The King’s Justice

by E. M. Powell

  And a heavy hand grabbed his shoulder.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  ‘Get off!’ Stanton turned and struck out hard at the hand that gripped him.

  But it was Aelred Barling he’d broken from and sent staggering.

  ‘God’s eyes, Barling. I’m sorry. Are you all right?’

  Barling nodded, breathless and holding the limb Stanton had struck. ‘I came as fast as I could, but I am not the youngest, nor the swiftest. I came down from my solar to enquire after Margaret, and Hilda was praying over the unfortunate woman.’ He loosed his hand to cross himself.

  Stanton matched him, relief surging through him that Barling was here and he could tell him of his hideous discovery.

  Barling continued. ‘She is slipping fast from life, God keep her. Hilda told me that you had gone with John and that the wild man had hold of you.’ Barling nodded at the door. The rattling had stopped, but a constant low moaning carried on. ‘I see you have secured him there now. A wise move, given his shocking behaviour.’

  ‘It wasn’t shocking. What I found was. A new murder victim, Barling. It’s Lindley. Lindley’s dead.’

  ‘What? Open that door at once.’ Barling went to match his words with his actions, but Stanton halted him.

  ‘No. Don’t. We can’t go in, at least not now.’ He told Barling of the night’s events: Margaret’s seeming to send John to bring Stanton. The discovery of Lindley’s boots. Lindley. The barrel.

  Barling frowned. ‘If Lindley’s corpse is as you describe, then he is not a new victim but a hidden victim. Until now.’ His frown deepened and he pointed over at the cottage. ‘We urgently need to speak to Peter Webb. First his wife, now his son, his fulling shed – all have become part of this.’

  ‘Do you think the whole Webb family are somehow in league with Agnes?’ Stanton asked as they hurried over.

  ‘As things stand, it is certainly looking that way,’ replied Barling. ‘Though why they would form such an unholy pact is beyond my comprehension.’ He raised a hand as they arrived at the cottage door. Knocked. ‘Webb. Open up. It is Aelred Barling.’

  Silence.

  Knocked again. ‘Peter. Peter Webb.’

  Still nothing.

  A terrible thought occurred to Stanton. ‘Barling, Margaret was attacked in this very cottage yesterday. What if Peter is lying there like she was?’

  ‘May God be good that it is not so. We must enter.’ Barling nodded curtly. ‘The window, Stanton.’

  Stanton ran round to the side, Barling following after.

  He forced the shutter of the small windows, hauled himself up on to the sill and climbed in, braced for whatever fresh horror he might find.

  He let out a long, long breath of relief.

  The cottage was empty. All was cosy and orderly, with a fire cover on and the smell of a tasty meal in the air, waiting for the owner to return.

  From outside came Barling’s sharp order. ‘The door, Stanton. The door.’

  Stanton made his way over and opened up to let him in. ‘Webb’s not injured or dead. In fact, he’s not here. He’ll be out poaching in the woods, I’ll wager.’

  ‘As is his habit as he disclosed to you.’ Barling walked inside. ‘Despite the hour, we will wait until he comes back here to his home. It is imperative that I question him.’ The clerk settled himself on the low stool next to the fire, his back as straight as a rod. ‘You may as well sit also.’

  ‘I’m not keen to sit. I’m keen to hear the answers.’ Stanton paced the beaten-earth floor. ‘Just not the ones about the barrel. When I searched that shed, I’d never have imagined that’s what I would find.’ He shuddered. ‘A nightmare. I’m not sure . . . Barling, are you all right?

  The clerk had gone even paler than usual. ‘Yes.’ He stood up. ‘Yes, I am. But I have not been.’

  The clerk spoke in riddles. ‘In what way?’

  ‘The search.’ Barling flung out an arm. ‘I said I would search every home. Every single one. And I was doing so. In the most methodical order. But I have not searched this one.’

  More nonsense now than riddles. ‘We did search it. We found Margaret. Lying right there on the floor.’

  ‘Found Margaret, but in the shock and confusion saw to her and nothing else.’

  ‘Agreed. But surely we found what was most important.’

  ‘We only know what is important if and when we find it. And to find, we must seek. Fully. I missed a search. This cottage. We search it. Now.’

  Barling bent to a large pile of Webb’s newly woven cloth. ‘We need to search everywhere, Stanton. The knife in Agnes’s cottage was hidden right in the bottom of the log basket. She had concealed it well.’

