‘Until you are mended, I should be with you when you could be in danger.’
‘You are arrogant, Edgar, but it is a delight to see you.’ Baldwin chuckled. ‘It’s a lot better than it was, but I don’t think I’d be good in a fight just now.’
‘We are too old for new wounds,’ Edgar said.
‘What were you doing in there?’
‘I arrived here yesterday and saw how the place had already been robbed, so I thought I should remain here in case anyone else tried to get inside. A couple of men did yesterday. I spoke to them and no one’s been back since then.’
‘Have you learned anything?’ Baldwin asked as they made their way from the house and out into the fresher air.
‘Little – except that Hugh isn’t in there.’
‘As I thought,’ Baldwin agreed.
Simon and Jeanne heard their words, and Jeanne gaped, although Simon merely gave a tight smile to Edgar in welcome, and then looked to Baldwin to explain.
‘It is plain that Hugh wasn’t burned to death in there – or if he was, his body was removed afterwards.’
Jeanne looked from her husband to Edgar. ‘How can you be so sure?’
Baldwin said, ‘My dear, if you want to burn a living man, it takes at least two cartloads of faggots. Even then you’d have plenty of larger bones remaining, like the skull or the hips. Think how long it takes for a beef rib to burn in a fire, then think about all the bones in a man’s body. That house burned hot, I dare say, but not hot enough to entirely eradicate Hugh. He was skinny, but there was enough of him for a vestige to remain.’
‘But what, then? You think someone stole his body away from here?’
‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. ‘That is exactly what I think.’
But he would say no more as he led the way back along the track to the inn.
Chapter Seventeen
Sir Geoffrey was in a foul mood when Adcock entered his hall just before noon. ‘Have you enjoyed your splashing in the mud, boy?’
Adcock bridled. ‘I was doing my duty, Sir Geoffrey.’
‘Your duty could get you into trouble. Your duty could get your head taken off your shoulders,’ Sir Geoffrey rasped.
Adcock paled as he heard men behind him moving closer. He glanced round and saw that they were the same men he had seen holding the hapless Nick. In his belly a snake of fear began to squirm, and he felt a queasiness in his breast. ‘All I did was order the bog to be drained. It seemed the best thing to do at the time.’
‘And now we’re going to have to explain a dead wench’s body on our land, boy, aren’t we?’ Sir Geoffrey said snidely. ‘And that might mean a lot of trouble for our master. He won’t be pleased, Sergeant. No, he’ll likely be very unhappy, and when he’s unhappy, he takes it out on mother-swyving churls with no ballocks like you!’
He had approached to a matter of a few inches from Adcock, and now his spittle flew in Adcock’s face as he shouted.
‘You pathetic piece of turd! You’re useless! What is the point of you? You eat our food and drink our ale, but all you do is bring bad luck on us! What made you go to that bog?’
‘I just saw it. Beorn told me there was a bog there, and I wanted to see it, so I could decide whether to clear it or not,’ Adcock said. He was badly scared now, alone in the hall with no one else around to see what could happen. Men had died in similar rooms with stewards of the Despensers, he knew.
‘You don’t decide to clear any other mires without telling me first, yes?’ Sir Geoffrey said more coolly.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Why did you want to clear that particular bog?’
‘I said: I just wanted to drain it to start to bring that piece of land into use.’
‘And I said: why that particular bog? Did someone suggest it to you?’
Adcock raised a hand in a gesture of submission.
At once it was grabbed by the man on his left. His right hand was taken by the other, and as he looked wildly from one to the other Sir Geoffrey’s fist struck him under the ribcage with the force of a galloping mare.
His vision went black, and he found he couldn’t breathe. Doubled up with pain and the desperate need to suck air into his lungs, he retched drily; his vision clearing, he felt a slight tremor in his stomach, and he gulped in a small breath of air. It almost made him sick. Then he collapsed again, his chin falling on his breast, while the two men held his arms up, so that they were almost as painful as the blow to his belly.
