by Lesley Lodge
‘But why?’ Wayland asked, with such force that saliva sprayed from his mouth, ‘Why?’
‘They split the noses,’ Mary said, ‘slit the whole nose, right from bottom to top, as a lasting sign to others, so that anyone and everyone would know these women to be whores. That’s what was said. But to my thinking, it was more likely to justify their own evil actions, to persuade people there was some purpose to it. There was some talk too that they mistook those Welsh women for Irish women, as if that justifies it. If you ask me, though, in that moment, it was just that they hated all womankind, pure and simple.’
They were both quiet a long while. ‘I can – just about – follow that,’ said Wayland, ‘though I’m not – not at all, you must understand – not at all saying that I condone it. But what I must return to, is why the boy?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Mary in a slow voice, ‘could it be, perhaps, that it was about the boy’s mother?’ Her words sent a shock snaking through Wayland’s chest and his mind filled with images of knives slashing his own wife, his own son. In a haze, he gave Mary a brief farewell. She did not reply though, and he went towards his horse.
He was about to mount when a thought struck him. ‘Wait,’ he said, ‘there’s something you’re not saying. Mary, what is it?’
‘They say,’ she said, ‘though I don’t know the truth of it – they say that Rebecca was slashed something like that. I’d not thought of a meaning, though, until you drew those marks.’
Wayland couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. He just left.
11.
Wayland kicked on his horse so as to cover the ground more quickly on his way back. His visit to Mary had resulted in more information but yet, at the same time, he felt more pain, confusion and frustration than when he’d set off. He could think of nothing he could do with the information other than, he supposed, report it back to the magistrate. He knew though that if he ever caught up with the killer – would it be one killer? – anger would explode in him. Rebecca. The boy. Just a young boy. In what world could that ever be justified?
When he called at the magistrate’s house, he saw with some satisfaction, that Stane was a little less arrogant on opening the door and went away without a word to fetch the magistrate. Wayland told Geddingly what he’d heard about the slashed face wounds and their possible symbolism. It was only right that the magistrate should have all relevant facts if, as directed by the coroner, he was to look into the matter. He told him briefly that he had explored some possible explanations of the patterns in the dead boy’s wounds ‘with one well versed in such things,’ he said, being careful to keep Mary’s name out of it. He knew that as a traditional ‘wise woman’ she – and certainly her remedies – would be regarded with deep suspicion by many men in these times but most especially so by a puritan such as the magistrate.
‘Lord knows the Papists and their allies get up to evil deeds and murdering children is an evil deed for certain. As all know who care to know, the King is a Catholic in his heart, whatever he claims in public. So I’m inclined to think it does indeed look like this points to a King’s man as suspect,’ said Geddingly, ‘but as my man has – I understand – told you already, the King’s men look to be coming this way. They’re closing in even now. And as the magistrate, I am the only authority Parliament has here right now. What can I, one man, do against an army? The King’s men would be in no mood to hear about this. Even to mention aught about it could set off violence. My first duty is to ensure order is kept here as far as possible while our villages suffer the King’s men’s stay, if indeed they come. And for the sake of our villages I will not want to give them any cause to stay an hour longer than they need.’
Wayland thought a while. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose I can see that. But as I think, there is naught, is there, to hold back the boy’s uncle from asking around? I’m talking about the Welsh baker as he is the man who may be that poor lad’s only relative.’
Geddingly picked at some piece of fluff on his coat, unconvinced.
‘I’m remembering the coroner’s words,’ Wayland said, ‘he said someone needed to, ah, make enquiries. So, if not the baker, how about myself? Since, of course, you know me to be a sober man, one who has paid his dues and fought for our side?’
‘Don’t you be telling me of my responsibilities. And don’t ask for my approval. The less I have to do with this the better.’ Even as he said this Geddingly flushed, shamefaced. ‘At this moment.’ he added.
Geddingly moved towards the door. Wayland moved faster so that he was between him and the door. He then stood there, blocking it, fixing him with a stare until finally Geddingly looked him in the eye.
‘Go then if you must. Come back, though, when the King’s men have gone,’ he said, dropping his voice, ‘let me know what you find out – if you find out anything.’
Wayland knew that this was as close as he would get to an instruction to investigate further. He stepped back to let the magistrate pass and the man was straightaway gone, retreated back into the house. Before Wayland could call out his thanks or farewell, though, Stane popped his small round face out, gave a malicious smirk and snatched the heavy door shut.
Alun’s house was only a little out of Wayland’s way home. He decided to call in, to let him know what he’d reported to the magistrate. As he turned the corner into the little street for Alun’s house his horse nearly trod on a small girl who was poking sticks down the rat holes that inevitably surrounded any bakery. Alun himself came out when he heard Wayland and the girl talking. ‘Good day,’ he said, wiping his floury hands on his apron, ‘come on in. I owe you a jar.’
‘Or two,’ said Wayland, seeing that Alun’s mood was much improved. He tethered the horse. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘I’ve some progress to report.’
Alun looked up, expectant.
‘Nay, I’ve not found the killer. Nor even your delinquent brother in law.’
