The King’s Justice

by E. M. Powell

  Hilda shook her head. ‘No. But I told her if she was worried she was, then she should stop what she was doing. If you see what I mean, sir.’

  ‘I do.’ Barling paused a moment. Thomas Dene had been here in Claresham for a few weeks, nothing more. ‘But you say she came to you a few months ago about this?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then it would have been her betrothed, the late Bartholomew Theaker, that she had been lying with.’

  ‘Theaker? No.’ Hilda shook her head. ‘She told me it was Simon Caldbeck, the ploughman.’

  Barling felt his own brows raise. Perhaps the names flung at Agnes were not so ill-suited.

  Hilda went on. ‘As Agnes wouldn’t listen to me, I took him aside and told him to have more sense. Told him Geoffrey would take a horsewhip to him as well.’

  ‘Did Caldbeck listen?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. Only he or Agnes could tell you for certain. All I know is that she hasn’t come to me about anything since.’ She glanced to the window, then looked back at Barling. ‘Will that be all, sir? I’ve many tasks to see to today and the sun has already climbed.’

  ‘I think that will be all for now, mistress. You have been extremely helpful. My thanks for your time.’

  ‘I hope I have been of some help, sir. All I want is justice for Geoffrey. I hope you can get it for him. And Bartholomew too, of course.’

  ‘Of course. I can assure you I am doing everything I can, Mistress Folkes. Good day to you.’

  ‘Good day, sir.’ Hilda rose to her feet and walked to the door, where she paused. ‘One more thing, sir.’

  ‘Yes, mistress?’

  ‘When you find Lindley and string him up, I’ll not wash his corpse. I can tell you that now. Send him straight to hell. Please.’

  With that, she was gone.

  As Barling went over his notes, parts of Hilda’s account touched his heart again, just as they had as he listened to her. The woman had clearly had a deep love for Geoffrey Smith, a love that had never been returned, at least not in the way she wanted. Barling knew that torment only too well, and it was a wound that could reopen at any time. He pushed the memory down at once, as he had trained himself to do. He needed to concentrate on the business at hand.

  Stanton had been going to walk to the quarry to fetch Thomas Dene but decided to ride instead. He reckoned the big stonecutter might be a bit less intimidating from the back of a horse. Four hooves would also get Stanton out of there a lot faster if the man refused to come with him, a refusal Stanton guessed might be emphasised with the man’s big fists.

  He’d been pleased when Barling had given him his instructions last night. The idea of Dene having to come back to the hall with him to face the clerk’s enquiries had appealed to him.

  But it had appealed to him after a decent bellyful of ale.

  This morning, with the rising sun already a broiling disc in the sky, he wasn’t so sure. He shifted in his saddle and patted Morel’s neck. She’d get him out of there. No question.

  The road down to the quarry was steep and the loose stones weren’t good for iron-clad hooves.

  Stanton dismounted and led Morel down. The quarry still lay in shadow, though it wouldn’t be for long. Down below, he could see the thin plume of smoke that would be Dene’s fire rise in a straight line in the windless air. Good. If the man had broken his fast, it might put him in better humour.

  He half slid on a stone, Morel’s reins saving him this time.

  Finally, they were down. ‘And in one piece, eh?’ He patted her dark brown neck, and she nuzzled his hand with her soft nose.

  Stanton left her free to search the ground for the odd tuft of grass that had forced its way through the stones. She wouldn’t run off from here.

  Now that the noise of hooves and feet scrabbling on stones had stopped, he realised he could hear no other sound. No ring of hammer on stone like there had been when he first came here. An efficient hammer as well. A row of fresh, raw slabs leaned against a big boulder.

  ‘Dene?’ His voice sounded odd down here. Flat. Not much of an echo. ‘It’s Hugo Stanton.’ He licked the stone dust that already coated his lips, so fine it was invisible to the eye but must fill the air.

  No reply.

  ‘Aelred Barling, the King’s clerk, requests your presence.’

  Nothing.

  The stonecutter must be in his wooden hut, next to which the fire burned. There was no other sign of him.

  As Stanton made his way over to it, a rattle came from the side of the quarry. He paused and looked around. ‘Dene?’

