by E. M. Powell
‘Of course.’ She shrugged. ‘I argue with everyone,’ she added, as if that somehow explained things.
‘Were these arguments with your father serious?’ asked Barling.
‘I loved my father. He loved me.’ She gave a firm nod. The suspicion of tears glittered in her eyes, though none fell. ‘But he made me very angry by insisting that I marry Bartholomew. I wanted to marry Thomas. Nobody else.’
‘Not Simon Caldbeck?’
‘How did you . . . ?’ Her glare was back. ‘No. Not Simon.’
‘But you had an earlier closeness with Simon.’
‘A fondness.’ She shrugged again but would not meet his eye. ‘Nothing more. Tongues been wagging about me, have they?’
Barling did not respond but instead made a note. Either she was lying or Hilda Folkes had told an untruth. ‘Then to return to your relationship with your father, and his denial of permission for you to marry Thomas Dene, did he ever deny you your wishes prior to that?’
Her perplexed look returned. ‘Why would he? My father and I wanted the same things.’
Now it was Barling’s turn to be confused. ‘In what way?’
‘My mam died when I was born. I was used to being the one who shared Pa’s life. The only one. And I loved it. I preferred the life a man led. Women always have to do what they’re told. Cover their hair. Lower their gaze. Keep quiet. Not me, though it wasn’t for want of other women and girls telling me I should. Pa didn’t seem to mind. He was always proud of me. He showed me how to do tasks at the forge. I loved it in there.’
Her features softened at the memory as the rain drummed down outside.
Barling said nothing, not wanting to remind her of the current state of the forge, with its dreadful stains and the stench.
‘Loved it,’ she repeated. ‘It was more of a home to us than our cottage was. When I think back, it always seemed to be winter. No matter how cold outside, no matter how thick the ice or deep the snow, it was always warm and cosy in there. I’d sit on my special carved stool, well back from where he worked. Watch Pa take the plain grey iron, heat it to red-hot. It was like it would come alive in his hands. With his strength, he’d hammer it into something new. Something useful. Something beautiful. I wanted to be able to do that too. I couldn’t think of anything better.’ She pulled in a long, deep breath.
‘A life of such work is indeed a virtuous one.’
‘If you’re allowed,’ snapped Agnes, her look soft no more. ‘When I was little, Pa would always play along. Showed me how to work the hammer, how to do little bits and pieces. Never told me I wouldn’t be able to do it for a living. Deceived me, really. I suppose to him it was childish games.’ Her jaw set. ‘But I was deadly serious.’
‘I am sure of it.’
‘There was one time when he said I wouldn’t be allowed to work the forge but that my husband would, which would be just as good. I raged for hours when he said that, couldn’t be quietened. Pa was beside himself.’
Barling summoned up a tight smile, privately agreeing with Hilda Folkes’s judgement that Geoffrey Smith had spoiled his daughter. His own parents would not have hesitated to fetch the stick should he ever have behaved so. Not that he ever had.
‘But my fuss wasn’t about being a smith,’ she said. ‘It was about the idea of taking a husband. In my young heart, I had Pa and he had me, and we would never need anybody else.’ She sighed. ‘Things really changed when I started to grow into womanhood. Pa stopped me working there one day. No warning. Nothing.’ She scowled. ‘He said I had to think about my future. I created an even bigger fuss. But this time Pa didn’t try to bring me round. All I got was no, no, no. I couldn’t work in the forge. I had to do what was expected of me. Expected of me as a woman.’ Her scowl deepened. ‘Such as agree to a husband.’
‘Yet you bowed to your father’s wishes, did you not? You were promised to Theaker, God rest his soul.’ Barling crossed himself in respect.
Her glare fixed on him again. ‘The idea of lying with Bartholomew Theaker made me want to throw up.’ She passed a hand across her face with a sharp sigh. ‘I’m sorry, that was wrong of me. Poor Bartholomew. He didn’t deserve the end he got. But I didn’t want him as my husband.’ Her mouth tightened. ‘He should never have asked.’
‘But you said yes.’
