Sir Matefrid said women were a snare. She could see Sir Matefrid’s scrunched-up face, his accusing finger pointing at her, as he spoke his familiar sermon, “Woman is the gate of hell.”
Sir Clement Tidewell had always been an amiable fellow, with light, straw-colored hair and a hearty laugh. Ranulf remembered him from when they were boys, going on hunts together with their fathers. As adults they had met a few times at weddings, feasts, and the occasional festival. His long history with Sir Clement could work in their favor.
But Sir Clement was also shrewd. Very little escaped his notice, which definitely did not work in their favor. Ranulf would have to be equally shrewd, for Annabel’s sake, as well as for the sake of the one she was protecting. Because even if that person had attacked the bailiff to save her, he would still have to pay a large fine and possibly be forced to flee from Glynval — and Annabel’s reputation would forever be linked to the bailiff’s accident. There was no knowing if Tom atte Water would recover, and if he didn’t, she would be ostracized by the rest of the village. She didn’t deserve that, or the guilt she would no doubt feel on behalf of her protector.
Ranulf would do his best to protect Annabel, even though she was clearly repulsed by him, repulsed by a simple, innocent embrace. Although, truthfully, he shouldn’t blame her for the way she reacted. He was her lord, not a friend or relative comforting her. And he should have shrugged off her obvious rejection instead of lashing out at her — hadn’t he learned not to treat her that way? But the look of horror on her face had seemed to stab him in the heart and fire up his old demon temper.
Ranulf would keep Annabel safe from any harm as long as he was able. His conscience demanded it, and his heart wouldn’t allow him to do otherwise.
Sir Clement arrived sooner than expected, riding up the next day with the man Ranulf had sent to fetch him. Before even taking a bite of food or swig of ale, he asked to see the barn where the fire had taken place.
“Before you look into this fire, there’s something that has happened of even more consequence.” Ranulf had resolved that morning to address the issue of the bailiff promptly. Doing otherwise might draw the coroner’s suspicion. He went on to explain that his bailiff had been found in the woods with a head wound, lying unconscious. Sir Clement immediately asked to be taken to where the body had been found, and Ranulf led his friend into the woods until they reached the spot.
Both squatting, Ranulf and Sir Clement bent over the ground. Ranulf explained the exact position of the head and the feet while Sir Clement examined everything — the ground, the leaves — and asked questions about what had been found on the bailiff’s person. Ranulf couldn’t neglect to tell him about the knife, although he would have liked to. He had hoped the coroner would think the bailiff had simply fallen, but with a knife in his hand, things looked much more sinister.
Sir Clement examined the rock lying about two feet from the bailiff’s head. When he turned the rock over, a couple of beetles scurried away from their overturned hiding place.
“Hmm,” he murmured. “Take me to the bailiff.”
“He is still unconscious.”
“I realize that, but I need to … inspect some things.”
“Of course.” Ranulf prayed the bailiff would still be unconscious when they arrived. If the bailiff told the coroner about Annabel and Stephen, it would be impossible to keep Annabel from becoming embroiled in the investigation.
They tramped to the bailiff’s sister’s house and entered the dank-smelling wattle-and-daub structure.
Bailiff Tom looked quite pale. A large bump the size of a goose egg rose at his hairline above his left temple, adorned with a smear of dried blood. But other than that, he looked like he was simply asleep.
Ranulf introduced himself and the coroner to Joan Smith. “Has there been any change?”
“No, my lord. My brother hasn’t made a sound or a movement since the men brought him here the night before last.”
Sir Clement bent over the bailiff. Glancing up, he asked, “Is he wearing the same clothes he was wearing when he was brought in?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Nothing is altered? Everything is exactly the same?”
The woman blushed under her leathery skin. “We did go through his pockets.”
“What was in his pockets?”
“Only a farthing and some twine. But he did have a knife in his hand.”
“This hand?” Clement lifted the bailiff’s right hand.
“Aye, sir.”