‘I’ll ask you again, churl. What made you go to that mire?’
‘I didn’t know anything, Sir Geoffrey. I was only trying to serve my master.’
‘Why that place? Why today?’
‘There was no reason!’
This time, Sir Geoffrey resorted to kicking him in the groin, and Adcock’s vision blacked again. He felt his arms released, and he collapsed on his face among the filthy rushes, gagging, curled into a ball of pain like a hedgehog hiding its soft underbelly from attack. His arms were about his stomach to protect it, and he threw up over the floor, a weakly green bile-filled vomit that stung his throat and his nostrils.
‘A last time, boy! Who suggested that place?’
‘Beorn … he took me to it … didn’t say to drain it … was my idea …’ Adcock choked.
‘Entirely your idea?’ Sir Geoffrey snarled. His boot came back, ready to kick again.
‘No! Not again!’ Adcock pleaded. ‘It was Nicholas le Poter. He suggested emptying it … he said you’d be pleased to have more land to farm. It was him, not me!’
‘You don’t fucking do anything here without my permission, boy, because if you do once more, I’ll have you shoved in the bog with stones to hold you down, and you’ll never be seen again,’ Sir Geoffrey hissed in his ear, and then the three men left Adcock alone. Soon afterwards he heard the shouts and rattling of hooves as they rode away.
He couldn’t rise for some minutes. A servant came in, and seeing Adcock wriggling on the ground he called for help, and tried to help Adcock up, but Adcock had been manhandled enough already that day. He shook his helper’s hand away and rolled on to his knees before slowly pushing himself up. His ballocks were a pool of pain so intense, he wondered that he could live. Even when he stood, there was a sensation as though both were twice their usual size and hanging behind him, pulling his belly out of his body. It was so agonising, he could only stand leaning against a table and weep for a long time. Without support, he could do nothing.
‘Master, can I get you anything?’ the servant asked sympathetically.
It was tempting to demand a horse, and then to throw his few belongings together and ride from here, just whip the beast and let it take him anywhere away from this hideous manor, but he knew he couldn’t. He was not a free man: he had taken the Despensers’ salt, and he was a part of the household now.
He left the hall and walked to where he had his palliasse in the chamber where the men slept.
On the way, he couldn’t help but weep hot tears of despair. He was sure that, like Ailward, he would die here. And it would perhaps not be very long before it happened.
Jankin saw them return with a sense of genuine pleasure. ‘Lordings, please, let me fetch you some ale or wine. And this gentleman is a companion of yours? Well met, friend. It is most pleasant to see you.’
In all honesty, although having a knight staying with him was no strain, this new fellow had a dangerous look to him. He was one of those, so Jankin thought, who would smile happily while slipping a knife in a man’s belly. Not the sort of traveller to insult. He’d have to speak to his wife and the servants and make sure that these folks were well served. No need to cause offence – especially when it was likely to result in someone’s getting hurt.
There was another reason to welcome them back, of course.
‘Er – madam, your maid was distressed that you had left her here alone.’
‘Ah. Where is she?’
‘At present, I think she’s in my buttery
with a pot man. She was very thirsty.’
‘Thirsty? Do you mean she’s drunk?’
‘Scarcely,’ Jankin replied honestly. He had never seen a wench with a more alarming capacity for alcohol.
‘And she has my daughter with her? Bring them to me,’ Jeanne commanded with an iciness in her manner.
‘You have Emma with you?’ Edgar asked.
Baldwin answered. ‘Yes. Jeanne thought it best to bring someone in case my wound should be exacerbated by the journey here. She believed that having so potent a protection against outlaws would be sensible.’
‘I doubt many outlaws would risk life or limb by attacking her,’ Edgar agreed equably.
Jeanne listened with half an ear. She was alarmed by the thought that Emma could get herself too happily ensconced in a buttery with barrels of ale. The woman was here to help her and look after Richalda, not to drink herself stupid when left alone for a few moments.
‘Mistress, I was bereft when you left without me!’
