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

by Ann Swinfen

  Together, the five of us made our way slowly back to the farm, almost in silence. If Mistress Walsea wished to tell us more, she would do so in her own time.

  Susanna accepted the arrival of yet another guest in her crowded household with an appearance of equanimity, though I am sure she was turning over in her mind how the lady might be accommodated. For it was clear that Mistress Walsea, for all her position as a waiting woman to the Lady Edith, was herself of good birth. While Margaret and Beatrice bustled about, preparing a supper for us all, Susanna beckoned Hilda to follow her upstairs, where they could be heard walking about overhead, rearranging the bedchambers.

  The children were given their meal first, before being sent away – protesting somewhat – to bed. Clearly both Alysoun and Stephen were alive with curiosity about the new visitor, so elegant but so silent. Even when the adults sat down to supper, Mistress Walsea said little. She seemed, however, to become easier as time passed and no knock came at the door. Whether anyone at the manor might guess whither she had fled, I could not tell. They might suppose she had set off for Burford, as the nearest town, but so late in the day, and without a horse, they could not have thought it likely. Perhaps men from the manor had already been sent in pursuit along the road to Burford, hoping to overtake a woman on foot. Or perhaps she had not yet even been missed. Like Le Soten, she possessed the ability to blend quietly into the background.

  When we had eaten and drawn round the small summer fire, I took a stool next to Mistress Walsea.

  ‘You need tell me nothing you do not wish, mistress,’ I began, hoping that she might make matters clearer, ‘but you have said you believe either Dunstable or Baverstoke killed Le Soten. Do you have any notion who killed Gilbert Mordon?’

  She shook her head. ‘I attended the hunt breakfast with Lady Edith’s other waiting women, but I remained there with all those who did not hunt and saw nothing.’

  As she spoke, I had that sense again that she reminded me of Le Soten.

  ‘Forgive me if I speak out of turn,’ I said, ‘and do not answer if you think so, but are you related to Reginald Le Soten?’

  She smiled sadly. ‘He was my cousin. When I was left a widow, with little means, he found me a position in the king’s service, like his.’ She sighed. ‘He was a good man, you know. Honest and loyal.’ Her eyes grew angry. ‘It was not true, what they whispered about him at the manor.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘They said he was the king’s assassin. When I was tending to Lady Edith’s gowns, I heard her speaking with Lawyer Baverstoke in the next chamber. He said that if they could not persuade the coroner that the huntsman shot Master Mordon, then they should turn the blame on my cousin, for he was the king’s assassin, sent here to dispose of Mordon for cheating the king over the value of Leighton Manor. It was no such thing. The king wanted the man taken to court and publicly shamed. Reginald was a lawyer before he became an intelligencer for the king. He knew that if the case came to court, Mordon would be found guilty. The value of the manor speaks for itself, and the king holds the fraudulent documents Mordon produced. Of course Baverstoke was party to the fraud, so it was no surprise that he would have liked to pin Mordon’s murder on Reginald.’

  ‘A plan which clearly went awry when Le Soten himself was killed,’ I said.

  ‘That is true.’

  ‘How long have you been in the Lady Edith’s service?’

  ‘Near enough a year.’

  ‘And what do you make of the lady? She seems . . . very angry.’

  She smiled bitterly. ‘I did not care for her, but she has good cause to be angry.’ She paused and drew breath. ‘You yourself witnessed how Mordon attempted to rape that little serving maid, scarcely out of sight of his wife. She was far from the first of his victims. He had an appetite that could not be satisfied, and he humiliated Lady Edith from the time of their marriage, as I have been told by her other waiting women. Worse, he beat and abused her, and she a lady far above him in rank. Her family brought lustre to his mean, money-lending life. More than that. Her family, although of ancient nobility, has fallen into straitened means, yet she was well dowered in land and coin, the most they could afford. He stripped her of all. Selling her lands and seizing her gold.’

