by Maureen Ash
“I doubt it,” Merwenna replied. “No amount of silver would be worth it for a witch to take the risk of exposing themselves to a charge of murder. Besides, yew poison is simple to make, you do not have to be familiar with magick to concoct it; any goodwife who has made a drink from mint or camomile would know how to brew it—it is only necessary to crush up a few of the seeds or even a few leaves and bits of bark, boil them for a time and then strain the liquid through a cloth to remove any pieces of the tree. If she was told by a person she trusted that it was the potion she wanted and had been obtained from a witch, she would have no reason to think otherwise.”
Estrid thought her conjecture made sense and, pulling the linen-wrapped bottle from her scrip and removing the covering, showed it to the cunning woman. “This is the bottle that held the poison. Do you recognise it?”
Merwenna looked at it closely without touching. “I do not know if I have seen that particular one, but I have seen others like it in the village. They are made by Redwald.”
“So Valerie told me. And so he must be examined again.”
**************
On the way back to Bearsted, Valerie’s face was drawn in tight lines from the shock of hearing what her niece had done. Estrid and Judith remained silent as they walked to give her time to digest what she had been told. Finally, she spoke to Estrid quietly.
“Do you think it was Redwald who killed her?”
“No, I do not,” Estrid replied. “This is woman’s work, or at least there is a woman involved in it. Redwald may have made the bottle, but even if he knew the purpose for which it was to be used, he is not unintelligent, and would hardly use one of his own vessels in which to put the poison. And since the bottles can be rinsed out and refilled many times over, it is more likely that whoever placed the poison inside simply used one they had previously bought for their husband, or another male relative.”
Valerie nodded, and Estrid added, “But I will still need to question him again, to see how many of these particular bottles he has made and if he can remember who purchased them.”
As they approached Siward’s mill, Estrid halted outside the gate and, before Valerie went in, told her that she would also need to ask the rest of her family as to whether or not any of them had known of Alfreda’s acquisition of the supposed fertility concoction, and if she had told them who supplied it.
“The hour grows late now, so I will come to the mill tomorrow morning, after I have spoken to Redwald,” she said.
“May I tell the rest of my family about my finding of the bottle and what it contains?” Valerie asked.
“Yes,” Estrid replied. “I have no doubt that the village, by now, will know from those who watched us enter Merwenna’s cot that we have been there, and she will have been asked why we came. Since I did not place any stricture on her revealing the purpose of our visit, she has no cause not to tell her neighbours the reason and your discovery of the poison will quickly become common knowledge. Once that happens, I am quite certain the news will reach your brother, so it is best that he, and the rest of your kinfolk, be told of it before that happens.”
FitzHaimo must also be apprised about it as soon as possible, Estrid thought after they left Valerie at the gate of Siward’s compound, for the knight would need to inform the king. As soon as they reached Bearsted, she would ask Humbert to pen a message relating the information and have either Leofwine or Ugg take it to Ashford this evening.
CHAPTER 25
As Estrid had expected, it was not many minutes before Merwenna’s neighbour was knocking at the cunning woman’s door, eager to learn the reason for her visitors’ call. Although the cunning woman did not usually discuss the ailments of those she tended outside their family, this was different in that it involved the whole village, and so she related all about the finding of the poison and that it was believed that Alfreda had taken it under the misapprehension it was a fertility potion. The only information she omitted was that the bottle in which the poison was contained had been made by Redwald. If might be that the potter was innocent and, until it was proved otherwise, she did not want to place him under suspicion.
Before long, the whole village was astir with the news and when Osric heard of it, he went immediately to Merwenna’s cot to ascertain whether or not it was just ill-founded gossip. When she confirmed the rumour, he went home and confronted his daughter with what he had been told and asked if she had been involved in Alfreda obtaining the concoction.
“Of course I wasn’t, da,” Rowena exclaimed in a shocked tone. “How could you think I would ever have helped her consult a witch?”
Osric studied his daughter. He knew she was adept at lying, for he had often caught her in mistruths since she was a young child, but on this occasion she seemed sincere and he had no choice other than to believe her.
“And can the same be said of Nelda?” he then asked. “Will she also claim she knew nothing of this potion?”
“I cannot say with certainty what her answer will be,” Rowena said with a toss of her head, “but I would think it would be the same as mine, for I am sure she would have told me if she had been aware of it.”
And so it proved when Osric went to Gifel’s home and interrogated Nelda. Unlike Rowena, she was not dismissive, but was rendered so distraught by the accusation seemingly levelled at her that she broke down in tears and sobbed, pleading for her father and the reeve to believe her when she said she had been in complete ignorance of the matter.
A similar scenario took place in Kendra’s home, although she and her husband had no difficulty believing Maud, who had been a truthful daughter to them all of her life, when she said that although Alfreda had often expressed her desire to bear her new husband a son as quickly as she could, she had never once mentioned she intended to use magick to fulfil her wish.
“I would have tried to dissuade her if I had known of it,” Maud stated, “and, if she had ignored me, I would have told Valerie about it in the hope that her words would have more influence than mine in detracting Alfreda from such an evil purpose.”
