by Jenny Kane
Eustace had already left the hall. Mathilda could hear him shouting at Allward to find Sarah and bring her to the kitchen. Walter had vanished, presumably to grab whichever horse was the quickest to saddle, leaving Oswin standing looking from his sister to Robert de Folville and back again, his expression a picture of confusion.
The rushing past of Sarah as she hurried to the heart of her domestic domain, proved that Eustace’s shouting had yielded results.
In the middle of this breakout of chaos Robert took Mathilda’s hands. ‘Are you sure it was him?’
‘No, my Lord. I haven’t named anyone anyway! I was trying to say that …’
‘No?’ Robert roared the word, but gathered himself quickly, ‘Mathilda, Eustace is gathering the family to sort this out. If you’re wrong there will be hell to pay.’
Mathilda battled to keep her own fright-enhanced irritation in check as she responded. ‘I was trying to speak, but no one was listening. Do any of you in this family ever listen to a whole sentence before you jump to conclusions and bound off to act?’
To stop Robert charging off himself, Mathilda wrapped her smaller fingers around his, making him look at her, puzzled endearment putting an abrupt cap on his anger.
‘I have been unjust towards you, and you have heard the rumours about me, and yet you take my hands anyway?’
‘As I said, my Lord, you and your brothers are used to acting hastily and without thought. Perhaps you won’t in the future?’ She smiled at him, knowing that there was little chance of that as she added, ‘As to the gossip, well the world is built on rumours. Most of them are wrong. Convenient lies to some; living hell for others. Why else would Our Lady denounce it as an abomination?’ Mathilda stared into Robert’s eyes, noticing how they were slightly mottled, more like the green of an oak leaf nearing autumn than just plain green, and spoke with more confidence than she felt. ‘I think I know who the killer of Master Hugo is. It is the only theory that makes sense in the circumstances, but who is going to listen to the likes of me? We need proof.’
‘We won’t if Eustace get hold of him first. He’ll wring his neck before any questions are asked!’
‘But I think my Lord Eustace is wrong … well partly wrong, my Lord!’ A knot of panic tied in the pit of Mathilda’s stomach, ‘And anyway; the man isn’t worth hanging for. Will you help me? Will you help me show them the truth about Hugo?’
Robert traced a hand over the girdle at her waist, the gleam to his eyes showing some of the potential affection he’d hinted at on their first meeting. A kindness and caring that had been missing since Hugo had lied about her work at the market. ‘It really isn’t true, what they say about me and Master Hugo.’
‘I know. I think perhaps it may have been for Master Hugo though.’
Robert bristled, but Mathilda reached up and put a palm on his cheek. ‘He was always going to be jealous of any friendship you had, and I doubt he ever understood why, and that made him bitter and angry.’
‘You speak about things you are forbidden to even think.’
‘Says the man whose family operates its own brand of law, and has been personally connected to many felonies. Does that make you a forbidden thought as well, or simply a member of a family with the guts to fight back against a country so corrupt that even the Queen has risen up against her King?’
Looking at Mathilda as if he’d just seen her properly for the first time, Robert struggled to pull his mind back to the urgent matter at hand. He rubbed his forehead. ‘So do you think my brother killed Hugo or not?’
‘He didn’t.’
‘But Eustace said he’d reached the same conclusion as you, and that was …’
Mathilda reached up on her tiptoes and placed a finger over Robert’s lips, ‘Your brother, the rector of Teigh, is in this up to his neck, but I don’t think he was the one who struck out with a dagger, or indeed organised the death. We need Oswin and Allward to help us, and we have to move quickly. There isn’t much time and they’ll have to travel some miles.’
They moved fast. With a hasty explanation to Sarah, Robert buckled his sword to his side, and made sure his dagger was still where the housekeeper had hidden it. Meanwhile Mathilda gathered up some bread and some flasks of ale for Oswin and Allward, and stuffed them into their saddle bags as the boys clambered up onto the nearest horses as fast as the stable boy could saddle them.
