by Rosie Lear
It was all a never ending circular trap, thought Matthias, wearily. He pulled himself back from half sleep with an effort. The fire hissed gently on the vast grate in the centre of the room. Murmured conversation from other travellers behind him washed over his consciousness… words which meant nothing to him at first.
“There was no sign of it near the girl.”
“Her house was burned to the ground, - no chance of any discovery there.”
“If it was in the house, it’s certainly burned to pieces now. We saw to that alright.”
“The young man needs careful watching – he was near her house that night
“Would you know him again?”
“Oh, yes. I know him. I don’t know how he’s come to be involved, but he needs watching.”
“It was foolish to kill the girl so soon – quite unnecessary.”
“Don’t know how much she knew.”
“Can’t get anything out of the boy.”
Suddenly alert, Matthias moved his head, trying to focus his eyes without turning round and drawing attention to himself. They said they could recognize the man. Was he the man, or were they talking about Davy? He had no way of knowing.
Two well dressed travellers of merchant class were conversing softly together quite close to Matthias. One had a small dark beard, and there was a third man with his back to Matthias.
“How much do you think the Glover knows?”
“Hard to say – watch the shop for a day or two.”
He closed his eyes again, alert now, but the conversation had died away. After a suitable interval, Matthias stood up and stretched lazily. His clothes had dried, although he felt dirty and unkempt. Without apparently glancing in their direction, Matthias strode out towards the stables. His horse was there, and whilst the boy saddled him, Matthias was able to look over the other mounts now in the stable. There were several, but he thought he recognized one by the size, - he’d seen it rear up and thunder towards Davy before he’d hurled stones at it.
He dared not return to the hall to have a closer look at the three men for fear of being recognized – and it might be that he was the man they’d been talking about. He hoped it was Davy , for there was no way of disguising his own distinctive auburn hair.
If they were the men who had attacked Lydia’s house, they might well have had a good view of himself as he’d hurled stones, and to be recognized would spoil his chances of helping Sir Tobias.
Matthias mounted his horse thoughtfully and trotted up Cheap Street to join the well worn track towards Shaftesbury which would pass through Milborne Port. What was it that these men wanted from the brother, or from Mary? How had Ben become involved? There was obviously a piece of information missing from their information. Mary, her brother and Ben were linked to something dangerous – dangerous enough for murder.
He felt he might be a little closer to a thread of truth, although right now he needed a change of clothes, a talk with Davy to clear his mind, and then tomorrow without further delay, a ride to Purse Caundle.
In the guest hall, one of the three men stood up after a suitable space of time. He looked round at the remaining guests, satisfied that there had been no-one with his quarry.
“He’ll be on his way home now,” he announced, “No need to track him this day, but if he has what we’re looking for, his day of reckoning will come – and soon.”
His grim tone belied his pleasant boyish face. His companions laughed, - a sound without warmth or humour.
“How can you be sure he didn’t overhear us?” one asked.
“He was sleeping – a soft touch youth after a little ride to Purse Caundle”
“Be patient, you told us,” the bearded man said, “But how long, in this cold, inhospitable place?”
“I’ve stayed my hand for two years,” the younger man replied. “To be thought local and to build trust takes time.”
The two older men faded away towards Cheap Street, merging into the darkness of the night, whilst the younger man mounted his horse and rode thoughtfully up the hill. following in the same direction as that which Matthias had taken.
It was dusk before Matthias reached Barton Holding, and he found Davy conversing with a stranger outside the house.
“Father Peter, from Oborne,” Davy explained, by way of introduction. The priest nodded a greeting to Matthias.
“I was seeking the friend whose childhood companion was found murdered in the Abbey,” he told Matthias, “and,” he continued, looking kindly towards Davy, “I have found him with little trouble. As Mary’s family are distressed, so must you be.”
Matthias was puzzled by his concern and interest, but his next words showed a clear path to his purpose.
“Mary’s mother asked me to bring this small package to you, in order to deliver it to Ben’s wife. Mary had made a small gift for the coming baby, and her mother was most insistent that it should be delivered. Here-” and he held out a roughly wrapped package. Davy took it from him solemnly.
“Thankyou, Sir,” he said, quietly. “I will give this to Lydia myself.”
Father Peter sketched a blessing over the two men and mounted his horse.
“We may meet again before this business reaches closure,” he said, as he rode off.
Matthias felt that at least some good had come of the day at its close.
Chapter 8
Matthias rode off to Purse Caundle early next morning. He had talked long with Davy on his return home, and the more he talked, the more Matthias became aware of a sense of shame in himself. What he had learned that day was most valuable, but he had wallowed in fatigue and self pity. The events of the previous night, too, were most disturbing, and he had delayed going over to Purse Caundle with this new information. That was valuable time lost due to his own inaction. He instructed Davy to ride to Oborne to try and find the boy, and he himself started at first light on the road to Sir Tobias’ house.
After Matthias had left, Davy saddled the nag, and leaving the work of the school until later in the day, set out to ride to Oborne. He rode the nag carefully; the trackway had become wet and muddy, and further more, he needed to think over his approach to the visit.
