by Jane Adams
The crowd murmured but Treven was unsure if they approved or were still aggrieved.
“If you’ve words to say,” Kendryk told Hugh sternly. “Then speak them now or keep your silence.”
Hugh cradled his wounded hand across his body and remained silent for so long that Treven began to feel that he’d thought better of his quiet accusation, but he was wrong. Slowly, Hugh lifted his head and he surveyed those gathered, Treven and the villagers and Kendryk and the brothers.
“Cate told me a secret thing,” he said, his voice strong with conviction. “She told me that on the night her sister left, she saw another leave after her. When he returned, there was blood on his tunic and on his hands. Cate herself helped to wash them clean.”
“What?” Eldred’s expression of shock only echoed Treven’s own. Sound erupted from those gathered; wordless questions and expressions of dismay both at the thought this might be true and also outrage that this man should dare make such claims.
Kendryk lifted a hand for silence. He waited until he had it, then he asked, “And whom now do you accuse? Cate’s husband, Eldred, or his brother Edmund, perhaps. Hugh, I am loath . . .”
“Neither.” Hugh told him. “There is one man only Cate would protect and that only out of a habit born of lifelong regard. The secret tore at her heart. She could tell no one.”
“And yet, she told you. A stranger?” Eldred’s fury broke him from the group and he stepped closer to Hugh.
“Who else, but a stranger,” Hugh told him seriously. “Could she tell a kinsman that the one she accused—”
“Was her father,” Treven said. He could see Hugh’s enjoyment in this and he hated him for it. This time, the shock of Treven’s words caused silence to fall.
“You accuse one not capable of his own defence,” Eldred spat at Hugh. “You disgust me more each time I come into your presence. If you are the measure of man the king chooses, then I for one do foreswear the King.”
“Such words are treason!” Treven exclaimed. He stepped forward, sword unsheathed from its scabbard.
Kendryk laid a hand upon his arm. “And we did not hear them spoken,” he said firmly. “Hugh, why say this now. If you knew before, why not tell your lord, or even me of this claim?”
“Cate made me swear to silence. Now she is gone, I no longer consider myself bound by that vow.”
“And Cate was dead when you took the trial. Why wait until now?”
“I waited because I stood accused of murder. I wished to clear my name before I condemned another. Who would have heard my words or chosen to believe?”
“What is this leading to, Hugh?” Treven demanded. Then the realisation. “You claim that this sick old man also took the life of his second child?”
Slowly, Hugh nodded.
“On what grounds?” Eldred demanded. “Abbot, this is madness. Take the man away, we do not want him here.”
“He has won his right to be heard,” Kendryk said mildly. “But tell us, Hugh, how is it you know of this. Did Cate’s father come and make confession to you?”
“He’s been nowhere near this man,” Edmund argued. “And should he have declared to all and sundry that he murdered his children, well, you have seen him, lord, would you believe his word?”
Treven was cautious in his reply. “I have seen him with the madness on him and his mind befuddled by too much drink,” he said. “But I know that such men can still have moments when their minds clear and they can speak truth.”
“So, you join this accusation? You are no better than . . .”
“I caution you, Eldred, watch your words.” Treven warned. “I do not accuse your kinsman. I wonder though, if he knew what his daughter did and followed her and there met with trouble. Perhaps the Waelas man she left with fought with the father. Perhaps Cate knew this and that is why she defended and protected him? Blood does not always speak of murder.”
“He killed them both,” Hugh said steadily. “I do so swear. I had this knowledge from Cate herself and then . . . from the evidence of my own eyes.”
Treven turned on him. “You saw him kill Cate?”
Hugh nodded, but would no longer meet Treven’s gaze
“You saw and you did nothing to defend her?”
“A failing I will live with lifelong! Treven, I swear, by the time I reached her side, the deed was done. He struck her twice and then ran. I thought her dead and I let her lie. In the darkness . . . truly, I thought her already dead and gone.”
