by K. E. Martin
Less than one day’s ride from Plaincourt I stopped at a wayside tavern and paid the landlord a generous sum for the indefinite loan of one of his sorry rounceys and the stabling of my own handsome mount. Mine host was a shifty looking fellow with greasy hair and malodorous breath and in normal circumstances I would not have entrusted a three-legged donkey to his care, much less one of my lord of Gloucester’s finest palfreys. Yet it was vital to the success of my endeavour that I should be accepted at Plaincourt Manor as an itinerant minstrel somewhat down on his luck, and therefore it was wise to swap my lordly mount for something more suited to such a fellow.
I had grown fond of the palfrey and misliked leaving it but happily found I was able to relieve my low spirits by roundly cursing the miserable landlord and explaining to him in careful detail the violence I would inflict on him should my horse come to harm whilst in his care. Conscious that the inn was perhaps too close for comfort to Plaincourt, I also instructed him to concoct a credible story to explain the presence of such noble horseflesh in his mean stable, should anyone’s curiosity be aroused by it. By the time I left him I could tell that my combination of threats and bribery had bought the man’s co-operation. While he was without a doubt dishonest, he was no fool and understood that his best interests lay in following my instructions to the letter.
Having concluded these arrangements, I bade the landlord a courteous farewell and continued on my way. This was the morning of the fourth day since I had left the Pennicott house. The rainfall gradually began to ease off and after I had been riding for an hour or so a glimmer of sunshine appeared on the horizon, heralding the advent of a glorious rainbow somewhere to the east. My spirits rose at last as I shook a cascade of droplets from my sodden cloak and stretched my neck to receive the benediction of the blessed rays. I journeyed on for several miles, glorying in the rare December sunshine and humming a merry tune as I rode.
All good humour vanished in an instant as a sharp bend in the path revealed the unwelcome sight of a body, a man by its size, sprawling in the dirt a few paces ahead of me. I jerked my beast to a halt, dismounted and gazed about in caution, wary lest there should be knaves of malevolent intent skulking in the hedgerow. With one hand on my dagger I knelt to inspect the dead man - or youth, as I quickly established - keen to discover the means of his demise.
Having given him a fleeting examination I could find no signs to indicate that the lad had been set upon by robbers. Rather, it seemed that some misadventure had caused his neck to break, judging by the unnatural angle at which his head lolled in the dust. A fall from a horse was the most likely cause of such an injury, and yet I doubted that the young man had been astride a horse in his life. They say that in heaven all men will be equal and mayhap it will be so but for this life at least, the many must toil in misery while the fortunate few live in splendour. From the evidence of the victim’s ragged and humble attire and his blistered, work hardened hands, I surmised swiftly enough that he belonged to the former category. During his life he would have marvelled at his luck had he owned a decent-fitting pair of boots, never mind a horse from which he might one day fall and break his neck.
For all his poverty, however, he had been a fine, strapping lad, broad shouldered and tall enough to earn himself the kind of ironic nickname that often amuses the common sort – Small Sam, perchance, or maybe Little Tom. Fixing my scrutiny on the lad’s face I noticed that he had surprisingly unblemished skin, a soft, well-shaped mouth and lashes so long and silkily black as to have inspired poetry had they belonged to a highborn maiden. There was something curiously child-like about these features and though his eyes were closed, I guessed that had they been open I would have recognised the vacant gaze of a lackwit. At once I felt a sense of sadness for the boy’s premature death and though I have never been a pious man, some instinct compelled me to mutter a prayer over his mortal remains.
Just as I turned to leave, fully conscious that a matter more pressing than the demise of a peasant boy demanded my attention, a clammy hand snaked out and fastened about my wrist.
“Had thee there, didst I not, master? Thee didst think I were cold as old King Harry, thee did. Go on, thee knows thee cain’t deny it!”
Shocked beyond measure by the corpse’s sudden transformation into a living being, I crossed myself rapidly, simultaneously jerking away the hand that clutched at me still.
