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

by Ann Swinfen

  He took the shaft from me to examine more closely.

  ‘Aye, I think we may say with certainty that this is blood. Not much, but I have seen many arrows which have killed men in battle, and examined them later, when the blood has dried. I would take my oath that this is blood.’

  This was excellent confirmation of what both Jordain and I believed, for Sir Henry had far greater experience than we of violent death, as well as the injuries inflicted by arrows.

  ‘I have been turning all these matters over in my mind, ever since Mistress Walsea identified the owner of the arrow,’ I said, taking the shaft back and turning it so the reddish fragments were clear to see. ‘There is no proof to show who the murderer of either man might be, but the arrow suggests that Lady Edith, or someone acting with her knowledge, shot Mordon. However, Le Soten must have been strangled by a strong man, who knew the use of an assassin’s cord. Dunstable? Baverstoke?’

  Sir Henry frowned. ‘I can see nothing wrong with your reasoning, Nicholas, but it is no kind of proof.’

  ‘That, I understand all too clearly,’ I said ruefully. ‘However, I should like to hand over these parts of the arrow to you, that you may take them to Sheriff de Alveton. He is more likely to heed you than me.’

  ‘I am willing to do so, though he may not heed me either. He will not care for the finger being pointed at the Lady Edith.’

  He took the shaft and the feathers from me and peered at them closely. ‘The sheriff may agree that this is the shaft that killed Mordon, but claim that the feathers are no part of it.’

  ‘As I have said, Alysoun removed them, but I will not have her brought before the sheriff. If you look closely, you will see small fragments of the blue vanes still attached to the shaft.’

  He nodded. ‘Well, I will do my best. I leave for home tomorrow morning. I will call at the farm on my way, and tell you how I have fared.’

  I smiled with relief at having handed the matter over to someone who might hope to make some impression on de Alveton, though I agreed that, with his reputation for minor corruption and bribe taking, the sheriff would be unlikely to pursue a woman of Lady Edith’s standing.

  We both got to our feet, and I brushed the fragments of greenery off my clothes.

  ‘One final thing, Sir Henry. Do you know anything of Sir Thomas Baverstoke’s history? How he came by his knighthood?’

  ‘I know very little about him, I fear. Third or fourth son of a family of northern nobility, I believe. So his was probably a knighthood on the field of battle, not a title inherited from his sire.’

  ‘So he might know the use of the French garrotte?’

  He looked at me shrewdly.

  ‘Aye. Indeed he might.’

  We had reached the stableyard and I was bidding Sir Henry farewell before fetching Rufus, when I turned at the sound of a heavy footstep on the cobbles of the yard. A man of florid complexion, with a fine head of grey hair and wearing a sumptuous gown, came striding toward us. Ignoring me, as clearly being someone of no importance, he addressed my companion.

  ‘Ah, Sir Henry, I thank you for making your statement to my clerk, but there are one or two points I would like to discuss with you, while we have our leisure.’

  Turning his back on me, he took Sir Henry by the arm to draw him away to the house, but Sir Henry stood firm.

  ‘One moment, Sheriff de Alveton. May I present Nicholas Elyot, Master of Arts at the university of Oxford?’

  The sheriff gave me a disparaging look. It was clear that an Oxford Master of Arts was of no more account to him than one of the manor’s household servants. He gave me the briefest of nods in return for my bow, and sought to urge Sir Henry away again. Somewhat stung by his manner, I had kept my bow barely short of insulting. His was a name notorious for corruption in office. He did not merit subservient behaviour.

  ‘Nay, Sheriff. Master Elyot is deep in this business,’ Sir Henry said, ‘as I am. He was one of the finders of the body with me, and he has now discovered most compelling evidence concerning that murder.’

  Sir Henry now allowed himself to be urged slowly back toward the front of the house, but indicated with a slight nod of his head that I should accompany them. With considerable misgiving, I followed a pace or two behind them, while Sir Henry briefly explained the finding of the arrow, the evidence that it was owned by Lady Edith, and the small traces of blood to be found where the head joined the shaft.