She slapped her hand on the table. ‘I said no.’ She leaned forward. ‘I didn’t want him, but Pa wouldn’t listen. A good match, he’d say. Him and that old pig Edgar. Edgar was the one to give permission. He had to. Theaker was a villein, you see. Not a freeman. But he had plenty of money. And that makes him a good match – they kept saying it.’ She sat back again. ‘But that match was never going to happen. No matter what anyone said.’
‘Never?’
‘For I had given my love to another. Given it to my Thomas.’ For the first time, her voice shook. ‘Forever.’
‘What did your father say?’
‘I never told him about Thomas.’ Her gaze slid away. ‘Pa heard gossip and got very angry with me. But I denied it, denied it all. I could tell Pa didn’t believe me, but I didn’t care.’ She looked at Barling again, leaned forward once more in her earnestness. ‘Thomas and I had a deep love that was more powerful than any obstacles. We were going to be together always. You couldn’t possibly understand our passion. Nobody could.’
Yet Barling could. He understood passion in its full, glorious, heartbreaking destruction. But he had put such feelings away. Forever. ‘Yet you were still betrothed to Theaker, Agnes. How were you going to be with Dene?’
‘Yes, my betrothal prevented Thomas and I naming our love. He even said to me one day, “How much happier our lives could have been without the hand of Sir Reginald Edgar.” But we were going to be happy in spite of everything. You see, Thomas had it all planned. He told me that when he finished his work here in Claresham, he’d go to his home town and get everything set up for me and for our lives together. Then he would come back here and talk to my father, persuade him to allow us to be together. Thomas knew he’d be able to do so. Not only was he a freeman, he had plenty of money put aside.’
Barling drew breath to comment, but she cut across him.
‘But do you know what?’ Her face lit with her smile. ‘I had a surprise for Thomas.’
‘Oh?’
She nodded hard. ‘A delicious surprise. I had my things packed. I was ready to leave Claresham the moment he did. We would run away together, marry before anybody knew about it. My name would be ruined, but I didn’t care. No matter who objected, it would be too late.’ Her smile dropped. ‘And now it is. Too late for everything. Lindley has taken it all from me.’
‘You have indeed suffered greatly,’ said Barling as gently as he could. ‘Do you have any idea why Nicholas Lindley would have wanted those close to you dead?’
‘No.’
‘Again, I know this must be very painful for you, Agnes. But you discovered your father’s body, did you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thinking back to that night, did you see anything? Anything that might be important? Anything that might help us catch Lindley?’
Agnes looked at her hands, suddenly quiet. Different.
‘Agnes?’
‘Something . . .’ Her hands balled into fists. ‘Something happened to me on the night Pa was killed.’ She raised her eyes to Barling.
To his surprise, he saw a deep unease within them.
‘I haven’t told a soul,’ she said.
‘Then it’s time that you did,’ said Barling.
She hesitated.
‘Agnes?’
‘I haven’t lied. About finding Pa. But I haven’t told the whole truth.’
‘Go on.’
‘I wasn’t at home in our cottage. I was out in the woods. Late. In the dark. Out meeting Thomas. We had a special place there. Not far from the stone quarry there’s a little glade that has the prettiest waterfall, with a pool under it.’ She wouldn’t meet Barling’s eye now. ‘It
’s very private.’
He nodded his understanding.
She went on. ‘We had parted for the night. Thomas had gone back to his hut in the quarry, and I was making my way back through the woods to my home. It started to rain, not like now, but still bad, which made everything even darker. I had to take my time, to take care. We had that terrible storm at Eastertide, where so many trees had come down. I went to climb over a big trunk when I heard a couple of twigs snapping.’
‘Thomas?’
She shook her head. ‘Lindley. I thought it was my Thomas playing a joke. I called out to Tom. When I got no answer, I went to climb over the trunk. And a hand grabbed my leg. Grabbed it, yanked me down hard. I grabbed a branch to stop my fall and cracked my nose and chin.’ She gave the sort of crooked smile that holds back tears. ‘God help me, I still thought it was Tom, though I don’t know why. I yelled at him to stop, that he was hurting me. Looked down.’ A couple of tears broke through and her breath came faster. ‘But it wasn’t my love. It was a figure in a black cloak, face hidden in a dark wrap. I didn’t know at the time it was Lindley. All I knew was that I had to get away. He grabbed hold of my other ankle. Pulling, pulling, pulling. But I got one foot free, kicked him as hard as I could.’
