by E. M. Powell
But where the other three women wept and sobbed, their white coifs and veils moving with their grief, the bare-headed Agnes did neither.
She sat bolt upright, long dark hair curling past her shoulders, fists in her lap, staring straight in front of her.
‘You can see that he is at peace now.’ Osmond’s loud whisper filled the room as he moved to the head of the body. ‘Come and see.’
Agnes gave a wordless exclamation and shot to her feet.
‘Agnes.’ Hilda put a hand on her arm. ‘Don’t.’
‘Leave me be, Hilda.’ Agnes brushed her off and walked out.
‘Very. Upset.’ Osmond mouthed the words to Stanton and Barling.
Barling held a hand up to Osmond and nodded to Stanton to leave too.
The other women carried on their mourning for the corpse, despite the interruption, as Stanton filed out with the two men.
The rector flapped his hand in front of his face. ‘I would wager that Theaker’s shroud is the only dry linen tonight. And what spotless linen it is.’ He gave a long sigh. ‘Hilda always does such excellent work with the laying out.’
‘It was indeed warm, Osmond,’ said Barling. ‘Now, if you will excuse us, Stanton and I have much to attend to back at your uncle’s hall.’ He shot Stanton a look.
‘That’s right, sir priest,’ said Stanton, taking the hint. ‘Much.’
‘Then at least have a sup before you go on your way.’
War waged within Stanton. He’d love to get away from the accusing glances and half-heard words. But a long drink of ale would be a wonder in his dry throat.
‘I insist.’ Osmond was already waving to someone by the barrel. ‘A small token for the work of the King’s men.’
‘Thank you, sir priest.’ Barling hid his annoyance at the pointed remark. But Stanton could tell it a mile off by now.
‘Here we are.’ Osmond accepted a foaming cup from the alewife as she handed over the other two.
‘To Theaker.’ He raised his drink.
‘Theaker,’ said Stanton and Barling.
He’d been right about the ale. He drained half the cup as Barling clutched his.
‘A good man,’ said Osmond. ‘Who liked a life where there was a good seat and a milk pudding and not too much thatch to mend. That priests and clerks could take such a relaxed approach to life, eh, Barling?’
‘Indeed.’ Barling nodded politely.
‘Liked his betrothed as well.’ Osmond gave a broad wink. ‘Some say he liked Agnes even more than milk pudding.’
Stanton drained the other half of his ale lest he say something rude to the priest. Barling, he saw, kept his face still as always.
‘And where has Agnes gone, Osmond?’ asked Barling. ‘She left the cottage quite suddenly.’
The gossipy Osmond seized on the new topic fed to him by the clerk. ‘Oh, she’s very upset. Very.’ He warbled on to Barling.
Stanton’s cup was empty. Neither Osmond nor Barling were paying him any attention. He might as well have another cup of that good ale. He went over to the beer barrel to get it.
He arrived at the same time as Simon Caldbeck.
‘You first, sir.’ The ploughman’s angular face lifted in a smile that had no warmth. ‘The King’s man shouldn’t have to wait, should he?’
‘It doesn’t bother me, Caldbeck.’
‘You have to.’ The smile was gone and the surly look was back. ‘It’s the way of things.’
The alewife served Stanton first, and he waited until Caldbeck had his. ‘We should drink to Theaker, eh?’
‘Whatever you say.’ Caldbeck downed his ale in one swift draught. ‘There. Done.’ He handed the empty cup back to the alewife and walked off without another word.
Stanton ignored the slight. Taking his full drink, he went and sat on the far side of the blossom tree, where he made himself comfortable on one of the big roots. The thickets that lined the edge of the dead thatcher’s property were full of birds singing the hot day to sleep. The man should be here to enjoy this place, as he surely must have done on many an evening. Good rest to you, Theaker. He took another drink.
Then paused. From the thickets, he heard fast, jagged breathing.
Not the wild John Webb again. He shot to his feet, spilling his drink, all peace gone.
He looked around. Everyone stood a good couple of yards away.
More long, laboured breaths. Moving leaves and branches.
He frowned. It didn’t sound like John. At all.