  No. Only a loose rock that had lost its grip on the steep quarry side, rolling and bouncing down in little puffs of dust before it came to a rest.

  He carried on to the hut, past the fire. To the doorway. The open doorway.

  ‘Dene?’

  After, he couldn’t remember what he screamed. How loud. How long.

  All he could remember was running, running for Morel, her back, her long legs that would take him, get him out of there.

  Remember too the sight in the shed, which would never leave him.

  The body of Thomas Dene. On the floor. No sign of his head.

  Just one of his slabs where it should be as a mass of red, red, red oozed out from underneath it.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘You need to go out there, Barling.’ Edgar jerked his thumb at the tightly shuttered window of the hall. ‘Otherwise, people will either climb in here or burn my manor to the ground. Their fury at Nicholas Lindley is matched by that at Thomas Dene. The two outsiders, that’s what they’re saying. Dene, a man skilled with a hammer and possessing many of them, helping Lindley to break the stone wall of my gaol to escape. Lindley rewarding him with a crushed skull. And they’re right, God’s eyes, they’re right!’

  ‘I will be going out to your courtyard, Edgar,’ replied Barling. ‘I am only too well aware of the current mood, given what we now know about Dene. But I have not finished questioning Stanton.’

  The young messenger sat on a chair, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. ‘I think I’ve told you all I can, Barling.’

  ‘May God protect us, it’s enough.’ The rector Osmond was pale as the linen kerchief knotted at his neck to catch his sweat in the stifling heat of the closed room.

  ‘But it might not be,’ said Barling. ‘Stanton has been met with the most terrible of sights this morning with his discovery of Dene’s body. In such circumstances, it is easy to miss out something of importance. We will go out when I am ready.’

  A lone scream rose above the cacophony. The loudest yet. By far. A woman.

  ‘Who in God’s name is that?’ Osmond clutched his hands together.

  Edgar peered through the slats in the shutter again. ‘It’s Agnes Smith. And she’s swinging a staff around.’ He marched to the door. ‘I’m going out there before she kills somebody with it.’

  ‘Come on, Barling.’ Stanton got to his feet. ‘We have to.’

  Barling followed Edgar, Stanton at his side.

  Osmond hung back, dithering in panic.

  ‘I will make the address short, Stanton,’ murmured Barling. ‘I can assure you of that.’

  ‘Do what has to be done, Barling. I’ll be all right.’

  They went to the front door, where Edgar was already standing, yelling at his servants and grooms. ‘Grab that thing off her! Now! She’s only a girl! If you won’t, I will!’

  Barling emerged into a wall of noise and waving arms. It was no cooler outside. Heavy black clouds had rolled in to fill the sky, and the air quivered with the promise of a storm.

  In the midst of the melee, Agnes had a long, stout stick in both hands, swiping it at anybody who tried to come near her, clearing a space around her.

  ‘Saints preserve us.’ Osmond had found the courage to come out.

  One of Edgar’s grooms got a hand to her arm. She kneed him neatly in the groin and he doubled and dropped to roars and whistles.

  Barli
ng collected himself. Took a deep, deep breath. And though he utterly despised doing so, let out his loudest, loudest shout. ‘Enough!’

  It worked. The sheer volume startled people into a few seconds’ curious quiet. Even Edgar.

  Agnes broke it first. Her gaze lit on Stanton. ‘Is it true, Hugo?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, it is, Agnes. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No!’ She brought the stick down on the cobbles with both hands. ‘No!’ Again. It shattered and she flung it away. ‘No!’

  Before Barling’s eyes, in the sight of everyone there, she lost her reason as the news of Thomas Dene’s death was confirmed to her. Her grief poured from her in a screaming, shrieking torrent as she beat her head with her fists. ‘It can’t, he can’t. It can’t be true! It can’t!’ Those present stared in open incomprehension at her. As far as they knew, Dene had taken it upon himself to help Lindley escape. But Barling understood only too well, thanks to Stanton.

  And then she screamed it, screamed it to the world. ‘Thomas Dene was my lover! He was going to be my husband.’ She sank to her knees, keening like a wounded animal, hands buried in her hair.

