Sir Baldwin was all right, really. Not so bad as a master. His manor was dreadful, with a poky little hall, a piddling solar and pathetic lands about it, but for all that he had advanced, with Jeanne’s help, and he was a fairly successful officer. Not that Emma would ever admit to his face that he had any skills or qualities that she could admire. She preferred to keep her distance from a master. Always.
It would have been good to have children of her own, but that wasn’t going to happen. Not now. No, better that she concentrated on Jeanne’s. This one and the one to follow. Who could tell? There may be more later.
Baldwin was a lot better than some she knew of. Some women lived in constant fear of their masters. And she had known a bad experience, too …
It was more than ten years ago now, when it had happened. He was Jeanne’s uncle, the man who had taken the girl in when she was orphaned. He had chosen Emma as a maid for her, and took a close interest in both girls. At the time Emma had thought his concern was purely that of an uncle who sought to ensure that his niece was well cared for, looking to Emma’s behaviour and training to ensure that Jeanne grew to be a courteous and elegant young lady, a credit to him and the household.
But it wasn’t just that. Emma realised only afterwards that she was not the first. She wouldn’t be the last, in all probability, either. The maid who looked after his wife was treated the same way, and if anyone were to complain, well, the street was just beyond the door, and a maid could as easily be on one side of the door as the other. Emma knew she wouldn’t last ten minutes on the streets. So she assiduously saw to Jeanne’s every need so that Jeanne need never complain about her, and accepted that each night she might be visited by the lecherous old bastard.
Escape to England, this wet, cold, cheerless part of the realm, was still escape. She detested almost every aspect of the place – but she wouldn’t seriously want to swap it for Bordeaux, not for all the wine they exported!
Perkin stood back as Beorn jumped down into the trench. They had driven a channel all the way up to within two spade spits of the bog, and now they needed only a little more work to be able to see the water drain.
‘Go on, you old woman,’ he called to Beorn, and the peasant showed his teeth in a smile, then started to drive his shovel into the boundary of the bog. Perkin watched with amusement.
The first shovelful hurtled through the air and narrowly missed Perkin, landing with a damp slap only a foot away from him. ‘Hey!’ The second would have hit him in the midriff, had he not leaped backwards. ‘You mad bugger!’
Beorn grinned again, and took two more spadesful, and then climbed from the channel quickly as a filthy-looking black-brown tide began to breach the remaining wall. It swirled, mud slid aside, and suddenly there was a dark stream trickling through a narrow fissure of soil. Soon the trickle had washed the fissure into a breach that bubbled with the draining water.
’Tin was up at the front, peering down into the bog. It was a strange sight, he thought. Usually it would be a soggy mass of matted rushes and grass that looked like a continuation of the pastureland all about, but now, as the level sank, the top of the bog was gradually starting to lower itself.
There were spots, he saw, where the rushes or grasses remained in place as the water seeped away. As Perkin called a boy and told him to go and find the sergeant and fetch him here to tell them what to do next, ’Tin stepped forward cautiously, testing the firmer clumps with his foot. The surface gave, like mud, but was held together with the mat of vegetation. Soon the water was low enough for the full extent of the bog to be seen as it dropped below the level of the surrounding pasture. Beorn was in the ditch again, shovelling out the excess mud before it could block the channel and stop the water flowing away, and ’Tin watched him flinging black mud towards a cursing and laughing Perkin, who rolled balls of mud and hurled them back.
’Tin grinned at the sight, and turned for a last look at the bog’s level. It was slowly falling around him, but in the middle it seemed to be dropping much faster, as though in there it was more like a pool of water, and not a bog at all. Things were sticking up from there, and ’Tin peered more closely, repelled and fascinated simultaneously. People had said that there’d be dead animals, even a few men, probably, because this bog had been here for as long as anyone could remember, and he wondered what a man who had died many years before might look like. There was a brown twig lying in a grassy hillock, and he grinned as he imagined it might be a hand, twisted and broken, and cast aside as though this was merely a midden.
