Closing his eyes, he was annoyed to hear the tapping again. ‘Bugger off!’ he roared.
His bellow made Cecily jump, and before she could properly open her eyes and take in the sight of him, he closed them again with kisses while his hand rested first on her hip and then stroked its way down to her thigh. She moaned and rolled onto her back, and he felt her legs part slightly, just enough, and then snap together as her whole body went tense.
‘Come on, my love,’ he whispered, ‘let’s just–’
‘Christ bollocking Jesus!’ she blurted.
He blinked, startled, and gazed down at her. ‘What on earth…?’
‘I fell asleep, you fat twerp! My husband!’ she snapped and leaped from the bed grabbing at clothing, pulling her tunic over her head and letting it settle anyhow, before drawing a shift over it. In the chest she kept a change of clothing, and now she went to this and pulled out various dresses and skirts, muttering to herself all the while. ‘God! That I should be so stupid! How could I have fallen asleep? I must be a complete fool! He’ll want an explanation this time.’
Harlewin leaned on his arm and watched as she pulled on a skirt and patted it smooth, then a clean shirt, cotte and surcoat. ‘How do I look?’
‘Fine, once your hair is done.’
The miller’s daughter shyly obeyed Cecily’s bellowed command and Harlewin watched while the two worked swiftly to repair the damage of the previous night, and then the red-faced maiden was sent out. Cecily quickly went to his side and patted his cheek.
‘You should have covered yourself. She hardly knew where to look.’
He grinned widely. ‘I thought she knew exactly where to look!’
‘Don’t make the poor girl jealous for things she can’t touch.’
He kissed her.
‘You should be gone.’
‘Yes. You will be careful?’
‘Don’t think of me,’ he said, and his brow creased. ‘You make sure you’re safe from that husband of yours.’
Edgar could see that his master was not of a mood to tolerate jesting. He quickly sent Wat away to fetch wine and Petronilla for bread and cold slices of meat: a simple diet to help his master’s head.
Baldwin sat at a bench and sourly eyed the folk about the room. Two men who had drunk more than was usual for them were still snoring near the fire, but most guests had risen earlier when the servants appeared to begin preparing the place for the new day. Lord Hugh had eaten in his chamber, Edgar told Baldwin, and the knight grunted his jealousy. Edgar smiled and left his master to his meal.
Simon chewed happily on an old mutton bone he had found in the kitchen and took a pint of ale, smacking his lips and giving a loud grunt of appreciation as he finished.
‘Have you no feeling of queasiness when you think of what you ate last night?’ Baldwin asked.
‘It was good food, wasn’t it?’ Simon said happily.
At Baldwin’s side Jeanne snorted. ‘I’m surprised you can remember it, the way you sank so many pots of wine.’
‘It was good wine!’ Simon protested defensively. ‘Baldwin liked it too. Why shouldn’t a fellow take a little wine with his food? A man has to drink!’
‘Man has to breathe; fishes need to drink,’ Jeanne noted caustically.
‘I find both help,’ Simon said cheerfully. ‘Do you want that fat?’
Baldwin winced as Simon stabbed the thick, yellow pork fat that he had left at the edge of his trencher. Simon studied it closely: it was crisp and burned at the outside, and he beamed as he put it in his mouth. ‘Ah, good, that!’
‘Shall we go?’ Baldwin said, standing.
‘Nothing more to eat?’ Simon asked hopefully.
Baldwin looked at him.
Matilda remained in her chair when the two girls were shown in, and waved an imperious hand to halt them some few feet from her.
Avicia felt overawed by this woman, who wore on the fingers of one hand more wealth than Avicia could ever hope to earn. The house itself was magnificent, as she would have expected. Large, imposing, with a multitude of small decorative works carved into the beams and lintels, she could only gawp around her in awe. It was far finer than the Shermans’ place.
The lady herself was different. She was the picture of depression. Looking into her eyes Avicia could see her own misery reflected. One woman mourning the loss of her daughter, the other the loss of her brother; both had lost their own flesh.