  Appalled roars, scandalised cries broke out.

  ‘Bartholomew Theaker’s dead because of you!’

  ‘Dene let Lindley out!’

  ‘You whore, you whore, you whore!’

  ‘Let me through.’ Hilda Folkes pushed out of the crowd and bent to Agnes, an arm across her shoulders. ‘Up you get, my love. Come on.’ She managed to get Agnes to rise.

  ‘I need you all to take note of what I have to say,’ said Barling. ‘As most of you already know, Thomas Dene, the stonecutter, has been found murdered this morning. My assistant, Hugo Stanton, made the discovery.’

  ‘It’s that bastard Lindley!’ A furious scream tore from a fat woman.

  ‘He’ll slay us all in our beds!’

  ‘All of us!’

  Barling put his hand up for silence. Edgar, he noted, who wore a brooding look, was not joining in. For now.

  ‘Until Lindley is caught, it is important that you all take sensible precautions. All the men who have died at his hand have been alone. So stay in company, especially when you travel. Secure your doors at night. Make sure you have the means to defend yourselves.’

  ‘You mean like Geoffrey Smith would have had?’ Edgar. Of course. ‘Or Thomas Dene, another powerful man? Even Theaker. He may not have been a fighter, but he was huge.’

  A roar met his words.

  But the lord hadn’t finished. ‘And I have grown tired of all this lack of action. Anyone who delivers Lindley’s carcass to me will suffer no repercussions – I will reward them from my own purse!’

  A louder roar and many cheers met his words.

  A plague on the lord and his incontinent mouth. Barling summoned his shout again. ‘Enough!’ He brought his glare to as many watching eyes and angry faces as he could. ‘Nicholas Lindley must be brought to justice, and it is my responsibility to do so. Lindley is to be held for trial by the King’s justice. Mark my words: anyone who tries to administer their own will face trial too.’ He finished on a look to Edgar. ‘Anyone. The search for Lindley must be planned and orderly.’ The lord glowered but stayed silent.

  ‘And now,’ said Barling, ‘I will be withdrawing with my assistant, and Sir Reginald and sir priest as well. We are doing so because we are taking action.’ He beckoned. ‘Agnes, please come inside with us. Alone.’

  Hilda released her hold on Agnes and stood back.

  A loud rumble of thunder brought all eyes aloft. The first big raindrops plopped down, warm as blood.

  Barling took advantage of the distraction to get back inside, and the others followed him.

  Once they were assembled, he began.

  ‘Agnes, you knew Thomas Dene the most intimately of anybody in Claresham. Does he have family in his home town of Hartleton?’

  ‘Yes, sir. A mother.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Widowed.’

  ‘Then we will arrange for her to be told as soon as possible,’ said Barling. ‘It is only right.’

  ‘I’ll go, Barling,’ said Stanton.

  ‘We can send another, Stanton. You are needed here.’

  ‘I want to go.’

  ‘You will also have to tell her that Dene was involved with helping an outlaw to escape.’

  Stanton’s jaw set and he began to reply, but Osmond cut him off.

  ‘Is that really necessary, Barling? The man’s dead thanks to his own sin. I’ll make sure he is buried properly in the churchyard with all the proper rites. That would be fitting, as he was doing God’s work. The man has done wonderful stonework in my church.’

  ‘Sounds reasonable to me,’ said Edgar.

  ‘No, Osmond.’ Barling struggled to give a polite response to such a ridiculous opinion. ‘Dene’s mother should know the truth. What if she comes here to Claresham to visit his grave and hears it that way? Far worse. The truth is always better, no matter how painful it is.’ A lesson he himself had learned though wished he could forget.

  ‘I suppose.’ Osmond did not look at all convinced.

  ‘May I wash him?’ Agnes broke in, her anguished eyes on Barling’s.

  ‘Agnes,’ said Stanton. ‘No.’

  ‘Please.’ She would not drop her gaze. ‘I have heard how Lindley killed him. I don’t care what he looks like. It will be the last thing I can do for him.’

  ‘If you insist,’ said Barling.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Very well.’ The girl’s attachment to the dead man knew no bounds. She had refused to wash her slain father’s body but would do so for a lover whose skull had been completely crushed.

