Lizzie looked pointedly at the watchman’s hand on her arm. Baldwin waved dismissively. Daniel let her go and sat next to Holcroft.
“Lizzie, I am trying to find out who might have committed a murder,” Baldwin said, and explained about the body. As he spoke, Agatha returned and set a jug down, keeping an eye on Lizzie all the while. Simon could see she was nervous that she might be arrested and fined for keeping prostitutes during the fair. His attention returned to Baldwin as the knight continued, “He must have died not far from the inn’s doors. Did you hear or see anything last night? Someone calling for help—a struggle?”
“No, sir. Nothing.”
“Agatha? What about you?”
“Me, sir?” She threw Lizzie a quick look. “No, nothing.”
“I see. Were there many people in here last night?”
“I’ve already told you who was here and who wasn’t,” the alewife snapped. “Look, I’m busy. There are people here who want serving, and you asking questions isn’t going to help me pay my rent.”
Baldwin watched her as she flounced off among the throng, then looked up at the girl. “Lizzie, please sit down. This will not take long, but it would be discourteous to expect a woman to stand while her questioners all sit.”
Daniel moved over—a little too enthusiastically for Baldwin’s taste, and the knight threw him a sour look.
For the first time, Baldwin studied the girl. If he had to guess, he would say that she was a little over twenty, and very attractive; she had not yet lost the sheen of youth. She was a brunette, and her hair was chestnut with auburn tints where the light caught it. Her face was square but very feminine, and her lips were full and seemed to smile with an easy joy. Baldwin could easily understand how she could entice the men of the town. All too often he had noticed the harsh measuring look in the eyes of other women of her trade, but in Lizzie’s brown eyes all he could see was an ingenuous happiness which surprised and warmed him.
“You work from here?” he asked. Her eyes went immediately to Holcroft. “Er, Lizzie, I think the port-reeve would agree with me that the Abbot will not need to know too much about where you live and how you work. Abbot Robert is concerned about the murder of a man, and other things really do not worry him. Oh, and I seem to recall that the port-reeve will be retiring soon, and making way for a new man, is that not right?”
Holcroft gave a shrug. “I reckon the Abbot couldn’t care less about minor offenses when he has a dead body to account for, and there’s no need for me to trouble him with things he’s not worried about—and yes, I do retire in a few days, so I’m not going to make difficulties.”
“Lizzie?” Baldwin pressed gently.
“I usually live here, yes. Sometimes I go away, but I often help Agatha with her cooking and brewing, and she lets me sleep in a room out at the back.”
“Not just sleep, neither,” said a man passing by the table.
She glanced up quickly and retorted, “You keep hoping, John Bacon. When your todger’s grown large enough to please me, maybe I’ll think about showing you what I can do for you.” She turned back to Baldwin apologetically. “Sorry, but Bacon’s always like that.”
Baldwin coughed, and felt his face redden. His only compensation was that he could almost feel the heat radiating from the face of the port-reeve. It was plain enough that the girl could see his confusion. She leaned forward to rest a cheek on her hand, and the movement pulled her tunic tight over her breast. He found it difficult to keep his eyes on her face as she looked innocently at him. Her eyebrow flickered upward, just the once, in a quick movement he could have easily missed—but her expression showed she knew he hadn’t. “Um. So who, er, who was here last night?”
“Last night? Oh, there were lots of men,” she said, and he was sure she was teasing him. “Elias, and Will Ruby, the port-reeve here…” Baldwin noted the comment. She was bright enough to make sure that the port-reeve was implicated “…and lots of others. Elias spent time talking to some stranger, and there was a father and his son from foreign parts, some watchmen, a friar, and Roger Torre, and…Oh, I don’t know who else.”
“It is Torre we are interested in,” Baldwin said. “How well do you know him?”
Her mouth widened into a broad grin. “What do you want to know?”
“Lizzie, Torre is dead.”
Her amusement vanished, and her posture changed. “You think the dead man was Roger? That’s daft…I can’t believe it.”
“It’s true.”
“Well, why wasn’t it announced immediately? Everyone’s been thinking it was a stranger.”
“Because with his head off we couldn’t tell,” Holcroft said bluntly and took a long pull at his ale.
She stared. Everyone in the tavern knew the body was headless, but it hadn’t occurred to her it might be Roger. “But why?”
“That is why we are here,” Baldwin explained. “We know he was with you last night. We are trying to find out whether he said something, or maybe you saw somebody arguing with him—anything.”
“If it’s true, let me see his body.”
Baldwin waved a hand, and Daniel stood. He walked to the door. After a moment Lizzie followed him. A few minutes later, she was back, her face pale.
“Drink this,” Baldwin said, pushing his pot toward her.
She accepted it gratefully. Picking it up in both hands she drained it. When she set it back down on the table, Baldwin could see that her hands were shaking. “It’s Torre all right,” she said harshly. “And the only man I know who could have done this was him!” She pointed a quivering finger at the port-reeve.