  ‘But her dower would be protected in law,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Nay, for he had practised so cleverly that his schemes avoided any claims she might make. The man was a brute, but a cunning one. Abused, humiliated, impoverished – she led a most miserable life. As I say, I did not like her, but I could feel some pity for her, and I could understand why she held herself so proud and arrogant.’

  She smiled. ‘Though I did not care for it when she used me with that selfsame arrogance and pride.’

  ‘And so she took a lover,’ I said.

  She shrugged. ‘Little wonder. John Dunstable is a personable young man, near her own age, and though of lower rank than she he is better born than his kinsman Mordon. He has taken good care to please her. I believe there is true affection between them, not merely lust.’

  This woman was certainly frank and unsparing in her speech. I hoped my sister was far enough away not to hear our words, for I feared she might take against Mistress Walsea for her unwomanly outspokenness. As for myself, I found I admired her courage and sharp intelligence.

  ‘Now the lady is with child, their affair must come to light,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, Mordon had guessed it, I think, a month or so ago. They have not been as cautious as they might. Whether he was quite sure that she was with child, I do not know, but he was able to see which way the wind blew, and knew from years of bedding many women that he could not get a child himself. It is little wonder he decided to make a new will.’

  ‘By all you have told me,’ I said slowly, ‘and from what Le Soten told Sir Henry and me yesterday, those who would benefit most from Mordon’s death are the Lady Edith and Dunstable. They had far greater reason for murder than the huntsman, or any of the villagers who held a grudge against him for his petty tyrannies, even the man Matt Grantham, whom he threatened to reduce to villeinage.’

  ‘I know nothing of that.’

  ‘It would never have succeeded. I think even Matt understood that, despite his anger. He was present at the hunt, and he can use a bow as well as any man, but Sir Henry is certain the shot came from someone on horseback. Like the other villagers, Matt was afoot.’

  I pondered, locking my hands about my knees and staring into the dying embers of the fire. I realised that almost everyone else had slipped away to bed while we were talking. Susanna dozed with her sewing fallen into her lap, waiting to see her guest to bed, and Jordain was listening quietly to what was being said.

  ‘Aye,’ I said slowly, ‘the greatest benefit would fall to the Lady Edith and Dunstable, yet there is no evidence against them more than any other who took part in the hunt. Perhaps the killer will never be found. Forgive me, mistress, I have kept you from your bed, and you must be tired after such a day. What do you plan to do next?’

  ‘If your cousin will be kind enough,’ she said, ‘I should like to borrow a horse and a man to escort me to Burford. I can return the horse from there and find a carter or some other means to travel south to Winchester, where I may report to His Grace.’

  ‘I am sure he will lend you both, and gladly,’ I said.

  The following morning I did not rise as early as I had intended. I found only the women and children in the kitchen, the men having already gone to the threshing, all except Thomas, who was sent to herd the cattle from the meadow on to the field of wheat stubble to feed. Already the rain storm had brought forth the first shy blades of new grass to provide grazing, as well as the remains of the wheat stalks. Mistress Walsea had her bundle packed, ready to travel.

  ‘You plan to leave at once?’ I asked.

  ‘As soon as the horses are ready. Your cousin’s eldest son will go with me to Burford, then bring back my horse on a leading rein. If I cannot find a carter to
take me south today, I will surely find one tomorrow morning.’

  ‘It is best you were away from Leighton Manor before they come looking for you,’ I said.

  ‘Aye, and it is best I reach His Grace with the news of Reginald’s murder. He will want a reckoning.’

  ‘And for Mordon’s murder?’

  ‘That will not touch him so close, though it will set astray his intention of exposing the man’s fraud.’

  At that moment James came in to say that the horses were saddled and ready. It was no surprise to me that Mistress Walsea chose to ride a horse astride herself, rather than go pillion behind James. They would make better time.

  Her thanks and farewells were soon spoken to Susanna, and I went with her out to the yard, where the horses were tethered.

  ‘If there is any news about either murder,’ I said, ‘I will send you word. You will remain at Winchester?’

  ‘As long as the king is there. I heard that the sheriff had been sent for, before I left the manor. Perhaps he will be able to find out the killers and bring them to justice.’

