Baldwin was peering at the track beyond the property, and now he walked a short way up it, his eyes fixed on the muddy path.
Jeanne knew how his mind worked in situations like this, and left him to his careful perusal of the land, instead going to Simon and putting her hand on his shoulder.
‘I am so sorry, Simon. I don’t know what Baldwin would do without Edgar. I can imagine it must be terrible after knowing a man so well for so long.’
‘I just wish I’d been here to protect him … he looked after me so well for so many years …’
‘He would have known you’d have been here to protect him if you could have been,’ Jeanne pointed out. ‘He was loyal to you because he knew you loved and respected him in turn.’
‘It wasn’t enough to save him, though,’ Simon said bitterly.
Baldwin joined them. ‘There have been a few horses here, but not for a long time. More recently there have been several men on foot, mostly passing up and down the lane. I would guess some six or seven in total. Wait!’
He had seen some marks in the mud, and now he darted from the lane up into the wide garden of the house. At one point he stopped and slowly walked towards the house, his eyes fixed to marks in the soil. That done, he shook his head, and walked along to the fence. At a point where some stakes had been taken, he studied the ground carefully, then wandered back towards the lane, but once there he shook his head.
‘This is impossible. I can see perhaps as many as eight feet, but of course they may have come here when the fire was seen – to try to help douse the flames or save the people inside. Some were definitely here afterwards. One man’s feet certainly led up to that fence. He stole bits and pieces from it. Some of the prints are undoubtedly those of the men who took the rocks and wood from the house.’
‘I suppose someone will have had the bressemer already,’ Simon said.
‘A good lintel is hardly likely to have been left behind,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘Do you mind if I have a look inside, Simon? I want to see if there’s anything to learn.’
‘Just don’t step on his bones if they’re there,’ Simon said. He gave a humourless half-chuckle. ‘It sounds like a joke, doesn’t it? It’s hard to imagine that he was burned away completely.’
‘Yes,’ said Baldwin shortly. ‘It is.’
Simon turned away as Baldwin set off towards the door. Baldwin knew that his friend was squeamish about dead bodies generally, but today he was surprised – he would have expected Simon to show more interest in the scene of Hugh’s death. And then he recalled that the first time he had met Simon had been during investigations into fires and murders near Baldwin’s home. Simon had often said how he had found it hard to eat pork afterwards, because the odour was so similar to that of scorched human flesh. The idea of finding part of Hugh’s body would be naturally revolting – perhaps ‘horrific’ would describe it better.
Baldwin had more experience of death and the destruction which men could wreak on each other. He had a belief that any murderer left clues about his motives and his personality at the scene, and he hoped that there would be something here for a man with a naturally enquiring mind to learn. Outside all was a mess of mud and footprints, but perhaps inside there would be less disturbance.
In his life he had seen many men who had been killed by burning, and there was much about this story which he found frankly incredible. He had witnessed Jacques de Molay being burned at the stake, and he recalled how many of the people of Paris had swum the Seine to reach the spot where Jacques had died in order to collect fragments of his bones. They were saved afterwards as relics. That thought was uppermost in his mind as he stood in the doorway gazing at the devastation inside.
Many feet had been in here, stirring the fine ashes that lay all over. From the threshold he could see the main chamber of the building, although there was a second, smaller room on the right which could be entered through a narrow, doorless archway. That led to what had once been the storerooms, Baldwin guessed, the buttery and pantry. This main room would have been Hugh’s living area.
Looking about him, Baldwin could see a larger patch of slightly different-coloured ash lying in the middle of the room. That, he thought, must be where the hearth had been. From there he began to make out certain details about the place. There were a couple of thicker charred timbers, which looked as though they could have been the legs of a solid bedframe. To the side, right in the angle of the wall, there was an area that was significantly scuffed, and there, he guessed, was where the child had been found. Jankin had said that he was found lying in a corner, and the disturbed area looked about the right size for a little boy. It made Baldwin feel inexpressibly sad to think that the child might have crawled there, away from the noise and terror of attacking men. Perhaps the lad had seen Hugh die, and his mother fall. Being a realist, and remembering the woman’s soft beauty, Baldwin had to wonder whether the lad had also witnessed her rape. It was more than likely.