‘Is this some sort of a joke, Felicity?’ Matilda said at last. ‘You bring me the sister of the man who murdered my daughter on the pretence that I might learn something?’
‘The wrong man was killed,’ Felicity said flatly.
‘I am supposed to take your word for it?’ Matilda sneered.
‘Your husband had me thrown from the house. Do you know why?’
‘You were a nuisance. He told me you were sleeping with the men in the yard. A common whore!’
‘I am now. I had no choice when your fine husband threw me from here. But when I lived here, I had only one lover: your fine husband.’
‘Rubbish! Rose!’ Matilda shouted. ‘These women wish to leave.’
Felicity turned to the pale girl. ‘Oh, it’s Rose now, is it? He’s been after you, hasn’t he?’
Rose coloured, and her head dropped in shame.
Matilda opened her mouth to offer a snide comment, when something in the maid’s demeanour caught her attention. ‘What do you mean? Rose? Are you all right?’
Felicity turned back to face her. ‘Can’t you see it yet? Your husband always picks the best of the maids, the youngest, the most impressionable, the most appealing, and takes them. Haven’t you realised? Are you blind?’ She stepped towards the seated woman and held out her hands in appeal. ‘Andrew Carter, your husband, forces any maid in the house who takes his fancy to share his bed. That’s what he did with me, and by the time he was finished with me, what else could I do? He ruined me.’
‘Well? And what of it?’ Matilda said proudly. ‘He is a man, and we women all know what men are like. But he is also my husband and the head of my family, and as such I owe him my loyalty. Perhaps he does sleep with my maids – well, he wouldn’t be the first man to do that – and if he does, there’s little harm in it.’
‘ “Little harm!” ’ Felicity repeated with disbelief. ‘Look at me! He made me what I now have become, a used woman, a whore, a common stale – you call this nothing? He has taken my life. I could have been happy, could have married a good man and raised my own daughters…’
‘You still might – if you can find a man who can forgive you your sinfulness.’
‘It is not my sins but his that need forgiveness. Do you remember how long ago your husband made me leave?’
Matilda shrugged. ‘Years.’
‘Yes. Six years ago. That was when he threw me over for his new lover.’
‘What has this to do with me? Are you merely boasting to upset me?’ Rising, Matilda made as if to walk from the room.
‘It was six years ago he took your daughter for the first time.’
‘NO!’ Matilda gasped. She fell back into her chair, a hand flying to her mouth. There was a seething motion to the room. She was sure that the walls were moving as if about to tumble down, but she couldn’t look at them; her attention was fixed upon the woman before her. ‘No,’ she said again, and this time she shook her head in denial.
‘He raped me, then went on to Joan. That was why he had her installed in the servants’ quarters, so she wouldn’t be missed from your chamber when he called her.’
‘No. He couldn’t… He wouldn’t…’
‘He took her every night, and when she found her own lover, a man who adored her, your husband grew scared. He didn’t want her to tell her man what he had been doing to her all those years. She may only have been his step-daughter, but the Church frowns upon a man who takes advantage in that way. He is still guilty of incest.’
Matilda swallowed. There was a feeling of weakness in
her legs and she couldn’t trust them to support her if she were to try to stand. Her heart was pounding painfully as if it would soon break free from her breast. There was a thick sensation in her throat as though a ball had lodged there, and her head spun. It felt as if she were whirling around, weightless and formless.
‘And not only the Church would want to see him punished. Can you imagine how Joan’s husband would feel if he heard later that his bride was already deflowered, and by her own father? He would want his revenge.’
‘Air… It is so hot… Open the shutters,’ Matilda wheezed. It felt as though there was an iron band about her breast, slowly squeezing the air from her lungs.
Felicity sent the maid for wine, walked to the window and opened the shutter wide. By the time she was done, Rose was back, bringing Clarice with her.
As soon as she saw her mistress, panting and gasping, she threw a bitter look in Felicity’s direction. ‘Couldn’t you have saved her from this? What good will it do to ruin her life now?’