It would seem likely that the two monks had marched the lad back to Oborne to insist on a further search for whatever they were searching for. That was yesterday. It was clear now that it was not the purse of gold coins.. Would the boy still be there? Once it was found, would they dispose of the boy, as they had apparently despatched his older sister?
There was another problem on his mind, too. Should he tell Master Barton about the drunken episode? Was it important? Could you break your word to a dead man?
He passed several carters on the track, for today was Wednesday and the brewers of Sherborne sent their casks out on a Wednesday, but he saw no-one of any importance, and as he rode towards Oborne, keeping the little stream on one side of him, he pondered nervously how to fulfil his task successfully – he was not a quick thinking man, given to using made-up stories. Perhaps his encounter with the young priest might be of value to him.
Matthias had concocted a story for him to use. Lydia had mislaid a belt which she had given to Ben , and he’d been sent to enquire whether it may have been mistakenly given to Mary’s parents with her other belongings. Davy hoped it didn’t all sound too thin.
Oborne was a small vill, hardly half a dozen cottages, some farmland and the church. Like Milborne Port, the church had stood for many years, short and fat, brooding over the small cluster of houses. A tributary of the River Yeo ran through the vill, providing clear, fresh water. The main occupation was, as in so many places in South West England now, the rearing and tending of sheep. Vast flocks were grazed on these chalklands, owned by great landowners – the Bishop of Salisbury, The Abbot of Glastonbury, The Abbess of Shaftesbury – sheep grazed wherever you cared to look. The good people of Oborne simply kept alive by growing vegetables and tending the flock
Davy easily identified Mary’s fam
ily dwelling from the description with which William had provided Sir Tobias . He tethered the nag some distance away, and leaned on a gate by the clear stream to watch for a few minutes.
Oborne lay on a flat piece of land, pastures rising up behind it, with a wooded area behind the church on a steep little rise. The few houses were clustered together, mostly wood framed with wattle and daub, and all with a thin strip of land beside, for growing vegetables. In the furthest one Davy could see a small herd of pigs being driven up into the woodland to forage. A lad of some seven or eight years was driving them with a switch of hazel wood.
From behind, a voice made him jump.
“We met last evening, Sir. Can I direct you?”
Davy turned nervously; it was the young priest.
“I’m looking for Mary’s house, Father, she who was recently killed in Sherborne.”
The priest regarded him silently. He was a young man, appointed by the Abbot a year or so ago. He watched Davy with what seemed like mild amusement as Davy’s colour rose at the lie. As Father Peter remained silent, Davy stumbled on with his story
“I’m a messenger for Ben’s wife - he who was murdered in the Abbey before Mary – you came to see us but yesterday, so you know….. His wife had a missing belt when his belongings came back – she gave it to him as a gift – Lydia is hoping it is tumbled in with Mary’s things.”
It sounded lame and contrived. Davy was unused to such stories.
The young priest smiled.
“You should have mentioned it last evening. I could have saved you the journey. Mary’s parent’s house is the third along from the ford. I hope you find what you are seeking .
“Lydia came to me with her loss only this morning,” Davy mumbled, by way of explanation.
He stumbled down the slight hill to the cottage which he had identified himself, without the priest’s directions. He felt hot and confused as he left the young man. He was not good at telling untruths or elaborating stories. He was a good, honest, straightforward man with no guile; he had not enjoyed his implied dishonesty to a man of God.
A few scrawny fowls scratched in the semi-tended garden. The cottage bore an air of defeat. A girl of ten or eleven years was visible in the open doorway, carding last year’s fleece.
“Is your mother here?” Davy asked her.
The girl stared up at him with brown, tear-stained eyes.
“Yes, but she’s poorly.”
Davy was silent for a moment, watching her moving fingers.
“Is she too poorly to see me?”
“It depends what you want,” the child replied, with some spirit.
“A man came yesterday who frightened her – he was rough and rude. She has much to bear at present, and I’m not to let anyone in today.”
Davy digested this piece of information. He felt his brain sludging through the fog – he wished he were quick-witted like his master. He realised that the man, whoever he was, had not brought the brother with him. He was still missing then, - or was he inside?
“I am come to find a missing belt,” he told her, “Ben Glover, who died in the Abbey before your sister, was my friend. His wife has missed a belt she gave him as a gift – she hoped Mistress Fosse might have returned it with Mary’s goods in error.”
Her lips trembled at the mention of Mary.
“It’s because of Mary – and now Roger – that mother is unwell,” she told him, pausing in her work.”
“Is your brother here?” Davy asked, “Perhaps he could look for me?”
Mary shook her head.
“Roger hasn’t come home since two days,” she answered, with a catch in her voice.
“Mother thinks he’s off thieving again, and that frightens her. He could be hanged, you know, if he’s caught.”
“Why does she think he’s thieving?” Davy asked.
“Because he’s done it before. Father beat him, but it didn’t stop him. The man who came yesterday said he’d stolen something from him, and made mother let him search his room. He even made mother fetch Mary’s things in case he had hidden it there. Roger might, too. He’s a clever thief.”
So the men had not brought Roger home with them then – where had they taken him, Davy wondered, uneasily.