The ferocity with which she said it echoed in the room.
‘And then I was over the tree trunk,’ she said. ‘And I ran. Fell once in the mud. Thought he was on me. But then he fell as well. So I picked myself up and ran again. I’d lost one shoe, and stones and thorns tore my flesh. But I didn’t care. I was headed for home. Quick as I could. Home. I had to get home. Home to Pa.’
Now her tears fell in a steady, silent stream. But she made no attempt to wipe them away.
‘I broke from the trees on to the road. Saw the orange light of the forge. Where Pa was working late. I ran to the door, got in. Slammed it behind me. And there was my pa.’ A deep sob broke from her. ‘Flat on his back on the ground in a puddle of blood. I knew he was dead. His eyes were staring. And he had no mouth left. Not much nose. Just a gaping hole in his face. And then the door opened behind me.’
‘Lindley?’ asked Barling with a frown.
‘No.’ Agnes let out a long breath and uncurled her white-knuckled fists, laid her palms flat on the table. ‘I thought it was him coming for me through the door.’ She smiled sadly. ‘It was Bartholomew. He’d come to see Pa, to talk about our marriage. What he got was me screaming. And Pa. I couldn’t stop.’
‘You are indeed fortunate to have escaped his clutches, Agnes. Not only fortunate but courageous too. But why have you remained silent about this terrible attack?’
‘I did tell Thomas.’ She scrubbed at her eyes, to little avail. ‘But he said I couldn’t tell anybody. Because if I did, then people would want to know why I was out in the woods. And then our love would come out, and Edgar would stop it. Everyone.’
‘Then why tell me today?’
‘Because now I see that Thomas somehow knew Lindley. He was trying to protect him, just like he did when he broke him out of the gaol.’ Now she sobbed without cease. ‘And because he didn’t let me say anything, my Thomas, the love of my heart, is dead at the hand of Nicholas Lindley, the man he helped.’
‘And that is the whole truth of what happened to you in the woods?’
Agnes held up one hand with three fingers extended. ‘My pa. My betrothed. My love. All dead. All at Lindley’s hand. Is that not enough?’ She dropped her hand. ‘I swear to you, I can take no more. No more.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Normally, the busyness of a market town would have Stanton more on alert. Who might be a pickpocket? Who might want to overcharge him for an inn? Who, after what happened to him in York, might want to rob him?
But now the world stood on its head. He welcomed the bustle and noise of these crowded streets as he rode along them, Morel tired but still strong beneath him. She’d been steady as a rock as they battled through the storm in the first hours of the ride, but he’d sensed her relief when they finally left it behind.
He felt far safer here than he did in the quiet of the small village of Claresham.
Not that there was any quiet in that cursed place. Three men had been murdered brutally. And two of the murders were his fault, even if one man had helped to bring the fate on himself. He wanted to push his own blame away, banish it from his mind so he could close an eye at night.
But he couldn’t. After his long ride of the best part of two days, with Dene’s tools in a bag slung across his chest and every mile adding to his dread, he had to tell the stonecutter’s mother that her son was dead.
Following the rector Osmond’s advice, he pulled up outside the abbey walls and went to the gatehouse. As Osmond had said, the monk there knew of the widow Dene.
‘You have brought sad news, my son?’ said the monk, reading Stanton’s look in a second.
‘The worst,’ was the terse reply Stanton could manage, a sudden lump of sadness in his throat taking him by surprise.
His own mother, the still-beautiful Alys, was also a widow. ‘I have everything I need from God,’ he’d heard her say a hundred times. ‘Everything my heart could want. I have my Hugo. My sweet Hugo. My angel of a boy, with his eyes like the summer sky and his golden locks.’
That he was an angel and not a dunderpate who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
What if God were to rob his mother of her heart’s love, as Dene’s had been robbed of hers? Stanton knew the pain would feel like death to Alys Stanton, yet in the most cruel way it would not kill her, but instead she would feel its agony every day she had left on this earth.
The ride to the widow Dene’s house was too quick.
Now here it was, a neat, ordered dwelling and shop set on a narrow street of many others.
Barrels in the swept, tidy yard. A yellow rose in flower growing across the door lintel. From the open shutters came the rich, malty smell of brewing ale.