Nah! There was hardly likely to be anything here. If anything, some long-dead cow’s carcass or a sheep that had wandered this way before ’Tin was born. Nothing more recent than them. Wouldn’t be a man, he told himself sadly. No one had been missing for so many years that the chances of finding a human body down there were remote. It was a shame, because he’d never had a chance to go to witness a hanging. In the old days, hangings used to happen here on the manor, apparently. Then executions were made a bit less arbitrary, and instead of being able to hang anyone he wanted, a lord of the manor had to have the coroner there, make sure everything was legal and stuff …
’Tin was annoyed that he’d missed out on those old days. Men were braver then, not like the present lot. If they’d had a little courage, they’d have been off to the wars rather than hanging about the vill here. He would. He wanted to join a host and fight; he’d be good at that. Except his mother would go completely potty if he told her …
Then he frowned and blinked. As the waters receded, they left a lump in the filth at the bottom of the rank pool. He could see the shape amidst the mud, and where he had seen the twig in the little clump of grasses he now saw that a thin, frail stick-like wrist connected it to a thicker one, as though they were forearm and upper arm leading to a shoulder …
‘Perkin! Perkin!’
There was nothing to show that this was the grave of two people who had been loved. It was a small, almost square hole in the ground, with soil heaped over it and a few heavy stones piled on top to stop animals from rooting about and digging up the bones. A spare wooden cross had been made from a couple of lathes lashed together, and this was thrust in at the head.
‘There was no money to pay for the funeral or the mourners,’ the priest said sorrowfully. ‘I used some of my own funds to do the best I could for them. Of course they’d only been here a year or so, so there was hardly anyone here who really knew them.’
‘Two years,’ Baldwin corrected him coldly.
Simon heard his voice, but could say nothing. In his breast there was only a great emptiness, and as he stood staring at the bare little cross he felt it welling up and rising to his throat, threatening to choke him. He daren’t trust his voice. Instead he made a pretence of clearing his throat, but the action was belied by his having to wipe his eyes.
He had scarcely known this woman. When he first met her, she had been a fearful novice in need of help, and it was to Hugh’s credit that he had given it. Hugh had taken her away from the convent where she had been so unhappy and brought her here, and had protected and served her to the best of his ability. Monosyllabic, morose, taciturn Hugh had given up everything for this woman, and now, because Hugh was dead, this pathetic grave was all that would ever be erected in memory of Constance. Simon felt another sob start to grip him. It washed over him like a shiver of utter coldness, as though the whole of the winter was condensed upon his shoulders and spine, and he shuddered with the bone-aching misery of it all.
He had lost Hugh, and Hugh had had life, woman and child stolen from him. In the midst of his intense wretchedness, Simon felt a rising surge of something else: rage.
If Constance had been unknown to him, perhaps Simon wouldn’t have been so moved to fury, but the sight of her grave, and the knowledge of what had been done to her and his man, swamped his sense of justice with the desire for vengeance.
He spoke quietly. ‘Have a carpenter put up a proper cross. One with jointed timbers
and their names carved on it.’
‘If you are sure,’ Matthew said. ‘Be assured, though, she had all the benefits of a Christian burial, and I prayed with the mourners all night before burying her.’
‘I am grateful. And let me know how much the mourners cost, and I’ll pay for them.’
‘There is no need …’
‘I want to,’ Simon snapped harshly, eyes blazing as he spun round to confront the priest.
‘The other man has already paid. The man-at-arms.’
She had only once known a man’s love. That was something she still found painful to recall, the memory was so poignant. When she had been at Jeanne’s uncle’s house for some while, she had met a boy delivering meats to the kitchens, and she had stopped whatever it was she was doing.
He was slim, but with broad shoulders and thick thighs. His hands were elegant, with long fingers, and they weren’t yet calloused from work. But it was the face that attracted her. Long, with a slightly pointed chin, it bore a faint beard of reddish-gold, and a tousled mop of fair hair that begged to be stroked and patted into a neater shape. His eyes were laughing blue, and his mouth looked as if it was made to kiss a girl. He was perfect to her.