“What foul trick is this?” I demanded, raising my dagger to the lackwit’s throat. “State your business, scum, and make it good. I’ve had a hard ride and am in no mind to tolerate insolence.”
My tone was harsh, justifiably so I believe, and in case the youth was too slow to comprehend my anger, a sharp kick to his shins helped deliver the message. As I moved, my blade shifted a fraction and lightly nicked the yokel’s neck.
“Steady, master, steady!” he implored, pressing a grimy finger to the scratch. “Thee needs not be so vexy, ‘twas nobbut meant as a jest.”
Calmer now, I resheathed my dagger and looked again at his baby face.
“Here, use this,” I commanded curtly, handing him my kerchief. He looked at it dumbly, unsure what use to make of the fragrant linen.
“For your cut, dolt! Press it to the cut!”
As understanding dawned, he looked at me and smiled, a peculiarly engaging smile. For the first time I noticed his eyes and realised that whilst all else, his behaviour included, might proclaim him a lackwit his blue eyes told a very different tale. They were alive and bright with intelligence, the eyes of one who sees all, understands much and strives to make sense of the rest.
“‘Twas nobbut meant as a jest,” he repeated, his voice sounding a little sad, and this time I felt obliged to speak to him in a gentler fashion in spite of my irritation at his tomfoolery.
“My name is Frances Cranley,” I told him abruptly. “What do they call you?”
“Matthew, master,” he replied. “They dost call me Matthew the kitchen boy.”
That explains the blisters on his hands, I thought. Turning the spit wreaks havoc on the skin.
“Well, Matthew the kitchen boy,” I explained, “it was a cursedly ill-thought trick to play, and others less sweet-tempered than I would beat you soundly for such foolery.”
“Aye, thee’s right enough there, master,” he agreed cheerfully. “Sir Stephen’d whip me to ribbons for’t, the sour bastard. That’s why I dost make sure he knows naught of it, nor any others.
“But see, ‘tis a gift I dost have and ‘tis all my own, for there’s none other I knows can make like they’ve just bin cut from the gibbet, with their neck all floppy like mine. ‘Tis a gift, I says, but I dost never have the chance to use it. And then there I were picking nettles for Jem Flood and I didst hear the clip-clop of hoss hooves and I just couldst nowise stop from having a little jest with thee, for all I didst know I should not. I didst never mean thee no harm, master, afore God I swear I didst not.”
I marvelled silently that the poor lout should risk a beating or worse for the pleasure of trying out his only talent, and such a dubious talent at that. It occurred to me that the life of such a one must be mired in misery, and thus perhaps it was understandable that he took his enjoyments where he could. In any case, my interest had been piqued by something he had said.
“Who is this Sir Stephen whose name you use so impudently?” I asked.
“Why, bless thee, master,” Matthew replied, his face ablaze with merriment at my ignorance. “Sir Stephen Plaincourt’s the lord of this fine manor, as surely all dost know. Why, folk dost say he’s the greatest lord in all of the county.”
I knew for a certainty that this Plaincourt was by no means the greatest lord in Lincolnshire, nor even the third of fourth greatest come to that, but I let the matter pass. Such exaggerations are common amongst the lower orders and who can wonder, since to them even the meanest knight with a crumbling manor to his name and naught to ride but a broken down rouncey has a life deserving of envy. There was no gain to be had in disputing wi
th the lad.
“Then this must be the manor of Ringthorpe,” I ventured, knowing full well it was not.
As expected, Matthew shook his head in violent disagreement.
“Nay, nay, master,” he laughed. “That dost show thee’s some out of date with the news of these parts. This here village is Plaincourt and Sir Stephen’s now its master, by right of inheritance since the sudden passing of his nephew Geoffrey, the poor bairn.”
I allowed a look of surprise to show on my face.
“Young Geoffrey Plaincourt is dead, you say? When did this grievous event occur? And what was the manner of his dying?”