They went in and over the first jar of ale Wayland gave Alun a short account of what he’d been told and what he’d reported to the magistrate. Again, he kept Mary’s name out of it, even though he knew he would trust Alun a great deal further than he would the magistrate. Alun listened in silence. ‘So we’re not much further forward really, are we?’ he said after Wayland had finished.
‘No,’ said Wayland, ‘but we do have leave – of sorts – to look further into this.’
‘But I’ve news too,’ said Alun, ‘do you remember what I was saying before, about our Agnes?’
‘She ran off with a soldier some years back?’
‘That’s right. Shamed us all. Ran off with one of Prince Rupert’s foot soldiers.’ He spat onto the mud floor.
‘Have you found her then?’ Wayland asked.
‘No. But I have heard word that the bastard she ran off with has been seen, spotted in this county. Alone.’
‘Alone? That’s … not good, I suppose.’
‘Seems to me he must’ve left her, and God knows where she is or how she is now. Carter his name is. He was a nasty type anyhow – as I told you, I never trusted him. Beat his horse for a start. And there was just something about him.’
Wayland nodded in agreement. In his trade he had seen many horses made ill, infected through spur or whip cuts inflicted by their owners. Most men did it because they didn’t know better, because they simply wanted to make a horse do something the horse didn’t want to do or was just plain too scared to do. Every now and again, though, he’d come across someone who actually enjoyed hurting the animal. He had found that such men were always – with no exception – unpleasant and cruel in their dealings with women and family too.
‘I’m planning to seek him out, to find out about Agnes – and the boy,’ Alun said and then added, ‘I could use some company – would you be in for that? We’d probably be away three days or more.’
Wayland thought a while. He was pleased that Alun had recovered
somewhat but he doubted that it was likely a full recovery. As regards to himself, well, business was slack, and without Rebecca the smithy – nay, the whole village – was bleak to him. His recent contact with Alun was pretty much the only protracted human contact he’d had in a long while other than the silent company of his son. Plus, he was feeling a real need to delve further into the matter of whether Alun’s nephew might be the dead boy. The murder was so wrong that something must be done about it and it didn’t look as though anyone else was likely to take it up. Besides, looking into things had been part of his life, an interest that relieved the tedium of daily life. Until the matter of the runaway horse and the missing rider it had been a long while since he’d been asked to investigate or advise on anything.
‘Where in this county?’ he said, at last, ‘Where is it that have you heard he is?’
‘Somewhere north of Witham is what I heard. Drinking himself stupid no doubt. If – as seems likely – he is no longer with the army then we have some chance to find him still there, I reckon.’
‘Witham. That’s a fair ride out,’ said Wayland, ‘and if we’re away a several nights or more, as you say, then I’d have to take the boy.’
‘You do? Is he not of an age to be left?’
‘In normal times, yes,’ said Wayland, ‘but these are not normal times. In the state he’s in, not talking and that, and after what happened before when I was away, I’ll not be leaving him behind. I suppose we could settle him somewhere in town, when we get there.’
‘So you’re in?’ Alun thumped the table, bringing up a cloud of flour, ‘We’ll sort ourselves out and set off tomorrow, shall we?’
‘I suppose so.’ said Wayland. He stood to leave.
‘Bring something from the smithy, then.’ said Alun, winking.
‘Something?’
‘Something heavy, like – something you can use as a weapon.’
‘It’s to be like that is it?’ said Wayland, ‘Didn’t you just say you wanted to find out about Agnes? You’ve not got some kind of revenge planned?’
‘I think the man who’s obsessed with revenge is you, not me,’ said Alun, ‘and anyhow I doubt we’ll need to get rough if he’s the drunkard I think he is. But it’s best to be prepared. So… bring something.’
12.
Wayland was on his way back home, just reaching the outskirts of his village, when his eye caught a small movement, by the animal enclosures. The far one was empty, save for some crows picking over the droppings, but just beyond them he saw a man crouched over the well, his arms working at the chain. Wayland could just make out a flat–ended, coned hat fixed to the chain in place of a bucket. The man sucked up water greedily. Wayland nudged the horse over towards him.
‘Hello there, stranger. Who might you be and what is your business?’ Wayland called out.
‘Don’t hurt me, sir,’ the words were intoned dully; the man’s eyes downcast, as if he had no energy left for fear.
‘Have you lost your horse?’ Wayland asked, riding over to the man.
‘Horse… I’ve been walking. Ah, have you food, please sir?’
‘Have you money?’
‘I have the Lord and he shall provide. Maybe you are his instrument, sir?’
A door slammed somewhere in the distance and immediately the man crouched down, his face finally alive.
‘Don’t let them find me. Look – look, what they did.’ He pulled up his jerkin and then the ruffs of his tattered sleeves. The flesh beneath was torn and infected.
‘Who did that? The army?’ Wayland asked, knowing full well that neither of the two armies would thank him for helping an enemy.
‘No, Sir, not the army. Neither of them. Nor the Justice either. Let me tell you later. I must get away.’