“May I see the knife?”
She brought him the knife, and after looking at it, he handed it back. Next Clement examined the bailiff’s feet, asking about his shoes, which were fetched for inspection. After a moment, he went back to examining the bailiff’s upper body, and then examined his head, rolling Tom over. Finally, he had Ranulf and the bailiff’s sister assist him in taking off all Tom’s clothing so he could see if there were any other marks or wounds. After several more minutes of silent examination, the coroner enlisted Joan to help him put the clothes back on the bailiff, and then he dismissed her to tend her garden.
When Joan was gone, the coroner pointed to the bloody spot above the bailiff’s right eye. “The only wound seems to be this. Perhaps he tripped and fell, striking his head on the large stone found near his body.”
“Yes, that seems likely.” Ranulf hoped he didn’t sound too eager.
“But the problem with that theory is that the stone seemed to have been recently displaced. It was damp and dirty on one side, indicating it had lain somewhere for a long time before being moved. Perhaps it was moved and then the bailiff stumbled over it. However,” Clement continued, “if he stumbled over it, he wouldn’t have been likely to strike his head on it, would he? It seems rather more likely that someone hit him with it.”
Ranulf raised his eyebrows in an attempt to look intrigued. “I see.”
“But the most interesting thing is the knife. Why would the man be clutching a knife? As if he were fighting someone off. Or perhaps attacking someone.”
The coroner began searching the bailiff’s clothing for hidden pockets or items that may have been concealed, but he found nothing. Next, he lifted the bailiff’s empty hand, turning it over. He seemed to start and stare harder, bending low over the man’s appendage.
Ranulf kept his eyes fixed on the coroner. “Do you see something?”
“Indeed. There appear to be bite marks here.” Sir Clement pointed at the meaty part of the hand between the thumb and forefinger. “If we find who made these teeth marks, we may just find who wanted the bailiff dead.”
Ranulf’s blood seemed to go cold in his veins.
“You say you are the one who discovered the body?”
“Yes, around vespers Sunday evening.”
“Do you know anyone who hated the bailiff and might want him dead?”
Ranulf shrugged. “I have only been here a few weeks.”
“Did the bailiff have an argument with anyone recently?”
“Not that I know of.”
Sir Clement raised himself to his full height. “It’s impossible to say whether the bailiff will recover. If he does, he may not be able to speak or otherwise be able to function normally again. And due to the suspicious circumstances, I shall have to summon the hundred bailiff — you are familiar with the procedure — so he can gather a jury for an inquest. I appreciate any help you can give, Lord le Wyse.”
“You shall have my full cooperation, Sir Clement.” He bowed respectfully.
“You’re a good man. Now I’ll have that ale you promised.” The coroner smiled, his usual amiability replacing his business face, and they walked together back to the manor house.
He would have to be shrewd indeed to keep anything from Sir Clement.
Chapter
12
After staying hidden in the kitchen all day, Annabel hated the thought of facing everyone in the upper hall for supper. The coroner would be there, and so would Lord le W
yse, whom she hadn’t spoken to since he embraced her and then spoke so rudely to her.
She helped Mistress Eustacia set the table with food and drink. The usual frumenty, bread, and ale had been replaced with roast pheasant, pork, and fruit pudding.
As the workers began filing in for their evening meal, Annabel continued filling the cups with ale. Her glance went to the door repeatedly until she spotted Lord le Wyse, followed closely by a sandy-haired, balding stranger: the coroner, no doubt.
Lord le Wyse seemed to look around the room until his eye met hers. With him staring straight at her, the pitcher of ale slipped out of her hand to the floor. The vessel shattered, scattering shards of pottery in all directions.
How could I be so clumsy? Now the whole room would stare at her. And she had wanted nothing more than to go unnoticed.
She bent, her hands trembling, and started picking up the shards.
Adam came running toward her. “Can I help?”
She took one look at his bare feet and held up her hand. “Adam, stop. You’ll cut your foot.” His father caught him by the arm and pulled the boy back to his place on the bench beside him.