  ‘Then I’ll start in there.’ Stanton matched his words to his actions, lifting out each piece of wood. ‘What if Webb walks in on us? He won’t be pleased.’

  ‘He can be as pleased or displeased as he likes. Everyone else has had their homes searched.’

  Stanton held up the poker. ‘I’ll keep this handy. Just in case.’

  Barling worked his way swiftly through the smooth cloth. ‘Nothing in there.’ He straightened up.

  ‘Same with the log basket.’ Stanton stepped over to the shadows behind the loom.

  The baskets beside it were Barling’s next task. Margaret’s spinning. Nothing more.

  A murmur of disgust came from Stanton.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Barling.

  ‘I knew Webb kept his hare skins in a sack behind here. But there’s another two sacks as well. One has his ropes and snare handles. But the other has a couple of fresh kills in it. There’s a lot of blood.’

  ‘Regardless, make sure you search it.’ Barling turned next for the neat and tidy bed behind the half screen.

  He pulled off the covers, shook them out.

  ‘Nothing.’ Stanton stepped from behind the loom.

  ‘Nothing here, either.’ Barling threw the wool blanket back on the flattened straw of the bed.

  ‘What’s that?’ Stanton pointed to the corner, where the mattress met the wall.

  ‘What?’ Barling squinted hard. ‘I cannot see anything.’

  ‘The straw on one side. Near the top.’

  Barling shook his head. ‘I cannot make it out. Not in this light.’

  ‘I can. It looks newer.’ Stanton got on the bed, thrust a hand into the area he meant. ‘And it’s looser.’ He rummaged around. Stopped. ‘I’ve found something. Something wooden.’

  ‘Get it out, man.’

  Stanton burrowed at the straw, then hauled up a stout wooden box with a grunt of effort. The unmistakable rattle of coins came from it.

  ‘Webb’s own money, no doubt.’ Barling could hear the disappointment in his own voice. ‘As every hard-working man should have if he is prudent.’

  ‘But how much money?’ said Stanton. ‘It’s really heavy. And locked, of course.’ He shoved it across to Barling, who tested its weight.

  ‘By the name of the Virgin. I can scarcely lift it.’ He looked at Stanton. ‘This concerns me. I need to open it up. At once.’

  ‘Of course.’ Stanton clambered from the straw and grabbed a small-headed kindling hatchet from beside the fire. ‘Stand clear, Barling.’

  In three sharp blows, he hacked off the lock.

  Barling opened up the lid and sucked in a long breath. ‘No wonder it is so heavy. This is not the store of wealth I would ever expect to see saved by a weaver struggling to support a wife and a witless son. This is a hoard. A large hoard.’

  ‘And not only money.’ Stanton shook his head.

  ‘No.’ Barling took them out and placed them on the straw. A small silver cup. A carved ivory of the Virgin. Then a shiny object – shinier than the coins – caught Barling’s eye. ‘And what have we here?’ He lifted it out.

  ‘Dear God,’ said Stanton. ‘I know whose that is.’

  ‘As do I,’ said Barling. Oh, Agnes, I am so sorry.

  For in the light, in the palm of his hand, sat a small s
ilver pilgrim badge of the head shrine of Saint Thomas Becket. At the very top was a little hole where it would have hung from the neck of its dead owner.

  And that owner was a murdered stonecutter: the late Thomas Dene.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Agnes Smith came to consciousness again, wondering why her bed was so hard, why she was so cold. Why she couldn’t move her arms, her legs. Why breathing was so hard, swallowing was so hard. But the answers falling on her one by one in seconds almost crushed her.

  She wasn’t in her bed. She was still in this place of horror, where she’d been for so many hours – hours which she could no longer count.

  Last time in her bed, she’d woken to a figure from her nightmares over her, on her. The figure who had cut the air from her, sending her into oblivion. The figure who must have brought her here. Who had bound her arms and hands to her sides, her legs together, in tight bands. Who had fastened something on her neck that was still there, that meant she could hardly take a breath or swallow her own meagre spit. Her ears whined, her heart banged from lack of air, air that was cut off further by coarse sacking tied over her face and head.

  Half smothered like this, she had sunk again and again into dreams, a few glorious, many hideous. But each one ended in terror, a terror that sharpened with every passing minute.