‘You know what to do?’ Oswin nodded at Mathilda as he and Allward whirled their mounts towards the gates, ‘I’ll see you soon, sister. Be brave.’
A lump formed in Mathilda’s throat as she watched them leave, but she had no time to indulge in tears.
Robert was talking to Sarah. As Mathilda hurried over to them she could hear Robert chastising the housekeeper for telling Mathilda about the rumours concerning him and Hugo, ‘Of all people, I didn’t want her to think I was like that!’
‘And she of all people needed to know so she could be prepared for the back-handed comments.’
‘And what if she believes it? What then?’
Mathilda rolled her eyes, ‘We don’t have time for this!’ She pushed Robert towards the door as if he was a child refusing to go and fetch the firewood before a storm, ‘I’ve already told you I don’t believe it. Now go! If Eustace kills the rector, then we’ll never know the whole truth for certain!’
As Robert vaulted onto his horse, Mathilda caught hold of his bridle, ‘Stay safe, my Lord.’
Feeling unexpectedly warmed by the gratitude in his eyes as he held her gaze for a second, Mathilda watched Robert canter from the yard, trying to catch up with Eustace and Walter before they reached Leicester, and John Folville took the law even further into his own hands than usual.
Mathilda paced the hall, the kitchen, and the bedrooms, fussing and tidying as she went. Having given up any hope of resting after her sleepless night, she was supposed to be helping Sarah clean and prepare the food that was bound to be desperately needed by the time the family returned, some shattered after their own lack of sleep, others fuelled by anger. But after proving herself too distracted to be of any use in the kitchen, Sarah had sent Mathilda to attend to the fireplaces.
Her hands and knees were black from where she’d become careless in her agitation for news. As the hours passed, Mathilda went over and over her theory in her head, and with each rehash of her idea she became less and less certain. If only Allward would return and confirm her suspicions, but as she’d sent him on a long round trip she judged he’d be some time yet.
Mathilda began to consider what might happen if she was wrong. And even if she wasn’t wrong, what would she do if Father Richard managed to convince his brothers that she was a troublemaker bent on destroying his good name? As she returned to the hall to polish the well-worn wooden surface of the hall table for the second time that hour, Mathilda began to plan an emergency escape.
Grace was beginning to wish she hadn’t left her laptop at home in her hurry to get away from the spectre of her evening with Rob. Pausing in her work, massaging some feeling into her tired wrist, and flicking back through her scattered notes, Grace decided she’d better number them, or she’d never get everything typed up in the correct order when she got home.
Flexing her neck, Grace realised that was the first time she’d thought about going home since her arrival in Hathersage without feeling vaguely nauseous. Seeing that as a good sign, Grace raised her gaze so she could see out of the window and across the hotel’s well-kept gardens, speaking her thoughts aloud, ‘I wonder how he’s getting on in Houston.’
Without contemplating an answer to her question, Grace picked up her pen back up and turned to the next page in her notebook. ‘Allward must be back by now.’
Having run though the house, peering around every door searching for Mathilda, Sarah eventually found her smoothing the covers on Robert’s bed, ‘Allward’s back.’
The colour drained from Mathilda’s face as she hurried back through the manor to find the servant boy sitting at th
e kitchen table drinking from a flagon. ‘And?’
Wiping a sleeve across his mouth to dry his lips Allward, breathless from his gallop, said, ‘You were right.’ He pointed at the evidence he’d bought with him, now lying on the kitchen table.
‘And Oswin, did he get to Twyford?’
The boy nodded. ‘I met him as I left Bakewell. Your father was tricked into a corner he couldn’t get out of.’
‘Are he and Matthew all right?’
‘Oswin had them with him. They’ll be safest at the Coterel manor until the guilty have been dealt with.’
Mathilda felt sick with shame. She hadn’t considered the danger her accusations might have put her family in if Father Richard decided to ensure the silence of the only person who could point the finger at him with unshakeable confidence.
Placing a hand on Mathilda’s arm, Sarah said, ‘They’ll be safe with the Coterels.’