“Why, it were no more’n a few days since,” my helpful informant answered. “As to the manner of his passing, now there’s a question many’d like the answer to. He were murdered, that’s for certain sure. Most say ‘twas Pretty Will, the young lord’s body servant, what killed him and p’raps they dost have the right of it.”
Matthew’s forehead furrowed and he gazed at the dirt for a moment, idly kicking a stone with his foot.
“But that dost make no sense to me,” he continued, “for Will didst truly care for that poor cripple boy, leastwise that ‘tis what I always didst think. And he had no reason to want the lad dead, for his job here didst depend on Geoffrey being alive. So why should he take it into his head to want to kill him, can thee answer me that!?”
As he spoke, he glanced up at me and again I noticed his eyes. The merriment of a few moments before had vanished, to be replaced by something that looked remarkably close to belligerence. Confusion, fear or anxiety, these emotions I might have expected to see reflected in the eyes of a lowly kitchen boy whose young master had recently been found murdered, but surely not anger.
As I registered these thoughts, something tugged at the shadowy edges of my memory. When Fielding had been relating his sorry tale to my lord of Gloucester, he had mentioned something that had pertinence to my current situation. As quickly as I could, I ran through his discourse in my head, watching Matthew closely all the while.
First I studied his face, which under my scrutiny had lost all trace of intelligence and reverted to that of a blockheaded peasant, and then swept my gaze over his well-made frame, strong, muscular arms and large hands, blunt-nailed and blistered. The hands of a kitchen boy. At once, I seemed to hear the uncouth voice of Fielding in my head, raging at the Plaincourt servants who shunned him yet dared show no kindness to their young master. What was it he had he said?
“Not a one of them, save perhaps the dull-witted oaf who turned the spit would piss in the wind to aid the boy.
Those were his very words. I had hardly heeded them before but now I recalled them with great clarity as it seemed they might carry some importance. They suggested that Matthew was the one inhabitant of Plaincourt other than Fielding who had shown compassion for young Geoffrey, and that made sense of the anger I’d seen in his eyes when speaking of the boy’s murder. It occurred to me that Matthew might have been a useful ally for Fielding in his efforts to improve Geoffrey’s lot, but the obtuse idiot had dismissed him as feeble-minded and thus of no account. I had been inclined to think the same when I’d first met him yet now I’d spoken with him a while I’d happily wager my best beaver hat that Matthew’s wits were considerably keener than most, including the man who’d named him a dull-witted oaf.
Swiftly reaching a decision, I leaned from my saddle and extended a hand to Matthew.
“Ride with me a while,” I commanded, “I have need of further speech with you.”
This startled the youth and he made at once to shy away from me but I grabbed his forearm and held firm. He was a big strong lad but fortunately I was stronger, or else his reluctance was feigned.
“Leave me be, master,” he grumbled. “I dost want no trouble, and thee look to me like trouble a-plenty.”
I laughed at this, for his assessment of me was astute enough.
“Aye,” I answered, still holding his arm in a merciless grip, “trouble I may well be. But I’ll tell you what else I am. I am justice, God willing, and perchance I am vengeance.”
Then I took a gamble and let go of his arm. Surprised by the suddenness of his release he stumbled backwards and then turned his gaze upon me. This time I read determination in his remarkable eyes. He nodded once, then reached towards me.
“Right thee are then, master,” he said simply. “Best help me up if thee’d be so kind. I didst never sit on no hoss afore today.”
***
For a short time we rode in silence as I debated how much to take the kitchen boy into my confidence and Matthew, as far as I could tell, concentrated on not falling off the horse. When the track to Plaincourt Manor came into view, I turned the beast’s head away from it and kept riding. Arriving at my destination with the manor’s kitchen boy seated behind me would serve no useful purpose and would be certain to arouse curiosity. Therefore, it were best we were not seen together, yet I very much desired to speak further with Matthew before making myself known to the good folk of Plaincourt.