11
Arthur Pole swirled the wine in his goblet and stared into it thoughtfully. His wife sat serenely in her favorite position by the fire, stitching at a tapestry. Outwardly she was calm and spoke with what might have sounded to an outsider to be indifference, but Arthur knew otherwise. This was her tone of sweet reasonability. It was the one she used when she wanted one of the servants to understand very clearly what she expected. Arthur knew she used it on him as well when she thought he had failed her in a spectacular manner.
It was unfair. He had done nothing today to merit this treatment. As far as he was concerned, he’d tried to keep that blasted Venetian from his daughter. Cammino had not appeared on his doorstep at Arthur’s invitation: it was all down to Avice. She had contrived it, not him.
Arthur was used to being treated as a delinquent by his wife when she considered he had fallen below the high standard of so important a merchant and Guild member, and he had grown inured to a daughter who thought of him only as a personal bank with unlimited resources and no interest charges, but it rankled that his wife should lecture him on the type of man he should be thinking of for his only child.
“John would be a very good match for her,” Marion was saying as she imperturbably finished a stitch and selected a fresh thread. “True, he has no money himself, but his father, Sir Reginald, owns a good portion of land and four villages. Avice will be well provided for. And Sir Reginald has connections to the de Courtenay family as well, so John will make the perfect father to her children.”
Her husband looked up to see his servant waiting by the door. He drained his cup and motioned for a refill.
Marion noticed the movement. “Haven’t you had enough, dear? You drank a lot with that man earlier.”
“‘That man,’ as you call him, is the leading cloth merchant in Winchester. He could be worth a small fortune to me.”
“I should hope so, the amount you spent on wine for him.”
“How do you expect me to make friends and fresh contacts in business if I don’t sometimes buy them presents? Have you learned nothing about business in the time we have been married?”
“Oh, yes. I have learned much since you married me,” she retorted tartly. “I had to, I wasn’t used to such things before.”
Arthur took the goblet from his man and jerked his head to send him from the room. He recognized the aci
d preamble to the usual complaint, and did not want it witnessed.
“After all, husband, when I wed you I was the daughter of a knight.”
“Yes, dear.”
“He came from an old family. I was lucky he agreed to let me marry you.”
“Because I was only the son of a cobbler.”
“You were of…lesser nobility,” Marion nodded, adding complacently, “but I could see you were an honorable man.”
Arthur felt stung into retaliation. “I was already wealthy, and your father needed money.”
“That had nothing to do with it.”
“Marion, your father couldn’t afford to feed you.”
“That is untrue!” Her eyes blazed with indignation.
Arthur put his goblet down. “My only saving grace was the money I had amassed over the years. If it wasn’t for that, your father would have refused me. He needed my money.”
She looked at him with cold fury. Marion was not a hard woman. She had married Arthur when he was still relatively unknown, and had learned to accept some of the curious attitudes and beliefs he had held, but gradually over the years she had managed to educate him to a level of gentility. He could never aspire to being a real gentleman, since he didn’t possess nobility of birth, but for all that she was quite sure she could improve her family’s standing in their town, and one method of achieving that was to make sure that her daughter married well. It was important, not only for Marion, but for Avice herself. How much better it would be for her if she could marry a man with status. Her father could provide the money.
She swallowed her pride—Holy Mother, how often she had needed to do that over the years!—and forced herself to nod understandingly. “Arthur, you are a good man, and your business skills have made you successful, but can you not see that what I want for Avice is what is best for her and for her children?”
“She has no children.”
“The children she will have. She must be in a position to look after our grandchildren. That means she must find a husband of suitable rank, and the only one we know of is John.” It was true, she knew, that John was ignorant and more than a little stupid, but what could one expect from a rural squire? He was really little more than a farmer.
But he was related to the de Courtenays, and that counted for a lot.
Marion stitched on in silence for a moment while she considered. It would be a significant achievement to once again have nobility in the family. And Avice could not wish for a better mate. None of the greater families would countenance having the daughter of a trader attach herself to them, and she was lucky that John had accepted her. Marion watched her husband affectionately. He was staring sulkily at the fire and refusing to meet her gaze.
“Husband, you know that it is best for her that she marries into a good family.”
“I would prefer her to be happy.”
“I am happy.”
The softness of her tone made him look up, searching her face for a trace of falsehood. “But she seems set on this Venetian, and from the way he’s mooning around, if he doesn’t love her, I don’t know what love is.”
“That is not love, just infatuation. They will both grow out of it,” she said confidently. “Arthur, we know all about John and nothing about this other boy. Which is the safer partner for our daughter?”
“Did you know that Pietro is the son of a banker? The father is negotiating with the Abbot even now.”
She paused while she absorbed this. “Perhaps so, but money is not the only issue.”
“Marion, some of these Italian bankers are extremely rich. With that kind of money Pietro could buy a knighthood, maybe even a Dukedom.”
“A new title isn’t the same as an ancient one,” she protested uncertainly.
“And how do you know the Venetian isn’t from a titled family? Many of these Italian bankers come from noble stock.”
“I hardly think…”
“If he is, we are losing a good man for our daughter, aren’t we?”
“What do you suggest we do, then?”
