by Ann Swinfen
I threw myself over in my bed, and pushed aside the single blanket in irritation. Why was my mind concerning itself with such things? Behind the jumble of thoughts about the killing of Mordon, I sensed a certain separate unease within myself. Why had I written that letter to Emma? The more I thought of it, the more I regretted it. It was pure folly, one moment pompous, the next . . . Perhaps I should go to Geoffrey Carter’s house at dawn and demand the letter back again.
Annoyed with myself, distracted and uncomfortable, eventually I fell asleep.
It was no surprise, then, that I woke late the next morning. The moment I opened my eyes, I could tell from the light pouring in through the open shutters that I was too late to retrieve my letter from Geoffrey. He would have left at dawn, or even before, to gain the most advantage of the day. By now he would be well away.
I sat up and swung my feet to the floor, my head in my hands. My mouth was dry and my head ached, as if I had drunk deep the night before, so troublesome had my wandering wits been, without even the assistance of ale. Well, there was nothing to be done about my letter. Instead, I must think of my visit to the manor.
I dressed carefully, donning the clothes I normally wore only for church on Sunday. My bedchamber contained no glass to see myself, for as a boy I had never needed one. The small ivory comb I had brought with me from Oxford lacked some teeth, but I tugged it as best I might through my somewhat tangled locks. Like my children, I have hair which curls randomly and tangles readily if I do not pay it mind, and I had been too distracted to do so of late. The comb teased out a small gleaning of straw fragments and husks. Truly, I was a disgrace to my family.
When I descended to the kitchen, I found the rest of the household halfway through breakfast.
‘I thought you planned to rise early,’ Jordain said with a grin.
I shook my head. ‘I did not sleep well. I’ll not sit down. Susanna, if you will cut me some bread, I will eat as I walk.’
She began to slice a new loaf, its warm yeasty smell filling the air. ‘There is some cold bacon, too,’ she said, folding the bread around a piece, ‘and stay at least for a sup of ale.’
‘Aye, I will that. My mouth is as dry as a threshing floor.’
I took the cup she handed me, and drained it swiftly, but would not sit down to eat. I had already wasted too much of the early morning, lying slug-abed.
Birds were singing as I made my way down to the village, not the urgent songs of the spring wooing but the slightly melancholy cadences which told of another year’s life gone, the young birds flown from the nest. The migrating birds would soon set off on their mysterious travels, like restless pilgrims who cannot endure to remain long at home. The birds always native to our English shires would be feeding up now in preparation for the lean months of winter. I watched a flight of starlings pass overhead, making for Edmond’s wheat field. The gleaners would have missed some of the fallen grain, and the cut stems would have exposed the low creeping creatures which would fill an avian belly.
In the village I exchanged greetings here and there, but did not linger, pressing on to the turn which led to the manor. Here there was the usual morning bustle about the yard and barns and stables, almost as if tragedy and death had not laid hands on the place. Only, the servants were perhaps somewhat more quiet than is usually the case at a busy manor. There was no whistling, no singing, hardly a word exchanged as men and women went about their business.
I thought I would take my chance with the dog handlers now, for once the hounds were fed, they would be taken out to exercise, and I might miss my chance. Aelfric, the most senior of them, though he was hardly more than two and twenty, was just coming from the kennels carrying an empty bucket.
‘A word, Aelfric,’ I said.
He looked at me dubiously. ‘I’ve my work to do, Master Elyot.’
‘This will take but a moment,’ I said. ‘On Friday, at the hunt, when the party split between the ride and the woods, you went into the woods with Master Wodville, did you not? I was a short way behind you then, though I lost sight of you later.’
‘Aye.’ He drew it out, reluctantly. ‘I followed Master Wodville, as he bid. Took half of the dogs with me. T’other half went up the ride with Gudrun, as we was meant to go.’
I nodded. ‘Then you stayed with him right to the kill. When we caught up with you, you were leashing the dogs and feeding them. Sir Henry and I were delayed when one of our group caught a blow from a branch, but we were not far behind. So you were with Master Wodville the whole time.’
He shifted his feet and looked aside. ‘I couldn’t rightly say.’
‘What do you mean? You must have stayed with him. Where else would you go? The lymers scented a stag and you all went off in pursuit.’
He shook his head, but did not speak. I saw that he glanced anxiously in the direction of the house.
‘Who shot the stag?’ I asked.
As if he could not hold back the words, he burst out, ‘Master Wodville. There wasn’t any other hunters near by then. Good clean shot to the breast. I sent in the alaunts, but there weren’t no need. Beast were already dead.’
‘So you were with him the whole time. And the rest of the handlers, those who went into the wood.’
He swallowed nervously, and muttered, ‘I suppose I were.’
‘And the others?’
‘Aye.’
‘What ails you, Aelfric?’
‘Told not to say aught, weren’t we?’
‘Who told you?’
‘Lawyer fellow. Him in the black gown.’
I drew a deep breath. It seemed Alan’s enemies were already at work.