Sweyn, too, heard the rumour, and after a frisson or two of gut-wrenching apprehension, decided it was not likely he would be suspected of supplying the venomous liquid. The making of such concoctions was considered to be women’s work, not men’s, and so, he hoped, his gender would keep him safe from more interrogation.
In Siward’s household, Valerie’s disclosure of her discovery and the details of her subsequent visit with Estrid to see Merwenna, was met with utter stupefaction.
“So Alfreda got the poison herself, did she, from some misbegotten pig who told her it would ensure she gave her husband a son?” Siward roared. “If I find out who he is, I’ll wring his neck with my own two hands.”
“And I’ll hold him down while you do it,” Harold exclaimed.
After this outburst, Valerie decided not to anger her brother further by telling him that the bottle in which the poison had been placed had most likely come from Redwald’s kiln, lest he and Harold go and attack the potter. Estrid had said she would interview Redwald the next morning before coming to the mill, so then would be time enough, if there was need, to tell Siward of the potter’s involvement.
**************
At Siward and Harold’s outbursts of anger, the children all started crying and it was decided it would be best to put them to bed. Edith and Helga took them upstairs to the sleeping cubicle they shared and settled them. As the two women were pulling blankets over the little ones, Helga felt tears welling in her eyes for Alfreda. The poor girl was not only dead, but had actually been gulled into killing herself with a potion she believed would bring her new husband happiness.
Helga’s eldest child, a boy, noticed she was crying and asked why, his own lip beginning to tremble at sight of his mother’s tears.
“I am not weeping,” she reassured him in her gentle way and determinedly stifling the sadness she felt, “my eyes are only watering, that is all. I think some chaff from t
he grain store must have blown into them when I went outside a little while ago and it has made them sore.” After inspecting her face closely for the truth of her answer, he saw that her tears had stopped and snuggled down under the blankets beside his younger sister.
Helga had seen Edith’s disapproving look at the explanation, but her sister-by-marriage did not remark upon it until the leather curtain had been pulled over the sleeping cubicle and they had reached the head of the ladder that led downstairs.
“You do not need to lie to me about the reason you had tears in your eyes,” she said harshly. “You were weeping for Alfreda, were you not?”
When Helga nodded, Edith reprimanded her. “Why?” she asked brusquely. “She was not of your own blood and, anyway, she was not worthy of sorrow.”
Helga winced at the callous remark. She knew Edith did not have kind feelings for many people, excepting those she loved, and these were few—her two sons, and the younger brother she had cared for when she was young were the only ones towards whom she showed any affection. She did not even seem to like her husband, Harold, very much, for she never spoke kindly to him or even smiled in his direction. But Helga hadn’t realised the depth of Edith’s dislike for Alfreda and, thinking it unmerited, summoned up the courage to ask her how she could be so heartless. “She was your husband’s sister and also kind and generous,” she said defensively. “Surely you, like the rest of us, will miss her.”
Edith shrugged. “Why should I?” she said dismissively, her face drawn with contempt. “She had a good life until her death; she was cosseted and given anything she wanted by her father and Valerie—there are not many who can say the same.”
“But…but she was so young,” Helga stammered, remembering the miserable life Edith had suffered until she had married, stricken with poverty and, after the death of her drunken father, struggling to bring up her baby brother when she was little more than a child herself. Even now her brother, Beorn, grown to a young man of seventeen, was still living in the dilapidated cot he and Edith had shared since their childhood, trying to eke out a living making osier baskets as his sister had done. Although Edith took Beorn food on occasion, Helga knew he was struggling to save enough money to be able to afford to marry a village girl he loved. Such a history did excuse Edith, in part, for her mercenary attitude, but not for all, and Helga stubbornly continued her admonishment, even though she was a bit intimidated by her aggressive sister-by-marriage. “Alfreda died on her marriage day,” she said defensively, “and, no matter how you felt about her, you must agree that was a tragedy.”
“The only tragedy is that she did not take the poison until she was away from Maidstone,” Edith spat out, “because then none of us would have been suspected of being involved in her death. She had everyone fawning over her while she was alive and they are all doing the same now she is gone. It is a waste of time and I am not afraid to say so.”
Helga made no response, but stepped swiftly down the ladder, anxious to be away from her hardhearted companion. She would be glad when Harold and Edith returned to their home at Siward’s other mill.
*************
Later that evening, at Ashford, Ugg arrived to give fitzHaimo the report from Estrid that Humbert had penned. The knight was pleased to learn that the container that had held the poison had been found and immediately conveyed the news to fitzRanulf.
“Although the Englishwoman has not yet found out who gave it to your wife,” he said, “she is clever, and I have no doubt will do so very soon.”
The newly-made widower’s response was much the same as Siward’s, declaring that if Estrid did manage to ferret out Alfreda’s murderer, he would kill the villain before Rufus had a chance to execute him. Abetot was with them and, after giving fitzRanulf a look of concern, said that the king should be apprised of this latest development as soon as possible.