‘You could have easily walked from the door, I believe,’ Jeanne said with poisonous sweetness. ‘Or did you take a wrong turn and end up in the buttery instead?’
‘I was asked to go there to help clear up some mess, and while we were there we thought to make sure that the casks were all right. I didn’t drink the place dry, if that’s what you mean!’
‘That is good. Now be silent, please.’
‘Mistress … but, Bailiff, I am sorry to hear about your man. He wasn’t the best servant, I know, but it is always difficult to lose someone you’ve known …’
Jeanne hissed, ‘I said silent!’
‘Oh, very well. I don’t have to speak.’
‘Good,’ Baldwin said pointedly. ‘Master Jankin, could you please fetch me a little wine with water?’
Malkin was exhausted already, and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet. She felt so weak, so feeble. She was a pitiful creature, quite useless. Look at Isabel, in comparison. She was a real woman: strong, resolute, unbending in adversity, cunning and quick to take advantage no matter what. She wouldn’t sit and mope like Malkin, she’d get off her rump and start planning for her future.
But what future was there, really? Malkin wasn’t going to fool herself. She could perhaps survive for a little while, but without a husband she was merely fodder for the appetite of strong men. If any of them wanted her, they could force her to accept their advances, once a decent period of mourning had passed.
To be fair, the idea was not repellent, if the man concerned had some money. The main thought uppermost in her mind was that she needed security for herself and her child. Ailward’s child. And there lay the problem, of course. How many men would be prepared to take on a woman who already had a babe of her own? There were few enough who’d be happy to take on the upkeep of another man’s boy.
She had loved him so much, her Ailward. Since his death, she felt as though a part of her had withered. A soft, kind, happy piece of her soul had been cut from her, and it left a hole. It was impossible to keep her mind on one thought, impossible to plan or look to the future.
Ailward had been so close, so he had said, to making their fortune. He wasn’t above making a little money on the side, of course. He had a lot to live up to, with his father and grandsire both being such honourable men, and if he was ever going to work his way up to renew the fortunes of the family he would have to fight every step of the way. From a knight’s son to penury was a sharp fall, and he had felt the humiliation deeply. Her Ailward had been devoted to making the family wealthy again.
She had no idea how he had intended to do that. If she was honest with herself, she didn’t want to know. He had sometimes a sort of focus, a concentration, that excluded her, and on occasion she had felt that he wouldn’t be entirely averse to gaining money by means that weren’t completely legal. ‘Sometimes,’ he’d said, not long before his death, ‘a man has to prove his brutality in order to be a good, loving father to his family.’
He had worn such a serious expression, and his words were uttered so firmly, that she had felt quite anxious at the time, but then she had lightened the atmosphere, laughing at him, throwing a soft cushion at him and making him apologise for being too solemn and stern-looking, and he had chuckled. Now she recalled his expression, she realised his gaiety had been just a little bit forced, as though he had wanted to explain something to her, something awful, and her change of mood had prevented him from telling her.
She packed up a basket of food, shaking her head at the memory. It was all too painful still. Especially that dreadful day when the men had arrived here to tell her that her man was dead. Murdered. And now there was the appalling sense that he was going to go unavenged. Nobody cared enough about him to bother to find his murderer.
Pagan stood at the door, and seeing her carrying the basket outside he pulled the door wide, not looking at her as he waited for her to leave. For her part, she had no wish to meet his eyes. She left the house and walked along the lane, pulling her cloak tight about her against the dreadful cold. The sight of Pagan only seemed to increase the chill of the air.
He had been different since her husband’s death. She felt that he had been more attentive than before, and in the midst of her greatest despair, while she bemoaned her loss and Isabel tried to conceal her growing contempt for such a display, it was Pagan who seemed to appreciate and understand her grief.
If she were a man, she would be out there finding out who had done it. Pagan should be doing the same. The man who had killed Ailward was still there, in the vill somewhere. Perhaps he was even in the homestead here. Or was it Sir Geoffrey, as she feared? The steward could have desired to remove the man he had ousted. Ailward was a potent threat while he lived.
