by Ann Swinfen
‘A nice point in law,’ Philip whispered from his other side. ‘Since Alan was still fulfilling his duties as huntsman until the end of the hunt, it could be argued that Mordon was still his lord until Alan left the hunt at the end of the day.’
‘It does not arise,’ I said fiercely, scarcely choosing to lower my voice. ‘Dozens here will affirm that he was never out of sight.’
Before this could happen, however, the coroner told his officer to bring forth Alan Wodville from his cell. Alan walked in between two servants and stood stiffly before Facherel. He had done his best to neaten his appearance and looked, I thought, what he was, an honest and upright man, without guile. He showed no sign of fear, though he must have been feeling it. The coroner then called on the Lady Edith to repeat her accusation, with such evidence as she could produce. She rose from the bench, where she was sitting at the front of the company, and stalked forward to face the coroner.
‘As all who were present at the hunt breakfast will affirm,’ she said, glancing round with cold eyes and a lip curled in disdain, ‘this churl huntsman had a violent quarrel with my lord before the whole group, shortly before we departed in pursuit of the quarry. My husband had already dismissed him from his position as manor huntsman. He had every reason to hate my lord and seek vengeance against him. Moreover, he is known as the most skilled archer in the neighbourhood. He would have had no difficulty in putting an arrow through my lord, and would have taken pleasure in it.’
The coroner smiled and nodded at her.
‘This seems a most likely solution to the murder. Clearly the man stands justly accused. What say the jurors?’
I hardly realised what was happening, everything was moving too swiftly. All the correct procedures of an inquest were being swept aside and the jurors were being asked – nay, prompted – to declare Alan guilty on the word of one malicious woman, without any evidence, and without any other testimony being brought forward. That close conference between the coroner and the Lady Edith before the inquest took on an unmistakable meaning.
‘Wait!’ I said. I stood up, ignoring all the correct procedures in a court of inquest. ‘There are many here who will testify that Master Wodville was never out of their sight during the entire time of the hunt, and so could never have shot the deceased.’
‘Sit down, fellow!’ Facherel bellowed, his face growing bright red with fury. ‘You will not speak unless called upon, or I shall have you for contempt!’
As I remained standing, he shouted again, ‘Sit down!’
He signalled to two of his servants, who seized me by the arms and forced me down, remaining beside me, continuing to grip me painfully. An angry murmur began to rise from the villagers at the back of the hall, and from the group of dog handlers standing near one of the windows, all of them waiting to give evidence that Alan was innocent.
Before the coroner could again demand a verdict from the jurors, Sir Henry rose to his feet. Clearly Facherel knew who and what he was, and dared not speak to him in the same manner as to me.
‘Master Facherel,’ Sir Henry said, politely but firmly, ‘Master Elyot speaks quite correctly. We have found many witnesses who will swear on oath that Master Wodville could not have shot the deceased. Let us make a beginning with Aelfric, the senior dog handler for the manor, who had the huntsman always in sight.’
‘Call Aelfric,’ Facherel said, with obvious reluctance.
Aelfric came forward, sweating and twisting his cap in his hands, to swear the oath on the Bible held out to him. To do him credit, he declared, clearly and unequivocally, that he had been with the huntsman throughout the chase, until all had made their way home, at a time long past that at which Mordon had been killed. After Aelfric, and taking courage from him, one by one the dog handlers, hunt assistants, and village hunters came forward and swore that Alan Wodville could not have killed Gilbert Mordon. As their numbers swelled, Alan’s rigid stance relaxed, and I saw his eyes fill with tears that so many came to his defence, in defiance of the coroner’s brutal and illegitimate tactics and the fury of Lady Edith, who was most certainly counting up the heads of those she would dismiss from the manor’s service.
When at last the jurors were again asked to give their verdict, they conferred scare five minutes before declaring that the huntsman had no case to answer and that Gilbert Mordon had been killed by some person or persons unknown. Even before the coroner could close the inquest, and in defiance of all due ceremony, the Lady Edith stalked from the room, closely followed by Dunstable and Baverstoke. Facherel had no alternative but to declare an open verdict.
