by Mel Starr
“You are Rohese?” I said.
The woman nodded.
“The priest has told me that you served a man yesterday who is now being interred in the churchyard. Did the man speak to you? The priest said you thought he awaited some other man.”
“He said naught but ‘More ale’ when ’e’d finished a cup. You a friend of ’is?”
“Nay. But we knew the man. How long did he remain here?”
“He came through the door ’bout noon, an’ remained ’til ninth hour.”
“He drank for three hours? Was he drunk when he left?”
The woman smiled. “Aye. Staggered a bit. Don’t water me ale as do some.”
A thought had been nagging me. “Did any other man unknown to you ask for ale yesterday?”
“Nay,” the woman said. “Travelers oft stop for ale when they see me basket up, this bein’ the road to London, but none yesterday.”
“On the day before?” I asked.
“Thursday?” She frowned, thinking back. “Two strangers stopped for refreshment Thursday. Gentlemen, they was.”
“Going to London, or leaving?”
“Don’t know. Didn’t see ’em arrive or leave. I had other customers, y’see.”
“How old were these gentlemen?” I asked.
“Oh, not old. Barely more than lads.”
“Did they wear livery? Badges of the sort that would proclaim who they served?”
“Nay… nothin’ like your garb.”
“Describe for me what they did wear, and their appearance.”
“Tall, they was, an’ slender, as are young gentlemen before time at the trencher increases their girth. One was dark, the other fair. The fair-haired one wore a russet cotehardie an’ blue cap. T’other wore a grey cotehardie an’ greenish cap. Both of ’em wore parti-colored chauces.”
Here was a feminine eye at work. I doubt a man would have recalled so clearly the apparel of other men he had no reason to remember.
But the ale wife spoke true. Many travelers would pass through Hornsey on the way to or from London. That two did so two days before Arnaud Tonge was found slain was not likely remarkable. An accumulation of unremarkable events may, however, prove to be of cumulative significance.
I had one more question for the woman.
“Did men of the village enter here to consume your ale whilst the man now dead was here?”
“Aye. Two was ’ere for a cup, an’ Isobel Legget came to fill her ewer.”
“Did any of these three speak to the man? His name was Arnaud.”
“Not that I heard. Kept to ’isself. Sat just there” – the woman pointed to a stained and scarred bench against the wall – “an’ said naught. But to ask for more ale.”
“Did he open his purse to pay while other men were here to observe?”
“Ah… I know what you’re thinkin’. He did, but John an’ Richard ain’t men who’d slay another for ’is purse.”
“Someone surely did. His purse was empty when he was found.”
Was it? So the priest had said. But the priest had not found the corpse. Could he trust the word of the man who did?
“Purse wasn’t fat when he lived,” the woman said.
I must have raised my eyebrows in disbelief, for Rohese continued and explained.
“He dumped ’is coins on the table to sort ’em out when ’e bought ’is last cup. He’d maybe two pennies an’ ’alf a dozen farthings an’ a ha’penny.”
“That was all?”
“All that was in ’is purse. Turned it upside down on the table. Give me two farthings an’ put t’other coins back in ’is purse.”
If Arnaud Tonge had brought poisoned wine to Sir Giles, why would he do so but for ample payment? Randall Patchett had said nothing about Sir Giles earning Arnaud’s enmity, so why would the valet desire the knight dead? But if some man paid Arnaud to do this evil, where were the coins? Not in his purse. What man would do murder in Prince Edward’s hall for so few pence? Was he perchance paid a few coins to seal the wicked bargain with the promise of complete payment when Sir Giles was carried to his grave? Was that what he had waited for at Rohese’s alehouse a day before? If so, the payment he received was not what he had expected.
I must speak to Rowland. I bid the ale wife “Good day” and hurried from the place. Perhaps the priest had not yet concluded Arnaud’s funeral mass and I might find Rowland yet at the church. I did.
