by Ann Swinfen
He nodded. ‘Probably everyone from the hunt, save the women and children. So I should guess also.’
‘Then the greater number will come from the village, but the party from London is also large. I suspect they will speak the loudest and their voices will carry more weight.’
‘And you believe they will speak out for the guilt of the huntsman?’
‘Do not you?’
‘Aye. Probably. It is in man’s nature. Alan Wodville is a stranger to them. Let the guilt be fixed on him, and then they will be away home to London. I doubt they will ever be seen in these parts again.’
‘Except,’ I pointed out, ‘the Lady Edith, if she is indeed heir to the manor.’
‘That is very true. And she has had these few days to persuade her friends to her own conviction of Alan’s guilt, did they not already believe it.’
‘As a woman, she cannot be a juror.’
‘But she can be summoned as a witness. You may be sure she will do her best to blacken him.’
‘Aye.’ I turned and sat down beside him. ‘I have been trying to make out why she is so fixed against him. I think it is not merely because of his quarrel with her husband. I think it is because, in going to the rescue of the little maidservant Elga, Alan exposed – before the faces of his important friends – just what manner of man he was. His wife? She probably knew or guessed it already. But then she was humiliated not merely by his behaviour but by the public revelation of it. That, she cannot forgive Alan Wodville.’
He nodded. ‘I think you have the right of it. As long as it remained secret, she could hold her head high in her pride. Humiliation would not come easily to such a woman.’
I sighed. ‘If the inquest goes as we suspect, then Alan will be forced to stand trial before the sheriff. Lady Edith cannot hold such a trial in the manor court, whatever she may claim. In our present king’s time, an end is being put to such practices. It will be trial before the sheriff.’
‘That surely is to be welcomed. Better than a manor court conducted by Lady Edith.’
‘Better than that, indeed, but not quite to be welcomed. The present High Sheriff of the joint shrievalty of Oxfordshire and Berkshire is John de Alveton.’
‘I have heard the name,’ he said.
‘Aye, and so also have I,’ I said. ‘He has held the post before – in ’35, ’41, and ’42. In ’41 he held office for a mere nine days. That was the year the king set afoot an enquiry into the many complaints about corruption amongst the county sheriffs. I was only a boy. It was the year before we went up to Oxford. But I remember very clearly my father and his friends talking about it. There had been complaints against de Alveton, for taking bribes – both for turning a blind eye and letting a guilty man go free, and for pinning a guilty verdict on an innocent man. Though the word was, in that case, such a man could probably buy a pardon.’
Jordain pulled a face. ‘I remember that enquiry, but I did not know the sheriff of Oxfordshire was involved.’
‘Oh, he was by no means the most venal. He lost his office that year, but was let off with a fine. He was High Sheriff again the following year. And here he is, back once more. There were others far worse, who milked their shires through extortion and fraud, while with de Alveton it was petty bribes. But in this case, with all the coin on Lady Edith’s side, the outlook seems bleak for Alan, if it comes to trial.’
Jordain cocked his head to one side. ‘You think you can help him? Prove his innocence?’
I spread my hands and shrugged. ‘I think I must try. Will you help me? In the first place, we must gather everyone we can to assert that Alan was always in company for the whole time of the hunt.’
‘He must have been. Unless–’
‘Unless what?’
‘I was not there, of course, since I did not join the hunt. I was still back in the clearing where we took our meal. But as it has been described to me . . . when the hunt first broke into two groups, one following the ride, the other turning aside into the thicker woods . . . was Alan not alone for a time then?’
I drew a shocked breath, then closed my eyes, trying to see again that moment of confusion.
I shook my head. ‘Nay, there were hunt servants and dog handlers with him all the while. Some went one way, some the other, but he was never alone.’
‘The only certain way,’ Jordain said slowly, ‘is not simply to prove Alan could not have shot that arrow, but to ascertain who did.’
‘Aye.’ I laughed grimly. ‘Find the owner of a vanished arrow, and we have the murderer. An arrow, which you have said yourself is now probably nothing but ashes.’
I stood up, and brushed fragments of dusty bark from my cotte. ‘I wonder,’ I said, ‘what was so distinctive about that arrow that the killer risked all to remove it from the body?’