Wayland hesitated. If neither military was responsible, he reasoned, it was probably men from the villages. Most of the law–abiding ones were still signed up to one army or the other – or dead. Wayland had experienced first hand the hostility of those left behind, even before they’d turned on Rebecca. And he knew what it felt like to be an outsider; he had long thought of himself as an outsider. Blacksmiths were not gentry of course, but they were not as poor as most other folk either. So his instinct gave him some sympathy for this man. He hoisted the man up and laid him over the horse, explaining his hope was that, from a distance, his load might pass for firewood.
Back at the smithy, Wayland saw immediately that Jonathan was out, but he said nothing to his guest. He led him straight through to the living area and set out what food he had: some rye bread and a little herbed oat porridge. He saw that despite an obvious hunger, the man ate in a mannerly way.
‘Are you a godly man then?’ his guest asked, looking at Wayland’s meagre belongings.
Wayland considered a moment. These days a man’s place on the spectrum of religious fervour could, and often did, cost him dear. ‘We are all godly men now. Aren’t we?’ he said. He searched the man’s face for signs of either enthusiasm or scepticism, but what he saw was defiance.
‘What’s your name?’ Wayland asked.
The man hesitated, looking quickly around. ‘Erasmus,’ he said finally, ‘Erasmus Fynche’
‘Wayland, blacksmith of this parish some twenty years.’ Wayland replied. He waited, but there was no rejoinder. ‘Well, what’s your story?’
Silence. Wayland looked directly at the man but found it uncomfortable. Part of the left ear was missing and he tried, out of common courtesy, not to focus on it.
‘What am I to do with you?’ Wayland burst out at last, ‘The law has it that I should report all newcomers to the Magistrate, whether they be visiting relatives or felons.’
‘I am a simple man, passing through, with no friends in this place,’ the man said, ‘and I find that the men here are uncouth.”
Wayland stared at him, trying to hide a growing repulsion for the man and his whiny yet pompous composure. He took him through the stabling area. Wayland’s horse snickered, happy at first to see Wayland. But the other horse laid its ears back flat on to its head and backed away when it saw Erasmus.
‘Well. Sir, are you sure you do not know this horse? A man who knows horses might assume that this horse knows you,’ Wayland said, “even though you told me you had no horse.’
‘Yes, yes, all right, that’s my horse,’ the man said, ‘the brute threw me.’
‘What startled him?’
‘Nothing startled him. He’s simply evil. Evil through and through.’
‘I’ve never met an evil horse,’ Wayland said, ‘there’s generally some reason for bad behaviour.’
‘Let’s not talk of it, though I suppose I must thank you for finding him.’ Erasmus replied.
‘Don’t thank me,’ Wayland said, ‘a couple of men from the village found him.’
‘It is somewhat dark now,’ said Erasmus, ‘might I trouble your hospitality a little more?’
‘You may stay the night, if that’s what you want,’ Wayland said, ‘but no more than that. I’ve only animal bedding to offer but ‘tis clean.’
‘Thank you, blacksmith Wayland’
There was a silence then and Wayland decided that anyway he was in no mind for further talk either. Instead, he pointed Erasmus to the long–deserted pig stall next to the smithy and gestured for him to bed down on the straw.
Later, Wayland heard his son come back in and go through to the stable. He guessed he’d be fussing over the new horse. He listened a while, remembering his guest’s description of the animal as evil but he heard only the sound of gentle patting. Wayland sat a while by the stove, supping a small beer before calling the boy in. Wayland realised that just as Erasmus was ignorant of the boy’s existence, so too was the boy unaware of Erasmus. He decided, though, not to mention their visitor. He reasoned with himself that it would only upset Jonathan to think that they’d be los
ing the horse. He realised also, though, that he was somehow uneasy about Erasmus. He double–barred the door. When he finished his ale, he called the boy and together, without further words, they went into the sleeping area adjoining the smithy.
It was a long time, though, before sleep came for Wayland. His mind conjured, as it did most nights, over and over, his revenge on those who killed Rebecca. He saw himself ask each faceless man after another that appeared to him, why? Why Rebecca? Someone had told him once the parish paid out handsomely to witch–finders. forty shillings a witch, they’d said. That was more even than Cromwell’s foot soldiers got for two months’ hard slog. What had been Rebecca’s price? Who received the money? Who paid it out? But again, and most of all, why? These thoughts gave way, after a while, to nearly as many questions about the dead boy but eventually he did fall into a restless sleep.
Next morning, Wayland started laying out his implements in the smithy. His guest, he assumed, was still asleep in the pig stall. There was a sudden loud pounding on the door. Wayland just managed to kick shut the inner door, blocking off access to the sleeping area and the back of the smithy, before Stane, the magistrate’s runner, burst in. Again, his face was distorted by that self–important sneer.
‘The Parish is looking for a fugitive,’ he said, ‘a man on the run.’
‘And?’ asked Wayland, allowing his disinclination to help to be obvious.
‘And I thought perhaps you’d seen him.’ Stane’s tone made it not so much a question as an accusation.
‘What’s this one wanted for? Murder? Thieving?’ asked Wayland.
‘No,’ said Stane, only a little deflated and embarrassed, ‘it’s, well, it’s that he’s not from round here. That’s serious enough, in these times, is it not?’