Treven moved closer and thrust his fist beneath Hugh’s chin forcing him to raise his head. “You’ve seen death often enough, Hugh de Vries. You and I have stood knee deep in blood and killing. You know if a woman breathes or not even in the dark and that night, there was moon enough to see. You may not have struck the blow, but you left her there to die and in my heart I still see you as murderer for that act of cowardice.”
Hugh held his gaze then raised his mutilated hand. “You cannot accuse me now,” he said softly. “When God himself has acquitted me. I blamed myself when I knew she had lived until morning and because of that, I took this test. I wounded myself so deep I may never heal and yet, I am not dead. God looked into my heart and saw that the guilt was not mine. Now, I can declare what I know. Had I spoken of this before, who would have held the truth of it?”
Treven, lost for words, stepped away, releasing his hold on his one-time friend. He felt sick to the stomach, his body pained in every fibre. He could not believe that God would allow anyone to argue right and wrong on such a fine line and yet . . . and yet . . . here was Hugh. Hurting, but whole and so certain of his rights that Treven could find no argument.
“You presume to know the heart and mind of God?” Kendryk’s voice was soft but dangerous.
“No, Lord Abbott, only to be thankful for his mercies.”
Kendryk nodded slowly but said nothing more. Treven could see the hardness in his eyes and realised with shock that Kendryk looked for other solutions even as he did himself. That the Abbott, this man of God, no more accepted the simplicity of Hugh’s claim, than did Treven himself, Treven who spoke of the Christ with his lips but whose heart was still partly in thrall to his mother’s gods. What was the answer here?
“You saw the father strike that fateful blow?” Treven confirmed.
“I saw it, yes. I stood in the shadow of the birch trees and saw her run across the rough grass and onto the path. She turned and then he came from the withy-stand behind her. He must have called her name or made some sound because she wheeled to face him. He struck her once and then again as she tried to run. Then he left her.”
Treven was thinking fast. “When she left you, she was not headed towards home?”
Hugh looked confused, then shook his head. “I did not think of it,” he said, “but it seemed to me that she went the other way along the path. Towards the cottage of the one that found her.” He shrugged. “Perhaps she intended to visit.”
“So late at night?”
“How should I know what hours she kept? She had some errand, perhaps.”
“Strange that you did not ask nor she tell you, since she told you so much else. Or that you failed to see her safe home or to whatever destination she chose? You claimed to have feelings for this woman, Hugh. I am beginning to doubt that. Already, you told me that you spent the night with another.”
“And she confirmed that.”
“We spoke with her, yes. She said you arrived some time in the middle of the night. She could not guess the hour. You spent the remainder of the night rutting with another man’s wife while your cast-off love lay dying in the mud.”
Hugh flinched. “I told you, I thought her dead.”
“Even so, you spent little time grieving.”
“I thought . . . I thought to be elsewhere should any ask. Cate had promised Eldred that she would see no more of me. I would not have her foresworn, not even in death.”
“Unless it would be to convict her father.” Treven let out a slow, despairin
g breath. Battle, he understood. In that art he was master. Not this. His hopes for peace and a new life seemed suddenly to be an empty wish.
“Why did she run from you?”
“I did not say that she ran from me.”
“You frightened her, Hugh. I saw the marks on her neck and if the father killed her with a blow to the head, why place his hands at her throat? The bruises were caused by your fingers and not his. Did you think to kill her then?”
Hugh’s colour had been lifted by the fresh air but he paled again now.
“I remember another time.” Treven asserted. “I came back to our lodging and found you with a woman. You played rough with her, hands about her throat until she bruised because in some way she had displeased you. You made excuse that she’d been stealing and that you acted in anger. I believed you and took your word that you meant only to put the fear of God back into her soul, but I know what happened that night with Cate, Hugh de Vries. She told you that she planned to return faithfully to her husband or, perhaps, she threatened you by saying that the child she carried was yours and wanted provision for him? Whatever the cause, you sought to frighten her, maybe even to take her life.”