‘I shall be off to the south tomorrow,’ Geoffrey Carter said. ‘I should deliver your letter to Oxford two days after that, or three at most. I have a load of woollen broadcloth to collect in Witney and carry to a clothier in Northgate Street, and nothing else but a few small errands on the way.’
I gave him the farthing he asked for carrying the letter, with my thanks.
‘You know my journeyman scrivener, Walter Blunt,’ I said. ‘I have not written him a letter, but could you take him a word from me?’
‘Aye, if ’tis not out of my way.’
‘He has lodgings above the fruiterer’s shop in Fish Street,’ I said, ‘not far from Carfax.’
‘I know it.’
‘Will you tell him that I may be delayed here by the inquest on Master Mordon? And mayhap by the trial as well, if there is to be one. Walter should reopen the shop if I am more than two more weeks here. There will not be much custom until the start of term. He will be able to manage, with Roger’s help.’
‘I will tell him so.’ He squinted at me. ‘Who do you think will be called for the inquest? I shall lose my load in Witney, and the fee, if I must stay here.’
‘I think you should set off,’ I said. ‘As one of the finders of the body, I must stay. But you were not present at the hunt, were you?’
‘Aye, I was there, with the rest of the village.’ He winked at me. ‘Kept my distance from the deer, but snagged two conies for the pot, while the lordling’s eyes were elsewhere. And he’ll not be claiming sole rights of warren now, will he?’
The shooting and snaring of rabbits who strayed from the manor’s farmed coney warren had always been allowed to the villagers by Yves de Vere and his ancestors, but I had heard other hints beside this one of Gilbert Mordon’s claim to own every rabbit in the neighbourhood, farmed rabbit or wild. Geoffrey Carter was another man who would not be sorry to see the last of the incomer. Could he have fired the shot? It was not impossible. Like every man in the village, he was trained to use the bow. From the age of seven they would practice at the butts at least once a week, for at any time a man might be called to serve under his lord in the king’s wars. From fifteen he must provide himself with bow and arrows, in case he should be summoned for military service. As Jordain had said, rather than try to prove who did not shoot the fatal arrow, better to try to discover who did.
‘Is that your business in the village finished, then?’ Jordain asked, as we headed down the path from Geoffrey’s cottage.
Before I could answer, his wife Joan turned in at the gate. She looked weary, but content.
‘Good day to ’ee, Master Elyot,’ she said, bobbing a curtsey, ‘and to ’ee, maister.’ She smiled at Jordain. Her basket was filled with bottles and jars, with a bundle of rags tucked in beside them, some of them bloodied.
‘A new arrival this day, Joan?’ I asked. I turned to Jordain. ‘Our village midwife. Her mother brought me into the world.’
‘Aye, so she did.’ Joan grinned. ‘And by all I’ve heard, you greeted the world squalling your head off. There’s a new mouth to feed at Matt Grantham’s. Another lusty lad.’ She shook her head. ‘A blessed babe, born on the Sabbath, but how much of a bles
sing to Matt and his woman? That’s the tenth, and all of them still living, every year another babe, but only the two eldest old enough to work in the fields. How can they feed them all? It’s past my reckoning.’
‘If Matt needs work,’ I said, ‘there’s a deal of threshing yet to do at my cousin’s. He would be glad of more hands.’
She tucked an errant wisp of hair back under the tight edge of her wimple. ‘I’ll tell him, Master Elyot. It has been a bad time they’ve had of late, with this threat of villeinage hanging over them. If Matt was forced into villein work on the manor demesne, and could not take paid day labour when he is not working his own land, then I’m thinking they would starve. Do you think that will be set aside now, that claim that he is a villein, all on account of a small parcel of land?’
‘I am sure there were never grounds for reducing Matt to villeinage,’ I said firmly. ‘On the evidence of all the parish, he would have been judged a free man, had it ever come to court. It was never more than an empty threat, and even that is gone now.’
As we made our way along the village street, Jordain said quietly, ‘This new father, this was the man Mordon tried to claim was his villein?’
‘Aye,’ I said grimly. ‘And Matt Grantham is as freeborn as you or I.’
‘So yet another man who had reason enough to kill.’
‘Reason indeed, but I do not see Matt shooting a man furtively in the back. More like he would slam a fist into his face or throttle him with his bare hands.’