  By this point we were standing at the bottom of the steps leading up to the front door of the manor, and Sir Henry handed the arrow shaft to the sheriff, who – to do him credit – had listened carefully and now examined the shaft with close attention.

  Before more could be said, the two men began to climb the steps. I hesitated at the bottom, but Sir Henry urged me on. This was precisely what I had hoped to avoid by handing the parts of the arrow over to him.

  Inside, in the doorway to the Great Hall, they paused.

  ‘So you must agree, Sheriff,’ Sir Henry said, ‘that a blood-stained arrow, removed from the body and thrown into the stream, easily identifiable by the peacock feathers used to fletch it, must point to the owner of that arrow either as the killer or in connivance with that killer.’

  ‘Perhaps, perhaps,’ de Alveton said with reluctance. ‘However, we must take account of other matters. You cannot suggest that someone of Lady Edith’s quality would kill her own husband, nor would she connive with another to do so.’

  ‘I have already told you of Mordon’s second will, disinheriting his wife.’

  The sheriff waved a dismissive hand. ‘Hearsay, Sir Henry. Merely something unsubstantiated, told to you by a person now dead. No such will can be shown to exist.’

  I saw that Sir Henry was keeping a hold on his temper with some difficulty.

  ‘The person in question was a confidential agent of the king. No doubt His Grace will be able to testify to his reliability.’

  I thought de Alveton flinched a little at this. His past dealings with the king cannot have been comfortable.’

  ‘Moreover,’ Sir Henry said, ‘I am sure it would be possible to trace the lawyer who drew up the will. He was due to ride down here for the signing. If news of Mordon’s death has not reached him, he may still do so. If not, Lawyer Baverstoke may well know what other man of law Mordon might have consulted.’

  As if summoned by their words, at that moment Sir Thomas Baverstoke emerged from the Great Hall. He moved very silently, I noticed, and I wondered whether he had been listening at the other side of that open door.

  ‘Ah, Sir Thomas,’ the sheriff said, ‘we have need of you. Can you tell us anything of this reputed new will made by Gilbert Mordon? And do you know the lawyer who drew it up?’

  I thought I caught a brief flicker of alarm in Baverstoke’s eyes, before he lowered them in a semblance of modesty in the presence of the High Sheriff.

  ‘A new will, sir? I am afraid I know nothing of this. But I will make enquiries. I am sure Lady Edith will know if such a thing exists. She has withdrawn to the solar.’

  Bowing deeply, he drew back and turned to where a carved oak staircase led to the upper floor. I had seen his glance drop briefly on the arrow shaft, which the sheriff still held in his hand.

  ‘He lied,’ I breathed in Sir Henry’s ear, while de Alveton’s attention was briefly on the departing figure of the lawyer. ‘I am sure of it. If he speaks to Lady Edith–’

  I had no time to say anything further, but Sir Henry nodded.

  ‘There is more, Sheriff,’ Sir Henry said, ‘which I have not yet had the chance to tell you. Master Elyot has conversed with the missing waiting woman, Mistress Walsea, who it seems was also in the king’s employ, and has now set off to return to him.’

  At this de Alveton’s eyes widened. He looked at me for the first time, but did not speak.

  ‘Master Elyot will be able to tell you what he has learned better than I can do.’

  There was no escape from it. I would have to speak to the sheriff
myself. Taking care to recall Mistress Walsea’s words as closely as I could, I recounted all that she had told me the previous night – Mordon’s physical cruelty to his wife and his alienation of her property. When I spoke of the affair with Dunstable and Lady Edith’s pregnancy, I could see that de Alveton was growing very angry, not with Gilbert Mordon or Lady Edith, but with me. Who would choose to be the bearer of such unwelcome news? Clearly a man such as I had no business to be making these monstrous accusations against a lady of noble birth. This was a situation I had wanted to avoid, but since I found myself trapped in it, I recounted everything as carefully and truthfully as I might.

  When I had finished, de Alveton paced back and forth, saying nothing. We were still standing just inside the front door, which had remained open, and Baverstoke had not yet come down the stairs again.