Stanton dismounted and threw a coin to a tall boy who’d seen him arrive.
‘Watch my horse.’ He thrust Morel’s reins into his hand. ‘There’s another coin for you if you can get her fed and watered.’
‘Sir.’ The boy led his horse to a nearby trough as Stanton went to the half-open door.
He knocked on it with a call. ‘I have a message for the widow Dene.’
‘I am she.’ An answering call from inside, along with the high-pitched bark of a small dog.
The woman stepped out, wiping her hands on her apron, one foot holding the jumping brindle dog back. He definitely had the right house. He could see the handsome murdered Thomas in this woman’s face, her bearing. ‘What can I do for you, sir? A drink on this hot morn?’
‘No. Thank you.’ Stanton’s stomach tightened. Her world would never be the same again. And he was the one to make it so. ‘My name is Hugo Stanton. I’ve come from the village of Claresham with a message from its lord, Sir Reginald Edgar. May I come in, Mistress Dene? I have some private news for you.’
Then she knew. He saw it in her eyes even as he saw her not wanting to. ‘It’s about my son, isn’t it? What’s happened?’ Her hands locked on her apron. ‘What’s happened to Thomas?’ Her voice rose.
So he told her. Wanted to tell her as gently as he could. But there were no gentle words for what had happened. Murder. Skull. Slab. Useless ones too. Sorry. Very, very sorry.
Mistress Dene gave a long, terrible wail, her knees buckling, clutching at the door frame as the dog ran past her to hop and yap at Stanton’s boots.
‘Edith?’ The call came from a concerned-looking shoemaker opposite. ‘What’s the matter?’ He shot Stanton a wary look.
‘Fetch Katherine!’ screamed Edith Dene. ‘Quickly!’
The shoemaker ran off.
‘Let me help you inside, mistress.’ Stanton put an unsure hand to Edith’s arm, ready for her to strike him in her grief. He would have preferred it if she had. Instead, she let him, huge sobs breaking from her, the dog still hopping and yelp
ing at their feet.
He steered her into the warm steam of her home, a large cauldron simmering on the fire, to an upright wooden settle, and she sank on to it. The dog sat at her feet, staring up at Stanton in a constant, rattling growl.
And he still had to tell her that her son partly brought his fate on himself. He drew breath to do so but paused.
From outside came the sound of running feet, and a breathless small-boned young woman came in, a swaddled sleeping baby in her arms. ‘What’s happened, Mother?’
Stanton stepped back as Edith opened her arms to her. ‘Oh, Katherine, Katherine. He’s dead! Thomas is dead!’
‘No.’ The blood left Katherine’s face. ‘No.’ She staggered to the older woman, lowered herself on to the seat next to her. ‘No.’
‘It’s true, my dear.’ Edith could hardly speak through her tears. ‘This man here has brought the news from where Thomas was working.’
Katherine shot Stanton an anguished glance and he nodded. ‘I’m sorry, but it is.’
Now she also broke into dry, gasping sobs over the head of her still-sleeping infant.
‘Worse,’ said Edith. ‘He was murdered, Katherine.’
‘Murdered?’ Katherine’s appalled gaze flew to Stanton again.
He steeled himself to state his dreadful message once more. But Katherine’s next words stunned him.
‘You’re telling me my husband was murdered?’
Husband? ‘Your husband is – was – Thomas Dene?’ He felt foolish as he said it. He’d heard ‘Mother’ and assumed. Wrongly. ‘A stonecutter?’
‘Yes.’ Tears left Katherine Dene’s eyes in a steady, silent stream.
A husband who’d also promised himself to Agnes Smith. Stanton wouldn’t, couldn’t tell her that now. ‘I’m sorry.’ The useless words again. ‘Has he left a son or a daughter?’
‘A son,’ she whispered, kissing the top of the baby’s head.
‘And four more at home.’ Edith shook her head.
‘Oh, Mother,’ came Katherine’s long, anguished cry. ‘What’s to become of us?’
‘Hush, girl, hush.’ Despite her own grief, Edith pulled her son’s young widow into her arms. ‘We’ll find a way.’ She looked at Stanton over the top of Katherine’s head as the younger woman sobbed without cease into her shoulder. ‘Have you buried him?’
