While I sat there, sipping ale and letting the solids sink down, I listened to the conversations going on around me.
As usual, most of the chatter was about matters that affected the community: whose sheep had strayed, whose cow had stood on old Harold’s dog, the cost of buying good flour, the dreadful prices for produce, how hard it was to make a living – you know the sort of thing. I was listening without much interest, until I suddenly heard someone mention Harknet. There was not much to that, perhaps, but then someone else mentioned ‘Sarah’, and my ears pricked.
You see, they were talking about this Sarah as though Harknet was keen to be knotted to her. The idea of any poor woman wanting to get spliced with such a sour-minded old devil was hard to conceive of, but according to the fellows at the bar, she was ideal for him, being such a mild-mannered wench. This was received with raucous amusement. Someone said that she would make a man of him at last, to general delight once more, and another said that she was as constant as he, and the couple would do well as parents, for their children would twist and turn with every changing breeze, as effective as a weather vane in telling how the wind blew.
I was confused by this at first, but stood and took my ale to them. ‘Gentlemen, would you accept an ale from a stranger?’
There was no holding them back after that, although many of them were drinking cider rather than ale.
‘I couldn’t help but overhear your comments about goodman Harknet,’ I said. ‘He seems a man who can be trusted to know how the land lies.’
There was some hesitation at first. These local types don’t like to involve foreigners in their personal prejudices, but they began to open up after a few more promptings.
One, a lean fellow with skin like old leather, said, ‘Harknet will always be on the side of Harknet.’
A younger man with a face as round as a cherub’s nodded. ‘Aye, he’d declare himself a Jew if the Queen said she esteemed them!’
‘He’s a man of changing views, then?’ I said.
‘A papist, then a Church of England man, and now a papist again. He reported two Catholics to the sergeant when King Edward was on the throne, God bless his memory,’ said the first one, ‘but as soon as our Queen decided to return to the Catholic Church, he became the most devoted papist in the whole of Middlesex.’
‘And now he’s found a woman,’ said the round-faced fellow. ‘Poor Sarah Comely doesn’t deserve him. Trouble has followed her for years, but having Harknet pulling at her skirts will be the worst of all.’
There was much sage nodding of heads at that.
The lean fellow sniggered. ‘Aye, but mayhap she’ll teach him a trick or two before they’re handfast.’
‘You daft beggars don’t know what you’re talking about,’ a third man said. He had a wall-eye and an evil glitter in the good one. ‘She’s too bright to get herself wed to him. I’ll take my oath she’d sooner wed a hog.’
‘True enough,’ Round Face agreed, but the others nodded grimly when he continued, ‘but she’s a solitary maid, when all is said. How long can she stay alone, eh? The women all think she’s halfway to being a whore as it is. None of them are keen on having a woman like her about the place.’
‘What sort of woman is this Sarah?’ I asked. ‘Why do you say “a woman like her”?’
The round-faced fellow made a very distinct shape with his hands and guffawed. ‘If you like your woman to have a well-filled bodice, Sarah is the girl for you! She’s some two-and-thirty years old, and still has many of her teeth, but she has a manner about her that would scare the rust off a worn axe.’
‘Aye,’ said the lean man, ‘and she’s without a man now. She can’t live on her own for all time.’
FOUR
We stayed at the inn that night again, but next morning I woke with a head that was significantly less painful. Perhaps it was helped by the fact that I drank only ale, and fell asleep before the fire while Sir Richard was telling one of his disgusting jokes. I don’t know, but when I stirred, my head felt clear and fresh, and my belly was content and without the boiling acid feeling that I was coming to know so well.
Sir Richard was already up. I don’t know how he could survive on so little sleep and such a quantity of drink. The man must have the stomach of an elephant.
I called for the innkeeper and Dorothy appeared in the doorway. She made no mention of our discussion the previous afternoon, but set about fetching me a small beer.