Chapter 9
Two men were at work with spades filling Arnaud’s grave, and the priest, his clerk, and two others were departing the churchyard when we came in view of the lychgate. The shroud that had covered Arnaud Tonge when he lay upon the pallet was folded across the clerk’s arm. I recognized one of those walking with the priest as the man who had found Arnaud dead.
The priest saw us approach, noted that we seemed hurried, and turned to us. His clerk and the man accompanying him did likewise.
“May I do more service for Prince Edward’s constable?” the priest said when I came near.
“You may, but ’tis Rowland’s service I seek.” The man tugged a forelock and awaited my request.
“I wish to be shown the place where you found the man who has just been buried. You come also,” I said to the priest, “if you saw the corpse where Rowland found it, before it was moved.”
“I did,” the priest replied, “as did John.” He glanced to his clerk. “We will show you the place. ’Tis not far.”
It wasn’t. We passed Rohese’s alehouse and the village well, then no more than three hundred paces north of the village manor house we came to a place where Rowland pointed out a patch of brown, flattened grass at the side of the road.
“Just there he lay,” the man said.
I stood five or so paces from the oval of compressed vegetation and studied the surrounding area. Stones here are sparse, so the folk of Hornsey had built but few walls about their fields. A meadow to the west had been walled, but where the corpse lay, a man could approach, or depart, along the road to or from the north or south, or could walk freely across the stubble of a harvested oat field. The stubble had recently been cut close to augment winter fodder. I saw in the field the occasional footprint, but nothing which might speak to the approach of a murderer across the field.
The road was another matter. Many men had come to the place since Rowland had discovered the corpse. Fresh footprints and hoofprints in the road gave evidence of this. But the footprints did not entirely obliterate two parallel grooves in the mud of the road. These furrows occasionally disappeared into the grass of the verge, and ended two paces from where Arnaud’s corpse had lain.
I had not noticed these marks when approaching the place, but when my eye fell upon them I began to walk toward the village following the grooves, my face cast down to the road. Arthur followed, sensing that I had discovered some important thing, and voiced what I had already assumed.
“Some man’s been dragged along the road. Them’s heel marks, or mayhap ’is toes bein’ dragged.”
Because many men and a few horses had traveled the road this day the furrows were not continuous. But they were never completely obscured for more than a few paces. I continued toward the village, watching for the twin grooves as they appeared and were then hidden. Rowland, the priest, and the clerk followed, and I heard Arthur behind me explaining to them my curious interest in the road.
The marks came to an end in the road before the manor house. I searched the road and the verge for ten or more paces in both directions, but saw no further sign that a man, if ’twas indeed a man’s feet which had carved the furrows in the road, had been dragged from beyond the manor house.
I returned to the place where the twin grooves ended – or began, as I thought – and cast about in the drying mud of the road for any sign of what might have begun here and ended with a corpse aside the road three hundred paces distant.
Had the road been dry I might have seen the stain sooner. But then of course the man who stabbed Arn
aud Tonge in the road would likely have seen the blood soaking into the dirt and covered it or swept it away.
The dirt was dark with damp, but a slightly darker circle caught my eye. I squatted for a closer look, and at that moment the sun, which had been obscured by clouds much of the day, broke through and illuminated the road before me.
Blood when no longer fresh loses its red hue and becomes brown. But in less than a day since blood was spilt upon this road there was yet some red tint to the brown of the stain melding with the brown of the mud. Without the brilliance of the sun I would not have seen this, I think.
Would a man be stabbed to his death in the middle of the road before a village manor house? Not in the light of day. But in the dark of night? Surely. Men love darkness rather than light when their deeds are evil.
Arnaud Tonge had left the alehouse – having met no man there, if that was ever his intent – at the ninth hour. Sometime after the twelfth hour he had stood in the street before the manor house where some other then slew him.
Arnaud’s corpse had not been hidden. Any man upon the road next morning would see it. Why, then, drag the body from the place of murder? It must be that the felon was unconcerned that Arnaud would be found dead, but did not want him found where he had died, within the village, before the manor house.
