by Maureen Ash
“Sweet Jesu—surely it was not one I made?” he asked in a shaky voice.
“I have been told that it is,” Estrid confirmed, drawing the bottle from her scrip and showing it to him.
Redwald gazed at it for a moment. “Yes, it is one of mine.” His voice was filled with consternation as he added, “But I swear to you I did not give it to her.”
“I believe you,” Estrid assured him, “but, if you can, I would have you tell me the names of the people who have bought flagons from you that are the same as this one.”
“Ah, that may prove difficult,” Redwald replied. “I made a score of those bottles both this year and last, so there are many in the village who will have them. But let me take a closer look at it and I may be able to tell you more.”
With a sinking heart at the thought there might be forty of the bottles—the number only diminished by any that might have been lost or broken—owned by villagers, she handed him the bottle, cautioning him not to open it as it still contained a drop or two of the poison. The potter took a few moments to scrutinise it, turned it over in his hands two or three times and looked carefully at the design.
“I cannot tell you who bought this particular bottle, but of one thing I am certain, that it is from the batch I made this year.”
“How so?” Estrid asked.
“Although I used the same coloured glaze—yellow—on both batches, and the same design,” he said, pointing to the whorling lines decorating the lower half of the bottle, “there was a slight difference about the ones I made a few weeks ago.”
He placed the tip of his forefinger on one of the lines that had been carved into the wet clay before it was fired, which she now noticed had a slight gap in the middle. “Can you see that flaw?” he asked, and when Estrid nodded, explained how it came to be there.
“I accidentally dropped the piece of bone that I always use to make that pattern just as I was about to use it and a tiny chip broke off. But the bottles were ready for firing and I did not have time to replace it, so I used it anyway. Those I made the previous year have no break in the lines.”
Estrid was gratified. The flaw did not identify the person who had bought the incriminating bottle, but it considerably lessened the number of those among which she had to search.
“Can you remember the names of the villagers who purchased the ones you made this year?” Estrid asked.
“I can,” Redwald assured her.
“Then I would appreciate it if you tell Brother Humbert and he will write them down,” Estrid said.
*************
Estrid and her companions left the pottery a short time later and, as they rode down the path next to the river, she felt an elation that was tinged with chagrin. Redwald proved to have an excellent memory and had recalled all of the seventeen customers that had bought a bottle from the batch he had made a couple of months before, pointing behind him to where the three remaining unsold bottles stood on a shelf.
“I was going to take them with me next market day to see if I could sell them,” Redwald declared, “but now, seeing they are the same as the one containing the poison that killed Alfreda, I will grind them into the dust from which they came.”
Estrid had listened intently as he had recited the customers’ names. Most were unfamiliar but three were names of persons living in the household of some of those already considered suspect so it could be that it was one of these, or a member of their family, that had filled the bottle with poison. But it would be difficult to determine if even those three still had the bottle they had bought earlier that year without giving the reason for their enquiry, let alone the others on the potter’s list. The search must be delicately done, just like the orphrey stitches she sewed in her workshop, and she must trust in God to help her to find the person she sought.
Before they left she asked Redwald for one of the bottles he intended to destroy. “I do not want to let the one that contained the poison out of my possession and so will need another to show as an example of the type of vessel I am looking for to the people I intend to interview.”
Redwald nodded, retrieved one of the bottles standing on the shelf, and gave it to her. Before they left she gave the potter and her companions a warning. “Remember, all of you, not one word to anyone of the break in the pattern on the flasks made this year. If the poisoner has not noticed it, it might prove a valuable advantage.”
CHAPTER 27
As Estrid and her companions were making their way to Siward’s mill, Ralf of Abetot was on his journey back to Ashford. The king had kept him waiting until almost midmorning before the response to fitzHaimo’s message was given to him to take back, but Abetot had not minded. He was not in as much of a hurry now as he had been on the outward journey.
A rare smile crossed his face as he rode. His stay in the port last night had been most rewarding; not only had he found a young and lusty prostitute in a local bawdy house, but had also been able to contact the man he most urgently wished to speak with. The outcome of their meeting had been all that he hoped for, and he felt certain they were now well on the way to achieve their common goal. There had been a few setbacks in the implementation of their plan, but none that could not be overcome, and it would not be long now before he would have land of his own, a thought that gave him the greatest of pleasure.
************
At the top of the keep, Rufus stood watching as Abetot spurred his mount down the Ashford road. James de Fiennes, constable of Dover castle, was standing beside him.
“You are certain the evidence your informant gave you is correct?” the king asked his companion, his eyes riveted on Abetot’s diminishing figure.
“I am, sire,” Fiennes replied. “I have employed this same man as a spy down in the harbour for some time now and his reports have always proved reliable.”