The ashes appeared uniform over the floor, and Baldwin crouched down to view them from a lower angle to see if there was anywhere a lump which could have been a body, but there was nothing. The only thing he did notice was that the ash appeared to have worn in a channel from this doorway to the room at the back of the house. It led close to the wall, all the way round the room until it reached the archway.
A man walking might make such a little gutter in the surface, Baldwin thought to himself. Footprints wouldn’t last in this soft, feathery ash. A faint gust of wind would remove definition from all edges unless the ash grew damp, and this was still very dry. Slowly he rose to his full height. Taking a grip on his sword’s hilt, he pulled it a short distance from its sheath as he started to follow the trail. No, he could see no footprints, but the ash was so light it blew about his ankles even as he walked. Any prints would have been blown over and concealed in moments. Baldwin stepped slowly towards the open doorway. Inside the chamber it was darker, but suddenly Baldwin saw that there was a flickering. Someone had lit a fire in there. Even as he realised that, Baldwin could smell meat cooking. He set his jaw, drew his sword fully from his sheath, and was about to spring inside when he was stopped by a voice.
‘Sir Baldwin, please don’t prick me with that. Steel’s no good for my digestion.’
Humphrey closed the door behind him as he heard the men approaching. He froze a moment, thinking that someone was coming to fetch him, but he told himself not to be so stupid. No one could have seen what lay inside the chapel. He glanced over his shoulder and scowled at the party. ‘What is it?’
Perkin was not of a mind to be spoken to so churlishly, not after his morning. ‘There’s a dead woman at the manor. We want a priest to speak the words over her.’
Sweet Jesus! It had been a long time since Humphrey had spoken the viaticum over the dead. He hesitated and licked his lips. ‘Who is it? I didn’t know there were any women unwell?’
‘There aren’t,’ Perkin said gruffly. ‘It’s Lady Lucy, the woman who disappeared a little while ago at Meeth. She was found this morning. Someone killed her and threw her into our bog.’
‘Good God!’ Humphrey said and crossed himself. He shot a look at the chapel. ‘Um – very well. I shall come, but keep quiet out here. Father Isaac is asleep.’
Perkin shrugged. ‘He’s an old man. He deserves a little rest. We’ll keep silent, don’t worry.’
Humphrey hurried back inside, fetched his purse with the bottle of holy water, glanced at the altar and crossed himself hurriedly, then joined the men outside. By the time they were all walking up the lane towards Monkleigh, his mind was working quickly. ‘If she was on your lands, did no one see her?’
Perkin could hear the false casualness in his voice. ‘It’s none of us, if that’s what you think, Father. I had nothing to do with it, and I don’t think any of my friends in the vill did either. She was …’ He paused, seeking the right words, but could find no subtle phrase to hide the truth. ‘She was tortured before she died. Someone broke her
bones and hurt her before he killed her.’
‘Who would do a thing like that!’ Horrified, Humphrey stopped in the lane to stare at him. ‘You have been listening to stories put about for children!’ But no one replied, and Humphrey felt a hollowness in his throat as the import of their silence struck home.
All had heard of the brutality of Sir Geoffrey’s master. The Despensers were ruthless in pursuit of their ambitions. Everyone knew the tales of people run down on the roads when they were recalcitrant; the king’s brother, Thomas of Brotherton, had been coerced into renting lands cheaply to Despenser, and later he had to give them over entirely; even the king’s niece, Elizabeth, Lady Damory, had been forced to surrender the lordship of Usk, despite being Despenser’s sister-in-law. Lady Damory herself had been left with almost nothing of the vast inheritance she should have been able to enjoy.
