by Ann Swinfen
‘Come away in, Sir Henry,’ Susanna said, standing on the threshold. ‘Will you take supper with us? ’Tis but simple fare.’
‘I should be glad to, mistress. Glad to be away from that house, with everyone within staring suspicious at everyone else.’ He beamed at her and kissed her cheek, as an old friend to the family. ‘Ah, Nicholas, many’s the time I’ve discussed a pint of ale in this kitchen with your father. Mistress Bridget! Have you been set to work by these young folk? For shame! Nay, do not get up.’
He pressed my mother back in her chair with a gentle hand on her shoulder, and kissed her too.
Once we were seated with cups of ale to wet our dry throats, while the meal was readied, I said, ‘Was it just Lady Edith and the lawyer who were so strong against Alan Wodville? Or did others in the manor party support them?’
‘That sly fellow Dunstable did so. Not as loud as Lady Edith, but as strong for hanging the huntsman. The others? Many, I think, wished they were safe back in London and could shake our Oxfordshire dust from their garments. They wanted no part of it, one way or another. But there were others eager to blame young Wodville. For ye see, do ye not, if the blame falls on him, everyone else is innocent as pure spring water. So it is to the advantage of everyone else who rode to the chase yesterday if someone can be named as scapegoat, whether he be guilty or not.’
‘Hence their haste,’ Jordain said shrewdly. ‘For if the blame can be laid on Alan, and he is dealt with swiftly and ruthlessly, no one need go looking for any other to blame.’
‘Yet we are certain,’ I said, ‘all of us here, that Alan was never alone, from when he rose before dawn to arrange all for the hunt, until the two carcasses were carted away, long past Mordon’s death, when he made his way home to the village.’
‘I am sure you have the right of it,’ Sir Henry said, and drained his ale. ‘Thank you, lass.’ He smiled at Elga as she refilled his cup. ‘Are you quite recovered?’
He was a blunt man, Sir Henry, and clearly saw no reason to curb his tongue. The maidservant coloured painfully, lowering her eyes, and her hand tightened on the handle of the ale jug, so that the knuckles shone white. She dropped a curtsey and whispered, ‘Aye, I thank you, Sir Henry.’ Then she backed away hastily, probably fearing further questions.
‘He needed a whip taken to him, that fellow Mordon.’ Sir Henry buried his nose in his cup. Half his ale seemed to disappear in one gulp.
‘I wonder how Lady Edith felt about his behaviour,’ Edmond mused.
Susanna set down a wide platter of beef collops in a rich sauce in front of him, next to a stack of pewter plates.
‘His lady cared not a fig for him,’ she said briskly. ‘Anyone could see that. She despised him. She was raised as a gentlewoman, and he was a boor. She had her eye on that young gallant Dunstable, though from what I gathered, hearing the gossip of the London ladies, he has barely a groat to rub against a sixpence, and has been dependent on Mordon for his living these three years past. A fine head of hair, though, and a shapely leg.’
Hilda gaped at her mother, and Edmond snorted into his ale so that it went down the wrong way and Jordain was obliged to thump him on the back until he had recovered enough to serve the collops.
Over a meal, which was excellent, despite Susanna’s self-deprecation, talk turned to other matters, mainly the harvest. Sir Henry was anxious to return to his own manor, for he had intended to ride back there today, had he not been delayed waiting for the coroner.
‘My steward and my reeve are both excellent fellows,’ he said, stretching out his legs after devouring a second helping of rhubarb tart, lavishly swamped with cream, ‘but a man likes to keep an eye on the harvest himself. Like everyone else since the Death, I am short-handed. I am fortunate that I have not the blight of villeins running away, like so many others. I have only lost two, younger sons, who could have taken on a good yardland each, for I have plenty to spare, with so many dead, but they would go off. I’ll not pursue them. An unhappy villein is little use on the manor.’
I knew very well why few of Sir Henry’s villeins had taken to their heels. He was famously – nay, notoriously – soft-hearted toward the villeins on his estate. The two who had gone off to seek their freedom in Burford or some other town might well find life much harder as free men who must find work and food and lodgings for themselves than as villeins under Sir Henry. Still, the thought of shaking off villeinage had tempted many a man away from the land since the Death, and there would be many more hereafter.