Outside, in the wide courtyard before the manor, Sir Henry, Edmond, and I stood speechless, as Jordain and Philip joined us.
‘Jesu’s wounds!’ Sir Henry said, mopping his brow, ‘that came very close to a hanging verdict without a scrap of evidence.’
Philip made a face. ‘In my opinion, an arrangement had been made in advance. Money, I suspect, had changed hands. Or been promised.’
‘Here is Alan,’ I said.
He came, looking somewhat dazed. ‘Is it over?’
‘As far as you are concerned, it is over,’ I said. ‘But you spoke truly when you said that the shadow will remain until the real killer can be found. So, nay, it is not altogether over.’
‘And there is yet another inquest to be held this day,’ Jordain said. ‘The inquest on the killing of the king’s man. Will it be at once?’
Sir Henry shook his head. ‘The coroner is to be entertained to dinner first, then the inquest on Le Soten will be held. Though there is very little can be said on that murder. No accusations have been made, and as far as I know there is no hint as to who might have killed him.’
‘Then, I suppose,’ I said, ‘after that, they will hold Gilbert Mordon’s funeral, and not before time.’
There was, of course, no dinner for us, nor, with our minds so filled with all these affairs, had we thought to bring food with us, so we kicked our heels, hungry, until the coroner’s officer summoned all to the inquest into the death of Reginald Le Soten. With reluctance, Sir Henry attended the dinner at the manor, in the hope that he might learn something, but when he rejoined us, he shook his head.
‘You will be called to give evidence,’ the coroner’s officer said, nodding toward Sir Henry and me, ‘as you were seen to be in converse with the deceased on the last day of his life.’
I had not expected this, since our meeting with Le Soten had taken place in the morning and many others must have spoken to him later in the day, as he was known still to have been alive at supper time. However, one cannot avoid a summons to give evidence at an inquest, so Sir Henry and I followed the officer to the Great Hall, while Philip, Edmond, and Jordain slipped into the crowd at the back. Alan, however, could not wait to shake the manor dust from his shoes, and set off at a brisk pace to the village, to bring the good news to Beth of the dismissal of the case against him.
Once again we were required to view the body, although Le Soten had not been laid reverently in the chapel, like Mordon. Instead, we accompanied the coroner to one of the outbuildings behind the manor, where his officer unlocked the door and stood aside for us to enter.
Le Soten had been laid out on a rough trestle table. Unlike Mordon, who had clearly been dead some days, Le Soten might have been asleep. He still wore the same nondescript clothes he had worn yesterday in the orchard, his hands lay relaxed at his sides, his eyes closed. Only the thin red line biting deep into his neck showed the outrage done to him. My guess had been correct. His murder had not confronted him face to face and strangled him with his bare hands. Such an attack Le Soten would probably have been able to withstand. It had been a stealthy attack, from the rear, the murderer’s cord cast over his head, throttling him before he could escape. In that, at least, it resembled the murder of Mordon, a coward’s attack from behind.
We grouped ourselves around the table, looking down at the mortal remains of a man who had walked amongst us only hours before.
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‘Is this the man who has been staying at the manor this past week and more?’ The coroner turned to Baverstoke.
‘It is.’
‘Can you name him?’
‘He called himself Reginald Le Soten, but I have heard that he sometimes used other names.’
This provoked a stir amongst us, and I heard Sir Henry draw in his breath.
‘Can any of you here present tell more about this man?’
‘Aye,’ Sir Henry said gravely. ‘I have met him before. At court. He was in the personal employ of the king.’
At that I saw Facherel suddenly disconcerted. It seemed no one had warned him what manner of man he would be dealing with.
‘You are sure?’
‘I am sure.’ Sir Henry directed a glare at Baverstoke. ‘And to the best of my knowledge, Le Soten is his true name. It is slander to suggest any such deception as this man has implied.’
