The Huntsman's Tale (Oxford Medieval Mysteries Book 3)

by Ann Swinfen

  Alan laughed. ‘Aye, you would recall the way, from when we were boys. That old cook used to make excellent gingerbread, do you remember?’

  I smiled, but could see that he was merely talking to cover up his present fears.

  ‘I have been to see Beth,’ I said. ‘She is bearing up well. She tried to visit you, but was turned away by the lawyer Baverstoke, having made the mistake of coming to the front door. Today she will be working in Edmond’s oat field. We lost some of the crop, but with patience and care most can be saved.’

  I, too, was talking of trivial matters in the hope of bringing him some ease, but knew he could not be diverted.

  ‘Nicholas has been talking to Aelfric,’ Sir Henry said. ‘The dog handlers will bear witness that they had you in sight the whole time of the hunt. There was no possible way you could have shot Gilbert Mordon.’

  ‘I will also speak to as many of the villagers as possible this afternoon and evening,’ I said. ‘Both those you employed as hunt assistants, and those who were hunting for themselves on foot. With all the testimony we can bring, the unfounded charge made against you by Lady Edith must be thrown out by the coroner.’

  ‘Nicholas has the right of it.’

  Sir Henry clapped Alan on the shoulder. ‘The coroner comes tomorrow, and if he has any sense, he will hold the inquest at once, for it is time the man was buried. One more night here, and tomorrow you shall sleep in your own bed.’

  Alan essayed a weak smile in acknowledgement of these cheering words, but did not look quite convinced.

  ‘Perhaps. But the coroner – and the sheriff, I suppose – will not leave matters there, I fear. They will want to fix the guilt on someone. Mordon’s friends have both money and power. They will demand a reckoning. And unless the true killer can be found, the shadow of the accusation will remain over me. Indeed, over any man at the hunt who cannot be accounted for. Are you in the clear yourself, Nicholas? I should not like you to lift the blame from me, only to fall heir to it yourself.’

  ‘Never fear,’ Sir Henry said. ‘Nicholas, his cousin, and one of the boys from Oxford were all together with me from the time we entered the trees until we caught up with you at the unlacing of the stag.’

  ‘That fool Mordon!’ Alan exclaimed. ‘Had he not disregarded the agreed plan for the hunt and gone haring off along that other trail through the wood, this would never have happened.’

  ‘True enough,’ I said. ‘Now, Alan, can you tell us? Do you know of any man, either local or amongst the visitors, who owns unusual arrows?’

  He lifted his eyebrows at this. ‘An unusual arrow? Is this what was used to kill Mordon? Bring it to me and I can soon tell you whether I recognise it or not.’

  Sir Henry and I exchanged looks of astonishment.

  ‘But, of course–’ I said.

  When Mordon was shot, Alan was far away in pursuit of the stag. He stayed with the quarry until it was dismembered and loaded on to the cart, together with the smaller deer shot by the villagers. He had then mounted and ridden home to the village, to remain there until seized by Lady Edith’s servants and hauled away to this confinement. He had never seen Mordon’s body. And it must be that no one had told him that the arrow had been withdrawn after the man was dead.

  I turned to Sir Henry. ‘You have not spoken to Alan of what we found?’

  ‘Only that we found the body.’

  ‘Alan,’ I said, ‘we do not have the arrow. Whoever shot Mordon took care to rip the arrow from the wound, tearing the flesh further. It has vanished. We must suppose that there was something about it, something which would identify the killer.’

  Alan shook his head. ‘Without sight of it, how can I tell? Most of the villagers use whatever feathers they may lay hands on, to fletch their arrows, but I cannot think any one of them has arrows different from his neighbours’. Some better made than others, certainly, but nothing distinctive.’

  He ran his fingers through his matted hair and scratched at his unshaven chin.

  ‘As for the visitors, I paid little heed to their gear. None of it was in my sight until the morning of the hunt, and by then I was too much occupied to notice. You ate with them. You probably saw more than I did.’

  I shook my head. ‘I may have done, but I paid it no heed. Why should any man examine another’s arrows?’

  Still, Alan made a shrewd point. I must cudgel my brains to see whether there was some memory buried there. And I must ask others who had eaten the hunt breakfast. Impossible to describe the arrow, but someone might have noticed something unusual.