Felicity watched as Clarice took a little wine in a bowl and used it to dab Matilda’s temples, murmuring all the while, ‘Come now, mistress. Don’t worry what the whore says. She will soon leave us and you can go and rest, and then we’ll–’
Thrusting her arm aside, Matilda stared into her face. ‘Is it true?’
‘What, mistress?’ Clarice asked, but Matilda read the answer in her frightened eyes.
Felicity walked to Rose’s side. ‘Don’t ask me, don’t ask Clarice: ask Rose. Ask her when your husband first started taking an interest in her. When did he first demand she should join him in his bed?’
‘Rose, come here!’ Matilda said.
The girl stepped forward slowly, reluctantly, her head hanging so low her chin almost touched on her breast.
‘Tell me, Rose. Has he told you to join him in his room?’
‘Mistress, I never wanted to!’ Rose burst out. ‘He just can’t keep his hands off me, not since your Joan died. Since then he’s wanted me almost every night, and when I tried to refuse, he told me to look at what happened to girls who turned him down.’
‘What did he mean by that?’ Matilda asked quietly.
‘He meant I’d become a whore like Felicity or…’
‘Or die like Joan,’ Felicity finished for her.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Harlewin leaned against the doorpost while he settled his tunic and tugged his surcoat over his shoulders more snugly. Ramming his hat upon his head he idly kicked a pebble, then sauntered slowly to the mill. He tossed a coin to the grinning miller, said, ‘Keep your mouth shut about it,’ and wandered round to the back of the place where his horse was already saddled and bridled by the miller’s boy. Reaching into his purse Harlewin found another coin and flipped it to the lad before checking that the harness was as he liked it, the saddle tight enough, the bridle properly placed.
All done, he stood on a chair and hoisted himself into the saddle, taking up the reins and setting off homewards.
The mill was close to the road here, and it took him little time to climb up the incline to the thoroughfare, where he turned off towards Tiverton, whistling happily. He felt replete. Cecily Sherman was a perfect lover: she wanted a lot in a short time, but then she would be content to leave Harlewin alone for several days while her husband’s doubts died down. Harlewin grinned. Sherman was plainly a fool. He trusted her when he shouldn’t, and then accepted her excuses at face value. A complete cuckold!
Taking the shorter lane to Tiverton rather than following the trail round to the north, he felt the oppressive nature of the woods about him. The trees here were tall and threatening on either side, their lower trunks hidden by the tangle of weeds, brambles and bracken that clogged the ground here. Here the boughs were so close together that the sun could scarcely break through and the air was perpetually chill. Although an occasional breath of air soughed through the branches, it could only be discerned by the rustle as of dried paper as leaves moved against one another.
With a shiver Harlewin recalled that night. It hadn’t been his fault: he had been scared, riding alone here in the dark, and Sir Gilbert had been a stern, fearsome figure in the gloom beneath the trees. When Harlewin first caught sight of him, he had thought the man was a ghost, dressed as he was in his white tunic, his pale features almost gleaming in the dark. At least Sir Gilbert hadn’t seen Cecily. That was a relief. She had ridden on beforehand; she was out of the way.
And then there had come that scream filled with terror. Harlewin knew immediately that there was no need for him to remain. He had a way to go to return home and kicked his horse onwards.
Luckily Harlewin was out of the woods now. Above him the warm summer sun shone so brightly that for a while his eyes hurt, the contrast with the shadowy space beneath the trees was so extreme. He was on the busy road to Exeter. Here the Keeper of the King’s Peace in Tiverton had exerted all his efforts and forced the local peasants to clear the verge for many yards in order that outlaws would find ambush more difficult and Harlewin could go at a faster pace.
Moving at a comfortable canter that was not quick enough to overtire his mount but which would eat the miles easily, Harlewin le Poter made his way homewards.