‘At the inquest, Aelfric, you must tell the truth, sworn to it on the Bible. If you lie, your immortal soul will be in peril. Neither Lawyer Baverstoke nor any other man can compel you to such mortal danger. You must speak truth, and so must the rest of the men. Do you understand?’
He was sweating now. He put down his bucket and rubbed his face with his sleeve. It was threadbare, and already mended at the elbow.
‘Told we’d be turned away if we spoke in defence of Master Wodville,’ he whispered, leaning close.
So that was the way of it.
‘You do not need to speak either for or against the huntsman,’ I said. ‘All you must do is tell the simple truth of what you did, where you were, and what you saw. Did you have Master Wodville always in sight?’
‘Aye.’ It came grudgingly, but he looked at me instead of the house.
‘And the others?’
‘I cannot speak for ’em. They must speak for theirselves.’
‘Indeed they must. But will you tell them that they will be under holy oath at the inquest? That they must speak the truth?’
‘I’ll tell ’em.’
‘Good.’ I looked about the yard. I could see two maids coming from the barn with buckets of milk, while a cattleman and his boy urged the cows toward the gate leading to the pasture. Household servants were shaking out bedding and sweeping the steps, but I saw no sign of any of the hunt servants.
‘What of the general hunt servants Master Wodville employed?’ I asked. ‘I can see none here.’
He shrugged. ‘Turned away, all but two as looks after the horses, but they’re general stable lads.’
‘Then tell them as well. Most were men from the village, but some I did not know.’
‘Two-three from over Shipton way. Worked for old Master Wodville in the past. Not too pleased, they wasn’t. Turned away without pay, and a long trudge home.’
That might make them the more willing to speak up for Alan, I thought. The party at the manor had made a mistake in not paying fair wages. It would have been little enough. A single earring of the Lady Edith’s would represent ten years’ wages for such men. Sir Henry knew Shipton better than I. He might know these men.
‘I thank you for your time, Aelfric. And remember, at the inquest, no harm can come to you from speaking the truth.’
He spat into
the dust of the yard. ‘Harm enough, if I lose my place.’ He picked up his bucket, turned, and walked away.
Chapter Nine
I found Sir Henry in the orchard, stomping about under the laden trees and punting fallen apples with a heavy stick into the long grass. The place looked unkempt. No one had bothered to gather the windfalls, which Margaret – or any of the womenfolk I knew – would have pounced upon for early pies, or made into preserves. Even windfall apples bear unblemished portions which make good food. This was sheer waste, given over to the smeary trails of slugs and the eager buzzing of feasting wasps. Every time Sir Henry lobbed an apple with his stick, an angry cluster of the insects rose menacingly into the air, then settled again on the nearest half rotten fruit.
‘Have you not been stung yet?’ I asked.
‘They know better than to try.’ He batted away a wasp more courageous than the rest. ‘Do you see this? The trees have had their spring pruning, but I’d say never a man has been near the orchard since. Fruit left to rot. And they should have sheep here, keeping the grass down. Takes the goodness from the trees.’
‘Or turned the swine in here, to benefit from the windfalls,’ I said. ‘Yves de Vere’s servants were kept on, and his villeins did their customary work on the demesne as long as his heir held the manor,’ I said. ‘At least that is what Edmond has told me. That is why the spring pruning was done. Since then?’ I shrugged. ‘I’m told Mordon dismissed most or all of the servants, and the villeins would do only the work they were given by the reeve. Under the new lord, I do not know who that would be.’
‘Whoever it is, he has no care for the orchard. This used to be one of the best in this part of the shire.’
He flung his stick away. It sailed to the far edge of the orchard, hit a tree, and fell into the thick grass. He strode over to me, his boots swishing through the long, feathery stems, which sparkled with the morning’s heavy dew.
‘I should be back on my own lands,’ he said bitterly. ‘I cannot expect my son to see to everything at this busy time of the year, when he has his own estate to care for. Instead I must kick my heels here until the coroner comes.’
‘Is there any word?’
‘Aye, one of his servants arrived late last night. He should be here tomorrow. Let us pray the inquest will be over before the end of the day.’
‘Not if he decides against Alan Wodville.’
He made a disgusted noise. ‘There is no case against the man. Are you here to see him?’
‘I am.’
We turned together toward the house.
‘Fortunately, one at least of de Vere’s servants is still here,’ Sir Henry said. ‘The cellarer. It seems he is so knowledgeable about the stores of expensive French wine that even Mordon was not such a fool as to part with him. He knows me of old, and will give us the key to the cellar where your man is held.’
Sir Henry led me into the house through the back premises, thus avoiding any danger of encountering Lady Edith and her friends.
The cellarer, Warin Hodgate, was a man ripe in years but still upright and impressive. Had he worn richer garb, instead of his sober gown of good but plain cloth, a visiting stranger might have taken him for the lord of the manor, in preference to Mordon, with his vulgar but costly mountebank’s clothes.
‘I have here the key, Sir Henry,’ Hodgate said, without needing to be asked. ‘Good day to you, Master Elyot.’ He gave me a dignified but restrained bow. He had known me as a boy, scrumping apples from the orchard we had just left. I suppose, in his eyes, I was not much changed or raised in rank since those days.