Did this mean that some inhabitant of the Hornsey manor house had slain Arnaud? Why would such a thing happen? Was Arnaud known to some man of this place? The priest had said he was not, but would a village priest know who was known or unknown to all the folk of his parish?
“Who is lord of Hornsey Manor?” I asked the priest.
“Sir Thomas Jocelyn,” he replied.
“Come with me. Perhaps he or some person of his household saw or heard something in the night.”
“You believe the felony was done here?”
I pointed to the nearly invisible dark patch at my feet. “Here is a bloodstain in the road. And a few paces from the stain the furrows in the mud of the road begin, ending where Rowland found the corpse. Would a man slay another here, in the road, in the day, when many folk might be about to see what he did and then watch him drag his victim from the village?”
“Unlikely,” the priest said. “So you believe the man we have buried must have been slain here, in the night? It seems reasonable to assume so. Come. We will seek Sir Thomas.”
A servant answered the priest’s rapping upon the manor house door and in response to his question replied that Sir Thomas was expected soon for his dinner, after seeing to matters upon his demesne in the morning.
The servant seemed perplexed about his duty. He knew the priest, and the clerk, and these should be invited to the hall to await his master. The two tenants he would also know, but should they too be brought into the hall? And I saw him glance several times at my badge and livery. Did he know whose these were, and whom I served? If he did, he would not leave me or those accompanying me to stand before the house. The badge, even if unknown to the man, indicated that I served some great man. The servant solved his problem by inviting all of us into the hall, leaving his master to sort out custom.
The smell of fried stockfish caused my stomach to growl and reminded me that I and my companions would not have our dinner at Kennington Palace this day. ’Tis a privilege to serve a great prince.
Perhaps the aroma of his dinner had wafted to wherever Sir Thomas was at his business, for we had waited only a short time when a stout young man, finely garbed in a blue velvet cotehardie, strode into the hall in the manner of one who knows and is confident of his exalted place. Exalted in Hornsey. Was he this day enjoying dinner at Kennington Palace he might not even be seated at the high table.
The priest and I and our companions had awaited the knight pressed against the wall of his hall while grooms set up trestles, tables, and benches. The servant who had greeted us at his door spoke to Sir Thomas and pointed to us. The knight turned to us and stared for a moment, then stalked to our place. His eyes were fixed upon my badge. He knew, if perchance others did not, who I served.
The priest bowed to Sir Thomas and gave every indication that he recognized in the knight a superior. No doubt, as with most of his position, he served his parish at the sufferance of the lord of Hornsey Manor.
The knight did not acknowledge the priest’s bow but came straight to me.
“I give you good day,” he said. “Jaket has said you wish to speak to me. How may I serve Prince Edward?”
“Murder was done in the road before this house not many hours past,” I said. “Likely in the night. Did you hear any sounds of violence during the hours of darkness, or have any of those in your service spoken of hearing discord in the night?”
“Murder? In Hornsey? Surely not. A man was found dead this morning, I am told, along the road to Enfield.” Sir Thomas turned to the priest. “Did any man know who it was found dead?”
“Aye. He was unknown to us of the village, but these fellows knew him. He was slain. Pierced through the heart.”
“You knew the fellow?” Sir Thomas said to me.
“Aye. Arnaud Tonge. A valet in service to Prince Edward.”
“Ah. The prince is loyal to his retainers so has sent you to seek who has slain this Arnaud.”
“Nay. Prince Edward does not yet know of Arnaud Tonge’s death. I did not know of it ’til an hour or so past. But I did come here at the prince’s charge, seeking Arnaud.”
“Did the fellow take goods from the prince? Silver spoons or cups or the like? Is that why he left the prince’s service and you have been sent after him? Perhaps some man knew he possessed stolen goods and he was slain for them?”
“Nay. He took nothing from Prince Edward, but he was a felon.”
Sir Thomas scowled in response to my words. Why did the knight think that Arnaud had left Prince Edward’s service? Because he traveled from London? He might be on his way to another of the prince’s properties. Perhaps Berkhampstead.