‘But they are felons.’ Even as she spoke, Mathilda remembered how kind Nicholas Coterel had been to her by not taking her belt; and by sending Oswin to trail her, he may have already saved her life once before.
Smiling, Sarah said, ‘They are felonious as the Folvilles; but only when they have to be. Only when there is no other action left to take.’ The housekeeper paused before saying, ‘I fear for one of them though – things have gone too far. The taste for the suffering of others has become a habit rather than an unpleasant, but necessary, tool to survival.’
A thunder of hooves from outside sent an exhausted Allward scurrying into the yard to help with the horses, followed by Sarah, her best haughty expression on her face, and an increasingly pallid and apprehensive Mathilda.
All the Folvilles were gathered in the yard.
Eustace, John, Thomas, Walter, Laurence, and Robert were moving as one. Right in the middle of them, like prey caught by a hunting pack, his face on fire with rage, stood Richard Folville, the rector of Teigh.
Chapter Thirty-four
Bundled from the yard into the hall, the rector of Teigh unleashed a feast of unholy verbal protestations as his eyes fell on Mathilda.
John, reverting to his role as head of the household, stood intimidatingly close to Mathilda. Towering over her, she couldn’t help feeling as if she was the one on trial, rather than Richard. ‘You had better be able to explain yourself extremely well, Mistress Twyford. I wish to know why you are besmirching the good name of my most reverend brother. He is, you may be interested to know, the very brother who was responsible for bringing you here to pay off your errant father’s debt and his unworthy defamation of Robert. For that we owe the rector for upholding the family reputation, and therefore should be showing him gratitude not showering him with this suspicion.’
A smug expression passed over the churchman’s face as he listened to his older brother cast suspicion on Mathilda’s allegations.
Seeing the anxious look on Mathilda’s face, Sarah laid a hand on her arm before addressing the head of the household herself, ‘If you please, my Lord, it is the fact that my Lord Richard is responsible for bringing her here that first caused this suspicion to be cast. I truly believe you should hear what the girl has to say.’
John studied his housekeeper’s face for a long time. The entire room seemed to have frozen, poised for the eldest Folville’s reaction at this plea from his most trusted servant.
At last, although evidently not convinced he should bother, John gave a begrudging signal of agreement, and Sarah squeezed Mathilda’s shoulder, ‘Go on, Mathilda; tell my Lord John everything, just as you told me.’
With a glance at Robert’s grave countenance, which was punctuated by a flash of an encouragement to his eyes that Mathilda hoped had really been there, that wasn’t a trick of her imagination, she began to speak.
‘My Lords, as I tried to say earlier, there is guilt with your holy brother, but I do not believe that he wielded the dagger that slew Master Hugo, he merely wished to …’
‘What?’ John was ready to burst with anger, as Richard swaggered away from the dropped hold of his brothers. ‘You, a hostage, had my kin hunting the entire Goscote Hundred, and across into Rutland to Teigh, for a cleric, and have them drag him here to be accused of – what, then?’
Mathilda was gratified to see that as Robert let go of the churchman, he appeared extremely uneasy about doing so, as he deferred to his eldest brother for instruction.
Burying her nerves as deep as she could, Mathilda bunched her fingers into her palms until her nails dug into her skin; the mild pain giving her an odd sort of reassurance. It seemed to be telling her that while she was still alive, she should feel every sensation possible. ‘Please, my Lord, I can explain.’
‘You’d better. For evil, unfounded accusations against a man of God are enough to send you to hell, Mathilda.’
Flinching, Mathilda stood her ground, and began to speak as fast as she could. ‘My Lord, Father Richard did not strike the blow that murdered Master Hugo, but he knows who did, he knows why, and I believe he has used those facts to his advantage.’
Adrenalin pumped through Grace as she re-read the last few lines she’d written. In her haste to get the words down, her handwriting was appalling. Grace smiled as she remembered the course she’d taken in deciphering medieval handwriting. It would probably be the only thing that would help her read through this lot when it came to typing it up. She had just over an hour before she had to pull on her faithful jeans and a T-shirt, and find Daisy for breakfast. Grace pictured her friend in the neighbouring room. It had been her last night as a single woman. Was she still asleep? Or was she lying there awake, a bundle of nervous excitement? It must be a strange feeling, knowing that nights alone would be a rare thing from now on, and that there would be someone to share things with whenever she wanted to.