  She tried to call out yet again, a useless, smothered noise that she knew couldn’t be heard three yards away. Tried to move, but she could only wriggle, turn over. Cold, wet, gritty stone scraped against her hands. The figure had put her in a place where she wouldn’t be found. Ever.

  Then she’d die here. Alone. Thirst would take her. But not for a couple of days. Days in which she’d lie helpless in her torment, her filth . . .

  No. She would not die this way. Even if she choked herself trying to get free, try she would. She kicked out as best she could. There was stone is this place; she’d find a sharp edge, work at her bonds until—

  Footsteps?

  She froze.

  Then came a male voice. But not the relieved calls of a rescuer. Instead, a quiet hiss of evil.

  ‘Look at you, wriggling like a dying fish.’

  It was muffled through the coarse material, but she knew it, dear God help her, she knew it. Whether that was worse, better, than a stranger’s she didn’t know.

  ‘I’m going to take the sack off your head now.’ Hands at her neck. ‘But if you make a sound, I’ll throttle you again. Do you hear me, girl?’

  She risked a nod, and the sack was gone, even the dim candlelight making her squint as she used her sight for the first time in hours to see that it was a cave she was in. And that Peter Webb was in here with her.

  He dragged her to a sitting position against a damp boulder and hunkered down in front of her. ‘Make no mistake, I’d love to rape you, whore.’ He raised his calloused hands to each side of her face, then slid them down her throat to her breasts, his hard, filthy grasp bringing a stifled cry from her as she strained at her ties to break free. ‘Shush now. I’d love to, but that wouldn’t fit with what I’m going to do with you.’ Now his hands had moved to her thighs, his thumbs sliding down between them.

  She’d rather die. She wrenched her body to one side. ‘Go to hell, Webb.’ It was as much of a scream as she could get out.

  One of his hands clamped over her mouth. ‘Shut up.’ The other back on her neck. ‘Shut up. Shut up.’ Tightening.

  Her air was gone. Webb’s furious face in front of hers blurred.

  ‘Have you shut up, Agnes?’

  She tried to nod. Breathe, she had to breathe.

  Then his hand was off her and she pulled in ragged, painful gasps.

  ‘Good.’ He slid over to sit beside her. ‘Listening is always better in a woman than talking, I find. Women might learn a thing or two if they only listened. Especially if they listened to a clever man like me. To be honest, all folk would. It’s a shame they can’t know of my cleverness, a shame. They’d be lost in admiration. Lost. But that’s the beauty of where you and I are now, Agnes: I can tell you how clever I am, for you’ll never breathe a word.’

  She didn’t dare respond. His big hand was idly stroking at her neck again.

  ‘Now, poaching, that’s easy, see? Easy. I could even tell my stupid wife about that. But thieving? Now, that’s another matter. It’s one thing to take a small animal from the woods and kill it and skin it, another to take a good candlestick. People keep their valuables in much safer places – behind bolted doors, in locked chests. It takes such great skill. Cleverness. It’s quite something.’

  Her teeth clenched. ‘It’s low.’

  He tightened his hand more, making her gasp.

  ‘Not the way I do it, see?’ He shook her by the throat. ‘See?’

  A croak. ‘Yes.’

  ‘They let me into their homes, me with my fine woven cloth in my hands, watching as they find their coins to pay me far less than my hard labour is worth. Same as you did in your home. But I spy a good pair of tongs, a fine pot. All the time they’re asking after my health, my imbecile of a boy, smiling at me with pity, feeling sorry for me, I’m looking for what I will take later. Bits here, a couple of coins there: never a big haul. Folk tear their houses asunder looking for lost things, things that are in my fulling shed, safely hidden away. Ready for me to sell on whenever I go to a market town to sell my cloth.’ He gave her a broad wink. ‘Clever, see?’

  His hand wandered down to her breast again. Though her stomach clenched, she didn’t dare react.

  ‘But in the worst of luck for me,’ said Webb, ‘I got caught stealing. Just the once, see? Because I was clever.’

  Still caught. Agnes kept her contempt silent.

  ‘Bad luck, Agnes. That was all. Nothing more.’ Webb wheezed a low laugh. ‘It was actually that drunken dolt Edgar who caught me. Edgar. Of all people. Usually couldn’t find his drunken cock in the dark, that one.’ His look darkened in a deep, sudden anger.

