by E. M. Powell
‘Thwarted,’ he continued, ‘it can lead to all kinds of madness. And Agnes was by this time thwarted beyond all reason and not in her senses. She had killed her father, her betrothed, her lover. Tried to kill you, Stanton.’
Stanton pulled his gaze from the candle, his horse’s dying moments echoing in his head again. ‘She did,’ he said quietly.
‘She was possessed by Satan more like.’ Osmond shuddered.
‘And she was in this manor,’ said Barling. ‘Knew its layout from the day she killed Theaker. She was here in the care of the servants. She was also here the night after she murdered Dene. When she confessed to you, Osmond.’
‘Yet she would confess nothing, the baggage.’
‘And as for Margaret Webb.’ Barling gave a deep sigh. ‘Had you not intervened, Stanton, she would have been another life lost at the hands of Agnes Smith.’
‘Peter’s life would’ve been destroyed too.’ Stanton shook his head. ‘His grief when he thought his wife was dead will stay with me for a long time.’
‘Yet as Peter Webb himself pointed out, Margaret called Agnes a whore over and over,’ said Osmond.
‘Yes,’ said Stanton. ‘Agnes said that to me the day we found Theaker’s . . .’ He stopped, shook his head as her actions all fell into place. ‘The day she met me on the path. Her hair all wet. Said about having been bathing. And then she brought me to the reed pond. Where we found Theaker’s body. He’d struggled with whoever held him down in the water.’
Barling looked at him. ‘Bold, remember?’
‘Wicked more like,’ said Osmond.
‘But what of Lindley?’ asked Stanton.
Barling brought a hand across his face. Exhaustion was etched there now.
Stanton knew how he felt.
‘I have concluded only this,’ said Barling. ‘That Lindley was most likely a man wrongly accused all along. But Agnes helped him to escape, knowing in her cunning that he would take the blame for her.’
Stanton’s spirits rose, despite his exhaustion, despite the awful happenings at every turn. Lindley. A man wrongly accused all along. ‘So I was right? About Lindley?’
‘I said “most likely”,’ said Barling. ‘Nothing more.’
Stanton didn’t care that Barling found the energy to glare at him. He, Hugo Stanton, had seen the truth. When all others doubted him.
‘A terrible business this,’ said Osmond. ‘All of it. What is to happen now, Barling?’
‘As I said, Agnes Smith might have given us the slip, at least for now.’ He got to his feet. ‘The warnings about her have gone out. I shall go to my solar and start all the extra necessary work now, as well as updating my records.’
‘Then I shall leave you as I go to my bed.’ Osmond rose to his feet with a wide yawn. ‘I have to prepare for my uncle’s funeral on the morrow. A sad task. I shall sleep here in the manor.’ He shook his head. ‘A sad task for a sad day.’ He went out, muttering to himself.
‘You also look ready for rest, Stanton,’ said Barling.
‘I am, but I think I’ll sit with Margaret awhile. Had we seen this sooner, she would still be hale.’
They went to the door, where Barling paused. ‘Had you not seen her moving, she would have simply perished on the floor. A life saved, Stanton.’ He nodded and set off for his solar.
‘Goodnight, Barling.’ Could that possibly have been a bit of acknowledgement from Barling? Who cared if it was. A middle-aged woman lay in a room nearby with the most terrible of injuries.
He picked up a large piece of gingerbread from the untouched selection of food on a side table and bit into it without tasting it. He wasn’t hungry, but he needed a bit of nourishment to keep him going. He set off for Margaret’s room.
He could sit with her awhile. It wasn’t much.
But it was something.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Stanton went to the door of the solar, where he knew Margaret had been taken, shoving his half-eaten gingerbread in his belt pouch.
Outside, two plainly dressed women sat on a settle, one dozing with her cheek on her hand.
The other was Hilda Folkes, who got to her feet as soon as she saw Stanton.
‘God keep you, sir,’ she whispered. ‘And your keen eye in saving Margaret’s life.’