  Stanton got to his feet. ‘I need to make plans to go to Dene’s home. I reckon it will take me about three days to complete the journey there and back. Where will I find Dene’s mother, Agnes?’

  ‘Oh.’ Her hand went to her mouth. ‘I don’t know. How can it be that I don’t know that?’

  ‘Ask at the abbey, Stanton,’ said Osmond. ‘They’ll know. They know all the widows in a place.’

  Barling stood up too. ‘I shall help you prepare.’ He wanted to check, with no other listening ears, that Stanton had told him everything.

  ‘How remiss,’ said Edgar. ‘I thought you’d got up to travel with him. Travel in company, like you told everyone else to do.’ He reached for a wine jug and gave Barling an unpleasant grin. ‘And as you’ve just shown me, Barling, you don’t even believe it yourself. That’s what—’

  Lightning lit the room for a second and thunder crashed so hard that Barling feared the roof had come off.

  ‘God save us!’ shrieked Osmond.

  After a pause like an indrawn breath, the abrupt rattle of a torrential downpour began.

  Shouts and cries from the courtyard told of people fleeing for their homes.

  Barling hesitated. ‘Stanton, should you travel in this?’

  ‘Frightened of a bit of weather, are you?’ sneered Edgar.

  Stanton shrugged. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  The unmistakable drip, drip, drip of leaking water sounded from the corner.

  ‘Not again. A festering plague on it.’ Edgar slammed out, yelling for his servants.

  ‘I need to go, Barling,’ said Stanton.

  ‘Let me help you prepare.’ Barling gave a last glance back at the bereft Agnes as they walked out. Sinful she might be, but her heart was broken. He knew the same pain and he uttered a silent prayer for her, though he feared it would help little.

  Overhead, the thunder crashed again.

  And the rattling of the rain outside became a dull, unceasing roar.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Barling had hoped that the storm would bring relief from the heat. Instead, it had made it worse. He wiped his face yet again as he sat at the table in Edgar’s hall, papers spread before him.

  The thunder and lightning had stopped, but the rain continued to pour, bringing unpleasant moisture to every breath. Last night, he’d lain
on his bed instead of in it as the sweat pooled on his body under his linens. He could only imagine what it must have been like for Stanton, riding through the storm.

  The one consolation was that the torrential rainfall was keeping everyone indoors, including Edgar. All the lord’s shouting about a search had ceased as the man’s hall leaked like an old bucket and his privies overflowed.

  ‘This won’t take long, will it?’

  Barling looked up at the sound of the young female voice from the door.

  By all the saints, Agnes Smith had such an abrupt manner at times. But Barling refused to let his irritation show. It would not help matters. ‘It is to be hoped it will not, Agnes. Thank you for responding to my request to come here this morning.’ He indicated the chair opposite from him at the long table. ‘Please, come and sit down.’

  ‘I can just as easily stand,’ she said. ‘I’m not tired.’

  The pallor of her face and her sunken, red-rimmed eyes belied her words. Again, he would not challenge her, not when he needed to get her to speak to him. If he were to do so, in her current emotional state she might very well walk out. ‘I am sure you are as resilient as ever, which is to your great credit. But a rest will help you to conserve your strength for . . . later.’

  ‘Later?’ She marched to the chair and lowered herself into it. ‘You mean the funeral? My Thomas’s funeral? You can say it. I am able to hear the words, you know.’

  Her openly rude glare upon him had him wonder for a moment if he would have been better off riding out with Stanton to deliver the sad news to the mother of Thomas Dene. But no. Edgar could not be left alone with responsibility for the law in Claresham in its present state. ‘I appreciate that you can be so open, Agnes. And I shall try not to take up too much of your time.’ He consulted his notes. ‘I know much of what I need to ask you about will be painful for you, and I apologise for that.’

  ‘More painful than death?’

  Barling accepted the barb without comment. ‘Can you describe, Agnes, your relationship with your late father, Geoffrey Smith?’

  ‘With Pa?’ She looked perplexed. ‘I loved him. Loved him very, very much.’

  ‘Did you ever argue with him?’