Amelyn shook her head. "She was a good woman, Martha. Too good for this hateful place, I say. Look how she welcomed our Lord's gift of a child, one who came long after she thought her womb capable of harboring life. Despite that her son was damaged by coming too early, Martha cherished him so dearly that she turned her back on our custom of leaving infants like Johnnie to die in some distant glade. Indeed, she stood fast, even when all of Wike demanded that she be shed of him.
Amelyn sighed at that. "Much to my shame, I added my voice to theirs. I warned her that keeping such a babe might lead to more sorrow than joy for both of them. Would that I hadn't been right," she added at a whisper before continuing. "Instead, Martha told us all that the Lord had given her Johnnie and she would raise him, vowing to do so at no cost to any of us."
Arms crossed, Faucon nodded to show he understood. Many a crippled or halfwit babe ended their short lives in some far-flung or hidden place, especially in communities as small as this one. Trapped in inherited bondage to this place, even the able-bodied among these villeins barely survived each year with lives and limbs intact. They could ill afford to carry the burden of an unproductive mouth. Not that it was much different in wealthier places. Even the grandest of God's holy houses were conservative about how many useless mouths they sheltered.
"It's one thing to promise that her child will cost them nothing, but another to manage it," Faucon said as Edmund made his way around the well to stand beside him. "I'm surprised more wasn't done to thwart her. What of your father? Did he have no influence over her? What did he think of bearing the cost of a damaged babe?"
"My sire died before his son was born," she told Faucon, "and Johnnie was his only surviving male heir. Because of that, no one could gainsay Martha. At least, not so early in Johnnie's life, in case we were wrong about him," she added. "But Martha kept her word. She sold every bit of my father's chattel to keep her precious son fed. When there was nothing more to sell, it fell to me to see to our daily meals.
"If only I hadn't become like this," Amelyn touched her hood to indicate her illness. "I know in my heart that Martha died of hunger, because she gave her beloved son the food from her own mouth.
"As for Johnnie, when Martha passed last year, dealing with him was no longer as simple as taking him into some far-flung thicket and leaving him to die. Not that Meg, who is his only kin, didn't strive mightily to refuse to care for him. But to their credit, no one here allowed her that. Instead, they forced him into that kitchen of hers." The leper pointed to the shed that was Meg's domain within the demesne, then offered a harsh laugh.
"Poor Meg," she said, her voice holding no pity at all for the lady's arrogant servant. "How she must hate having to be charitable for once in her sorry life. Although it pains me to admit it, the folk in Wike were as right to force Johnnie on Meg as they were wrong when they pressed Jessimond into yon kitchen after I was banished."
That made Faucon frown. "Idiot or not, Johnnie is your daughter's uncle. If your stepmother was yet alive when you left this place, why was your daughter given to Meg rather than being left with her own blood kin?" That was especially so when it seemed that all here knew Meg had a harsh hand while, if Amelyn's tale was true, Johnnie's mother had been a kinder soul.
"Johnnie is no idiot," Amelyn protested. "Aye, he's dumb, but he hears and understands, and he can do many tasks. Can't you, sweetling?" She patted the youth's sleeve as she spoke. "You like sweeping the floor and tending the fire. You can even chop wood."
The child-man smiled, this time nodding his answer, proving that he did indeed comprehend the spoken word, at least those spoken by his sister. After giving her half-brother another pat, Amelyn glanced up at Faucon. Beneath the concealment of her hood, she offered him a brief bend of her lips and a quiet laugh.
"Not that Meg would ever admit Johnnie is capable of anything. If she did, she'd lose her excuse to complain ceaselessly about him and the burden his existence is to her," she said.
"So much is obvious." Faucon grinned in return, liking the leper despite her contagion, when he had no right to form such opinions. His only duty was to determine if his monarch could wring any value from her daughter's death.
"As to why my Jes was forced onto Meg," Amelyn started, then paused to give a sharp shake of her head. "It's not Johnnie who deserves to be named dimwit in Wike. Putting Jessimond into Meg's custody was a futile attempt by the others to stop her thievery. I don't know how anyone thought a child in that kitchen would prevent Meg from doing as she always has, especially not when the lass they chose to use was as gentle as my Jes."