“Only this: that we find out what we can about the Camminos. I shall set the groom on to this. Henry’s always been nosey. He’d love checking up on them.”
Marion considered, then nodded agreement. “If you think it’s worthwhile, husband.”
Arthur watched his wife as she returned to her needlework. She appeared content, and when she glanced up and saw his look, she smiled again. He returned to his staring at the fire; he would never understand women. Still, he resolved to have enquiries made about the Venetians as quickly as possible. If he was to bow to his daughter’s wishes, he would first have to make sure that she would not later have cause to regret her choice.
Margaret took the cloth from the merchant and held it up against her body while Jeanne considered it. Then they both began giggling again. Jordan kept his pleasant expression, but it was becoming a little fixed. When he glanced at Hugh, all he could see was a morose scowl, and he had to wonder to which of the two women the miserable-looking sod belonged. If his wife had possessed a servant such as that, he swore, he would dismiss the creature immediately.
Hugh was weighed down with the mass of foodstuffs and his arms felt inches longer. The gaiety of the women was incomprehensible to him, and he didn’t trust the salesman, either. Jordan Lybbe seemed too pat, too smarmy in the way he sang the praises of the pair as they held bolts of material against themselves. It was bordering on the familiar, and Hugh was deeply suspicious. The man almost seemed to be flirting, and what made it worse was that the women gave every appearance of loving it.
Hugh glanced up and down the alleyway. The day was drawing in, and people were clearing from the pathways between the stalls, preparing to return to their rented houses, or rooms at inns and taverns, some to get back to their warm beds in the straw over the horses. Firstly, though, all would be looking forward to the entertainers who inevitably tagged along in the wake of the fair. In the alcoholic haze in many rooms tonight, people would be blearily watching fools performing acrobatics or singing, and few if any of them would remember a thing about it in the morning. Their only reminder would be the size of their hangover and lightness of their purses.
He could visualize it only too well, and he wanted to be a part of it. But there was precious little chance that he could enjoy any of the festivities while his master was the guest of the Abbot. It would be unseemly for a bailiff’s servant to cavort with jugglers or dancers while staying in a convent.
As another gale of mirth rang out, he carefully set the baskets on the ground, leaning against a pole. Here he could feel the last gleam of the sun, and he closed his eyes and enjoyed the faint warmth. It was rare enough that he had time to sit in the sun nowadays. That had all stopped once he left home to earn his own living. Before that he had been first a bird scarer, throwing stones at the pigeons and crows, and sometimes getting a lucky hit and food for supper, until he was eight and old enough to become a shepherd, and if the winter months were cold and cruel—working in the snow trying to find missing animals and protecting the young lambs from foxes, buzzards, crows, wolves and all the other animals which preyed on the long-legged and stupid creatures—the summer months more than compensated. Then he could sit in the pastures with his pouch of food and a skin full of ale, and doze in the sunlight while the young sheep continually circled their grazing: walking and cropping, walking and cropping.
In his mind’s eye he could see the pasturelands now, as if he was back on the hill near Drewsteignton, the forty-odd animals in front of him, their jaws moving rhythmically, taking a slow step at a time as they followed after their leader. The vision was so strong, he felt he could almost reach out and touch the nearest sheep.
Then he snapped back to wakefulness as he heard the voice.
“My friends say you’re from France. That right?”
Hugh looked first to the women: they were silent but unharmed. The merchant had been talking with such concentration he had not not
iced the three men who had stealthily encircled him. Hugh moved quietly behind the pole, his hand falling on his old knife and testing it in the sheath.
“They reckoned you couldn’t understand English. Said you had problems with it before.”
They had timed their attack perfectly, Hugh saw. The clothseller and the women had been busy at the back of the stall, and it was hard to see the lane now, they were so far from the trestle at the front. If they were to call for help, it was likely they would be unconscious and their attackers far away before anyone dared to enter and find out what was happening. Not many people would care to risk their lives to protect another stallholder. Hugh stood still, and so far as he could see, none of the men had noticed him.
The leader of the three, the one who had spoken, hefted a large blackthorn club in his hand, and let it rise and fall two or three times. “Let’s see if this teaches you the King’s English, you foreign bastard. Get him, lads!”
The two men at either side of Lybbe reached out to grasp him, but the merchant was too quick for them. He sprang forward, knocking the leader’s cudgel aside and gripping the man’s wrist. Ducking under his shoulder, still holding his arm, Lybbe twisted, wrenching the man’s arm back. The leader was now bent over in agony; Lybbe took the club from his unresisting fingers and rested it on his attacker’s shoulder, pushing the man away from him and forcing a little gasp of pain from his lips.
“I understand English well enough, I reckon,” Jordan said coldly. “It seems your friend didn’t, though. I told him I’d get angry if anything happened to my things here, but he obviously didn’t get my meaning.” He twisted the arm and held it higher, and the leader’s legs crumpled as he tried to stop his shoulder being prized from its socket. “I wonder, do you understand me? If I have any more of this, I’ll have to keep lifting your arm up, and then you’ll need to see the monks to get it mended. It might take some time.”
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