A shadow passed over the doorway. Davy turned to see the young priest.
“Father Peter helped us yesterday,” she said, greeting him with some relief.
“He went up with the man and stood over him to make sure he did not steal from us.”
“He was an unfeeling and arrogant man,” Father Peter declared. “He did not find whatever he was looking for.”
His young face expressed concern for the family, and he looked sternly towards Davy.
“The family in this cottage is in much need of rest and prayer,” he said, “let me have concern for this belt. I know where to find you should it be found when Johanna is well enough to search. She seems overcome with weariness and despair just now.”
Davy thanked him and told him where to find Lydia. His face darkened when he heard of the fire and the loss of her house.
“This is a sad affair,” he mused, “and how did these two young people become involved?”
Davy had no answer for that, and after one or two more civilities with the priest, he took his leave, feeling somehow foolish and patronised.
On his way home, Davy could not help but think how little information he had discovered – except the fact that the boy Roger had not returned home and appeared to be missing.
The robed watcher smiled as Davy rejoined the trackway to Milborne Port. How easy it was to discover the players in this drama! He could plot their movements so easily!
Abbot Bradford made every effort to appear hospitable to Sir Tobias. The two men met in the Abbot’s house, and refreshed by fine wine, Sir Tobias was able to look out of the glassed windows onto the Abbey garden. The swelling buds on the bare trees promised a Spring in the not too distant future, fresh green shoots appearing delicately in the orchard garden.
“You have many lay workers in the monastery,” Sir Tobias began. The Abbot inclined his head graciously, and pressed his finger tips together, elbows on the wooden arms of his chair.
“Do you know all of them personally?”
The Abbot allowed himself a small laugh.
“No, my lord Coroner. Many of them I know by sight – some of them I know by name, but all are known to the brother in charge of their particular area of work.”
“Then I have quite a task in front of me,” said Sir Tobias, drily.The Abbot looked startled.
“Surely you don’t intend questioning them all?” he asked.
“Abbot Bradford, two young people were murdered within your Abbey grounds – one of them actually in the Lady Chapel. The widow of one of them has had her house fired by two men who appeared to be monks. Can you really expect me not to question?” Sir Tobias looked thunderous. Abbot Bradford tried to back-track.
“Her house fired? I did not know that,” he purred
“Neither did I, until my young friend the would-be schoolmaster of Milborne Port rode into my courtyard with the news. Now – tell me – how many monks reside here – and how many lay persons do you have in your employ?”
The Abbot sighed and rose to his feet, selecting a key from the jangle of keys on his belt.
“I will fetch Prior Simon and our register and account books,” he said, a note of resignation in his voice.
Sir Tobias leaned back in his chair to wait. The room was pleasant, full of morning light, and the view of the Abbey garden was uninterrupted. The Abbot’s wine was smooth; the wooden floor was polished and smelt of beeswax; a crucifix hung on the wall behind the table on which was a heavy book.
Sir Tobias reflected on the news that Matthias had brought. It certainly gave the incidents a graver, more sinister picture. Who would fire the house of a woman so recently widowed – and so recently in child-birth? This action, more than the two deaths, had fired Sir Tobias’ res
olve. Had not his own daughter been in child-birth just a few years ago? How vulnerable she had been immediately after the birth – how weak and tearful – how open to all suggestions, swayed by any little idea – clutching at straws to find a direction in which to go when she was not suckling her new little boy. Sir Tobias’ face softened. The boy Luke – a grandson – yes, definitely a candidate for Thomas Copeland.
He had left Matthias with the Lady Bridget in his own home, and had ridden to the Abbot, his sense of justice fully roused, and was here with particular regard to the two monks seen at Lydia’s, and again at the house of Mistress Fosse.
Abbot Bradford returned with Prior Simon, carrying his register and accounting books.
“So – it appears you have twentyfour monks at present, including your two selves,” growled Sir Tobias, after consulting the lists.
“Plus seven infirmarians,” added Prior Simon.
“And all of these are long-standing? You have no new admissions? No new novitiates?”
No, it appeared not. Holy orders were losing popularity in the beginning of this new age.
“I will need to see them all,” Sir Tobias announced, firmly.
The Abbot shook his head in disbelief. How like the Northern part of Dorset to find themselves with an honest coroner, who ferreted after the truth! He tried one last approach, as tactfully and as guilelessly as he was able.
“My Lord Coroner, Your young grandson might perhaps wish to study in the future – on a scholarship provided perhaps by the Abbey….?”
The question hung in the air – Prior Simon held his breath in the lull before the tempest.
Sir Tobias let forth his fullest throated roar, and turned to face Abbot Bradford.
“We are not discussing my grandson’s schooling, for which I shall pay,” he bellowed, “we are investigating the cruel deaths of two of someone’s flock – deaths which happened in your hundred, in your abbey…and as a consequence of these deaths, a young widow’s house was burned to the ground. She and her newborn daughter would have been inside were it not for the quick thinking of Matthias Barton. Then your holy church would have had four deaths at its door – and you speak to me of scholarships for my grandson? How dare you, Abbot Bradford, how dare you!”