But somebody was definitely in there. Watching from a distance. Hidden. Watching mourners at a laying out. The laying out of a murdered man. Despite the heat, the hairs rose on Stanton’s neck. Somebody was watching the results of their handiwork. Lindley. He’d not gone anywhere.
He filled his lungs to call out. Then caught his shout back.
Out of the thicket came Thomas Dene, fastening up his braies. He stopped dead. ‘What are you looking at?’
Stanton raised a hand. ‘Sorry, my friend—’
‘What did you say, Thomas?’ A voice came from behind the stonecutter. A female voice. ‘I can’t hear you.’ A flush-faced Agnes emerged from the thicket too. Her smile dropped. ‘You.’
Stanton bent to pick up his cup. ‘I was just going.’ He matched his words with his actions.
‘I’ll say you were going.’ The powerful stonecutter marched up to Stanton, fell into step beside him. ‘Were you following Agnes, is that it? I’ve met plenty men like you in my time.’ His big fists clenched. ‘Dealt with them and all.’
‘I was sat having a drink.’ Stanton held up a hand. ‘That’s all.’ Damn it to hell. He could see curious faces turning towards the fuss.
‘Thomas. Stop.’ Agnes grasped at the stonecutter’s arm, her voice also raised. ‘I can fight my own battles.’
The stonecutter ignored her but halted his steps. ‘Get off this property, Stanton. Do you hear me?’
Now came pointing, calls to others from those who had seen to those who hadn’t.
Stanton saw Barling thrust his ale into Osmond’s hand. ‘Good evening to you, sir priest.’ The clerk moved quickly alongside Stanton as they walked away, back to Edgar’s hall.
The chorus of gossip and loud comments could be arrows at Stanton’s back.
‘Another public altercation blamed upon the King’s men.’ Barling’s words came clipped, furious. ‘Stanton, what were you thinking?’
‘Listen, Barling.’ Stanton had had enough of being publicly humiliated for his mistakes. ‘You’re the one who says I have quick wits, so just listen. I could be wrong – no, I’m not wrong. Agnes and Thomas Dene were together. A few minutes ago. Either they were pretending to be dogs in the thickets, or they were lying together. Which is the more likely?’
Barling’s eyebrows went up. ‘I see. Now, that is interesting. I did ask Osmond the question about where she had gone, a question to which you have provided the answer.’
‘Because I notice things. Me.’ Stanton pushed his point. ‘Even small things.’
‘What is small and what is important are not necessarily the same thing, Stanton.’ He held a hand up as Stanton opened his mouth to argue. ‘But yes, you do notice things. As for Agnes?’ He frowned. ‘Such fornication was not only a sinful act but one that is quite astonishing, given the circumstances. The girl’s betrothed is not even in the ground.’
They were approaching Edgar’s hall, the dusk moving into dark.
Barling continued. ‘It is behaviour that requires much closer scrutiny. I shall speak to both of them tomorrow. But separately. Go and fetch Dene from the quarry first thing. I will speak to Agnes alone after that. Also, am I correct in that Hilda Folkes, the woman with the scarred face, is the midwife you met?’
‘She is.’
‘Then I shall see her while you are fetching Dene. If, as Osmond says, she lays out all the bodies, she may have useful information for our enquiries.’
Stanton couldn’t believe the clerk’s next words as t
hey walked in the door of the hall.
‘And well done, Stanton: a good evening’s work.’
But he could believe the next.
‘Good,’ continued Barling, ‘for one who is so new to learning how to exercise their wits.’ The clerk carried on to his solar.
Stanton mouthed a favourite swear word at Barling’s retreating back.
And for one who was supposedly limited in his wits, it was a fine, fine choice.
Chapter Twenty-Five
‘I’ll answer anything you want to ask me, sir,’ said Hilda Folkes to Barling.
Sat across from him at the table in Edgar’s hall, the midwife looked at him with all necessary respect, respect which was matched with her humble tone.
‘Answer it truthfully too, I swear,’ she went on. ‘Though I’m not sure how the likes of me could be of any help to a man who is of the court of the lord King.’