"What does Meg steal?" he asked, wondering what could be taken from those who had so little.
"In Wike we pay our lady for the privilege," Amelyn gave the word harsh emphasis, "of using her oven to bake our bread and Meg is our bakestress. She rules that oven the way our king rules his realm. We give her our dough and she returns the loaves to us once they're baked. Every loaf comes back lighter than it left us, every time. She steals a goodly pinch or two from each one before she bakes them, then uses these stolen bits to make her own loaves. These she sells in Alcester, filling her purse at the expense of our hungry children. And her with no family of her own to feed! At least, not until she was forced to support both Jes and Johnnie."
That sent Faucon's gaze to the beehive-shaped oven that stood near the kitchen. It was cold at the moment, no smoke issuing from its top opening. A theft such as Meg's wasn't uncommon among bakers, whether they lived within town walls or in a wee place like this.
His attention shifted to the spacious kitchen shed that was Meg's domain. The sow and her grunting brood were sauntering past it, no doubt on their way back to their sty for the night. Although the door remained open, there was no sign of the old woman. That Meg had such freedom was strange indeed, particularly when Wike was ruled by one with a hard and grasping hand. Odger hardly seemed the sort to tolerate such behavior—that was, unless he profited from it somehow.
That sent Faucon's gaze to the pale and the woods beyond the fence. Just then, a flock of birds rose from the balding treetops into a sky glowing with the faintest hint of rose. The birds began to swarm as they were wont to do prior to taking their nightly rest, their dance a writhing cloud that moved with astonishing precision.
It was time to be leaving for Alcester. But if they went now, Faucon was absolutely certain he wouldn't find Amelyn here upon the morrow. Once Odger returned, the bailiff would find a way to drive the leper from his vale despite his Crowner's command.
"Your bailiff doesn't do anything to stop Meg from her theft?" he asked the leper.
Amelyn shrugged. "Odger has no choice in the matter. Meg would rule our oven even if he could prove her theft to our lady. Our old master, God rest him," she added, the shift of her head saying she glanced at the monk, "made Meg bakestress before she was twice Jessimond's age. When Wike became part of our lady's dower upon her marriage, it passed to her with the stipulation that Meg remain keeper of the oven until her death. I doubt even our lady could wrench the right to bake our bread from Meg."
"That explains much," Faucon murmured to himself.
"Idiots!" Amelyn charged again, her harsh word drowning out his muttered comment as she aimed her cloaked gaze at the kitchen once again. "I warned them, every one, on the day they sent me away from this place. I told them that forcing Jessimond into that kitchen would do nothing save expose my precious child to Meg's always angry hand. And I was right. Odger proved that when he later pressed Johnnie onto Meg after Martha died. This he did not in an attempt to control Meg, but to force her to open that weighty purse of hers." She glanced in the direction of the well and the rustic as she continued. The old man was again on his feet and now half-leaned, half-sat against the well's surround. His worn face was once more alive with that perverse amusement as he listened closely to the dead girl's mother.
"I'm guessing that's what he proposed to the others when they all met to discuss Johnnie's future. This, when
I'm certain everyone else had decided that my half-brother should be taken to the abbey in Alcester where the monks could turn him into a beggar, to collect coins on their behalf."
She brought her attention back to her crippled kinsman. "That the folk here might shift furrows so abruptly surprised me to my bones. I never expected they would accept such a proposal, not when doing so meant they agreed by default that Wike would continue to support Johnnie after Meg follows her sister into the grave."
Again, she looked at the oldster. This time, her gaze remained fixed on the old man as she aimed her words at him. "Perhaps it's because you all believe Meg will give Johnnie that purse of hers upon her deathbed, Johnnie being her only kin," she offered snidely, then gave another harsh laugh. "If so, you're mistaken to a one. I say it's more likely that Meg will bury her coins rather than allow another soul to enjoy what she stole. Especially Johnnie."
