whatever caused her to start to lose her mind may have had a direct influence on her end.’
‘But it may have nothing to do with her death,’ Sir Jules said. ‘After all, it could be a rapist who wanted her and decided to take her, with or without her agreement. Serlo the miller would be that sort of man.’
‘It’s possible, yes,’ Baldwin said. ‘But I think we would be remiss not to investigate all the possible solutions. And the fact of her melancholy is curious. You are sure, Susan, that you weren’t told why she was so suddenly afflicted?’
The Tolls of Death: (Knights Templar 17) Page 18