  ‘If anything comes to you,’ I said, ‘send me word. Now, do you need aught? Have you any message to send to Beth?’

  ‘Tell her to be of good courage, that by tomorrow I shall surely be released.’ He made another poor attempt at a smile, for I did not think he believed it himself. ‘And ask her to send me clean clothes and a razor, and a comb for my hair. The coroner is more likely to think me innocent if I do not look like a masterless man living wild in the woods.’

  ‘I will ask her so,’ I said, ‘and advise her to bring them here to the back of the house and give them to Warin Hodgate. No need to trust to the charity of Lady Edith.’

  ‘None indeed,’ Sir Henry said.

  After we had locked the cellar door and returned the key to Hodgate, Sir Henry and I stepped outside into a day becoming more overcast. I looked anxiously at the sky, torn between trying to discover whatever we could before the coroner’s arrival on the morrow, and concern for Edmond’s crop of oats. I hoped that there would be enough hands to finish the work today, for there was still the next picking of peas and beans to gather, though I had heard Susanna say that she would set the children to that today, under the supervision of Hilda. Yet, even more urgently than the harvest, the gathering in of evidence could not wait.

  ‘Do you think it might be possible to find this man you spoke of?’ I asked Sir Henry. ‘Le Soten? While I am here at the manor, I should like to learn whether he may have anything to say which might touch on the murder of Gilbert Mordon. However,’ I smiled ruefully, ‘I am not sure that Lady Edith would welcome my presence in her house, or that her watchdog Baverstoke would even permit me to cross the threshold.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘somehow he has had word that you are seeking to vindicate the huntsman, and he does not like it. Go you back into the orchard. I will seek out Le Soten if I can, and bring him to you there. If he is not to be found, I will come anyway, and tell you.’

  I waited perhaps half an hour, wandering through the long grass and encountering a hedgepig trundling along with two infants no bigger than my thumb following behind. They would feast indiscriminately both on the fallen apples and on the slugs which were busy feasting in their turn, with no fear of attack from wasps. A marvellous example of God’s creation, is the hedgepig. So small, so invincible! And every gardener’s friend.

  At last I saw Sir Henry approaching, accompanied by a short, slight man of about forty, clad as he had described, in clothes so dull that he seemed almost wraith-like, blending into the background wherever he might be. I realised now that I had seen him before, at the hunt breakfast, seated at the inferior end of the table. He was indeed a man who sought not to be noticed.

  ‘Master Le Soten,’ Sir Henry said gravely, ‘may I present Nicholas Elyot, Master of Arts at the university of Oxford? Nicholas, may I present Master Reginald Le Soten?’

  We both bowed, and I hid my smile, that Sir Henry had not chosen to introduce me as a humble tradesman and bookseller.

  ‘We are anxious, sir,’ I said, ‘as perhaps Sir Henry has told you, to establish the facts of Gilbert Mordon’s death. We, with one other, my cousin Edmond Elyot, were the finders of the body, and must give evidence at the inquest. Everything points to the killer not being the huntsman Alan Wodville, who is held here on mere unsubstantiated accusation. However, to clear his name, it were best if the truth of the killing were established.’

  He inclined his head, but s
aid nothing.

  ‘Le Soten,’ Sir Henry said briskly, ‘let us not ramble about the matter like grazing sheep half asleep in the meadow. Someone shot Mordon either for hatred or for gain. You make an odd addition to the party here at the manor. Like me, you are an outsider. I believe you may know something which may help us.’

  Le Soten again inclined his head. ‘That may be so, Sir Henry.’

  ‘You are here, I suspect, on the king’s business. May we know what it is?’

  That was bold indeed of Sir Henry. The man had a look about him of one who dealt in secrets, and kept those secrets close to his chest. Why should he reveal them to us? I could see that he was debating with himself whether to trust us with some at least of those secrets.

  ‘You are correct, Sir Henry,’ he said at last, ‘in assuming that I am here on the king’s business. I did not come from London with the rest of the party, but from Winchester, where the king is at present. My arrival,’ he gave a tight smile, ‘came as something of a surprise to Master Mordon.’