“I agree,” fitzHaimo said. “I will prepare a message and send it off to Dover with one of the men-at-arms early tomorrow.”
“I can take it tonight, if you wish,” Abetot offered. “It is not yet dark and even after night falls, the moon is full enough to light the road. I should arrive there before midnight and can then come back here with Rufus’ response at first light in the morning.” He shrugged. “Save a good few hours of time.”
FitzHaimo considered the knight’s suggestion. There might be need to forestall any hasty action on the part of fitzRanulf should Estrid learn the poisoner’s name, and contrary instructions from Rufus would be of great assistance in staying his vengeful hand. Also, fitzHaimo thought, Abetot was finding Ashford tiresome, for he had once or twice mentioned in the last couple of days, in his dour way, that there was a dire lack of brothels in the area to give a lusty man comfort as often as he would like. By taking the message to Dover tonight, Abetot would not only get Rufus’ answer back to Ashford without delay, but also be able to avail himself of the services of a prostitute in the town before he returned.
FitzHaimo nodded. “Go and get your mount saddled. I’ll have the message penned by the time that is done.”
CHAPTER 26
Early the next morning, Estrid, Judith, Humbert and Leofwine all mounted their horses and left Bearsted to go and speak to Redwald about the bottle in which the poison had been found. Estrid was feeling some aggravation over the time that had been wasted in trying to ascertain if Alfreda had surreptitiously been given the poison in the hours before she left for the church when all along it had been in her own possession. She hoped the potter would have information that would compensate for the useless effort.
Redwald’s pottery was beside the small cot where he and his children lived, near the banks of the Medway and a little way to the north of the village. Following Tilde’s directions, they led their mounts along a track beside the river and it was not long before they could see some buildings set between the foot of a gently sloping hill and the river.
The buildings were not fenced in for protection but, as they approached, they soon learned why, for two massive hounds came racing towards them and stopped on the path only a few paces away. Both were snarling, hackles raised and fur bristling. Leofwine began to draw his sword in case they should attack but a shout from up ahead calmed the dogs and they turned and trotted back the way they had come. A moment later Redwald came striding down the path towards his visitors.
The potter’s arms were covered in clay, and he was wiping them with a cloth as he came up. “I am sorry if you were alarmed by my dogs,” he said to Estrid, “but I have trained them not to let strangers near my children so that, on the occasions I must go to market, I do not have to worry about their safety.”
“A wise precaution,” Estrid said.
“I take it you are here to ask more questions about Alfreda’s death?” Redwald asked.
When Estrid confirmed his assumption, he led them further up the path to where his home—a large and sturdily built cot—and his workshop were located.
As they neared, they could see his young son and daughter weeding a small vegetable plot on the far side of the house. The children paused in their chore to look at the visitors curiously. The dogs were beside them, seemingly relaxed and lying on their bellies, but their eyes were watchful. Nearby was an open-fronted shed inside which was the mechanism on which Redwald threw his pots, constructed of a lower wheel which could be turned by means of a foot pedal and connected by a series of struts to the upper wheel on which he placed lumps of clay. Leather buckets filled with a glazing mixture lined the floor, along with a large tub of sand, and hanging from pegs on the wall were an assortment of tools—animal ribs for shaping the pots, knives for trimming and some antler tines for piercing spouts or bung holes. There was also a small collection of bones carved in the shape of various designs—circles, squares and stars—which were used to create decorations on his wares by impressing them into the soft clay before it was fired. It must have been one of these that Redwald had used to make the whorl pattern on the bottle that had contained th
e poison.
Next to this was another shed lined with shelves on which had been placed a variety of finished pots, bowls, cups and a few bottles. They all appeared to be finished and ready to take to the marketplace.
As they came nearer, they could see a young man of about fifteen or sixteen years down on the riverbank, treading clay mixed with a small amount of water in a large vat with his bare feet to refine it, and who Redwald told them was a neighbour’s lad he paid on occasion to help him. Alongside the young man, who had stopped working and was staring at them, was another receptacle containing a quantity of clay that had been finished and had also, from the pile of stones and gravel heaped beside it, been cleansed of any impurities. A large bucket full of this mixture sat near the potting shed and it was this substance that had been smeared on Redwald’s arms when they had first seen him, so he must have been engaged in waging it—pummelling it with powerful strokes of his fists to bring it to the correct consistency for throwing. It was strenuous work and the strong muscles in the potter’s arms testified to the many years of his labour.
After they had all dismounted and, with a wave of his hand, Redwald had motioned for his children to continue their chore and the young lad to resume treading the clay, Estrid came directly to the reason she was there.
“Have you been told that Alfreda willingly took the poison that killed her, believing it to be a harmless potion?”
“I have. And may God damn the eyes of the person who gave it to her,” Redwald said with barely contained anger.
“And has it also been mentioned to you what type of container the poison was in?” Estrid asked.
The potter looked confused for a moment and then, as he began to shake his head in negation, realised the significance of the query.