  Her heart, already thudding in her chest, raced faster. His hard face could be another’s now.

  ‘About three years ago I’m at his hall, urine barrel on my cart in his stable yard. I pick up a nice pair of shears I see lying around, put them under my cloak. Right at the second Edgar comes around a corner, heading to his horse to go out for a ride. He sees me, catches me. Right in the act. Of all people to catch me. But not through cleverness, mind. Only luck. You understand that, Agnes?’

  She nodded, praying to God that He would send luck her way. She had nothing else to hold on to.

  ‘I knew you would. You’re quite clever too. But I think fast.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Fast, fast, fast, that’s me. I beg for mercy from Edgar, say I need the shears to cut my cloth as my own had broken. I bring a stream of quick tears from my eyes, cry over my useless son, say my poor, dear wife would be on the street, would starve if Edgar locks me up. And the old drunken fool gives in—’ Webb stopped, as if he heard a noise.

  Her heart pounded harder as she also listened out. But nothing.

  Webb went on. ‘Says he’ll let it pass. This time. But he threatens me. Me! He tells me that if it ever happens again, I’ll be punished and lose my right hand. With my craft as a weaver, that would mean destitution and starvation for me. Think of that. Not only would I no longer be able to make honest money, my thieving and poaching would be over too. Also, my hidden money would become obvious if I couldn’t work. My carefully built false life would fall to pieces. It couldn’t be allowed to happen, Agnes. It just couldn’t. And I think you can guess who almost brought me to ruin, can’t you, Agnes?’

  She could. But she wouldn’t say it. Wouldn’t give Webb the satisfaction.

  ‘I asked you a question.’ His hand tight at her throat again. ‘Answer me.’ Squeezing.

  ‘My father,’ she rasped out.

  ‘Good girl.’ The pressure lessened. ‘He was working in the forge. You were out whoring in the woods with Dene. A nice empty home with a good store of coin. I’m helpi
ng myself when your precious Pa walks in. Oh, he’s angry at first. But I wheedle on at him about my son like I did to Edgar. But no, Geoffrey bloody Smith says no matter, it isn’t for him to decide. He’ll report my crime to Edgar, and I can plead for mercy to the lord. No matter what I say, Smith will have none of it. Says to me that he’s sure the lord will be lenient with me, a law-abiding man otherwise. Tells me to go home, locks the cottage and goes back to the forge to carry on with his work. And then . . .’ Webb sighed, shook his head, pulled his sleeve up to reveal a stained bandage. Unpeeled it layer by layer, releasing the foulest stink.

  Her bile rose at the sight that now wavered before her.

  A long, deep burn. A wound that had turned rotten, seeping, stinking.

  ‘Then your cursed father did this to me.’

  Agnes knew what was coming. She dug her fingernails deep into her palms to hold in the screams, the tears of grief, of rage that surged within her.

  ‘Did it in his precious forge. Him working at his anvil, the noise from his hammer nice and loud. Up I come behind him, grab for the branding iron leaning against the wall. Swing. Your pa turns, parries my blow with the hot metal he has in his tongs. It sears into my arm.’ He smiled. ‘It’s the one strike he lands. The next is mine, straight at his head. Cracks it right open. He falls on to his side, down like a tree.’ The smile dropped. ‘Then I roll him over on to his back with my boot. He’s still alive. Just. Looking up at me. I take the branding iron in both hands. Smash it into his open mouth again and again, the same gob that he was going to use to betray me to Edgar.’

  Her heart might stop now and she wouldn’t care. Every word from Webb was a new wound in it, making her relive the horror she’d found that night in the forge, telling her exactly how he’d savaged her lovely, loving pa.

  ‘Food for thought, eh, Agnes?’ Webb nodded. ‘And I almost had you, when I spotted the fatty, Bartholomew Theaker, wheezing his way along to the forge to talk to your father.’ He gasped a laugh. ‘I’m surprised he couldn’t smell Dene on you.’

  She dug her nails deeper.

  ‘But I dodge home, wait a few minutes, until I hear the hue and cry. And then come running back out to help. I wanted to shake Nicholas Lindley by the hand when we caught him. Poor sap. Still, rather his head in the noose than mine. But there was no gallows. Instead, we get the King’s men. That little shit of a fellow, that Stanton, comes into my house. Asking all sorts. Goes away with nothing except the solemn lies I tell him, swallowed whole.’