Humphrey was silent as they walked up the lane towards the field which had been drained, but now it was the silence of dawning horror.
It had seemed such a simple plot at first. He’d arrived at Hatherleigh a penniless outlaw, constantly on the run, and at first he hadn’t noticed the shambling old man behind him. When he turned and spotted the clerical robe he had wanted to bolt. It was only when he saw that the priest was almost blind, and very obviously in pain, that he had slowed and considered his options.
The trouble was, for a renegade like Humphrey, it was very difficult to survive. What openings were there for a man like him – the life of a thief and draw-latch? Spending the whole of his life from here on fearing the steps behind him, wondering whether it would be an officer hoping to catch him? Or should he find a nice quiet location where he could hide for a while, unconsidered, unnoticeable, gathering his resources until he could run again, take a ship abroad, make a new life somewhere else?
But for him it would be difficult to find somewhere to hide. There were no easy places of concealment, and in any case he had no money. Everything he had once possessed was still with the men who had taken it from him.
This priest was clearly ancient. He shuffled along the street like a beggar himself, stumbling into people, peering at them with eyes that were almost blind, apologising for his clumsiness. Humphrey began to follow him, watching him closely, because already a faint glimmering of an idea was forming at the back of his mind.
Isaac soon wandered off the main thoroughfare, and seemed content to wait by a cart in an alley nearby. Humphrey took his post in a darkened doorway. He peered at the old man, wondering how old he was, a speculative frown wrinkling his brow as he sucked his bottom lip. Yes, this man could well be his escape from this miserable existence. He looked at Isaac and saw a bed, food, a fire … Isaac was a refuge of sorts.
A youngish man arrived, short, stout, with mousy hair and a cast in one eye, belching happily. ‘Sorry, Father.’
‘It was a sound to be proud of, my son. The ale house?’
‘Yes. It was good in there. No dancing, though.’
‘Good. Dancing is a terrible thing. It’s the devil’s way of tempting youths and maids into sin, you know.’
‘Yes, Father,’ the man said. He was plainly unbothered by the warning. This was one of the old-fashioned priests, then, opposed to singing and dancing at any time, one of those men who would baulk at the thought of a maid and a man indulging their natural desires. So be it. Humphrey could act his part.
The cart moved off, lumbering slowly, and Humphrey let it go a way before he set off in pursuit … little realising how far he would have to walk. Yet it had been worth it. He trailed along after the cart until it left the town, and then he was fortunate enough to see the carter wave to a watchman at the edge of the market. He hurried to the watchman and said, ‘Excuse me, friend, but that cart, was that the miller?’
‘Him? No, he’s Guy from Monkleigh. There’s a mill there, but he’s not the miller.’
‘And the priest with him? He is also from Monkleigh?’
‘Yes. Poor old sod. He is from the chapel out there, but he’s as blind as a bat; deaf too. Can’t keep that job for long.’
‘Thank you.’
And that was that. A few days later, he walked into the chapel, freshly tonsured, clad in his old garb, and with a happy smiling visage to present to the world. When the old priest appeared in the doorway, Humphrey carefully checked behind him to see that he was alone, and presented his parchment. ‘Here I am, Father.’
While the milky eyes peered at the letters, then rose again to Humphrey’s confident, smiling face, Humphrey could scarcely keep his joy from bubbling over. At last he was safe.
Since that glorious day, some seven months ago, he had been here, and he had performed a useful service. Isaac was incapable of fulfilling his priestly functions, let alone looking after his fields. Everything was left to Humphrey, and it was lucky that he had the training for it. He took the services, married many youngsters, blessed the living, baptised the newborn, and in every way conformed to the locals’ perception of a good priest. He pandered to Isaac’s views on all aspects of life, stopping dancing and music in the little chapel’s yard, loudly condemning those who gambled with dice in the nave during his Mass, and living up to the tiresome old bigot’s expectations in every way he could. The fact of Isaac’s deafness and his blindness were merely bonuses. They made it all but impossible for Isaac to realise what Humphrey was up to.