  ‘Like everything else the two of you have brought to me,’ de Alveton said at last, with a supercilious air, ‘this is all hearsay, passed from one person to the next, without evidence. Did you witness any of this abuse you speak of, Master Elyot? Have you seen this phantom second will? Have you even any real proof that broken arrow belonged to the Lady Edith? Or if it did, that it was not discarded days ago? The marks you claim are blood might be anything. Or indeed, they might be blood, animal blood, since the lady rides to hounds and has no doubt shot game before this.’

  That was a possibility which had not occurred to me. True, it might be animal blood, but why had the arrow been in the stream which ran so close to the spot where Gilbert Mordon had been murdered?

  I had opened my mouth, greatly daring, to refute de Alveton’s arguments, when my attention was drawn to a distant noise from the stableyard. I clamped my jaw shut. I would leave the sheriff to his business, retrieve Rufus from the stables, and ride home. I had told all I knew. Sir Henry still had charge of the arrow shaft and feathers, which he could leave with the sheriff’s clerk. Clear evidence, so we both believed, of Lady Edith’s part in the killing of her husband. Probably I would be summoned to attend the trial, but now all I wanted was to ride back to my children. I wondered whether they had caught any fish.

  Baverstoke was coming down the stairs with slow dignity. His face revealed nothing.

  ‘My lord sheriff,’ he said, with an obsequiousness that seemed false to me. ‘The Lady Edith asks that you might step into the solar. She wishes to explain several matters to you.’

  ‘Very well.’ The sheriff drew away from us, toward the stairs. ‘Will you direct me?’

  ‘I am going to fetch my horse,’ I said, starting toward the door.

  ‘I will come with you as far as the stable,’ Sir Henry said.

  We walked together around the side of the house toward the rear.

  ‘The sheriff is disinclined to believe us,’ I said. ‘Like the coroner he will ignore or twist any facts to suit himself, and ensure the trial proceeds the way he chooses.’

  ‘I fear so.’

  As we neared the stableyard, it seemed to be in some confusion. Grooms and kennel lads were rushing about, or huddled together, muttering. A cloud of dust drifted in the air, settling slowly, as though there had been recent and urgent activity. I remembered the noises I had heard a short while before.

  ‘Will you fetch me my horse?’ I said to the groom who had taken Rufus earlier.

  ‘Aye, maister.’ I thought he looked bewildered, yet excited.

  ‘Has something happened?’

  He nodded. ‘Aye, that there has. Down the back they came, must have used the servants’ stairs, and out through the kitchen. Both carrying bundles, but hardly dressed for a journey. Saddle our horses, they says.’

  Sir Henry had come up behind me. ‘Who said?’

  ‘Why the mistress, sir.’ The groom bowed deep. ‘Lady Edith. And that cousin of the master’s, Dunstable he’s called. That’s it. Master Dunstable, he is.’

  ‘They called for their horses?’ I found I was suddenly short of breath.

  ‘Aye. Wanted them saddled at once, and saddlebags and all. Did not stop to load the saddlebags, though, just tied their bundles on top. Then they was off.’

  ‘Off? Did they say where?’

  ‘Nay, maister. They didn’t take the road to the village neither. Headed the other way.’

  I turned to Sir Henry.

  ‘While we were talking to de Alveton, Baverstoke must have warned them. Lady Edith and Dunstable have fled.’

  I did not stay to witness the sensation which would follow the flight of the most likely suspect for the murder, in the company of her lover. I had had my fill of Leighton Manor and its people. I rode Rufus briskly down to the village and up the lane to the farm, where I met the fishermen returning triumphant with a string of plump trout. I slid down from my horse and on impulse hugged all three children, my own and Stephen too. If I could manage it, I would continue to keep from them the knowledge of the tragic events occurring at the manor. Let them take away from their time in the country only happy memories.

  ‘Your chest is very lumpy,’ Alysoun said, patting the front of my cotte.

  I laughed. I had forgotten the apples. ‘Try these,’ I said. ‘Some of the sweetest apples you will ever taste.’

  There were enough for them to have two each, leaving three to be sliced amongst the older members of the party. Edmond would remember them, and even Margaret had come scrumping with our brother John and Alan and me one year, before she was married off at fourteen.