‘God keep you also.’ He spoke quietly too. ‘How is Mistress Webb?’
Hilda crossed herself. ‘Very, very poorly, sir. Her wound has been bandaged, and I did what I could with my knowledge of herbs.’ She grimaced. ‘Margaret Webb is very lucky to be still alive. But she has not regained her senses. Who knows if she will survive such a savage attack? It will still be many hours before a physician can get here.’ Her lips pursed. ‘But I can tell you this much: hell is not hot enough for Agnes Smith.’
‘May I see Mistress Webb?’ asked Stanton.
‘I would say certainly.’ Hilda darted a nervous glance at the door. ‘But her son, John, is still in there. He’s like a restless bear. A smelly bear at that. He doesn’t like anybody near her.’ She nodded to where her friend slept on. ‘That’s why there’s two of us. In case he leaps on us.’
‘I’ll be on my guard,’ said Stanton. ‘Thank you.’
He stepped inside, closed the door behind him.
‘Huh.’
As the midwife had described, John paced the floor, wide awake, his lopsided sight on Stanton, his heavy brows drawn in a deep scowl.
Trouble was, John’s path was up and down between Stanton and the bed on which the wounded Margaret lay.
With a small candle lit next to her, she was utterly still, eyes closed. Her lifeless hands had been placed on her stomach. She could be a corpse.
Next to the bed sat a low stool.
Stanton eyed it longingly. His weariness threatened to have him off his feet soon. He took a step towards it.
John blocked him, stopping in front of Stanton.
‘Look, I’ve got something for you.’ Stanton opened his hand to reveal a piece of the gingerbread, which had interested the wild man before.
And did again. John’s hand darted out, grabbed it. As before, he brought it right up to his good eye. Then sniffed hard at it. But this time he didn’t shove it in his clothing. Instead, he went to Margaret’s side and tried to put it in one of her hands, closing her fingers round it. They fell open again as if they were a soft, empty glove. He tried again, with the same result.
Stanton crossed himself, a deep sadness gripping him. He should go. He’d no business in here.
Then his breath almost stopped.
Margaret opened her eyes. A little. Looked right at him. One of her fingers moved, by the smallest movement. But it was there. Like he’d seen earlier in the cottage.
He went quickly to her side, keeping a wary watch on John.
‘Mistress Webb.’ Stanton kept his voice low lest he cause her head to hurt even more. ‘You’re awake, praise God.’
She opened her mouth to speak. No sound came out.
Stanton could see from the tremor in her lip, from the panic in her eyes, that she was straining to form speech. But she couldn’t.
‘Mistress, don’t tire yourself out trying to talk,’ he said. ‘Rest as much as you can.’
Her gaze moved to John instead.
Her son bent towards her and she made a few movements with her hand, weak but definite.
To Stanton’s shock, John responded with a nod. He reached a filthy, square hand out and grabbed Stanton by the arm.
Stanton flinched, jerked back, expecting a blow or similar.
But all he got was John’s insistent pull towards the door.
From the bed, Margaret let out a long, long ragged breath. Then her eyes slid half-closed again, the whites still showing. Damn it all, he hadn’t saved her at all. The life was slipping from her even as he watched. Hilda. He had to get Hilda.
Stanton allowed John to drag him out so he could summon her.
She looked up in alarm at John as they emerged.
&nb
sp; ‘Come quick. Margaret’s fading fast,’ began Stanton.
But John let out a loud bellow, slapped at the wall.
‘God protect us.’ Hilda ducked away, while her friend woke in a frightened shriek.
John was already moving down the corridor, Stanton still in his grasp.
‘See to Margaret, Hilda. Please! Don’t let her die alone.’
Stanton didn’t catch her reply. John had quickened his pace.
And they were headed for the front door.
Chapter Forty
The Webb family home loomed ahead in the darkness.