But Pagan should be able to do something. He was a strong enough fellow. Yet just now, when the man should have been helping all the more, Isabel had turfed him unceremoniously from the house. Perhaps that was so that he could speak to the neighbours and learn what had really happened – but Pagan, although a good steward and servant, was not the sort of man to inspire confidences from the other men of the vill. They had learned to respect him, some, perhaps, to fear him over the years. But few would want to socialise with him, and fewer still would accuse other men of murdering his mistress’s son.
She continued down the track until she reached the side lane that led to the chapel. Here, she pushed the gate wide and crossed the cemetery, reaching out to open the door. To her surprise it was barred. She knocked and called out for Isaac, then Humphrey, but there was no reply, and eventually, shrugging, she set the basket down, and set off to make her way homewards.
Inside the chapel, Humphrey sat with his head in his hands, trying to shut out the noise of Malkin’s knocking. Then, with a gradual clearing of his brow, he realised what he must do.
With a new purpose, he stood and lifted Isaac’s corpse from the chair. If it had been discovered here before all this other trouble, Humphrey would have been fine, but what with Ailward dead and the family up at Iddesleigh being killed, and now Lady Lucy too, there were too many bodies. One more would be suspicious, and it was always easy for people to look on a foreigner as the most likely suspect. He had seen that before, when he’d run away.
The convent had been a good place to live, but not once old Peter grew interested in him. Before that he had been able to live and study happily enough … but afterwards there was no peace.
It came to the crunch when Peter was serving food one day. It sounded pathetic now, but at the time … Peter would insist on serving the younger men under his care, and Humphrey was one of them. Every meal, without fail, Humphrey saw all the others getting more food than he did, and the anger boiled up and up until his rage knew no bounds. And then one day they were in the garden and Peter snidely commented about Humphrey’s ability to kill off any plant worth growing, and Humphrey couldn’t help himself. He was holding a heavy shovel, and as Peter turned away, he … he just slashed with it. There was a strange, cris
p, wet sound, and Peter crumpled into a heap. His left arm windmilled once, and then his left leg began to kick and thrash, but only for a few moments, and then he was still.
He could see the body even now. The man with a slice through his skull as though Humphrey had swung an axe at him, and an obscene flap of flesh and bone, the blood shining bright and viscous to mark the injury.
There was no doubt that he would be held responsible as soon as the tragedy was discovered. It was his fault. He was a murderer, in God’s name! The truth was so appalling, he stood there a while simply staring at the body, unable to appreciate the depth of his crime. And then he had allowed the spade to drop from his fingers and slowly turned as though in a trance to head to the main gate. He walked through it and just kept on walking. He had walked ever since, until he reached this little rural backwater.
And now, with this second body, he must move on again. There was no time to waste, either. At least this time he would have belongings to take with him. Few enough, but there were a few. He must pack.
Chapter Eighteen
Jankin had just finished serving the small party when a sudden burst of noise announced some more customers, led by the sturdy figure of David atte Moor.
As a landlord, Jankin knew that he must try always to be friendly and accommodating. He had lived in the area all his life, and by and large there were very few men with whom he couldn’t get on, but there were some … and David was one of them.
His voice was pitched always to irritate Jankin’s ear: it was a kind of braying noise, which always made Jankin think of donkeys. Which was why one nickname for David was ‘David the Donkey’. Then again, on most evenings, when David had drunk his first ale, he would get maudlin drunk, and woe betide any man who was within earshot then, because they would invariably receive a full and detailed summary of his life so far, how unfair it was that his father died when he did, leaving David with such terrible death fines to pay that he almost lost all his farm as a result, that he suffered more than anyone during the famine, and that women never understood him (whereas Jankin knew damned well that they understood him only too well). It was this ability to talk a man to near-suicide that had led to Jankin’s other name for him, which was ‘Deadly Dave’. Few names he had invented over the years had seemed quite so suitable as that one, somehow.
A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) Page 18