Baverstoke looked uneasy, but said nothing.
‘You were seen in conference with him yesterday morning, in the orchard,’ Facherel said, having recovered at least a veneer of composure. ‘Together with this fellow.’ He jerked his head toward me.
‘Mind your tongue, sir!’ Sir Henry allowed anger to enter his voice. ‘This gentleman is Master Nicholas Elyot, Master of Arts in the university of Oxford. I will thank you to show him due respect. There has been too much arrogance already in the conducting of these affairs.’
I had never seen Sir Henry, usually the most affable of men, put down a man in office quite so decisively. The coroner was certainly taken aback, although he did not reply, but led us in silence back to the house.
As the proceedings of the inquest continued, very little information emerged about Le Soten’s movements and actions for the remainder of his last day. He had spoken to few people, and then merely in passing. Or so, at least, they said. Finally the coroner turned to us.
‘It seems, therefore, that the only conversation of any length held by the deceased yesterday was with you, Sir Henry, and with . . . Master Elyot.’
He got my name out with some difficulty.
‘You will now recount the substance of that conversation.’
I left it up to Sir Henry to respond.
‘Master Elyot and I have been concerned to ascertain who was the true killer of Gilbert Mordon, since we had established that it could not have been the huntsman. In order that no suspicion should be cast over any innocent man, we had been making enquiries in the hope of establishing the truth. Master Le Soten was an outsider, barely known to Master Mordon. We hoped that he might throw some light on events here at the manor, being able to observe matters here with a clear eye. I knew him for a man trusted by the king, and thought he might be able to aid us.’
‘And did he so?’
‘He was certainly able to explain his purpose here, and reveal a number of matters concerning Mordon and his dealings with the king. However, we were told all this in confidence, and I do not feel I can reveal it at present. Perhaps if matters come to trial, that will be the place to speak of it. After permission has been given by His Grace.’
I came near to giving an audible sigh of relief. If Sir Henry had revealed what Le Soten had told us of Mordon’s fraud, of the second will, of Lady Edith’s bastard, and of the king’s servant amongst her waiting women, then any chance of catching the culprit before he fled would have been lost.
It was evident that Facherel was unwilling to allow Sir Henry to maintain the secrecy of Le Soten’s confidences, but although the coroner blustered and threatened, he could not intimidate him. I was grateful I had not to stand up to the man alone, for I was sure he would have used more violent means against me, quite possibly bodily violence. It was a fierce contest of wills between the two men, but no doubt Sir Henry had encountered more formidable enemies on the battlefield.
In the end, there appeared to be nothing which could point the finger at any man for the murder of Le Soten, and so the new jury again could make no decision except that the king’s man had been murdered by strangulation, by some person unknown. Facherel looked mightily discontented with his day’s work, but it must be left to the sheriff’s court to take the matter further, or it might be referred to one of the king’s justices in eyre. I was unclear as to the legal procedures.
Edmond, Philip, Jordain, and I did not stay for the funeral of Gilbert Mordon, aware that our presence would be nothing but an annoyance to the household at the manor.
‘I feel obliged to attend,’ Sir Henry said, ‘and I should like to make my way home tomorrow.’
He had walked halfway down the lane toward the village with us, well out of earshot of the assembled company at the manor.
‘What will become of Le Soten’s body?’ Jordain asked. ‘Do they mean to bury him here?’
‘Nay, word has already been sent to the court. No one here seems to know whether he has any family. It is likely his coffin will be despatched back to London, or to Winchester, if the king is still there.’
‘If I were the king’s servant who is waiting woman to the Lady Edith,’ I said, ‘then I should be watching every shadow with nerves a-stretch. Should she be discovered, her life may not be worth much.’
‘She has two choices,’ Jordain said, ‘so it seems to me. Either she must remain very quiet and discreet, showing no emotion or fear at the murder of Le Soten, or else she must take to her heels and flee the manor before another day passes.’
‘Not easy for a woman alone,’ I said, ‘but since we do not know who she may be, there is no way we can offer help.’
