by J G Lewis
“Exactly. I am thirty-nine years of age, with all the life experience that age implies. My husband entrusted me with his thoughts and invited me into confidences about the cases he has dealt with as sheriff. I am more thoroughly prepared to assume the role than anyone else in Salisbury.”
Bishop Poore sipped his wine, regarding her over the gilded rim of his cup. “You will find enemies, even among your friends.”
“I was not raised to lie in a feather bed and congratulate myself for it.”
He laughed. “You are a credit to your parents, and your husband.”
And you hate me for it. She realized that her visit here had as much, or more, to do with convincing Poore of her fitness for the role of sheriff as it did with securing a final home for the dead girl’s body. He’d already proven the extent of his power and influence in spiriting their cathedral away—with the king’s and the pope’s permissions—and his opposition to her new role would undermine her authority in ways she couldn’t afford.
“Can I count on your support as I seek peace and justice among the citizens of Salisbury?”
“Of course, my lady.” His tiny smile suggested that he even found pleasure in the idea. She decided not to ponder the reasons for his enjoyment.
“Seven pounds is a high price to pay, but if it will secure this unfortunate woman a peaceful repose, it shall be paid.”
“Wonderful.” His smile broadened. “And in more good news, Hubert De Burgh has promised us a fine illustrated prayer book in your husband’s memory.”
“What?” The news shocked and chilled her.
“A most welcome gift for our new cathedral. And he’s made a generous donation toward the almshouses I hope to build for the poorest among us.”
Ela struggled to keep her composure. “How magnanimous of him. Perhaps you can find a place for the poor dead girl’s elderly father in these almshouses.”
“Indeed! He’s just the type of person we’d like to provide for.”
“I’ll arrange for the seven pounds to be delivered forthwith.” She wished she could truly speak her mind, but she’d been raised from birth to consider her words and their impact carefully, and she’d never needed that skill more than now.
She rose, desperate to get outside. Not that she could scream to the four winds like she craved, but at least she could contemplate the possibility in peace.
The dead woman’s body couldn’t be buried without her husband’s consent. He might even have plans of his own for her burial, though those could be in jeopardy if he were to be taken into custody. But at least now they could send the body to the cathedral and the poor girl wouldn’t lie decomposing in her mortuary or at risk of being buried outside the walls like refuse.
She took leave of the bishop and exited his grand new palace into a light drizzle. The soldiers hushed their chatter as she emerged, and one helped her back onto Freya.
The days were still short and she’d have to trot the whole way to be home before dark. She didn’t want her children to worry. She was all too familiar with that sense of insecurity that followed the death of one parent.
She led the way onto the road back to the castle with her guards in tow. The grand old oaks loomed against the iron-gray sky. Some of them were likely older than the castle. Maybe some of these venerable trees even remembered the men who’d led rituals at the nearby stone henge that dominated the landscape. She was just one more in a procession of frail humans to ride under their spreading branches.
They passed a number of people on the road, mostly laborers, masons and carpenters returning home on foot from their work on the new cathedral. Most people in the area still lived in the town within the castle’s ancient walls, but household by household they were moving down the track to the new town growing around the cathedral.
New Salisbury’s straight streets lacked the organic coziness of the old village lanes that meandered around the castle, where the houses sometimes looked as if they’d sprung out of the damp earth like so many thatch-roofed mushrooms. But what the new town lacked in quaintness it made up for in space, tidiness and—the bishop was sadly right—a more reliable and palatable water supply.
Approaching the grand walls of the castle across the open fields, she could almost imagine the day when all the ordinary tradesmen and housewives and villagers would be gone, and there’d be no one left inside the outer walls except the family, servants and the garrison soldiers.
She trotted across the bridge and in through the arched entrance, glad to see the welcoming lights of the torches and the bustle of soldiers preparing for a change of guard before the evening meal. At least for now the castle and its surrounds still teemed with life. One day she really would leave it for the sanctuary of a religious house, but she intended to hand the castle and its inhabitants down to Will in a condition as close as possible to that in which her husband had left it.
Ela dismounted and patted Freya before handing her to the ostler to go enjoy her evening oats. She ordered the removal of the dead girl’s body into the bishop’s care, and no one dared to suggest that the journey could wait until morning. They could all smell the urgency of the errand. Ela headed into the hall and Sibel’s kind ministrations with relief. She looked forward to stretching out before the fire for an hour or so with her children before vespers and her meeting with the assembled jurors.
Chapter 4
The jurors and Giles Haughton all arrived promptly before Vespers. She greeted them and ushered them into the chapel that did service for the residents of the castle in the absence of their once-loved cathedral. She was glad they’d all arrived early enough to spend some time contemplating their duties in the presence of the Lord.
And their attendance here was a sign of respect to her. Or at least she decided to take it that way. If it was a sign of respect for her late husband that was just as good.
She led the way into the great hall, always a rather bustling environment and no less so now. The servants had laid out a supper of roasted salmon with parsnips and carrots, and they filled a cup for each man as he took a seat at the long table. Ela sat at the head.