Shaking her head at her own rough jest, she brought her gaze back to Faucon. "Whatever the intent or hope of my former neighbors in moving Johnnie, they achieved their aim. With everyone watching her, Meg has had to spend her ill-gotten gains to feed and clothe her nephew and my daughter. And, as angry as I am at them for forcing Jessimond into Meg's custody, I'm grateful that they now watch to see that Johnnie is cared for," she said quietly. "If they did not, I know in my heart Meg would take him to some distant place and kill him, just as she promised a few moments ago."
The leper brushed a gloved hand against the nest of her half-brother's knotted hair, then ran her fingers over his cheek at the top of his untrimmed beard. "She may feed and clothe you, but she doesn't tend you at all, does she?" she murmured.
Johnnie swabbed his nose upon his sleeve before again grinning at his kinswoman. Amelyn returned his smile with her own. It was a sweet spread of her lips and revealed a full and even row of teeth. That was unusual for one raised in the poverty of a place such as Wike.
"What will happen now?" Faucon wanted to know, his gaze still fixed on what he could see of the leper's face. "Will Meg do as she threatened and rid herself of your brother by declaring that he touched you?"
Her smile yet lingering on her lips, Amelyn looked up at her Crowner before answering him. When she realized how closely he watched her, her mouth straightened and she bowed her head as if she were a modest woman when, as a former whore, that wasn't a title she could claim.
"I think not. Now that Jessimond is—" her voice caught and she paused to clear her throat. "Now that Jes is gone, Odger won't want to give up his only control over Meg. I say he'll force her to keep Johnnie until he sees signs that my brother has contracted my disease, which he won't," she assured Faucon.
Then she reached out and patted the youth's knee. "A pity that is, despite the tragedy of this ailment. Although I pray you aren't affected, sweetling, if you did grow ill, I would claim you as my own and bring you to live with me."
With her comment Faucon released any remaining concern that Amelyn might force her touch on him, seeking to infect him with her disease for spite's sake as it was said some lepers would do. The linked metal rings of his armor rattling quietly, he lowered to one knee in front of her. Just as he anticipated, the leper shifted back to prevent any accidental contact.
"What are you doing?!" Edmund's shocked whisper came from behind him.
"What my duty requires," Faucon replied to his clerk without looking at the monk.
To Jessimond's mother, he said, "I am Sir Faucon de Ramis. As you heard me say to your bailiff, I have questions for you. You've also heard me state that I speak with the king's authority in this shire. If you don't yet know, our sheriff no longer examines the bodies of the murdered or those who have died under questionable circumstances. Instead, as this shire's Coronarius and Keeper of the Pleas, and as ordered by the royal court, it's now mine to both determine if your daughter's death was murder and to discover the one who killed her."
That last bit was his personal interpretation of his new position and its duties. To his way of thinking, if he was to assess the wrongdoer's estate, then he needed to prove to himself who it was that had done the wrong.
His words set Amelyn's chin to quivering anew. She once more stroked her daughter's cheek. "I hold her in my arms and feel that she is gone, but my heart will not accept it. I should have fled with her when I knew I was ill," she cried softly, her words springing from her broken heart.
"Of course you couldn't have taken her with you," Edmund retorted. "If you'd done so, you would have intentionally shared your disease with her, dooming her to a terrible death. That would have been a mortal sin. Who would trade the promise of eternal happiness for an equal term of pain for such a selfish reason?"
His interruption earned him a chiding look from his Crowner. Edmund blinked and frowned. Faucon gave a single negative shake of his head, the tiny movement reminding his clerk that he wasn't to intrude or interrupt unless signaled to do so. This, Edmund understood. He took a backward step as if that could retract his interjection.
"But that's not why I couldn't take her with me when I left," Amelyn spewed in bitter response. "Odger's revenge on me included wrenching my little love from my arms and putting her into Meg's kitchen, just because he knew how much I prized her!"
"Revenge for what?" Faucon wanted to know.
She bowed her head. Her shoulders began to shake as she cried in silence. Johnnie made a pained sound. Easing around to sit beside his half-sister, he leaned his head against her cloaked shoulder. Then he caught her nearest hand and drew it to his chest, pressing it to his heart. Rather than push him away, Amelyn curled her fingers around his, holding his hand tightly as if the youth were the rope supporting her in her personal well of sorrow.