‘I have sent word to my son by one of Mordon’s servants,’ Sir Henry said. ‘He has the harvest on his own manor to look to, but he will ride over and cast a glance over mine. No harm in showing my men that I have not forgotten what they should be about.’
Talk only reverted to Mordon as Sir Henry was leaving.
‘I shall see you in church tomorrow,’ he said. ‘And will let you know whether there is any word of finding the coroner. And I will look in on your young huntsman. They have him locked in one of the cellars, but – unfortunately for him – not the one where the barrels of ale and wine are kept. One of the waiting women was concerned enough to see that he had a palliasse and a blanket, and I had a word with the cook myself.’
‘If you have a chance to speak to him,’ I said, ‘be certain to assure him that we all believe that he is the one person who could not have shot Mordon. His friends will stand by him and ensure that the coroner knows this.’
‘I will do so.’
Sir Henry swung himself on to his horse.
‘The problem,’ I said, patting the horse’s neck and looking up at his rider through the summer twilight, ‘is that although we know Alan Wodville could not have killed Mordon, we have no idea who did. So many people disliked – even hated – the man. Many might have wished him dead, but who had the opportunity? No one seems to be trying to discover the truth.’
‘Well, when you can spare a thought from the harvest,’ he said, ‘you may turn your minds to the problem. You know these people better than I. And all your Oxford learning must have taught you to use your brains!’
He was chuckling as he rode away.
‘He means to mock us for our Oxford learning,’ Jordain said, ‘however kindly, but he is right. Surely by reason we may come somewhat closer to the truth.’
Four of us had accompanied Sir Henry to the stable and now walked back together to the house – Edmond, Jordain, Philip, and I. The sky was a translucent blue-black, clear of cloud, the first stars beginning to glint far overhead.
‘It should not be difficult to discover who was always within sight of others for the whole of the time when Mordon went missing,’ Philip said. ‘And who might have gone off on his own.’
Edmond shook his head. ‘I am not so sure. For a time, after we turned aside into the wood, all was confusion. The horsemen were riding hither and thither, trying to find a safe path through the trees. The villagers following the hunt on foot were spread out in all directions, seeking quarry of their own.’
‘And some, at least, found it,’ I said. ‘There was that young stag brought in. I wonder how many were together then.’
‘It is not only a matter of who had the opportunity,’ Jordain said. ‘There is the crucial question: Was it some kind of accident, hastily covered up? Or was it deliberate murder? Planned beforehand? Or an opportunity seized when it offered?’
‘It could hardly have been planned beforehand, could it?’ I said. ‘No one could have foretold that the hunt would split apart like that, because of the dogs finding a second scent. Or that Mordon would hasten off after them, ignoring his huntsman’s instructions.’
‘Very true,’ Jordain said, ‘unless someone knew that he was inclined to such behaviour. He was an arrogant, self-willed man. Perhaps someone knew him well enough to guess that something like that might happen.’
‘That would rule out all the villagers.’ Edmond looked relieved at the thought. ‘They have experienced his unreasonableness and his un
justified claims, but they could not know his full character.’
‘And there is also not only the question of who had the opportunity to do the deed,’ I said. ‘There must have been a reason compelling enough to commit murder. Who had such a reason? Several people have mentioned Mark Grantham, fiery of temper and threatened with villeinage, but Mark must know that any court would find against Mordon, on the evidence of all his neighbours that he is a free man. And, in any case, he is a man more likely to strike Mordon in the face with his fists than to shoot him covertly in the back.’
‘Of course,’ Philip said, ‘we must remember that it need not have been deliberate murder. It could have been an accident, and the removal of the arrow merely the action of a frightened man, perhaps alone, with no one to swear that it was an accident.’
We had reached the side of the farmhouse, where a path of light streamed out from the open kitchen door, warm and welcoming. From inside we could hear the quiet voices of the women and the clatter of the dishes as they cleared away the meal. I thought with a shiver of Mordon, laid out cold in the chapel of the manor. Only yesterday he had been swaggering in the full pride of his riches and his new lordship, never suspecting that his end was but a few hours away. He had died suddenly by violence, and unshriven.