We walked on in sober silence as Sir Henry turned back to the house.
‘As matters stand,’ I said at last, in frustration, ‘these two murders may remain unsolved. I had no love for Mordon, but his death should not pass unregarded. Could we but know what was so distinctive about that arrow! If we could find it, or even if we could make some guess as to what it was like, surely that must point the way directly to the murderer.’
‘It seems that the murder of Le Soten was the worse crime,’ Jordain said slowly. ‘To rob any man of life is a monstrous evil, but Mordon had wronged many, while Le Soten seems to have been a good man, trusted by the king, and acting on his behalf.’
‘It might be easier to find that killer,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘for it must have been someone who knew how to use the garrotte, and who could approach Le Soten undetected from behind. A strong man, skilled in killing, and soft footed.’
We were almost at the end of the lane, where it joined the village street, and the deep shadows of evening lay across our way from a thick hazel copse at the corner. This coppice was another source of dispute between the village and the manor. By long tradition, the coppice wood belonged to the villagers, but because the coppice stood upon the boundary of the manor lands, Mordon had claimed that it was his by right. At the rustling of the bushes, we all stopped, alarmed. There had been a clear conspiracy to misdirect the inquest on Mordon, but might there be danger against us even now? Especially against Edmond and me, as finders of Mordon’s body and witnesses to the exact nature of the fatal injury?
The figure which stepped forth into the slanting bars of the low sun, however, was not that of an armed assassin, but a woman. Silhouetted against the sun, she could not be made out clearly, but as we drew nearer, she took shape as a modest woman of middle years, her gown of excellent quality but a demure dove grey, her hands clasped before her, and a tight-drawn wimple framing a face tense with worry. There was a bundle at her feet.
‘Master Elyot.’ She dropped me a curtsey. Her voice was melodious and cultured. She knew me, it seemed, although I could not recall having seen her before.
‘Mistress, you wished to speak to me?’ I bowed and waited.
She glanced aside at my companions.
‘You may trust the discretion of these gentlemen,’ I said, beginning to guess who she might be.
‘Reginald Le Soten told me I could trust to you and to Sir Henry Talbot,�
�� she said, ‘and I know that Sir Henry remains at the manor, so I have come to you.’
‘I believe you must be the lady he spoke of,’ I said, ‘who also serves the king?’
She inclined her head. ‘I am Alice Walsea,’ she said, ‘and was placed in the Mordon household to gain what knowledge I could of the master’s dealings with the king.’ She gave a tight smile which reminded me so much of Le Soten that I wondered whether they might be related. ‘In the course of my time there I have uncovered other secrets which may have a bearing on the occurrences of the last few days.’
‘Have you any knowledge of who might have killed Le Soten?’ I asked.
‘Knowledge, no. Suspicions, yes. The accusation against the huntsman was always a false trail, intended to divert attention from the household, where the real guilt must lie, but I cannot provide you with any evidence. I have come, instead, to plead for your help.’
‘Anything I or my friends can do for you,’ I said, ‘we shall do gladly.’
‘Late last night, I was seen speaking to Le Soten in the orchard. We have been careful to conceal our knowledge of each other, but this time we were seen.’
‘By whom?’
‘The lawyer. I bade him good e’en and returned to the house. I also passed Master Dunstable on the way. I believe I was the last to see Le Soten alive and that it was one of them who killed him.’
‘Should you not have said so at the inquest?’ Philip said.
She shrugged. ‘I have more care for my own neck than that. My task is to observe and report, not to speak out. But I was seen. After I heard of the second murder this morning, I knew my own life was in danger. I come, therefore, to ask for shelter, until I may return to the court and report to the king.’
‘Certainly, mistress,’ Edmond said, ‘you must return to my home with us. There you will be safe.’
He offered her his arm, and she took it gratefully. She lifted the small bundle from the ground near her feet. It seemed she had fled with very few possessions, yet despite that look of strain she was very composed.