She and he had managed to meet every so often. Back in those days, of course, Emma had been slimmer, but very full-busted, and she liked to think that she was pretty enough in her own way. Not that many would have argued. Men often pinched her buttocks, like women prodding and poking at slabs of meat on the counters at the market; and there was the behaviour of her master to prove her allure.
When she left Bordeaux to come here, she had lost him. Perhaps he was the only man who could have made her happy for life. Yet at the time she had no thought for that. She was leaving to start a new life in England – a life with her mistress, but without Jeanne’s uncle. That in itself had been enough to make her happy … and when she’d told poor Ralph, he had been devastated. Now she could see why, but at the time she was irritated, thinking that he should be glad for her, for this wonderful opportunity.
His face when she left him that last time was desolate. She was sure now that he must have gone home and wept for a week to see her go.
Heaving a sigh, she shook her head. There had been other men in her life. There were plenty of them in any household, and she’d made her use of them when she’d wanted to, but not since Ralph had she known the all-devouring love that a woman needed. That was something she would never know again.
And a good thing, too! A woman had better things to do than go mooning about after men. There was no point in all that flirting and circling, like a dog and a bitch sniffing each other. No, better that she should be beyond such diversions. She was an old maid now, nearly thirty years old. It was best that she should forget any thoughts of love.
Which was why it was so annoying that her thoughts kept bending towards men.
‘What other man?’ Baldwin managed after a few moments.
‘The man-at-arms. Haven’t you seen him?’ Matthew said.
‘No, we have only been here a short while. Was he from one of the local manors?’ It seemed quite possible that the murder was the result of some dispute between local lords. After all, from all Baldwin knew of Hugh, he would be perfectly capable of giving insult to a rich and powerful man – intentionally or not. Burning down a house with the man and his family inside was not the act of a peasant with a grudge, it was more brutal than that. More the behaviour of a minor war-lord who was bent on removing an annoyance. But that must mean that Hugh was in the way of someone. Why? What possible obstruction could Hugh be, other than the fact that he was an obstreperous, froward, stubborn churl to deal with at the best of times?
Although it was no excuse for his murder, it may be that Hugh’s manner and demeanour could hold a clue to the crime, and Baldwin stored that thought for later.
‘It is quite possible,’ Matthew said with a certain cooling of his manner. ‘Again, I think you should speak to Isaac at the chapel in Monkleigh. He would know the men-at-arms that way better than I do.’
‘There are many down there?’ Baldwin asked.
‘They don’t show their faces in daylight if they can help it. They live in the manor all higgledy-piggledy, and only seem to come out at night. As though they are nervous of being seen.’
Baldwin nodded, and now he thought he had a possible group of suspects. He had no doubt that a man-at-arms who was less than entirely honourable could find Hugh’s mulish behaviour to be intolerable. If he had insulted a man from the manor, that man might well decide to repay the insult.
He would visit this chapel and learn what he could.
Perkin winced and wiped at his face with his upper sleeve. The smell here was appalling, and he was reluctant to reach down and pick her up, but someone would have to. Beorn was standing at the other side of the body, and now the two of them reached underneath the corpse’s torso and lifted her from the shallow, muddy grave. They were up to their groins in the thick mud still, but it was a relief that the worst of the filth seemed to have drained away. Perkin had the black mess up to his breast from falling into a deeper pool, but Beorn had managed to avoid the worst of it.
‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ Beorn said quietly.
‘Looks like it,’ Perkin responded shortly.
They both knew her by sight. Lady Lucy had passed through their vill often enough. She had been a slight woman, attractive, with a snub nose and long fair hair that somehow had always escaped from her coif or wimple when she was out. Perkin could remember the way that she had smiled as she snared a stray tress and tried to tuck it back neatly. Somehow she always ended up with more loose than before, but she’d always grin at her failures, as though it didn’t matter anyway.