‘That arrow,’ I said slowly. ‘I wonder why it was so urgent to take it away that the killer – killer by accident or design – stayed to drag it from the body. It cannot have been easy. As Sir Henry said, the barbs caught and tore the flesh. There must be something distinctive about that arrow. I wish we could find it.’
‘By now,’ Jordain said, ‘it has probably been reduced to ashes in one of the manor fireplaces.’
‘Aye,’ I said despondently. ‘You are probably right.’
The air was definitely cooler as we walked down to the village the next morning. You could not have said that it was autumnal, but ever since the storm it had felt as though summer was slipping away. There is something sad about the coming of autumn, with the reminder that winter, with all its privations of cold and hunger, is lurking on the threshold, yet, for those of us in and about the university, autumn and the Michaelmas Term also hold the promise of new beginnings. New young faces would be crowding the streets, newly made graduates would be taking on the mantle of teaching. There is a quality about the constant flow of boys coming eager to the halls and colleges that perpetually renews the world of Oxford. Some would fall by the wayside over the years, but others would flourish and prosper in the rich soil of learning and debate. They would grow and stretch their wings, some to fly out even to the wider world of Court and Church, as lawyers, Crown officials, diplomats. It was a world I might once have joined myself, but I would never regret the exchange I had made. Alysoun and Rafe, clasping my hands and skipping down the lane, were proof that I had made the best choice. They were my legacy.
Sire Raymond stood at the church door, smiling a welcome as we approached. He was never a priest to stand upon the ceremony of his calling. Intelligent and even learned, he hid his abilities behind an honest modesty. It was clear that he was gratified, if perhaps somewhat alarmed, to see that a large party was also approaching, from the direction of Leighton Manor.
‘Well!’ Margaret murmured close to my ear. ‘It seems our humble village church is to be honoured by the presence of gentry.’
‘Apart from Sir Henry and a few of our own neighbouring lords,’ I said dryly, ‘I am not sure how many of that party are gentry. I imagine that many of the Londoners are no more than shopkeepers like me, though perhaps on a larger scale. They may be rich, but it is not coin that makes a lord.’
She laughed. ‘Coin they certainly possess. Will you note the silks and velvets amongst their garments?’
‘Some most unsuitable for an August day in the country.’
Sir Henry abandoned the manor party and walked over to join us.
‘We are honoured, sir,’ Edmond said, ‘but is there no Mass said today in the manor chapel?’
He shook his head. ‘The priest come from London with the Mordons is unwilling to hold Mass there, with his late master’s body lying before the altar, open and plain to view. It is a very small chapel.’
‘Understandable,’ Margaret said, wrinkling her nose with distaste.
The priest, whom I had noticed in the hall of the manor, but not at the hunt, had borne down upon Sire Raymond, and was gesticulating.
‘I think he hopes to conduct the service himself.’ Sir Henry regarded the two clergy with amusement. ‘Will Sire Raymond give way, do you suppose?’
Edmond shook his head. ‘Our priest has a sweet nature, but this is his parish and these are his parishioners. He can be stubborn when he so chooses. I think he will be unwilling to hand them over to a stranger. No doubt he will allow the other man to assist.’
As we made our way to the front pews reserved for our family, we found Will Dowland, the churchwarden, scuttling about, trying to fend off several of the manor party who were bent on seizing the highest ranking position in the church. Edmond went to Will’s assistance, shepherding the intruders to the benches immediately behind ours – still an enviable position. There was a good deal of angry muttering, but no one made overt trouble, except Lady Edith, who merely stood at the end of our row, waiting for us to give way to her. I lifted Rafe on to my lap and moved a few inches, so that she was obliged to take the small space next to me. I had no wish to sit elbow to elbow with the widow all through Mass, but I summoned up a smile for her. She glanced at me as before, with an expression that said as plainly as words that I was not fit to share the very air with her, and certainly not one of Yves de Vere’s oak benches.