  I shook my head. ‘He will have little enough to go on, and he does not have the cleanest of reputations, Master John de Alveton. He has been fined for corruption before this.’

  ‘Send me word, whatever befalls.’ She smiled at me. ‘God go with you, Master Elyot.’

  ‘And with you, mistress.’

  As they rode off in a cloud of dust, which danced silver-gilt in the morning light, I went back into the kitchen to salvage something to break my fast, amongst the busy work of salting beans that was in progress there. Alysoun had begun by helping but soon grew tired of it and ran off. When she returned, she held something out to me.

  ‘See what I found! Aren’t they pretty? Could I make them into quills, or are they too short?’

  I swallowed the last of my bread and washed it down with ale before I took what she handed me. It was a bunch of three feathers, iridescent in blues and greens, but trimmed and cut short.

  ‘Nay, my pet, there is not enough of the shaft left to make a quill, even for your small hands.’

  I laid them out on the corner of the table I had managed to secure for myself, away from the kitchen work.

  ‘I’ve never seen such pretty feathers,’ she said.

  ‘They come from a peacock. Curious, for there are no peacocks hereabouts, not even at the manor. Some noblemen like to keep them, strutting about on their estates. I have sometimes see them, when I have ridden out to my rich customers in the country.’

  ‘Do they sing as beautifully as they look?’

  I laughed. ‘Nay! They have the most terrible cries. They scream like a soul in torment. I would never keep them, despite their beauty. The cocks have huge tails, like a queen’s fan, strolling about in their pride before the hens. It is those tails the nobles like.’ I turned the feathers over. ‘Wherever did you find these?’

  ‘Oh they were not lying about in the grass. I will show you.’

  She ran off again, and returned holding up a smooth stick before her like a king’s sceptre. ‘They were stuck on this, but I only wanted the feathers.’

  Even as I took it from her, I had a sudden flash, a premonition of the truth. It was an arrow, now lacking its flight feathers.

  ‘Where did you find this?’ I asked quietly, so as not to alarm her. ‘And when?’

  ‘It was the day of the hunt. We stayed in that clearing where we had our meal, you remember? It was boring after a while, for we didn’t see anything of the hunt, and we couldn’t come home until you came back. I walked along the stream for a way, and this came floating along. I fetched it out.’ She looked at me anxiously. ‘I didn’t do wrong, did I? Someone had thrown it away, they didn’t want it any more, and the feathers were so pretty.’

  ‘Nay, you didn’t do wrong.’

  I turned the denuded arrow over in my hands, then carried it to the open door to examine it more closely in the better light. The thing had been in the stream, but not, perhaps, for long. In the grooves where the iron head was bound to the shaft, there were still traces of a brown stain. Blood. I was certain of it.

  ‘May I borrow this?’ I said. ‘And the feathers too? You shall have them back. Or else I will get you a whole peacock’s feather in their place.’

  She looked for a moment doubtful, then she nodded.

  I stowed both shaft and feathers carefully in my scrip, then ran as fast as I could to the barn. It took but a few minutes to put on Rufus’s bridle, but I did not bother with a saddle. If my luck held, I would not be going far. Rufus showed no surprise when I mounted, and set off down the farm lane at an easy canter.

  Once we reached the village street, which led to the Burford road, I crouched down and urged Rufus to a gallop. James and Mistress Walsea had not been long gone. They would travel briskly, but would not drive their horses hard. It was no great distance to Burford.

  I overtook them in about five miles. Hearing the sound of galloping hooves behind them, they looked over their shoulders in alarm, but, at the sight of me, they relaxed and reined in.

  ‘What’s amiss, Cousin Nicholas?’ James said.

  ‘Not amiss,’ I said. ‘Something has been found, and I need Mistress Walsea’s knowledge of the manor’s household.’

  I reined in Rufus beside her and drew both arrow shaft and peacock feathers out of my scrip.

  ‘Now, mistress, I know you must have had little dealing with the hunting gear, but perhaps you can tell me who was the owner of this arrow.’