With her clear eyes of a delicate blue, her good bearing and her neat coif and clothes, she should be a woman who carried her age well. But nothing could take from the ruin of her scarred face, the low morning sun casting a cruel light on her skin that picked out every one of the hollows in her flesh.
‘I can assure you that your assistance is important, Mistress Folkes,’ said Barling. ‘As I am sure your answers will be. Please be assured also that anything you tell me will not be for common gossip within the village.’
She sat up a little straighter. ‘I have nothing to hide, sir. Nothing.’
Barling gave a polite smile, as if he agreed, though he did not respond directly. His experience over the years was that those who made such claims very often did indeed have something they wished to conceal. ‘Now, you are the midwife here in Claresham, are you not?’
‘Yes, sir. I delivered my latest not two days ago, was doing so when your man, Stanton, came knocking. I hope I wasn’t rude to him, sir. But that birth was a real struggle. I had to call Margaret Webb. She wouldn’t have been my first choice to help. Many people say she’s cursed, because of her son, John. Yet I had no choice, with everyone out in the fields. Without a second pair of hands, I’d have lost both of them. And Margaret is deft and strong. Both mother and her baby son are hale. Another safe delivery to praise in the Virgin’s name. Always a relief for me, even after so many years.’
‘I have no doubt,’ said Barling. ‘How many years have you carried out your services for the mothers and babies of this village?’
‘For the last twenty-three, sir. I learned many of my skills from my mother, who was the midwife before me. But she died of a sudden fever when I was not much over twenty, and then it was just me. I wasn’t anything like as experienced as her, but over the years I’ve managed to become so.’
‘God chooses our path for us,’ said Barling. ‘Even though it is not always a path we would choose for ourselves.’ He knew that well himself, as he could see did she.
A shadow of sadness passed over her damaged features. ‘No.’
‘Although you have birthed many who live here,’ he said, ‘you also carry out the washing of the dead before burial and dress them in their shroud. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, sir. Not only me, you understand. Usually the deceased’s womenfolk as well. But as often happens, there may not be any if the person who has died is very old, or in times of a sickness or plague.’ Her clear gaze met Barling’s. ‘I want them to be buried with dignity, sir.’
‘It is a laudable task you perform, mistress, and a holy one.’ He consulted one of his notes before he asked his next question. ‘May I ask if you washed Geoffrey Smith?’
‘Geoffrey? Of course.’
‘I appreciate that this may be a difficult question for you to answer, but can you describe his wounds?’
‘It’s not difficult at all, sir.’ Her gaze stayed steady. ‘His head had been opened. I was able to make that right with a bandage. But his face? His face was smashed open. His jaw was broken. Teeth missing. His mouth ripped. I did what I could to make him presentable. It was hopeless.’ Her voice wavered. ‘He’d been a good-looking man.’ She sucked in a deep breath. ‘Such a terrible end at the hands of that devil Lindley.’
‘And if I may ask another delicate question, did you see any other wounds or marks on Smith’s body?’
Hilda frowned. ‘Other wounds, sir? May God keep him, do you not think he had enough?’
‘The body of one who has been murdered should be examined,’ said Barling, ‘especially if it is a secret homicide. Other wounds may help to give an indication of what has happened. I examined Bartholomew Theaker’s body, for instance. But I have no means of examining that of Geoffrey Smith.’
Her frown cleared. ‘I see. Forgive my sharp response, sir. No, poor Geoffrey had no other wounds. Save those that killed him.’
‘There is no need to ask my forgiveness, mistress. Yours was a truly sad task.’ Barling nodded in sympathy, though he wondered at the deep emotion that entered her voice whenever she said Smith’s name. ‘It must have been even more so for Agnes to carry out.’
‘Agnes?’ Hilda shook her head. ‘No, Agnes did not help.’
‘But I thought you said the womenfolk of the dead would help to prepare the body.’
Hilda shook her head again. ‘Agnes didn’t help. I asked her if she wanted to, but she said she couldn’t bear it. It was she who had found Geoffrey’s body, and the shock was terrible for her.’
‘With regard to the discovery of the body,’ said Barling, ‘did you witness anything on the night of the murder?’
‘No, sir. I was asleep in bed. I was roused by the hue and cry.’