‘How does the huntsman fare this morning?’ Sir Henry said.
‘In body, well enough. Distressed in mind, though. He is anxious for his wife.’
‘I saw her last evening,’ I said. ‘And she is equally distressed for him, but otherwise in good health. She is made fearful by what is being said here.’ I nodded my head towards the other part of the house.
Hodgate gave a short bark of laughter. ‘They may say what they wish. There is no possibility Master Wodville raised a hand against the man.’
The man not my lord. It seemed Hodgate was not afraid to speak out.
‘I saw Aelfric on my way here,’ I said, ‘and ascertained that Mordon was always in his sight. However, he – and the others – are afraid to affirm this at the inquest. They have been threatened.’
Sir Henry looked at me in shock, but Hodgate seemed unsurprised.
‘There have been a number of threats made,’ Hodgate said, cool but grim.
‘They must tell the truth under oath,’ Sir Henry said.
‘That is what I told him, and put the fear of hellfire in him, but he fears also for his living.’
Hodgate began to lead us toward the steps down to the cellars, which lay beneath the undercroft, halfway below ground, where stores might be kept cool.
‘They are a strange lot, this household,’ he said. ‘Do you not find them so, Sir Henry?’
‘Strange here in an Oxfordshire manor. They would not seem so strange in London, amongst the great merchant houses, with a sprinkling of lesser men circling about them, hoping for gains, and a few from noble families, brought into an alliance. As the wealth of our merchants in coin begins to outstrip the wealth of our nobles in land, such alliances are become more common.’
‘You are thinking of the Lady Edith,’ I said.
He inclined his head. ‘I am. But there is one other here who puzzles me.’
We had paused at the top of the steps.
‘Who is that?’
‘You will have observed him, Hodgate. A small, quiet man, as soberly dressed as a lawyer, but not a lawyer – cotte, hose, and short gown, all in dark colours, greys and browns. Unremarkable, you would say.’
‘That would be Master Le Soten?’
‘It would. I find it strange to see him in this company. I have encountered him twice before, always quiet, always discreet. But then he was at court.’
I raised my eyebrows at this. ‘At court?’
‘Aye. I barely noticed him. I think he is a man who wishes not to be noticed. His position at court, I do not know. What he is doing here, I cannot imagine. I find it hard to believe that he was any manner of friend to Gilbert Mordon.’
Sir Henry took the key Hodgate held out to him, and together we started down the steps, leaving the cellarer to his duties. The air grew cooler as we descended, but it was not unpleasant, nor was it damp.
‘This man Le Soten,’ I said, ‘do you think his presence here has any bearing on Mordon’s death?’
He shrugged. ‘Who can say? But I do find it curious.’
‘I have heard,’ I said slowly, ‘that Mordon had made loans to the king, for the expenses of the French wars, and that Leighton Manor was in some sort a repayment for those loans. Could that have any bearing on Le Soten’s presence? He does seem an unlikely guest.’
‘Indeed.’
‘I think we should speak to him,’ I said, ‘if we may.’
Sir Henry nodded. ‘I agree. Now, this is where the huntsman is held.’
He fitted the key in the lock, which was well oiled and turned easily. The room in which Alan Wodville had been confined was merely one of the several storage rooms in these cellars, but – as Sir Henry had observed – not one of those given over to wine and ale. A window high in the wall, just above ground level, gave adequate light, showing that the room was bare but clean. There were a few sacks of dried beans and a row of large crockery jars lined up along one wall, which probably held salted peas or beans, or perhaps pickles of some sort. At this point in the late summer, the previous year’s stores would be all but exhausted and the manor’s supply of storage jars would be scoured ready for the new season’s bounty, although by the dust on the shoulders of these jars, nothing had yet been done to preserve this summer’s crops. The Lady Edith had been here in Leighton for no more than a few weeks, and so it seemed she had not yet undertaken the supervision of the manor housek
eeping. In her London home she would certainly have no fields and gardens from which the winter’s supply of food must be gathered. She would purchase all she needed from the shops and markets of the city.
It was strange, however, if she came from a family of landed nobility, that she had not been trained by her own mother in the running of a manor. Unless the family left all such tasks to a housekeeper and a steward. Margaret, I knew, would be aghast at such lack of supervision from the woman who was, after all, the ruler of her domestic realm, as surely as her husband was ruler of his business.
Alan was sitting cross legged on a well filled straw palliasse laid on the floor, with a thin pillow and a folded blanket laid neatly at the end. There was no other furniture but a pisspot and a bucket of water for washing. A tray, with breadcrumbs, and bowl and cup now empty, bore witness that he had been given breakfast, probably more than I had eaten myself. His clothes were rumpled and he had several days’ stubble on his chin. The eyes he lifted to us as we entered were anxious. He jumped up.
‘Nicholas! It is good of you to come! The witch allowed it?’
‘If you mean the Lady Edith,’ I said mildly, ‘I did not ask for her leave. Sir Henry is on the best of terms with Warin Hodgate. We came in through the kitchens.’