  ‘We know,’ I said, to save time, ‘that Mordon was not merely a pepperer and spice merchant. He was a moneylender, and had made loans to the king. It is said that this manor was a repayment of those loans.’

  If he was surprised at the extent of my knowledge, he did not show it.

  ‘It was,’ he said. ‘Mordon produced documents, deeds and descriptions of the property, claiming that the value of the manor would clear half the king’s debt to him, including the accrued interest. The arrangements with the de Vere heir were made through an intermediary, Mordon’s lawyer, Sir Thomas Baverstoke.’

  ‘He is here now,’ I said.

  ‘Aye, he is.’

  Le Soten paused and took a few steps deeper into the orchard. We strolled after him.

  ‘However, quite by chance, it came to my attention that the manor is much more extensive than the king was led to believe, and its value considerably more than the debt against which it was set. The de Vere heir had never visited the property, and learned only recently that he had been cheated of its true value. His complaint came to my ears.’

  Interesting, I thought. Did this really happen by chance? Or was Le Soten sent by the king to investigate the case? No matter. However the knowledge was obtained, it might have some bearing on Mordon’s death.

  ‘But,’ I said slowly, ‘if Mordon cheated the king, I cannot see how that might lead to his killing.’ Greatly daring, I said, ‘I cannot think that you shot him, sir.’

  Again, he gave that tight smile. ‘That is not my way. I came to assess the value of the manor myself. I have some experience in these matters. It was my intention, once Mordon was back in London, to have him summoned before the king, to answer for his conduct.’

  He paused again, reaching up and plucking an unripe apple from a tree, then tossing it from hand to hand.

  ‘There is, moreover, another issue here. Mordon has no children of his body, neither legitimate nor illegitimate. It would seem that he may be infertile. According to his will, properly drawn up on the occasion of his second marriage, to the Lady Edith, all his estate is left to her and their children, should there be any issue of the marriage. The most valuable part of Mordon’s estate is, of course, this manor, although the spice business is considerable, and there remain the unpaid debts owed to him, including the king’s outstanding debt.’

  Sir Henry nodded. ‘This is quite normal practice on a marriage, in naming as the heir or heirs, the widow and future children. Unless there is some close male relative to inherit . . . I believe the man Dunstable is kin, but distant.’

  Le Soten nodded. ‘You are correct, Sir Henry. However, shortly before leaving London for Oxfordshire, Mordon had a new will drawn up, which cuts out the Lady Edith entirely, leaving the estate neither to her nor to Dunstable, but to a nephew of his first wife. It has not yet been signed.’

  ‘But why?’ I said, startled. ‘I noticed that matters were stiff and distant between Mordon and his wife, yet this seems monstrous. I cannot say I care for the lady, but to leave her with nothing but her dower–’

  ‘And that small indeed,’ Le Soten said, ‘for her family, though ancient, has fallen on hard times in recent years. The lady would be left near penniless.’

  ‘It seems the act of a madman,’ Sir Henry said angrily. ‘And of a man without honour. What could be the reason?’

  ‘Reason enough,’ Le Soten said. ‘The lady is with child, and it is not Mordon’s.’

  Both Sir Henry and I were so taken aback by this, that no one spoke for some moments. I had noticed no signs of pregnancy about the lady, though if it was still early days, there might be nothing yet to be seen.

  ‘How can you know this?’ I asked bluntly. The man might be some sort of intelligencer for the king, but how could he have gained such intimate knowledge?

  He favoured me with another of his narrow smiles.

  ‘One of the ladies of her bedchamber is also in the king’s service. The king has desired that a close watch be kept upon this household. The man Mordon could no more father a child than a eunuch at the sultan’s court. The father of the expected child is Dunstable, who is much in favour with the lady. Somehow Mordon discovered the truth and took steps to disinherit both the lady and her bastard.’

  ‘You say that this second will is not yet signed,’ Sir Henry said, ‘but the lawyer Baverstoke is here. Surely Mordon would have made haste to sign it.’

  ‘Baverstoke is more her lawyer rather than his. Mordon made use of another lawyer in London to draw up the new will. The man was due to ride down here this coming week for the signing.’