It was when she set it before me that I saw her eye. ‘What happened to you?’
She touched it as though she had forgotten. ‘This?’
Her eye was so badly swollen that she could barely open it.
‘Who did that, maid?’
‘It is nothing. I walked into a door,’ she said coldly.
‘Seriously, tell me what happened. Who did this?’
‘It is nothing to do with you,’ she said, and this time there was menace in her voice.
As she spoke, I noticed a shadow in the doorway. Someone was out there listening.
‘I think any man who hits a woman is the purest coward on the planet,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t matter whether he’s a lord or a peasant. It’s the most sure proof of his weakness.’
As I said this, the innkeeper appeared. He wiped his hands on his apron while watching me. When he glanced at Dorothy, there was a look of contrition, I fancied. He looked ashamed, perhaps, or apologetic. I was reminded of the look he sent after young Ben the day before. That had been a look of pure malice, or I’m a Dutchman, but this was more like genuine remorse. He was a man capable of violence, but perhaps it was worse when he was in his cups. I had enough experience of that from my own father. He used to think it great sport to thrash me. Thinking that, I was suddenly alarmed for Ben. If the boy was to get into serious trouble, and this fellow caught him, Ben could be in great danger. The man looked as though he would make no allowances for age when he punished a boy.
‘Morning, master,’ he said, and then, to Dorothy, ‘Why don’t you go and rest yourself, Dorothy? You must be tired out.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said. There was a note of resolution and determination in her tone. ‘It’s better if I keep working.’
‘Hello,’ I said to him, and he at last met my eye. ‘A nasty bruise that, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Accidents will happen,’ Dorothy said quickly.
Nyck and I exchanged a glance. We both knew her injury was no accident. Nyck hovered around her like a wasp about a honey-pot, ignoring me as best he could.
I was not to have an opportunity to speak to Dorothy again, clearly. ‘I shall be leaving the village this morning. I have business in London.’
‘I’ll see your mount is ready for you.’
‘Thank you.’ I hesitated. ‘Do you know where Dick Atwood has gone? I have not seen the devil since the inquest.’
‘No. He should be at the church, but I don’t think Dick does much work up there. He used to spend all his time wandering about the village, but I haven’t seen him either.’
‘Beware of him, then,’ I said. ‘He delights in punching people. There are many feeble-minded …’
Dorothy span to me, her face a mask of rage and fear. ‘Don’t speak of things you know nothing about! I have told you what happened, and now leave me in peace!’
Drinking the beer, I left the inn a little later – and I won’t deny it, I felt very sorry for the woman. She was not really my type, and she had a hard mouth on her for a man like me, but her evident grief at losing the man she had married, even after he had treated her abominably, and her determination to keep her family together made her seem virtuous. She had tried to hold the boys to her even at the expense of submitting to a bully, and I honoured her for that. It made her seem altogether more decent and strong than any woman I had met before.
She was impressive.
Walking from the inn, I stood in the roadway outside and peered about me. I would be happy to return to London and be away from this vill
age, which seemed filled with death and misery.
The woman Sarah interested me, I confess. The man the night before had said that she could take the rust off an ancient axe with her manner, or something to that effect, while someone had mentioned that she had a good top-heavy build – just as I like. But the other comments were about her being alone, and that other women viewed her with suspicion at the least. It sounded as if she had a reputation for negotiable virtue – which would be enough to give many women in a small community, like this village, conniptions. Few wives would want the competition of a free woman who might tempt their husbands unless she was hideously ugly. However, I was surprised that there was so much talk about them both with me, a relative stranger. Harknet himself must have many enemies, since I had heard that he had regularly denounced those who clung to their Roman faith, which must mean he had lost any friends among the Catholic congregation, and now that the Queen had herself returned to the Roman faith, and expected all her subjects to do the same, he would have lost the others, too. He must be an entirely friendless man, and if that was so, they would feel secure enough in denouncing Harknet’s flexible attitude towards religions.