Annabel paid little heed to the sharp edges of the pottery fragments as she raked them up with her palms and placed them into her apron. Maud knelt to help, picking up a larger piece of broken pottery then mopping up the spilled ale with a cloth. Her hands were shaking too, and her face was red and puffy.
Annabel dumped the contents of her apron into a refuse bucket and hurried over to finish cleaning up the rest of the ale. What should she say to Maud? A wave of guilt pressed down on her as though the stone that had hit the bailiff was sitting on her shoulders.
But Maud’s mouth was pinched and set, and she didn’t seem in the mood for talk. She grabbed another pitcher, filled it from the barrel in the corner, and topped off the rest of the mugs.
Annabel wiped her hands on her apron, which was now splattered and dirty. A pricking sensation on her leg, like the poke of a thorn, drew her gaze down.
A triangle of pottery was sticking out of her leg, with a trail of blood oozing into her shoe.
“Annabel.”
Mistress Eustacia waddled toward her, a clean cloth in her hand. “You’re bleeding, lass.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I broke the pitcher—”
“Never you mind. Come and let me wrap it up.”
They moved to the bench that stood against the wall, and Mistress Eustacia carefully pulled the piece of pottery from Annabel’s leg. Getting down on one knee, the older woman wrapped the cloth twice around the leg.
“Oh, pray don’t bother with it, Mistress Eustacia. It’s nothing.” Her vision swam like a fish, and she propped her elbow on her knee and put her head in her hand. This was what she got for not eating anything all day.
Mistress Eustacia patted her shoulder. “You’re tired. Go down to the undercroft and crawl into bed, and I’ll bring you a choice bit of pheasant and some ale, I will.”
She didn’t relish being alone in the dark undercroft, but the thought of escaping from Lord le Wyse’s and the coroner’s presence made the air rush back into her lungs.
“Now, you go and get some rest. I’ll accept no argument, I won’t.”
Her legs a bit wobbly, Annabel headed to the door. Lord le Wyse and the coroner stood directly in her path. She looked down at her dirty apron and prayed, Let neither of them take notice of me. She told herself to breathe as she walked past the men and soon was almost to the door.
“Annabel.”
She turned quickly then had to blink the black spots away. “Yes, my lord?”
“I would like you to read to us tonight.”
“Yes, my lord.” She felt her heart lift, and her joy caused the words to come out in a whisper. It was a great relief knowing that he still wanted her to read to him.
She didn’t intend to look at him, but she couldn’t stop herself from glancing up into his face. He actually had a pleasant face when he wasn’t angry, and his features were evenly proportioned, almost regal. His dark hair suited his skin color perfectly. He was quite a contrast to the balding, slightly paunchy coroner.
As she left the room and started down the steps, she had to grip the railing to keep her balance. But her mind was even more unbalanced, or else she wouldn’t have been lingering on her lord’s features. She was becoming completely daft, with all the horrors that had happened of late.
Following supper, Sir Clement stretched his legs as he sat in the upper hall of the manor house, sipping his ale while he talked with Ranulf.
Ranulf nodded, his mind wandering away from the fire investigation.
He had probably made a mistake by requesting that Annabel read to them, but his intention was to behave as usual. Or, at least that was one intention. He also wanted to keep her as near to him as he could. He could see she was rattled, even more than he expected, and he hoped to be a calming influence on her.
Truthfully, he simply wanted to be near her.
It was useless to deny it. After his wife’s betrayal and death, after being assured that no beautiful woman could love anyone as disfigured as he was, he’d determined to go through life alone, childless, without the heartache of rejection. No woman would touch his heart again. No amorous feelings would complicate his thoughts.
Now he was willing to deceive the king’s coroner to protect a beautiful girl.
If he hadn’t forced her into the position as a lowly servant, she wouldn’t have been so vulnerable to the bailiff’s lecherous attentions. She would have been safe at home. Now, she was tormented with fear and guilt and worry, wondering if the bailiff would die, compelled to protect the person who had protected her.