Sweat covered Stanton the second he saw it. Nothing to do with the warm night. The sight of it brought back every panicked step he’d taken when Lindley had murdered his horse on the road and would have done the same to him.
Not Lindley. Agnes.
Stanton tried to change their path to alert Peter Webb that he was there, but John would have none of it.
He dragged Stanton past the house and to the door of the fulling shed. Still with his grip firm, John opened the door with his free hand and stepped inside, bringing Stanton with him.
‘God above.’ Stanton brought a hand over his mouth and nose.
The sharp stench made the air thick, made it hard to breathe.
John didn’t seem bothered. He let go of Stanton to go and light a grey tallow candle with clumsy movements of his stubby fingers. The tiny flame made little difference in the darkness of the high-beamed shed.
Stanton’s mouth had filled with spittle in protest at the stink and he swallowed it down. Why on earth had Margaret sent him here with her son? The answer was, she hadn’t. The twitching of her fingers would’ve been the same as the useless twitching of her mouth.
Most likely John wanted to come back to where he spent his days and nights, unable to understand why his mother lay speechless in a bed at the lord’s hall.
Bed. That was what Stanton wanted more than anything else right now. Bed and sleep for a week if he could.
John peered over at Stanton, his big tongue moving and glistening in the poor light like an oversized slug.
‘It’s too late for work, John.’ He had no idea why he said it. He might as well have sung a bawdy tune to the witless John.
John ignored him, which came as no surprise. But he didn’t go to the fulling pit. Instead, he went to the far corner, piled with barrels, and gestured to Stanton.
Stanton drew in a deep breath to sigh in frustration, then coughed it right back out again. A deep breath in this place was a bad idea.
But John repeated his gesture.
‘I can’t help you, John.’ Stanton went over to him, his exhaustion almost complete now. ‘I don’t know your work.’
John stood next to a large basket of what looked like dirty wool scraps; Stanton could hardly tell in the dim light.
‘Huh.’ John bent to rummage in the basket and pulled something out.
Not wool scraps. A boot. Stanton could only stare, stunned. Followed by another.
Stanton’s heart felt like it was about to leave his chest.
Boots of the same type as the ones Edgar wore. That Lindley had got from the lord. That Stanton had seen on Lindley’s feet. Dirty boots. Not clean like Edgar’s.
A fresh wave of sweat broke over him.
But if the boots were here, then Lindley must still be here. Not fled. Hiding out in here. Stanton’s question to Barling just an hour or so ago repeated in his head: But could a woman have done what was done to my animal? The strength of it all.
Agnes had no need for such strength. She had a man. She had Lindley. Lindley hadn’t run off; he was working with her, seduced by her too.
Stanton whipped round, peering into the darkness of the shed.
Lindley could be watching him from the shadows even now, waiting to pounce. Or Agnes.
A flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye and he staggered back into the stack of barrels with a yell. ‘No!’
A huge sleek rat skittered across the floor, a flick of fur in the light before the dark swallowed it again.
He had to get out of here. Now. He made for the door.
But John was there before him, still clutching the boots, blocking the door with his powerful body and muscular arms.
‘Get out of my way, John.’
John’s answer was a hard shove to Stanton’s chest, sending him sprawling to the floor.
Stanton struggled to his feet, gasping for breath. He didn’t care about the stink any more. He was alone with this madman.
The madman who had the boots, crouching by the door, refusing to let Stanton past.
A man of huge strength, the mind of a savage.
Could John have been the killer all along?
Have sense, man. That’s what Barling would tell him. Stanton forced himself to steady.
John had brought him here at a signal from Margaret. John had shown him the boots. There must be something else.
‘All right, John.’ Stanton raised a hand in what he thought was a gesture of calm.
John flinched. Yet he still didn’t move from the door, still held the boots.
‘Sorry, fellow.’ Stanton turned to go further back into the shed again, forcing himself to start to search in the shadows.
Barrels mostly, all with loose lids. He lifted one and recoiled. Stale urine, stored there for use in the fulling. As was another. And another.