On a whim, I went to the stable yard and enquired of a groom. Soon I had directions to Sarah’s house. It was a small cottage on the road east, and I ambled over that way with a kind of casual interest, more a wish to see what sort of woman could appeal to Harknet than anything else – although I did wonder what sort of woman could find him appealing, too – if she did.
My path was a well-trodden route, with deep ruts where cartwheels had sliced into the mud and a filthy mess where the horses hooves had churned it afterwards. It took careful work to avoid being befouled by the mire, and several times I was forced to leap over puddles of mud up on to the verge, either to escape the deeper pools, or to avoid riders and carters who seemed to think it was a great sport to smother me in mud – and worse.
When I reached the cottage, it was a surprise. Without a doubt it was the most handsome property in the village, recently limewashed, with a new thatch of fresh reeds, and a smart little garden of raised beds before it. Garlic, onions and plenty of salads and greens grew there, and I could see not a single weed.
Somehow I had not expected this pleasant scene. I had thought to discover a hovel, something with less than pleasant surroundings, and an emaciated wench with a hunchback – for I was used to the typical style of what the locals termed ‘humour’ down here in the country. Instead, when she walked from her door, I was struck by a woman of, yes, some two-and-thirty summers, but one with raven-black hair and a ready smile, and who was singing a lewd song about a woman who gave her body to a vintner and was now demanding maintenance for herself and her child.
When I approached, she cast me a measuring glance and stood very still, gazing at me over her shoulder.
‘Good morning,’ I called.
‘God give you joy of it,’ she said.
I was about to go to her, when I caught sight of a man in her doorway. It was Sir Richard.
I would have continued onwards to speak to her, but then I caught sight of the expression on Sir Richard’s face, and it froze me, he wore such an expression of guilt and shame. I stared for no more than a moment and then turned on my heel and went back to the inn. Whether he was embarrassed to have been found there because he was trying to persuade her into her bed, or because he had learned something shameful about his brother, I did not care.
It was none of my business what Sir Richard got up to, of course, but there was something deeply unnerving about the sight of him in that woman’s doorway. He had looked shifty, as though he had some ulterior motive in being there. Well, if his first thought had been to question the woman, the second didn’t need much thought. She was a comely wench.
But no matter what I thought, I could not get the idea from my mind that he had looked guilty. It was as if I had caught him just as he was about to commit a crime. He looked ashamed, but not contrite, like a certain felon I had known, who, when caught, was unapologetic and unrepentant about his crimes, and made it clear he had thoroughly enjoyed every penny he had stolen.
But Sir Richard was no thief. Nor was he, from all I had seen of him, a womanizer. At least, not a successful one. Still, he would be busy today, with his brother’s funeral.
Glancing at the church, I saw that Roger was clad in religious garb. Clearly, Dick Atwood was still nowhere to be seen, and Roger would be helping with the service.
I walked into the inn.
‘Dorothy?’ I called at the bar. There was no sign of her or the innkeeper. I called again and walked through to the rear parlour, where I called out once more. Still I had no reply, and I was debating whether to leave at once and allow Sir Richard to pay my bill or whether to wait a little, when Dorothy’s older son appeared.
‘What?’ he snapped.
‘I wanted to pay my reckoning,’ I said haughtily.
‘You’d best wait for Nyck to return, then. He’s not here right now.’
The lad had an expression of truculent fury, as though he was ready to explode. It was hardly surprising. The lad had seen his father desert the family, his mother forced to offer her body to the innkeeper, and then seen his mother beaten black and blue. Any fellow of spirit would deprecate the world that permitted such intolerable insults.
‘Fetch me an ale, then,’ I said, and wandered to a bench.