‘And was your husband roused also, Mistress Folkes?’
‘My husband, sir?’ She looked startled by his question. ‘I have never been married.’ She brought her fingers to her ruined face. ‘I think you can see why.’
‘Not every man gives weight to looks. There are other qualities in a woman.’
‘There are.’ She gave a rueful smile as she dropped her hands and folded them on the tabletop once more. ‘But no, nobody ever asked for my hand. I live alone.’
‘Very well.’ Barling made a note. Another dweller of this place with nothing to report about the night of the murder. Nothing seen, nothing heard. ‘So you prepared Smith’s body for his grave.’
‘Yes, and I did the work alone.’ A flush rose in her pitted cheeks. ‘I was happy to do so. Geoffrey and I were almost the same age. We’d grown up together, him and me and Isabel. We had been close friends all of our lives.’
‘Isabel?’
‘Isabel Smith, his late wife. Agnes’s mother.’
‘I knew he was a widower, but I did not know his wife’s name.’ Barling made another note on his tablet. ‘When did he lose her?’
‘As many years ago as Agnes has been alive.’ Hilda’s hands tightened. ‘Isabel Smith died in childbirth, sir.’
‘Were you present at that birth?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Now her knuckles were white. ‘It was the very first birth I attended after my own mother had died. As I’ve told you, I was young myself and didn’t have my mother’s knowledge. You can see with your own eyes that Agnes is a strapping girl. She takes after Geoffrey, while her mother was very small-boned. I know it doesn’t always follow with childbirth. The smallest women can bring them out as easy as a cat having kittens. But with poor Isabel?’ She shook her head. ‘Agnes got stuck. Nothing I tried worked. Her mother was dying in front of my eyes, which meant the babe was dying too. I got my knife out and did what was necessary.’
Barling pulled in a long breath. ‘A difficult task,’ he said, aware of how inadequate his words were for the actions Hilda would have had to take.
‘Oh, I can see your face, sir. But birth, just like death, can be a messy, bloody business. Like I say, I got Agnes out. Thought she was gone as well. I slapped her hard. Then she filled her lungs with the loudest yells I’d ever heard from a newborn.’ A smile flickered, went out. ‘Poor Geoffrey. He had the deepest love for
his wife. Like I said, we’d all grown up together. Isabel’s pregnancy had been easy. She blossomed day to day, with Geoffrey the happiest man in Claresham.’ Her look changed again. ‘It’s like that, you know. The carrying of a baby never tells what awaits the woman at the birth. When I told him the news, he was devastated. Because I lost her, Geoffrey lost her. It was so hard. I thought – everyone thought – he’d take another wife. He was still a young man, a fine-looking man, with a good living. But no.’ She bit her lip. ‘He never did, never looked at another woman. He raised Agnes on his own.’ The regret was clear in her voice.
‘Not something many men would choose to do,’ said Barling.
‘No. And Geoffrey should have had time to mourn, but he had a baby to attend to. Agnes was wet-nursed by a woman in the village who’s long dead. That was the only thing Geoffrey would allow. He did everything else himself. Saints preserve us.’ Hilda rolled her eyes. ‘A baby crawling around in a forge, then as a little one toddling around. It’s a wonder she didn’t burn to death or get hit by the hammer.’
‘Then I suppose one could say that her father did a good job in raising Agnes.’
Hilda gave a sharp sigh. ‘Geoffrey Smith, as much as I cared for him, was a fool with that girl. She could do as she pleased. He never chastised her. Ever.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘A must with any child. They need a firm hand. And if that doesn’t work, they need the stick. They have to learn. But Agnes never did. She always got her own way, always got whatever she wanted. That’s why she’s as wild and brazen as she is.’
‘Some say even worse about her.’ Barling did not wish to repeat the Webbs’ label of Agnes as a whore.
‘I know, sir.’ Hilda raised her eyes to the heavens again. ‘And they wouldn’t be entirely wrong. She came to me just a few months ago, worried about her belly.’
‘Her belly?’
‘She asked me if I could feel if she was with child, sir.’
‘Ah,’ said Barling as if he understood, though such an occurrence was a complete mystery to him. ‘And was she?’