“I think I can smell our urgent matter,” said Peter Howard, the baker who’d found the body. His apologetic tone contrasted with the sparkle in his eyes.
“Indeed. I have made arrangements for her to be buried in the new churchyard now that she’s been identified. She’s been removed to the cathedral close already, but her scent lingers.”
“You know who she is?” Howard looked surprised.
“Her father visited me today. His name is Robert Harwich, and he’s a blacksmith who lives in the new town. He’s blind but he identified her body by touch. Her name is Katherine Morse and her husband is Alan Morse, who farms cattle.”
It was the jurors’ duty, as respected members of the community, to learn the facts of the case and verify them so they could serve usefully during the trial.
“Her father cast much suspicion on her husband. He said Alan Morse was a violent man who treated her poorly. Our first course of action should be to interview Morse and likely take him into custody. Does anyone know where Alan Morse lives?”
“Aye.” She recognized Thomas Pryce, a fortyish man of neat appearance, and racked her mind to remember exactly what he did for a living. “I know where he lives. I replaced the roof on his barn two years ago.” Thatcher. “He has a small, mean house out near the bottom fields but a good spacious barn where he houses his cattle in the winter when the river rises and makes the land too wet to use.”
“Excellent. You can lead us there tomorrow. Have you been able to form an opinion of his character.”
Pryce shrugged. “He paid me on time. Can’t say he was friendly. Seemed prosperous enough, at least judging from the condition of his cattle.”
Ela nodded. “Anyone else know him?”
No one did. Which was strange when you thought about it, since he lived only a few miles from the castle. He must be a man who kept to himself. Farmers were
rather like nuns and monks, in her experience, and liked to spend their days quietly worshiping in cathedrals framed by oak branches and staffed with quiet cattle. Farmers in town for market day often looked a bit lost and out of place like they’d just arrived from an earlier time, when things were quieter and simpler.
“Did any of you know Katherine Morse? Or Katherine Harwich as she used to be called?”
Again, silence. But beneath their quiet she could feel the pressure of questions building inside them. No doubt they wondered why she was leading this investigation and not her husband’s deputy, Gerald Deschamps, who sat quietly, not eating or drinking, at the far end of the table.
“Master Pryce, did you see Mistress Morse when you were thatching the barn?”
“No, my lady. Never saw no one. Just Morse himself and the cows.”
Almost like she’s invisible. And it was a shame because it would be reassuring to get a firmer identification of the dead girl before they buried her.
“She was pregnant.” Ela looked from one to the next. “And although she and her husband had been married for several years, they had no children.”
“How far along?” asked Deschamps abruptly.
All the men turned to look at him as if he’d cast a spell on them.
“At least six months, I’d say, based on my experience.” Only some of the men turned back to her. The others remained fixed on Deschamps as if relieved he’d finally taken over.
She couldn’t allow that to happen.“Tomorrow morning we must question her husband.”
“We’ll know where to find him if he has dairy cows to be milked,” chimed in Stephen Hale, the cordwainer who made shoes for her household. “He’ll either be milking them himself at home or he’ll be at the dairy down the road from his farm.”
“I know where that is, too. I repaired the roof of their barn three years ago,” chimed in Pryce.
“Good,” said Ela. “And we can wait until the cows are milked before accosting him. If he’s arrested his cows can be driven to the castle for safekeeping and milking, since it doesn’t sound like there will be anyone left to look after them.”
“Good thinking,” said Paul Dunstan, a miller.
“Thank you, Master Dunstan.” She kept her tone cool as she didn’t want to encourage the men to patronize her. “Since none of you know the people in question, any further discussion would likely be idle speculation at this point. So I’ll adjourn our meeting until we’ve interviewed Master Morse tomorrow.”
“We could save the trouble of riding out there and have the soldiers bring him to the castle,” said Deschamps.
“The coroner and I prefer to ride there ourselves with a retinue. We wish to see the place where he lived with his wife and watch his reaction when he learns of our purpose. Do we have two volunteers from the jury?”
The men froze. No doubt they all had business obligations and weren’t anxious to venture out into the countryside on what might prove to be a dangerous encounter with a killer.
“You can count on me, my lady,” said Peter Howard. “I’ll be done with my baking by dawn.”
“Me too,” chimed in Hugh Clifford, a comely young man who’d recently become a partner in his father’s trade as a wine seller.
“If you need more, I—” The thatcher and two or three of the others now stirred.
“Two will be quite adequate to provide witness. And I’ll bring soldiers, who can take him into custody. I thank you all for coming out after dark on a cold night. Please take the time to enjoy your supper.”
They all murmured how it was no trouble, etc. This was largely true since as far as she knew they all still lived inside the outer walls and had only the briefest walk back to their houses. That was part of the reason they’d been chosen as jurors in the first place. In future, it might make sense to select at least some men from the widely dispersed population, including the new town and some of the nearby villages.
She left them to eat and talk among themselves, though a couple—one of them Haughton—did leave immediately, no doubt hurrying home to dinner with their wives and families. She didn’t leave the hall as she had no desire to give them an opportunity to discuss her apparently audacious desire to become sheriff among themselves. She took up her seat on the wood platform from where she could listen without seeming to eavesdrop, while sipping the cup of wine that Sibel brought her and attending to her children.