“A felon? How so, if he took nothing of the prince’s chattels?”
“A knight of the prince’s household was poisoned. Arnaud served the tainted wine which sent the man to his grave, then fled the palace. He surely was persuaded by some other to do this, as no man can suggest a reason for animosity between the valet and the slain knight.”
“Persuaded? How so?”
“Arnaud was likely paid, and paid well, to do this murder.”
“Ah… perhaps some man knew of his new wealth,” Sir Thomas said, “and followed him from London to seize it from him.”
“Mayhap. But why would he linger here, in Hornsey? He was brought to this place two days past. The village is not so far from London. A man facing a noose if he is found would, I think, put more miles between himself and his pursuers, and be in a hurry to do so.”
A bell rang, indicating to Sir Thomas that his dinner was served. The knight shrugged and spoke. “I heard nothing in the night. And none of my servants has spoken of any untoward sound which might have awakened them. If the fellow was slain before my house he did not cry out. Not loud enough to be heard anyway. I give you good day,” Sir Thomas said abruptly, and turned away to take his meal. I was dismissed.
There was no offer from the knight to share his dinner, nor is there in Hornsey an inn where a man might find bread and perhaps a pottage of eels. This cheerless thought evidently came to the priest as it did to me, for as we stepped from the manor house threshold he spoke.
“My cook is not expecting guests, but there will be loaves and pottage enough to share. You will be hungry before you can return to Kennington Palace for your supper, so take a meal with me before you return to London.”
The priest – Father Patrick – fed us decently considering that he was a poor parish priest serving a village much reduced by plague and by folk who had survived abandoning the place for London.
Father Patrick’s cook had prepared a pottage of peas and beans for the priest and his clerk for their dinner. The kettle held barely enough for
three. The priest offered to share the meal, but his heart was not in the suggestion and portions reduced to serve seven rather than three would be paltry indeed. I told the priest that we would be content with loaves and ale. Arthur assumed a wounded expression. The loaves were fresh that day and plentiful enough that each man had his own. Arthur was much relieved.
“Sir Thomas is a young man,” I said to the priest between bites of maslin loaf.
“Aye. His father died two years past. Sir William was a good lord to the village.”
“You say so as if there is a contrast between father and son,” I said.
“As you say, Sir Thomas is young.”
The priest would say no more of the lord of Hornsey, likely aware that words spoken in private will not always remain concealed. And while Hornsey was a small parish, its tithes stunted since plague came, ’twas a position, and better than no parish at all.
“Is Sir Thomas wed?” I asked. I had little interest in the answer, but simply thought to make conversation ’til I had consumed my loaf.
“Aye,” the priest answered. I expected that he might name the lady or make some comment regarding her great virtue. All ladies are virtuous, so ’tis claimed. But Father Patrick said no more of the Lady Jocelyn. Rather, he changed the subject. I wondered why.
“The sky is darkening,” he said with a glance to the skin-covered window of his vicarage. He was correct. The oiled skin had been a bright yellow when we began the meal, but was now a gloomy grey. “I fear you will see rain before you return to London.”
I walked to his door, opened it, and peered out. The priest spoke true. Dark clouds rolling from the north appeared heavy with rain. Was the priest concerned for my comfort, or did he wish to be rid of a man asking questions he did not wish to answer? Whatever the reason, his observation was accurate. If I did not want to be soaked through I must set off for Kennington Palace immediately.
I thanked the priest for his hospitality. We released our palfreys, which had been tied to a rail before the vicarage, and set off at a canter. But rain caught our party while we were yet several miles from Aldersgate. The road became a mire and London’s streets were no better, so by the time we came to Kennington Palace men and beasts were sodden and spattered with mud. I had much to tell Prince Edward, but was not fit to enter his presence until I had washed the mire from face and hands, and donned a dry tunic and chauces. Grooms were making the hall ready for supper, erecting tables and benches, as I climbed the stairs to the prince’s privy chamber.