  She leaned across from her saddle and touched the feathers with her finger tip.

  ‘Certainly these I have seen, for they were not kept with the other gear. These arrows were made especially for the Lady Edith.’

  Chapter Eleven

  I rode back to Leighton-under-Wychwood at no more than a walking pace. If Rufus was puzzled at the abrupt change from our outward gallop to this demure return, he accepted it, as always, placidly. As I made my way back toward the village, I reviewed what I knew or guessed about the killings at the manor. It had begun to seem, from quite soon after the discovery of Mordon’s murder, that the person who would benefit most from his death was the Lady Edith. From the moment I had first seen them together I had noticed the coldness between husband and wife, and her evident preference for the young and comely Dunstable. Mordon’s assault and attempted rape of Susanna’s young servant girl in front of so many witnesses had been humiliating for Lady Edith. Looking back on it now, I wondered whether Mordon had been urged on as much by a desire to hurt Lady Edith as to yield to his notorious lust.

  Reginald Le Soten’s revelations about the second will and the lady’s pregnancy, followed by Alice Walsea’s account of Mordon’s physical abuse of his wife and the alienation of her property, made her guilt all the more likely. Lady Edith’s instant and loudly proclaimed accusations against the huntsman were now revealed as a crude attempt to divert attention from herself and lay the blame for the murder on a convenient scapegoat. No wonder that Lawyer Baverstoke and her other friends had regarded me with such hostility, when they realised I was bent on proving Alan could never have had the opportunity to fire the fatal arrow. And later, whether or not a bribe had been offered to the coroner to ensure a guilty verdict on the huntsman, the earnest conference between Lady Edith, Dunstable, Baverstoke, and Facherel, immediately before the inquest, was certainly open to that interpretation, as was the coroner’s hasty demand that the jurors return a verdict before any evidence of Alan’s innocence could be produced. However, it was unlikely that corruption could be proved against any of them, as long as they were all locked in a mutual self-serving silence.

  The outlying cottages of the village had come into sight, but I was not yet clear what my next action should be. I now had in my possession the parts of an arrow that Mistress Walsea had identified as belonging to the Lady Edith. If she recognised them, then surely many other members of the manor household would also do so, even if some would be unwilling to admi
t it. I could not absolutely prove that this was the arrow which had killed Mordon, however much the evidence seemed to point that way. The traces of some reddish-brown substance in the grooves and binding where the arrow head met the shaft certainly appeared to be blood. The arrow cannot have been long in the waters of the stream when Alysoun retrieved it, although the grooves were so deep that even longer immersion might not have washed all away. If this was the murder weapon, there would originally have been a great deal of blood on both the arrow head and much of the shaft, possibly together with fragments of flesh and cloth, but these had vanished in the stream.

  Whoever had fired the arrow had taken the first opportunity to dispose of it. I had been assuming from the outset that it had been burned in one of the manor fireplaces, but that would have meant the murderer carrying the arrow for the rest of the hunt, in amongst others in the quiver, where the blood might have stained more arrows and even the quiver itself, pointing the finger clearly at the identity of the killer. Instead, the killer had thrown the arrow into the stream, where it might, with luck, be lost. If it had been found much later, it would have been washed clean and could be explained as an unlucky shot which had gone astray, missing its target. It argued a cool and decisive mind behind the action, especially as the murderer had seized an unforeseen opportunity to kill Mordon when it offered. None of us could have known in advance that he would lead half the hunt into that confused ride through the dense woodland.

  I tried to recall the course of the stream from the days when I had roamed Wychwood as a boy. I knew that it flowed through the trees not far from where we had found Mordon’s body. After the point where the arrow must have been thrown in, the stream made a slow loop around an area of slightly higher ground, before curving back and running straight for a short distance, then passing alongside the clearing where we had eaten the hunt breakfast. Following this long hot summer, the level of the stream would have been low until a few days ago, when the recent storm had filled the watercourses, though that particular stream had never been very large. It emerged eventually from the wood and joined the larger and more vigorous stream which drove both the manor mill and the smaller mill on my cousin’s lands.