Ela was used to living her life in public, surrounded by an audience of soldiers and local squires and visitors and servants. She rarely even felt a burning need for solitude. Sometimes it tired her to be the object of prying eyes—especially in a time of worry or grief—but mostly she bore it as her duty.
“Mama, cook says that one of the guests brought a gift of spices,” said Nicholas, his bright eyes sparkling. “And that we can have spice cakes tomorrow.”
“A kind gift though plain fare is preferable during Lent, my love.” She’d have to speak to the cook. The celebrations over her husband’s return and now the funeral festivities had enriched their meals far past the requirements of piety. She didn’t want her children getting spoiled. “Easter isn’t far off and soon we’ll celebrate the rebirth of our Lord with all the rich food he graces us with.”
Speaking of being graced with riches, gifts were piled in one of the storerooms off the hall. Many of William’s friends and comrades had brought tributes to lay at his tomb. She’d have to write them all thank you letters, a prospect which made her heart sink.
On the other hand, the correspondence might be a good way to quietly announce her new role in Salisbury. “Sibel, can you arrange for St. Germain, the silversmith, to visit me tomorrow afternoon? I’d like to have a new seal designed.”
She tousled Nicholas’s hair as he sat leaning against her chair, playing with his whippet. He looked up at her with his curious, long-lashed eyes. “What will happen to Papa’s seal?” He frowned. “Since he can’t use it anymore.”
A wave of sadness swept over her. His clothes still filled the chest in their chamber, and Sibel had not dared to suggest removing them. “We’ll keep it to remember him by. We must cherish our memories and honor them.”
Her son’s lip quivered and he bravely bit it to stillness. She knew that deep sense of loss too well and still missed her own father in a secret part of her heart, though she could no longer recall the details of his face.
It was hard to believe that such a vital man as her husband had been cut down in his prime. She could have borne it more bravely if he’d died on the battlefield. He’d been alive and here, warm in her arms, after all the months of gossip and rumor that he was dead in France.
Then he’d been snatched from her so fast. Before she’d even had a chance to become pregnant again. One last child might have consoled her. Even her baby was now a young man learning his letters and chasing hounds for sport.
Then again, it was better that she didn’t have a babe in arms. It would give the men an excuse to say that she was preoccupied and couldn’t lead the forces of justice in Salisbury.
She looked across the hall to where the jurors were eating and talking. No raucous laughter or drunken hilarity, just a group of mostly middle-aged men who probably wished they were home in their beds. Did they care about justice?
A door to the hall flung open, admitting a gust of wind that caused every candle in the room to gutter. Albert the porter hurried in. “My lady, wonderful news.” His flushed face and startled eyes rather belied his words. “Your mother, Mistress Alianore, and her entourage are riding in through the arch.”
“What?” Ela stared. Her mother had sent word that she was too ill to attend the funeral. Why would she suddenly arrive in the night without a word of warning?
“Sibel, please speak to the cook about food for the party.” She flew to her feet and commanded for two more trestle tables, recently set aside after the funeral, to be erected and set with plates, goblets and good wine.
“Grandma Allie!” exclaim
ed Nicholas with a grin. “I wonder if she’ll bring her poodles.”
“Of course she will, darling. Can you imagine grandma without her poodles?”
“Nope.” He grinned. He picked up his little whippet. “I hope Pharoah won’t chase them too much.”
“You must make sure he doesn’t.” Goodness she was tired. It had been a long and taxing day and now, most likely, she’d have to stay up late into the night and use Matins as her excuse to retire. She wanted to run to her solar to splash her face with water and put on a fresh veil, but from the sounds of it they were about to come bursting through the door so she decided she’d better not.
Her mother entered amid a gaggle of servants and poodles, her dark red velvet cloak sweeping out around her.
“Mama!” Ela hurried forward and hugged her mother, whose expensive scent did battle with the aroma of horses and the fatigue of travel.
“Darling, I’m so sorry we missed the funeral and all the festivities. I was tied to my bed racked with fever all last week. Today was the first day I felt strong enough to travel.”
“You shouldn’t be riding across the countryside in the dead of night.”
“The roads were deep and slippery so we couldn’t go as fast as we planned.” Her husband, Jean, entered behind her. A tall man and handsome—he was her mother’s fourth husband and twenty years her junior—he came and kissed Ela on both cheeks. “We’re devastated by your loss. William was a great man whose memory will live on among us.”
“I know.” It was a sudden relief to be surrounded by family. People who were older than her and had borne their own burdens. Her mother had buried three husbands before Jean.
“We were so shocked to hear of his passing. Was it the coughing fever?” Her mother handed her wet cloak to a servant.
“It wasn’t like any fever we’ve seen.” Ela hadn’t shared her suspicion that he was poisoned and certainly couldn’t now, in the crowded hall. “He was raving and sweating and then he lost consciousness completely.” There was no need to mention the relentless vomiting and bloody emissions from his bowels.