His foot met a soft, unknown pile. He squatted down to see what it could be, put a hand to it. His finger went through a rotting sheepskin, and another couple of rats shot past him in a sharp, shrill squeak. Stanton stifled a yell.
Still at the door, John watched, boots in hand. The rats ran close to his feet, but he didn’t move an inch.
Baskets full of good wool were next. Still nothing.
His heart began to race less. A bit.
More barrels, many of these empty now.
Then he came to the last one, right at the back. It looked just like the others. But he couldn’t open the lid. He tugged, pulled. It wouldn’t budge.
Stanton went over and grabbed the candle. He held it up over the stuck barrel and saw why it was so. It was nailed shut.
John was still at his post, but his gaze was locked on Stanton and he breathed in a series of long, low moans.
A quick look around showed Stanton a small, rusty pair of shears. Not great, but they’d do. Just about. By the time he’d levered out the nails, his hands were a mess of splinters and nicked skin. He prised the lid open. And a worse stench leaked out.
He wrenched the lid off and his stomach heaved. Not only because the stink engulfed him.
But because, crammed in the barrel, was a bloated, rotting body.
The body of the outlaw Nicholas Lindley.
Chapter Forty-One
Stanton fought his bile.
The thing in the barrel didn’t look like Lindley. It didn’t look like any man.
Part of the skull was missing, caved in from a hard blow.
The face – what he could see of it – was swollen beyond recognition, greyish, mottled. The eyes . . .
No, he wouldn’t look too closely at them. He wouldn’t look at all. He didn’t need to.
His bile rose again and he fought to contain it.
He knew it was Lindley. The ragged tunic on the shoulder. The straggly beard.
And the hair. The dark chestnut hair, an unusual colour, striking when the man was alive, if it had been clean. And now? He straightened up, refused to look at the barrel’s obscene contents any more.
Over at the door, John’s moans had increased and he rocked on his heels in rhythm to them.
Yet John knew about the boots. Had known where to find them. As had Margaret, as far as Stanton could tell: it was her actions that had sent her son to show them to Stanton. But what of Lindley’s rotting corpse, hidden away in here as well?
John hadn’t come near. The wild fellow was getting more and more agitated, arms flailing.
Nothing made sense. Stanton needed to fetch Barling. Now.
But first Stanton had to get past John.
John, who eyed him with the wary stare of a dog that was wondering whether to bite at an arm or a leg.
Stanton sickened further, not from the stink this time but from how John Webb had been pulled into all of this. John would have no idea why he’d been put to tasks like hiding a dead man’s boots. Maybe even hiding a body. Guarding the door, to keep Stanton in.
Stanton knew he couldn’t take John on in a fight. But all he needed to do was get him clear of the door.
His hands went to his belt pouch. This mightn’t work. He had to try.
Stanton drew out another piece of gingerbread, made a great show of sniffing it.
John’s one-sided gaze was on it too.
The scent of ginger and honey mixed with the other foul reeks in the shed made him want to spew his guts. But he couldn’t. With a careful eye on John, Stanton broke off a piece, made a great show of eating it.
John’s full attention was on it now. He even took a step away from the door.
Now or not at all.
Stanton flung the rest of the sweetmeat at John’s feet. The man bent to pick it up.
Then Stanton was past him, out the door, slamming it shut on a roar from John.
Stanton thrust his left shoulder to the panels as John shoved hard against them, scrabbling for the iron bolt with his free hand. Got it.
A harder shove from John, sending Stanton’s hand slipping from the bolt.
The door opened a crack. John’s power was winning.
Stanton locked his knees, forced his whole weight on to the wood.
Shut again.
He had the bolt, had the metal. But it wouldn’t slide shut. The door was open a crack.
Summoning the strength in every muscle he had, he gave a last heave, shot the bolt home.
The panels still shook against Stanton’s body as John tried to open the door. But it held firm.
Stanton let out a long breath, went to step back.