It was his duty to look out for Annabel’s safety and wellbeing, as he would for any servant. His emotions, frustrating as they were, would not and should not be a factor.
He realized he had not been listening to Sir Clement. He blinked at the coroner, who sat staring at him, his tankard of ale halfway to his lips.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“So I see. Your mind is on something — or someone — else.” He grinned and took a large swill from his tankard. “Who is she? The beautiful daughter of a knight? A lady in His Majesty’s court? Or a comely lass from the village?”
Ranulf grunted and tried to keep the gruffness out of his voice. “You know that I of all people have no such pleasant thoughts.”
Sir Clement raised his eyebrows then frowned. “Nonsense. You’re a man of flesh and blood, aren’t you?”
“Am I?”
Mistress Eustacia brought a trencher with a large piece of pheasant, as she had promised.
Annabel sat on the edge of her bed and ate, forcing the small bites down her tight throat, while her mistress revived the dying fire in the fireplace at the back wall.
“The coroner is Sir Clement. He seems a kind sort, he does. Knew Lord Ranulf since they were lads together. I’d say we couldn’t ask for a better man for the job. He’ll soon find out what happened to Bailiff Tom, and then this whole nasty business will be over and done, more’s the better.”
“Do people think it wasn’t an accident, then? That someone was trying to hurt the bailiff?” She glanced up to see Mistress Eustacia’s expression.
“Aye, they do — that is, Maud thinks so. She was quite distraught, poor girl.” Mistress Eustacia shook her head, her hands on her plump hips.
“Perhaps it was only an accident.” Annabel stared down at the piece of pheasant. The last bite seemed to be stuck in her throat.
“’Twill be up to Sir Clement to decide. Come now, finish your morsel of supper and go tend to Lord Ranulf’s bandage. He should be nearly finished and waiting for you.”
She had forgotten about his bandage. She changed it every night. Why should tonight be any different? She must behave as though everything was normal.
But everything wasn’t normal. Besides the fact that Lord le Wyse was behaving strangely, how could she bear the pre
sence of the coroner when the very thought of him made her hands tremble?
She couldn’t eat another bite. “Let me go to the well. I must wash my hands and get a drink.”
“Of course, child.”
As Annabel washed, she took several deep breaths and said a prayer. She tried to think of more words, but all her muddled brain could think to say was “God, help me. Help me.”
She willed one foot in front of the other all the way back to the upper hall, then opened the door and stepped inside. Most of the people were beginning to depart, the mood much more quiet and somber than usual. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lord le Wyse’s gaze lock onto her.
I forgot to get clean bandages and honey from the kitchen storeroom. She clenched her teeth to keep from groaning. As she turned to go back out, Mistress Eustacia halted her.
“Where are you going? Lord le Wyse is waiting for you. I have the clean water ready.”
“I forgot the bandages and honey.”
“Oh, I have those all ready for you. Come.”
Annabel obeyed and followed. Her heart seemed to weigh as much as a horse and to take up almost as much room in her chest, forcing her to breathe harder with less intake of air. Please let me not get dizzy again. With God’s favor, perhaps Lord le Wyse and the coroner would ignore her, as they would a candle or a table or a stick of firewood, and let her work on the burns without engaging her in their conversation. Any other lord would treat her that way all the time. But Lord le Wyse wasn’t any other lord. Usually he was kind to her and treated her as if she had intelligence, as if she was more than just a servant.
She had to bring her thoughts back to the here and now, to think only about getting through the next hour, the next minute.
Lord le Wyse and Sir Clement were engaged in conversation alone at the table.
“Anyone could have set the fire, but the evidence appears to have been burned up and destroyed.” The coroner rubbed his jaw then took another drink of ale, setting his tankard down with a thud. “I can question the men who were asleep in the barn if you want, but unless someone comes forward saying they saw something, you’ll probably never know what happened.”
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