  ‘So the Lady Edith had good reason to prevent.’

  ‘Aye. But as for myself, Mordon was more use to me alive than dead. Whoever inherits, it complicates the case all the more. The king could have taken Mordon to law for fraud. With Mordon dead and the property in the hands of his heir, by the terms of either the first will or the second, the lawyers will make a feast of fees before any judgement can be reached on Mordon’s fraudulent dealing with the king.’

  ‘The more closely we look at this killing,’ I said, ‘the more people are found who would benefit from it, either from hatred of what the man had done or meant to do.’ I gave a shaky laugh. ‘I am glad Sir Henry can speak for me, or I should begin to suspect myself. At least we know that Alan Wodville could not have fired the arrow that killed Mordon, and that you wanted him alive to face the king at law. Almost every other person present at the hunt must fall under suspicion, unless he was in sight of others for all the relevant time.’

  ‘Or was unarmed,’ Sir Henry said. ‘There were men like Master Brinkylsworth who were present at the meal, but did not hunt, or the blacksmith, Bertred, who carried naught but the tools of his trade.’

  ‘There still remains a great number of those both amongst the mounted hunters and the villagers on foot who might have shot the arrow. If we did but know what marked it out as distinctive!’

  Le Soten looked at me enquiringly. ‘What is this you say?’

  It seemed that the king’s man, like the huntsman, was unaware that the fatal arrow had been removed. I explained what we had seen when we discovered Mordon’s body.

  ‘There seems no reason for the killer to remove the arrow,’ I said, ‘unless it could point the way to his guilt.’

  ‘Curious,’ he said. ‘I wonder–’

  Then he shrugged. ‘I will perhaps speak to you again before the inquest, Sir Henry.’

  With that, he bowed to us both and began to walk back toward the house, tossing the unripe apple at a squirrel perched on a low branch. His aim was excellent, and the squirrel bounded up the tree in alarm. If Le Soten had wanted Mordon dead, despite his protestations, I judged that his marksmanship would have made a neat job of it. We followed more slowly.

  ‘That was a parcel of news,’ Sir Henry said.

  ‘Indeed.’ I nodded my agreement. ‘Nothing we could have expected. So Mordon even dared to cheat the king! Wha
t arrogance! And the Lady Edith . . . but we have naught but his word for this.’ I was unsure whether I could believe all the king’s man had told us. He might have told us truth, or he might have woven a pretty tale with some purpose of his own, for, after all, why should he confide in us? He knew Sir Henry, but me he did not know.

  Ahead of us, I saw Lawyer Baverstoke come round the side of the house and give a start at seeing Le Soten. Then he looked up, over the shoulder of the king’s man. His face darkened with anger.

  ‘I will not compromise you further, Sir Henry,’ I said, realising that the anger was aimed at me. ‘I shall slip away discreetly and go about my business of speaking to the villagers.’

  He nodded, and I made a quiet exit through the trees which lay between the formal gardens of the manor house and the lane. As I walked toward the village, I could hear snatches of voices from the demesne fields, where the manor’s villeins were continuing with the harvest. They had accomplished less than we had done on Edmond’s farm, for I did not suppose they had much goodwill toward Mordon or his widow. I heard no singing or whistling amongst them, as though they went sullenly about their tasks.

  Because so many of the villagers were away at field work, I was able only to speak to such as were free men but were not occupied today on their own land. Most of those at the harvest did not return for a midday meal at home, but made the best of the dry weather by carrying bread and cheese with them into the fields, although their children sometimes were sent with jugs of ale during the day. Harvesting is thirsty work.

  After I had returned to the farm, I managed to give a hand myself to the last of our oat harvest. Considering the beating it had taken from the storm, the crop was better than expected. Alysoun and Rafe proudly showed me the baskets of peas and beans they had gathered with Hilda.

  ‘The peas are to be laid out to dry,’ Alysoun told me, as one instructing the ignorant, ‘but Cousin Hilda says we shall salt the beans and layer them in a crock tomorrow, for there are already enough of the large beans already dried. These are the softer beans, so they are to be salted pods and all, and make good eating in the winter. The dried beans have to be soaked overnight, and then cooked a long time in a pottage.’