That was before her old man died, of course. After that, she had grown a great deal more reserved, and her rides tended not to encompass the Monkleigh roads, as though she knew she was in too much danger there.
As she had been. Someone had taken her and broken her limbs, and then killed her. This was no accidental falling into a bog and drowning – not unless she had bound the rocks to her waist herself. She had a great blackened wound in her chest.
Adcock was already waiting at the edge of the bog, and Perkin and Beorn carried her to dry land and set her down as gently as they could.
‘The poor woman!’ Adcock said in a hushed voice. ‘Does anyone recognise her?’
‘Lady Lucy of Meeth,’ Perkin said, and although his voice was cold, he knew that Adcock had to be innocent of this killing. He only arrived here after she had disappeared.
‘She was in there?’
Perkin forbore to answer.
‘She must have been murdered and thrown in,’ Adcock said.
‘She was resting near the middle of the bog. Someone knew this place and chose to carry her there and drop her in,’ Beorn said.
‘He was a brave man, then,’ Adcock guessed. ‘Most would fear to enter a bog – especially carrying a heavy burden like her.’
‘There were ways to cross it which were safe,’ Perkin said shortly. ‘Many of us knew them.’
‘What is all this?’
The familiar bellow startled the men. There was a slow clopping of hooves as Sir Geoffrey rode up to join them, and sat on his horse staring down at the body.
‘Sweet Jesus! What is this?’
Adcock began, ‘The men say it is Lady Lucy of …’
‘I can see who it is, man! What in God’s name is she doing here?’
‘She was murdered, Sir Geoffrey,’ Perkin stated, bending his head respectfully.
‘How can you tell that?’
Perkin could scarcely keep the contempt from his tone even though this was his master. ‘She has had all her limbs broken, sir. Then someone stabbed her, tied rocks to her, and threw her into the mire here.’
‘Probably a raping, then,’ Adcock said. ‘She must have been a pretty little thing.’
‘Rape?’ Perkin repeated.
‘Ye
s, rape. Quite right,’ Sir Geoffrey said. ‘Who pulled her out of there, though? The coroner will have something to say about that.’
‘We couldn’t leave her in there, Sir Geoffrey,’ Perkin said.
Sir Geoffrey looked down at him. ‘And who found her there?’
Martin stepped forward nervously. ‘Sir, I saw her first. It was as the water fell away from round her.’
‘And who ordered that the mire be drained?’ Sir Geoffrey demanded, but his eyes were already on Adcock.
‘I did, sir. It’s my job to make the land as profitable as I can, and there’s little enough money in bogs.’
‘You may think you were doing the best for the manor,’ Sir Geoffrey said sarcastically, ‘but I hardly think that forcing us to call the coroner and incurring a fine for murder is very helpful. Perhaps … we could simply throw her back in.’
‘It’s drained now,’ Perkin reminded him coldly.
‘There is still the second bog,’ Sir Geoffrey mused.
‘No, sir. We must send for the coroner,’ Perkin said bluntly. ‘He must come and examine the poor woman. She has been murdered at the least.’
‘ “At the least”? What else has happened to her,’ Sir Geoffrey scoffed.
In answer Perkin took her hand and moved it. ‘Her arms are broken, and look at her hands! The nails were pulled from this one. Do you think she did this all to herself?’
Chapter Sixteen
When Simon first saw it, he thought that the house on which Hugh had lavished so much attention might have been empty for years: the walls had crumbled, and the roof was entirely burned away, showing blackened timbers thrusting upwards like the ribs of an enormous animal. There was nothing to indicate that this had until recently been the home of a contented little family.
When Baldwin, Jeanne and he reached it, all of them spattered with mud from the track, they were struck by the sense of sadness that lay about the place. Someone had already started to remove stones from the walls, and bits and pieces of wood from the little fence Hugh had built to protect his vegetables had been taken. It was natural enough that local people would come and liberate useful items, but it only made Simon feel an increased anger, as though they were deliberately eradicating any memory of his servant.
A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) Page 16