“I sought . . . I sought nothing. Yes, I was angry. Yes, I behaved as no man should. Anyway, that other one was nothing but a common whore . . .”
“She was still a living woman . . .”
“Maybe so, but when I realised what I had done to Cate . . . believe me Treven, I went too far without meaning anything. I released her and she ran. I did not follow. I would have confessed to my assault of her . . .”
“But then her father struck the fatal blow and you assumed all would think her killer sought to choke her first.”
He turned from Hugh and spoke angrily to Kendryk. “Your laws tried him, I’ll leave it to you to give him passage home. I’ll have no more of this.”
“You cannot send me away,” Hugh reminded him. “The King appointed me. I go or stay upon his word, not yours.”
“And I will send word to the King and plead my case with him. You think he’ll want a lawgiver that the people despise?”
“A lawgiver that dared to give himself up to justice and was victorious,” Hugh retorted.
Treven gave him one last look before striding away. “I thought once that I knew your heart,” he said. “You were impulsive, sometimes foolish and your liking for women was ever wont to lead to trouble, but at least I knew you to be loyal and honest. I look now at your heart and see it rotten, eaten by maggots. Keep from my doors, Hugh. You are not welcome in my hall.”
CHAPTER 33
Osric followed as Treven rode back to Theadingford, though keeping a respectful distance from his master. Treven was in no mood for either conversation or observation on what had passed.
As they dismounted, Osric reached to take the reins from Treven’s hand and said, “I’ve done a wrong thing.”
“I know it. Osric, did you think none would notice the scent of herbs or the feel of the oil you’d brewed them in? Kendryk is too sharp for that to go by.”
“You’ll punish me?”
“I should have you flogged but, truthfully, I’ve no stomach for it. If Kendryk had wished to challenge he would have done so back there. No, he’ll save that knowledge for some other time when it might be of use to him . . . as will Hugh?”
Osric looked puzzled. “He can’t tell on us without impugning himself,” he objected.
“Hugh is subtler then either you or I. If there is a way then he will find it. This is not the man I knew in battle, this is someone I do not understand. A man who looks, as I suppose do we all, to get the most from the king’s peace, but Osric, should I ever dishonour myself as deep as Hugh has done, cut my throat while I sleep and bury my body face down in the earth.”
Osric looked away, choosing not to hear. Instead, he led the horses to be groomed and stabled.
“Osric,” Treven called after him, “I will walk for a while. I’ve no mood to be confined. If any come to ask for me, you will not know where I have gone or how long.”
Osric nodded, though his face was creased with concern. Treven, unable to offer words of comfort, turned away from his home and walked back to the ford, crossing carefully on the larger rocks to keep his feet dry. The skies, heavy with snow, began to loose the first flakes and they drifted down to settle in his fox-red hair. He drew the hood over his head and pulled the cloak closer, even though the day had warmed somewhat since morning, and as he walked swiftly up the rise towards that place with the wooden cross, Treven felt less chill in his bones though the lump of ice still sat hard in his belly.
As he reached the crossroads where the cross and gibbet faced each other and the three roads to Storton, to Theadingford and back towards Winchester met, a flock of black battle crows flew overhead, their harsh cries causing him to pause and look skyward. They and he were the only things moving in this quiet landscape, the muffling of snow clouds even deadened sound. Treven stood and listened to the silence.
The body had long since fallen from the rope onto the hard ground below, flesh and sinew rotted through, left to be dragged away by those creatures hungry enough to feed on putrefying flesh. In spring, someone would gather what was left and bury it at the crossing of the roads. Too few would come here in the winter months to worry about the walking of restless spirits and besides, it would soon be All Souls. Such walkers were expected and it might be that his kinsmen would still lay a place for him at their table and even hope that he would return.