Yes, for seven months he’d been safe and secure in his life here, and now, suddenly, this had to happen. He was involved in dangerous politics, if his imagination was not leading him astray, and could soon find himself accused of murder if he couldn’t find a way out of it.
The body lay beside the almost empty bog, which now held only a shallow layer of filthy mud, water pooling on it in some places. There was a foul exhalation, as though many animals had died and were rotting there. Humphrey cleared his throat, then swallowed. ‘Have, er, have you summoned the coroner?’
Perkin was still looking down at the woman. ‘Yes. He should be here before long, if he has any sense.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘He’s a knight from our Lord Despenser’s household. He will wish to come and ensure that there’s no embarrassment for his lord, no doubt.’
‘The poor child,’ Humphrey said as he squatted beside the body. She had plainly been in a lot of pain before she died. Her arm was broken, and her nails had been ripped out. Then he saw her face.
Humphrey had seen death in many forms in his life – who hadn’t? – yet this woman’s passing was remarkably poignant. To think that someone could have tortured her and flung her into the bog without the opportunity of a shriving was appalling. The man must have been a monster. He closed his eyes, clenched his hands together and began praying for her, muttering the viaticum and finishing with a Pater Noster for good measure.
‘Who could have done this?’ he demanded as he rose, his task over. His eyes flew angrily over the others. ‘Well? She didn’t fly here, and it would have taken some effort to throw her into the mire. Someone must have had help to do that, surely.’
‘None of us here,’ Perkin said. He sighed and looked up into Humphrey’s eyes. ‘Who do you think did it?’
That was not a question Humphrey intended to answer. They all knew who it must be: the steward of the manor, Sir Geoffrey. His master must have ordered the death of the woman who wouldn’t give up her lands, and Sir Geoffrey had captured her, then assassinated her and hidden her body here in the mire, thinking it would remain concealed for ever. Not alone, though. No one man could have carried her out to the middle of the bog and dropped her in. She might have been light, but with those stones tied to her to make her sink, she would be too much of a weight for one man wading up to his belly in the foul mire.
‘Who would dare walk into a bog?’ he wondered. ‘He must have been mad.’
‘There was a way. Men who lived here knew the path,’ Perkin said.
Humphrey shivered. The thought of wandering over this repellent mud,
always expecting to be swallowed up … whoever it was, he must have been filthy afterwards, too.
Afterwards Humphrey was glad to return to the chapel, where he opened the door quietly and relocked it from the inside before crossing the floor to the small chamber on the southern side where the two men had lived their quiet lives.
He was still there, of course, sitting up in his chair; he hadn’t moved. The open, dull, white eyes still stared up at the ceiling, his jaw still hung slackly, the hands still dangled, and Humphrey returned to his previous occupation, sitting on the floor and staring at him, wondering what on earth he could do now. With his mentor and protector gone, there was far less security for him here. At any time he could be discovered. But where else could he go? That was the thought that exercised him as he squatted there on the floor.
Where could he go?
Baldwin thrust his sword home again with a feeling of bemusement. ‘Edgar? What in God’s good name are you doing here?’
‘Sir Baldwin,’ Edgar said, bowing to him and walking past him out of the chamber. ‘I knew you would be here soon, so I came on ahead.’
‘Why?’ Baldwin growled. ‘You ought to be at the manor.’
‘Hugh was a friend, sir. I was not of a mood to leave his death unavenged if by my presence I could help him.’
‘You knew I would be here with Simon, didn’t you?’
Edgar smiled in that lazy way he had. On occasion it could be utterly infuriating, but at other times, like today, it simply served to remind Baldwin why he had been so glad to retain Edgar as his steward after they had left the Knights Templar. The lean, dark man was confident and assured in all things, and now he was surveying Baldwin as though assessing his strength. ‘How is your breast, sir?’
‘Don’t change the …’
A Friar's Bloodfeud: (Knights Templar 20) Page 17