Nicholas drank a quart of ale before he felt ready to face whatever questions the Keeper might pose. He felt his stomach complain. It wasn’t that his belly rebelled against the morning whet, for after all that was a normal drink first thing in the morning; it was more a reflection of his nervousness about meeting Sir Baldwin de Furnshill.
Baldwin had acquired a reputation in Devon for being fair but rigorous, and when necessary, ruthless. It was said that he had caused the number of hangings in Crediton to increase in the last four years because men were convicted on his word when in the past they wouldn’t have been; men knew they could trust his judgement. They had never trusted his predecessor’s.
Nicholas had heard much about the Keeper of Crediton. The town wasn’t far from Exeter, and any official who was apparently innocent of corruption was a figure of some interest, if only for novelty’s sake.
The noise in the tavern was growing. Nicholas could hardly think in here, and even if Baldwin was waiting outside, he needed air. He went out and stood blinking in the roadway. Momentarily dazzled by the brightness after the gloomy fug indoors, he stood squinting and confused. When he heard hooves approach, he hardly connected them with any danger, but then the Coroner was almost on him, and with a, ‘Move aside, you clumsy bugger!’ he passed.
Nicholas’s hand went to his sword as the words of challenge rose to his mouth. It would be so easy to throw down the gauntlet to this arrogant popinjay, the first time in years. He was no weakly coward, he was a trained soldier and knight, a man of honour. Hadn’t he taken the threefold vows of chastity, poverty and obedience? He had remained faithful, had he not? Never had he taken a woman since giving his oath; never had he forgotten his obedience to the Order, even when he stole the Order’s money. At the time the Order was destroyed and he had taken the money not from his companions, but from the King, who was trying to take anything moveable from the Templars before handing their properties over to the Hospitallers. As for poverty, he had been forced to make money to help his sister and poor young Joan. When he died he would be laid in a sombre coffin without adornment, laid in a plain winding sheet, and buried without pomp or show of any sort. It would be stated in his will when he was ready to die. He had adhered to his vows. Many hadn’t.
The internal justification stiffened his resolve, but the near-accident had renewed his pride as well, and when he heard the calm voice of Sir Baldwin, he was able to turn graciously and face him with a refreshing sense of resolve.
‘I was looking for you, Keeper. You have some questions for me, I understand.’
Matilda stared at them all before curling her lip and practically screaming her rejection. ‘You mean to tell me that my own husband deliberately murdered my daughter? You’re mad! Insane! How could you think th
at – it’s obscene!.’
Felicity held out her hands as if pleading. ‘Yes. Your husband killed your daughter.’
‘So you say, whore! Why should I believe you? Did you see my daughter with him? Did any of you? No!’ Matilda leaned back in her chair, a hand raised in a gesture of denial. The prostitute had taken it upon herself to accuse her husband and had simultaneously set herself up as judge and jury, but her motives were clear: she had been dropped by Andrew in favour of Rose, a younger, more attractive girl. All the other stuff was lies, pure invention. Of course her Andrew wouldn’t have slept with Joan, much less killed her. He probably hadn’t even been out that night.
He had, though, she recalled; he had come back late that evening, and when she asked where he had been, he laughed oddly and said he had been drinking. She thrust the thought aside. Felicity was after revenge, that was all. She was warped, vicious, stupid. ‘Rose, go back to your duties. Clarice, I shall want to speak to you later. As for your two, leave my house! You have done all you can to wreck my faith in my husband, but you have not succeeded.’
Avicia could only gape. Matilda covered her face again, making Avicia feel sorry for her once more; Felicity stood back with Rose, with what Avicia thought was an unpleasant smile twisting her features. Clarice rubbed her mistress’s neck and back, murmuring soothingly but Matilda pushed her away; her ministrations were intolerable. ‘Don’t touch me! Tell that whore and her friend to go. I will not listen to them!’
‘Will you do nothing? Will my brother never be proved innocent? Won’t your daughter be avenged?’ Avicia burst out with a wail. She couldn’t believe that this last possibility was being shut off to her.
The Traitor of St Giles aktm-9 Page 23