Treven wondered what kind of a man he had been. None in the village could name him, but those in Theading were not the only locals to hang their guilty here and, he guessed, they most likely chose not to remember his name even had it been known to them. It came to his mind that he should have brought Hugh here this day, placed the noose about his neck and driven the cart from beneath his feet. He closed his eyes, imagining the hairy texture of rough rope between his hands. Treven himself would have placed the rope about Hugh’s neck; it was not a task he could in conscience have passed to another. He asked himself, could he have done it?
He closed his eyes tighter, recalling the marks on Cate’s neck and knew that he could, though to kill in such cold blood was not something he would willingly have chosen, even though he believed the crime deserving of it.
He turned away from the remains of the man and walked on past the cross. Kendryk had spoken of an ancient grove that he wished destroyed. Treven searched for it now, seeking solace in a place that was not of Christian mind.
The track was overgrown, though in no place had the undergrowth encroached enough to make it impassable. Someone still used this place then. Here and there he noted where saplings and brambles had been chopped back to keep them in control and the woodland was coppiced between the taller oaks and white-skinned birch. Thickets of hazel rustled with the life of small birds and rodents disturbed by his presence and the coppiced trees showed two or three winters’ worth of growth. It would be ready for cutting back again this next spring. Beyond the coppiced woodland rose a circle of grey-skinned ash, crowning a slight rise. Treven paused. Snow was falling heavily now, muffling his footsteps and crusting his long-suffering cloak with a rime of white. He glanced back over his shoulder, suddenly afraid that Kendryk might have guessed his destination and be watching him.
“Fool,” he told himself. “Kendryk has more sense than to be traipsing abroad in this.” He took a deep breath of chilled air and stepped through the curtain of falling snow and into the sacred grove.
Within the grove was silence. Treven walked to the heart of it and turned slowly, gazing up at the leafless canopy and the heavy sky.
“What do I do? Lord, I have spent my life since childhood in battle and war; in blood and death. I came here hoping to have left that life but it has followed after me. Death comes to my door and even justice is blinded by one man’s misuse of faith.
“God, Christ, Wotan, whatever I should call you, whatever name you bear, g
uide me now. Tell me, show me what I should do?”
His words stumbled, blocked, it seemed cushioned by soft falling snow and lowering clouds. Treven closed his eyes and for a moment, gave himself up to anger and despair.
* * *
“Are you all right?”
The woman’s voice was strange, the words seemed familiar and yet said with an accent that Treven could not truly understand. He frowned and turned towards the speaker and as he did so the sounds resolved themselves inside his head into words that he could comprehend. The woman stood at the edge of the grove, her posture stiff and uncertain as though finding herself in an unfamiliar and private place and not sure of her welcome.
“You!” Treven took a step towards her and then two back, gripped by unreasoning fear. He felt he should speak, hide his dread. “I have seen you, walking with the hooded one. Are you a spirit?”
The woman or woman shaped thing stepped further into the circle.
“A spirit? No, I mean, I guess everyone has a spirit or at least I like to think so. But unless I died and no one thought to tell me, then I think I’m still alive.”
Treven stared at her, wondering if this woman thing were at the very least mad. Her clothes were strange. She wore a long dark coat just a shade or so darker than her skin. The fabric — no, leather so soft it draped like cloth — fell almost to her ankles and her head was bare, the black waves of her hair tied back in a bright red band.
Strangest and most fearful of all, the snow fell all about her but not a single flake fell upon her clothes or skin. Treven stared harder and his throat closed on the cry of alarm that rose when he saw the way the snow refused to touch this woman. As if his realisation brought the same fact home to the stranger, she held out her hands as though to catch the flakes.
“Well, will you look at that,” she commented. She laughed. “Will you look at that?”
Treven watched as she wandered over to the largest of the trees and sat down with her back to the smooth trunk. She seemed untroubled by the frozen ground.