‘Still–’
‘Oh, aye. He had reason. But as well, I cannot see Matt having cool enough wits to remove his arrow. Even had he shot Mordon, he would most likely have kicked him where he lay, then stormed off and drunk himself senseless at the alehouse.’
‘Not a kindly man, then.’
I laughed. ‘There is no real harm in Matt Grantham. And he mostly uses his fists only when he’s downed too much ale. ’Twas too early in the day for that.’
‘You have another errand in the village?’ Jordain asked, for I was leading the way to the far end of the street.
‘I want to see how Beth Wodville fares, and if she has had any word of Alan.’
‘I remember her, she was at the Lammas supper and the harvesting. A slight, fair-haired woman, a little frail for the work.’
‘She is, but that does not stop her from working as hard as any of the village women. The Wodvilles have had some uncertain times since the de Vere family died, not knowing what the future might bring. The de Vere heir, away in Leicestershire, he kept Alan on in some of his duties as huntsman, just to see to the hunting dogs, and the few hunt horses that were left. Alan and Beth must have thought all would be well once the manor found a new owner.’
‘They have no children?’
‘Beth lost two, stillborn, and another at a few months old. Then they took in Alan’s nephew Rob when the boy was orphaned. And of course his sister, Jane, was more like a daughter, being so much younger.’
‘This is the child Mordon tried to defile?’
‘It is. Alan has taken her away to Burford.’
We had reached the Wodville’s cottage, which looked forlorn, as though no one was about. I knocked at the door and was greeted with silence.
‘Beth!’ I called, ‘It is Nicholas Elyot. I have come to see how you are faring.’
There was a sound of movement from within, then I heard the latch lifted and the door opened slowly. Beth was no longer her trim and pretty self. Her gown looked as though she had slept in it, she wore no wimple and her hair hung loose and tangled to her shoulders. Her eyes were red and swollen with weeping. The lad Rob had been serving the priest in church that morning, but I realised that I had seen no sign of Beth. Impulsively I reached out and took both her hands in mine.
‘May we come in?’ I was sure she had no wish to be a spectacle for the village street.
She nodded, withdrawing her hands gently from mine and holding the door wider for us.
‘You will take a cup of ale?’ she said, her voice no more than a hoarse whisper.
I saw that Jordain was about to refuse, but I smiled and nodded. ‘That would be kind, Beth. It is a dusty walk down from the farm.’
I turned to Jordain. ‘Beth is famous for her ale. She uses some secret herbs in the making, which she will reveal to no one.’
Beth gave a watery smile as she went to fetch the ale, but did not speak. In truth, I had no need of ale myself, but I could see that she did, having wept her self hoarse almost to speechlessness.
‘Now,’ I said, when she took a seat on a stool and began to twist her hair nervously into a knot behind her head. ‘I have come to tell you to leave off weeping. Alan is in no danger, of that I am sure.’
‘Oh, Nicholas,’ she said, ‘if I could but believe that were true! But the Lady Edith has him in prison and she is determined he shall hang for the murder of her husband. I swear to you, he never killed that man, though he had good reason to hate him.’
‘Of course he did not kill him! Alan was one of a handful of people who were never out of sight of company. The hunt servants and dog handlers will swear that they were with him the whole time of the hunt.’
‘But who will listen to them? Poor folk? Servants? Those grand people from London will say that they are lying to protect him.’
‘I think not, mistress.’ Jordain set down his ale cup and smiled at her reassuringly. ‘Anyone who understands the role of a huntsman in pursuit of a deer will know that he would have been surrounded at all times. The killing of Gilbert Mordon was done by stealth.’
‘And,’ I said, ‘there is something that it is unpleasant to discuss, but you are a woman strong of courage, Beth. Whoever shot Mordon stayed long enough to withdraw the arrow, he did not take to his heels at once. It cannot have been done quickly, for it was a grisly business, tearing the flesh. So the killer must have been out of general view for some time.’
She turned somewhat pale at my words, no doubt imagining for herself what I had just described, but despite her frail appearance, I knew that she was stout of heart.
‘But unless the true killer can be found,’ she said, ‘they will still arraign Alan for the murder.’