Although I did not communicate my thoughts, he seemed to guess my mind for after we had journeyed on about half a league he nudged me in the back as we drew level with a tumbledown cottage. The walls still stood but the roof and door were gone and through the gap where it should have been I spied a rich tangle of greenery and a dispiriting mound of loose timber and broken sticks of furniture.
“Take the hoss round the back of here, master,” he instructed. “This were old Lynet’s house afore she didst get catched, and folk dost rarely come here now on account of her being a witch and all. I dossent think we will be troubled here.” I followed his direction but snorted at the mention of an old witch. I fear witchcraft and the black arts as much as any man but simple reason tells me that witchery is not proven every time an ancient crone who lives alone is found to have a fondness for cats.
Alas, in my experience simple reason is rarely considered when a series of misfortunes strike a village. I have seen it all too often. A first disaster occurs – some cattle are struck by a murrain, say. The villagers will be worrying over this when another calamity happens, something like a child being born with a hideous disfigurement. Now everyone starts murmuring about the ill-fortunes that are plaguing the village. And then the third blow falls. Perhaps the blacksmith, a man known by all to be strong and healthy, shows sudden signs of fever and drops dead before the day is out.
These events, or ones of a similar nature, cause the villagers to become uneasy for they show the random nature of misfortune. In their unease they turn to the village priest, asking why God has allowed these disasters to befall them. The priest scratches his head, troubled by their questioning and unsure how to answer. So he throws the problem back at their feet.
One of their number, he asserts, has been ungodly and this is the Lord’s way of bringing the ungodliness to their attention. So now the villagers must root out the wrong-doer in their midst. Very soon, someone recalls that the harmless old crone who helps out at birthings often takes a path past the cattle whilst gathering herbs. This prompts another to remember the ill look the old dame gave the blacksmith when he jostled her roughly on his way to the tavern. Since no one wishes to accuse a more useful member of their community, they declare the crone a witch and hound her to her death. Then they bend their knees in church, thanking God for their deliverance from evil.
Climbing from the saddle, I asked Matthew if this was the way of it with old Lynet whose ruined house now offered us a convenient place to talk away from prying eyes.
“Like that, aye,” he agreed amiably, “save that Lynet weren’t no harmless old crone. She were a witch right enough, that one. No denying that, she didst herself confess to her guilt. She were caught fixing to put a spell upon old Sir Thomas, him that were father to Sir Stephen, to bring about his end.”
Despite being irrationally disappointed that this ignorant kitchen boy shared the prejudices of his kind, I found myself intrigued by what he sa
id and pressed him for the full story.
It was a sorry enough tale if it was to be believed. As a comely young woman of Plaincourt village, Lynet had caught the eye of Sir Thomas and had been badly used by him. When he had done with her no village man would take her for his wife. Even her own family felt shamed by her presence, though she had been blameless, so they built her a house some way from the village. She was far enough away that they did not have to see her every day and be reminded of their failure to save her from their lord, but close enough so they could see she did not starve.
In time Lynet’s parents died, her brothers took wives and soon there were too many mouths to feed. When the food stopped coming Lynet learned to survive on her wits, creating and selling potions to cure freckles and spells to help a maiden win her true love. The village folk did not truly believe her a witch or even a wise woman. Most were motivated to buy her concoctions from a sense of charity rather than any conviction that they would be efficacious. All the same, one day a careless tongue wagged to Sir Thomas about the witch who lived nearby. Curious, he rode out to her house and was surprised to find a handsome woman of middle years instead of the hideous hag he had been expecting. He failed to recognise her as the girl he’d ravished repeatedly many years ago but forced himself upon her all the same.
After this, Lynet stopped taking care of her appearance and soon she looked very much like a witch. Her downfall came when she was caught in the church of St Oswald’s, muttering as she searched for hairs beneath the bench on which Sir Thomas regularly snored his way through mass. The priest who apprehended her demanded to know what she was doing and in her terror she at once confessed her intention of making a potion to wreak revenge on Sir Thomas.