Shaking her head sharply to dislodge the feeling of loneliness that was trying to nudge its way into her heart, Grace was more determined than ever to bring Mathilda’s tale to an end before breakfast. She wanted to be able to wave Daisy and Marcus off into their combined future with her story complete.
There could be no denying that Father Richard hadn’t expected the girl to say that. He’d been braced to be accused of murder, something he could easily prove he didn’t do. His face darkened, and he began to protest, but not fast enough for his sharp-eared brothers to have missed his split second of surprised hesitation.
Ignoring his younger sibling’s blustered mutterings, John’s eyes narrowed, ‘Go on then, girl; tell us, which gullible fool do you believe to have been taken in by my reverend brother enough to kill for him?’
‘And more important than that,’ Eustace added, keeping his eyes trained on Richard, ‘tell us why you think that happened.’
Mathilda had been all ready to blurt out a name and then run out of the hall as quickly as she could, sure that the room would erupt into a thunder of denial and threats of recrimination the second her accusation was made. It seemed though, that in her fear she’d forgotten the basis of the assembled brothers’ motives for crime. Yes, they were violent, but they were only violent to those deemed deserving of such treatment.
Lines from one of her favourite ballads came to her. ‘Robyn loved Oure dere Lady: For dout of dydly synne, Wolde he never do compani harme. That any woman was in.’ 17
Robyn and his men may have terrorised the rich and avaricious, but their devotion to Our Lady meant it would go against their principles to harm a woman. Mathilda hoped that was a principle Robert and his family upheld as well. When it came to the reverend, however, she rather doubted it. Something about the countenance of the man, let alone the way he spoke and acted, made her skin positively creep.
‘It was the dagger in my cell that made me suspicious of the rector, my Lord.’
Mathilda was about to continue, but the reverend Folville had seen his chance, and pounced upon it.
‘If anyone in this cursed hall would do me the justice of listening to me instead of that chit, I can tell you exactly why this
child is hell bent on pointing the finger at me. She wishes to cover up her own guilt. For it was, without doubt, Mathilda Twyford herself who thrust the dagger into the chest of Master Hugo, and left him to bleed to death like a suckling pig.’
‘What?’ Mathilda opened her mouth for further words to come, but none did, for John had sprung forward and placed a gloved hand over her mouth.
‘Your manners seem to be sadly lacking when it comes to listening to a man of the cloth, girl. You will allow us to hear him out.’
Mathilda had expected the rector to try and switch the blame to her, but she hadn’t thought he’d jump in so fast. A new level of fear landed on her flesh, covering her in a cold clammy sweat. Why hadn’t she started by naming the guilty party and working backwards from there? Foolish!
Striding towards John, Robert, with an expression on his face that could have withered the crops in the fields, said, ‘I would consider it a great personal favour if you would remove your hand from Mathilda’s mouth, brother.’
Again the tension in the air thickened as all eyes moved away from Richard to John and from John to Robert, as the eldest brother spoke with insincere calm, ‘Can you assure me that your waif will remain quiet and give our reverend brother time to tell his side of the story before she utters another word in accusation?’
Robert placed his hand over John’s and pointedly lowered it from Mathilda’s lips. ‘I can if you can assure me that, after Richard has spoken, Mathilda will be allowed to tell her side of the tale?’
John paused for longer this time. ‘Agreed, but she must tell the truth, and be able to prove her words.’ The elder brother paused again, before adding, ‘On the surety of your place in this family?’
Sarah gasped, and looked at Mathilda, her eyes pleading with her to keep her lips closed whatever lies were about to be said.
Robert took over the questioning, his face etched with a menace his reverend sibling was either blissfully unaware of, or was simply ignoring, ‘And what was Mistress Twyford’s motive for murdering a man she doesn’t know?’