Since the idea of an angry Sir Richard appearing at my door in London was deeply unappealing – especially since I was sure that if he grew displeased, he could smash me to a thin pulp before I could land a punch on him – it was better, I considered, to remain here and then attend Peter’s funeral with him. I settled myself, preparing to wait. Soon I had a large pot of ale and supped it slowly. ‘It must have been hard on you to discover your father’s body.’
‘My mother did.’
‘But you were there. You helped bring him back in, didn’t you, with Roger of Ilford?’
He shrugged. ‘We couldn’t leave him there. It wasn’t right.’
‘What do you think of Roger?’
‘He’s all right. A bit pathetic, though. He won’t stand his ground. People can trample over him.’
‘Who?’
‘He didn’t really want to come here. It was mother who made him. He would have been happier staying in his home, avoiding that journey. But she needed help, she said, and he gave in to her.’
‘You think your mother is unreasonable?’
‘No! She’s just found life tough. Who wouldn’t?’
‘Have you seen the sexton from the church?’
‘Several times. So has Ben. He’s always somewhere around, but never at his work.’
Hardly surprising, I thought. Atwood was off out and about looking for a box of gold.
I glanced up to see that the boy was still glowering at me. It was disconcerting. Rather than meet his fierce gaze, I pulled my hat over my face.
What if Sir Richard was merely doing the same as I had intended? Perhaps he was only going to see what the woman might have known of Harknet, of his brother Peter, and possibly the miller and his daughter. For it seemed obvious that the miller must have slain his daughter, Jen, as well as Peter. We only had to find her body. And what would Sarah and Harknet have had to do with that? Beforehand, I had wondered whether Harknet could have killed Peter, but the discovery of the bloodied bedding at the mill spoke against that as a possibility. Why would he have gone to the mill? It was more likely that Harknet was a merely peripheral character, an unpleasant side-road, perhaps, but no more than that. And surely his woman was little more than that herself.
No, the miller was an unpleasant-sounding fellow, who had more than likely been bedding his own daughter, and who would not hesitate to exact punishment when he found the priest making merry with her, too. If Sir Richard wanted to find the murderer of his brother, he would have to seek the miller, and, as we had discussed, that must mean hunting for the fellow in London itself.
Yes. There was no point getting excited about Sarah or Harknet, I thought, and no point worrying about a strange expression on Sir Richard’s face. He was surprised to see me there, I expect – nothing more than that.
I pulled my hat further down over my eyes, wrapped my arms about me and set myself to doze.
It seemed only a blink of an eye later that my shoulder was punched. A typical way for Sir Richard to waken a friend, I thought idly as I yawned, stretched and then took off my hat to remonstrate with him.
Except it wasn’t Sir Richard. Instead, I squeaked with alarm as I found myself staring into the face of Arch.
For a moment or two, I think I just goggled. There was a suspicious part of my brain that was suggesting that if this was a dream, it was a dream in exceedingly poor taste. A brain the quality of mine should have been able to summon up a vision of Cat, or perhaps Dorothy – but without her black eye. Anyone, in short, rather than this repellent vision.
‘Oh!’ I said.
‘’E’s awake,’ Arch said.
‘Yes,’ said Hamon.
‘Do you think ’e’d like to explain ’ow ’e seems to have fallen out of London?’
‘I hope so.’
‘Because the last I remember, we spoke to him and told him we needed the money quickly, didn’t we?’
‘Yes.’
‘But ’e didn’t appear, did ’e?’
‘No.’
‘’Ave you got your snippers, ’Amon?’
‘I do, Arch. Yes.’
‘Oh, good.’
‘Wait!’ I said.
‘It speaks!’ said Arch.
‘It was a mistake! I had to come here because of the Coroner!’
‘Oh, the Coroner.’
‘Yes. He wanted me here to look into matters for him.’
‘Oh, well,’ Arch said, looking up at Hamon with an understanding smile. ‘That makes sense, that does, doesn’t it? No need for your snippers, if that’s all that ’appened. We might as well go ’ome, eh?’
The Dead Don't Wai Page 14