I shook my head. ‘I think not, but to make all sure, the true killer must be found. Since he took care to remove his arrow, there must have been a reason. He must have thought that the arrow could identify him. Now I wonder, has Alan ever mentioned to you anyone who uses unusual arrows? Anything distinctive at all?’
She bit her lip, thinking, but shook her head. ‘Nay, he has never told me anything of that, yet he may know of such arrows. If you could but speak to him, you could ask.’ Her voice broke. ‘But no one can speak to him, imprisoned as he is.’
‘Never fret,’ I said. ‘Sir Henry Talbot has seen him this very morning. He is provided with a bed and food, and is well treated. Sir Henry is seeing to that.’
I knew that Sire Raymond meant to visit her to bring this comfort, but on the Sabbath he would be occupied in the church until late.
Like sunshine after cloud, her face brightened. ‘Sir Henry has seen him! Oh, Jesu be thanked! I thought he was quite shut away. They would not let me see him. I went to the manor and begged, but I was turned away by that lawyer.’
‘Sir Henry stays at the manor until the inquest is held,’ I said. ‘And I am sure that after the inquest, Alan will be set free again. The Lady Edith has no jurisdiction to hold him prisoner.’
‘I pray you may have the right of it.’
‘I intend myself to visit Alan,’ I said. ‘With Sir Henry to speak for me, I think it may be managed. It is growing too late today, but tomorrow morning I shall go to the manor as soon as I have broken my fast, if my cousin can spare me from salvaging what is left of the oats. They were badly beaten down by the storm.’
Beth gripped her hands together and raised a resolute face to me.
‘I will put my trust in you, Nicholas, and not stay here weeping uselessly. Perhaps your cous
in would be glad of my labour at the oat harvest, so that you may be spared? Even if Alan escapes the charges against him, he has lost his position as manor huntsman. Lady Edith will never employ him. So we must scrape a living as best we may.’
‘Edmond will be glad of you, I am sure,’ I said. ‘But put your trust in God, Beth, and not in a weak man like me, groping for answers where all is hidden.’
She smiled then, a true smile, the first we had seen. ‘I shall put my trust in you, Nicholas, as God’s instrument.’
We were a quiet company at supper that evening, and went early to bed. With both Friday and Sunday lost to labour on the farm, it was needful to make the most of the dry weather in the oat field the next day, for clouds had begun to build again toward the end of the afternoon. Ever both the farmer’s friend and enemy, the changeable English weather!
‘I shall walk over to the manor early,’ I said to Edmond, as we carried our rush dips upstairs to bed. ‘My business with Alan should not take long, if Sir Henry is able to bring me to him. Then I shall come straight back, ready for field work again.’
He nodded. ‘Take more time if you need. There is the matter of gathering witnesses to the fact that Alan was never alone at the time of Mordon’s death.’
‘True,’ I said. ‘While I am at the manor I had best take the opportunity to speak to the dog handlers. Those who served as Alan’s assistant huntsmen were some of them manor servants, others were villagers who know the hunt business. I will try to speak to any I can find about the manor. Most of the villagers he employed I think I can remember. Them I can visit tomorrow also. The sooner they are all apprised of what they must tell the coroner, the better.’
‘I wonder how soon he can be here. Mordon must not remain much longer unburied.’
‘Nay.’ I shuddered.
Although I was early in my bed, I took a long time finding sleep. Certainly the day had lacked the physical labour which often brings sleep the moment one’s head touches the pillow. But rather it was the whirling of thoughts in my head which would not let me rest. If this unknown coroner was a man of sense, our argument that Alan was never out of sight of company should convince the man that the huntsman was not the killer. But men in the pride of such offices like to show their ability by settling such matters swiftly and with decisiveness. A coroner hates an open verdict. Much better to be able to point the finger and say: ‘This is the man. It was done thus. Here is the weapon of such-and-such a value to be rendered to the crown.’ Not for nothing was the coroner called the ‘crowner’. My mind went chasing away, like a hound after a hare. What would be the value in coin of a single arrow, probably now destroyed? A ha’penny? Less, surely. Would the royal official concern himself with something so trivial? Perhaps the bow which shot the arrow would also come into the reckoning of the deodand owed to the crown, and the value of a fine bow is considerable.