The two priests had reached some kind of compromise. Sire Raymond conducted the Mass, with assistance of his two altar boys, but the other priest joined in the words of the service. One of the altar boys was Rob, Alan Wodville’s nephew, pale of face and red of eye, but severely composed as he carried out his duties, with all the dignity of outraged youth. I wondered whether he and Beth had received any word of Alan’s present condition.
The Mass seemed interminable that Sunday, and I fear that my mind wandered from its proper devotions. The memory of Friday’s killing would not leave me, and my thoughts circled round themselves, repetitive and annoying. I tried to remember how long Mordon had been in sight after we had entered the wood, and how long after that I had noticed the blur of red out of the corner of my vision. It was impossible to judge just how long we had been thrashing about in the undergrowth between the trees. And where was everyone else at the time? Had I noticed anyone heading in the same direction as Mordon? The Lady Edith, now holding herself tautly away from the touch of my sleeve, had been near me at the first, as had the man Dunstable, who was now sitting immediately behind me. But I had soon lost sight of them amongst the trees, as I had of almost everyone else, apart from the three I had stayed with throughout the hunt.
As we had agreed amongst ourselves the evening before, two facts were important: who had been out of sight of the rest of the hunt but near Mordon, and who had reason enough to kill him? That was on the assumption, of course, that it had been a deliberate killing. It was tempting to believe that it had been an accident, and the removal of the fatal arrow merely the act of a man frightened of the consequences, if there had been no one nearby to bear witness that Mordon had ridden across the path of an arrow already loosed.
Tempting, indeed, but was it plausible? The flight of an arrow is swift. To have crossed in front of it before it reached its intended target, Mordon would have needed to be very close indeed. And if he had been that close, tricked out in garments so garish to the eye, so violent in contrast to the greens and browns of the summer woodland, he must have been seen. Nay, I could not believe in the comforting solution that it had been an accident.
So it must have been intentional murder. Perhaps not planned beforehand, for we could not have known in advance that the hunt party would be dispersed amongst the trees. Someone seizing
an opportunity. Someone with a grievance or a hatred so intense that it had led to murder. Yet even then . . . if it was the act prompted by a sudden impulse, the intention might have been merely to wound, not to kill.
Rafe had fallen asleep, his thumb in his mouth. He was slipping sideways, so I eased him up against my chest, for my arm was growing numb. He was a sturdy child for his age, and like Stephen he seemed to have gained weight here in the country. Lady Edith must have sensed my movement, for she glanced aside at me, frowning. I ignored her. I knew that Sire Raymond did not mind if the young children fell asleep during the long service. They would be blessed, even as they slept, simply by being here.
If I accepted that the shooting of the arrow was intentional, whether to wound or to kill, it might have been done by anyone, for hunters and villagers had all carried bows. I thought I had noticed a few of the villagers with crossbows, but Sir Henry had been sure that the wound had been inflicted by an arrow, not by a quarrel from a crossbow. Indeed, a quarrel would probably have pierced the man from back to chest, and would have been impossible to withdraw. I did not think any of the mounted hunters had carried a crossbow.
This still meant that the field of possible killers was too wide, far too wide. Mentally, I shook myself. Why was I wasting time worrying at the problem? I was in God’s house, attending holy Mass, and should pay attention to the sonorous words, singing around our small church in Sire Raymond’s sweet voice, with the harsher bass of the visiting priest as an undertone. The service was nearing the end.
It was no affair of mine, this killing of Gilbert Mordon. I had met him for the first time but a few short hours before his death and had barely exchanged a word with him. It was the business of the coroner and the sheriff to determine what had happened and who was responsible, not mine. Theirs and their jurors’ business to pass judgement.
Yet Alan Wodville had been seized and accused – loudly and publicly – by the woman now sitting beside me. I could understand that she had some justification for making her immediate accusation. Her husband had dismissed Alan from the position of manor huntsman held by his family for generations, although I did not know whether she was aware of Mordon’s assault on Alan’s young sister. Despite being turned off, Alan had been held to all the responsibility of organising Mordon’s first hunt at his new manor, and he had carried out his duties carefully if resentfully, until Mordon had thrown all into confusion.