  Once Rufus was tended, I took my turn with a flail before supper, relieving Philip, who had raised painful blisters on his palms with the labour of the harvest.

  ‘I have grown too soft amongst Merton’s books,’ he said, ruefully studying his hands. ‘As a boy I could do a man’s work at harvest and never suffer for it.’

  ‘Susanna will have a salve for you,’ Edmond said, with sympathy. ‘Go you in now, we shall not be long.’

  I was glad to return to the simple but worthwhile labour in the threshing barn after the dark world of murder and suspicion. Yet I could not shake it from my mind. The sheriff would surely have sent a party of his sergeants and soldiers in pursuit of the Lady Edith and Dunstable. They could not expect to get far before they were overtaken and brought back ignominiously to stand trial, for their flight cried out their guilt aloud. Had they remained and brazened out the accusations, it would have been difficult to prove anything against them for certain.

  And what of Baverstoke? He must have taken the chance to warn them of the closing trap, having overheard the discussion outside the Great Hall. Telling the sheriff that Lady Edith wished to see him was merely a ruse to gain them a little more time. Had they been caught yet? And would Baverstoke also come to trial for aiding their flight?

  Sir Henry had promised to call at the farm on his way home in the morning, so I must contain myself until then. When Susanna called us in to supper, I went readily with the others to wash at the well and sit down to a peaceful meal of onion soup and fresh trout, lightly cooked on a grid set over a small brazier and sprinkled with dill.

  In the event, there was no need to wait until the following morning to hear what had happened at the manor. The children were abed, and the rest of us were thinking of following them, when the clatter of hooves in the yard reached our ears. I followed Edmond to the door to see who could have come to the farm in the falling dark.

  It was Sir Henry, tired and grim faced.

  He slid down from his horse, and his legs buckled. Suddenly he looked more than his fifty-two years. James ran to take his horse by the reins, while Edmond and I hurried out to greet him.

  ‘Are they taken?’ I asked. ‘Dunstable and the Lady Edith?’

  He straightened, pressing his fists into the small of his back, and shook his head.

  ‘Got clean away.’ He smiled grimly. ‘I do not think the sheriff’s men exerted themselves with any great zeal to overtake them. But there is more.’

  ‘More?’ I could not think what he meant.

  ‘Sir Thomas Ba
verstoke is dead.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Sir Harry passed a hand over his face. He looked suddenly worn thin, like an old silver penny which has been rubbed away by passing through many hands. I felt guilty that I had unloaded on to him all the evidence of the arrow and the revelations made by Mistress Walsea. As I boy I had always known him as my father’s friend, although he was a few years younger. Still in my mind I leaned on him, yet I was the stronger man now and should not have burdened him. Moreover, living at the manor while all these events had been occurring would have taken a toll on any man.

  ‘Come within, Sir Henry,’ I said slipping my arm through his. ‘Take a cup of spiced ale and tell us what you can when you have rested.’

  He gave me a wry smile. ‘Aye, lad, that would be welcome, for it will not be pleasant in the telling.’

  As James led his horse away to the barn, we walked across to the house.

  ‘Why do you not pass the night with us here?’ Edmond said. ‘There is no need for you to return to the manor.’

  ‘I should be glad of that. My man can bring my belongings here from the manor before we leave on the morrow.’

  Once we were withindoors, Susanna hurried to heat a pan of spiced ale, while Margaret drew a cushioned chair for Sir Henry close to the kitchen hearth and Beatrice made up the cooking fire, which had already been covered for the night. Despite that it was still late summer, we had all seen Sir Henry shiver, though I thought the chill came from within, rather than from without. Hilda and Thomas, I was glad to see, had already followed the younger children to bed. When James came in, he sat down quietly in a corner.

  We were all glad of the spiced ale, I believe. Susanna offered food, but Sir Henry shook his head.

  ‘I supped at the manor, Mistress Elyot. I have no need of food, but I will be happy to accept your husband’s offer of a bed tonight.’

  None of us wished to hurry him, but I found I was fretting to know the truth. Had Baverstoke, too, been murdered? If so, all our conclusions about the original murders must be at fault, for surely there could not be yet another killer at the manor.