When Amelyn at last raised her head, glistening tears trembled on the line of her jaw. She again turned her gaze toward the old man at the well. Faucon followed her look. Although the ancient stood still as a statue, the amusement had left his expression. There was no mistaking his intense interest in what went forward at his community's well.
"I suppose if I don't tell you all of it, there will be others here quick to spill what they know, when they only speculate," Amelyn sighed. "No one but Martha ever knew all. Odger sought revenge because I refused his unwanted advances before a witness."
Here, her voice broke. She fell silent, her mouth yet open as if there were words yet trapped in her throat that she couldn't bring onto her tongue. After a moment she cleared them loose and threw herself into her tale.
"It was before Jessimond's coming, two days after my husband was buried," she began, her voice muted. "Odger came to me as I was collecting my belongings, preparing to return to my father's home, the one that Martha had by then claimed, what with Johnnie my father's only heir. My brother-by-marriage needed my cottage for his own son, which was his right," she added in explanation.
"So you had no heir by your husband?" Faucon interrupted. The lack of a male child was the most common reason for a widow to leave the house she'd shared with her husband but not the only one.
"Nay, no lad. The only child I gave Tom was the little lass I bore before we traded vows." She sighed, the sound holding an older and more tolerable grief. "Sweet Tilly. She died a year after we were wed. After that, there was nary a stirring in my womb."
That startled Faucon. He glanced at Jessimond, then remembered that Meg had named the girl a bastard. "Then Jessimond wasn't your husband's child?" he prodded.
But Amelyn didn't answer his question or follow his suggestion that she tell her daughter's tale. Instead, she continued with her own. Content to let her speak as she would for a moment or two, Faucon shifted into an easier position as he listened.
"The harvesting had just begun and every soul save me was out reaping. I had petitioned Odger to stay behind so I might have time to collect my belongings. He agreed. I thought he was being kind. I was wrong."
When she lifted her head, her tears had dried and the line of her jaw was hard. "There I was, grieving for my husband
and alone in the home that had once been mine. When Odger tapped at the door, I assumed he'd come to reclaim those tools that belonged to the lady, the ones Tom had used while he lived. Instead, when I let our bailiff inside, he drove me back against a wall, seeking to lift my skirts. As he did so, he warned me not to scream.
"But I couldn't help myself," she said, her voice ragged. "I screamed and told him nay as I fought him with all my might. I did so even though I had no hope that anyone might hear me. How could they when he'd made certain they were far from me, beyond offering any aid?
"Then, like a miracle, Martha was in the house with me, adding her screams to mine. When Odger realized he wasn't going to have his way with me unless he took me in front of Martha, making her a witness to his rape, he retreated. He said nothing as he departed, but I knew—we both knew—he would never forgive either of us for how we'd stymied him.
"We were right. Even though neither Martha nor I ever told another soul what he'd done, when the chance came to destroy me a year after Jessimond's birth, Odger did so joyfully."
"Jessimond was a bastard, then?" Faucon asked more directly this time as he sought to steer her in the direction he wanted her to go.
"She is. Was," Amelyn corrected herself sadly. "Nor was she my child by choice."
After she said that, she gave a quiet cry and covered her face with her free hand as if trying to hide from what she'd just revealed. Her distress stirred a worried sound from Johnnie. As the youth patted his half-sister's arm, seeking to comfort, Edmund shifted nervously behind Faucon, his movement so sharp that his habit rustled. Faucon tensed, ready to chide should his clerk again seek to offer commentary, but the monk said nothing.
Drawing a bracing breath, Amelyn continued. "A dozen years and more have passed since the night of Jessimond's conception and I've only told the whole tale once, the day Martha recognized I was with child. She deserved to know, for I was living in her house, dependent on her charity for a place to lay my head at night. But just now the words fight me, as if they don't wish to be spoken," she offered in soft explanation, her voice barely audible.
Lost Innocents (A Servant of the Crown Mystery Book 3) Page 5