“And you ensured the other message I sent to fitzHaimo is on its way?”
“A man-at-arms left with it at first light this morning, and I also gave him your instructions on how he was to deliver it.”
Rufus nodded in satisfaction. “And so we must wait. We now know why the murder was committed but not, as yet, who it was that carried it out. That we must hope the Englishwoman can discover.”
*************
When the king’s messenger arrived at Ashford it was almost midday and fitzHaimo was out in the compound inspecting an injury to the foreleg of the horse he had been riding out hunting the previous day. At the manor house door, the steward directed the man-at-arms bearing the missive from Rufus to where he was standing.
“I have a message for you, lord, from your wife, Lady Sybil,” he said when he came up to the knight.
Warned by the quick glance the soldier gave one of the Ashford grooms who was standing nearby as he identified the origin of the message, along with the fact that he wore no identifying badge on his tunic, fitzHaimo merely nodded as he was handed the tightly rolled piece of parchment, which had been sealed with wax but not impressed with any insignia.
His mission completed, the soldier said nothing further, merely wheeled his mount and rode out of the compound.
Feeling certain that the message was from Rufus, fitzHaimo went inside the manor house and into the bedchamber he had been using for his own, firmly closing the door behind him. Assured of privacy, he broke the seal on the parchment and read the news it contained. For a few moments, he paced back and forth furiously as he contemplated what the king had written and then, hearing the trestle tables being set up in the hall for the midday meal, he placed the message inside his tunic and went out to take his seat on the dais beside fitzRanulf.
“I have been told you received a message from your wife,” the young knight said as their food was served on thickly cut trenchers of stale bread. “I hope there is nothing amiss.”
“No, not at all,” fitzHaimo replied. “Sybil merely sent me a report of the progress that is being made on the building of a new barn on our demesne.” FitzHaimo hated the lie, but
had no other option, for he could not tell his companion the true nature of the message he had received lest he react violently and upset any plans that would be made to apprehend the murderers.
“I am sorry for the inconvenience you have been caused by my wife’s death,” fitzRanulf said. “You must find staying here tedious when you have your own lands to attend to.”
“Even were it so,” fitzHaimo replied, “it is my duty not only to obey the king’s instructions, but also a moral obligation to try and ensure that justice is served by searching for her killer.”
At mention of Rufus, fitzRanulf spoke of the news that the poison has been found and how he hoped the king would receive it. “The placement of it among Alfreda’s possessions definitely indicates her killer is to be found among the villagers. Perhaps now Rufus will impose the murdrum fine to flush him out.”
“Perhaps,” fitzHaimo replied ambiguously. “We shall soon find out, for Abetot should bring Rufus’ reply today.”
At fitzRanulf’s hopeful agreement, fitzHaimo glanced at the young man beside him. With the passage of a few days, the marks of grief on his countenance were beginning to diminish slightly. He had ceased to drown his sorrow in a flagon of wine every night and had, that morning, resumed his responsibilities as lord of his small demesne by going out with his steward to check on a stand of ash trees that were due to be felled, and inspecting a newly farrowed litter of pigs.
It was not to be expected, however, that fitzRanulf’s sadness would ever leave him completely, especially when he was eventually told the news that fitzHaimo had just received from Rufus. Courageous in battle, and honourable, FitzRanulf was too naïve to expect any of the men he called friends to be other than he was himself. It would be yet another heavy blow.
*************
In Maidstone village, Merwenna sat staring at the cauldron in which a pottage was simmering for her midday meal. Her eyes were unseeing, however, for she was pondering on a death that had occurred fifteen years ago. It had happened just before Christ’s Mass, following a harvest that had been dreadful, nearly all of the grain destroyed by thunderstorms and great deluges of rain just as it was ripening.
At the time of the death she was recalling, many of the villagers had been ill, mostly poor folk who could not afford to pay her, but that she had still tended out of Christian charity. Because of the shortage of grain, the main cause of their sickness had been due to many of them gathering wild plants in the countryside to mash into a paste that could be cooked into a flat cake as a replacement for the bread they had no means of making. She had warned them over and over again, as had the priest at St. Mary’s, that many of these plants were harmful, just like the tares mentioned in the bible, and that they had been sent by the devil to make them sick. But hunger had still driven many to ignore the advice and even though ingestion of the sham bread did not often prove fatal, it sent nearly all of those who ate it out of their senses, so much so that it came to be called wod bread—meaning crazed.
But of all those she had cared for, there was one death that stood out in her memory. The symptoms this victim had shown had been different from the rest, and more sudden. She had wondered at the oddity when it happened, but with so many ailing, she had not had time to give the cause more than fleeting consideration.
But now she did, and thought it might be wise to tell Estrid Thunorsdohter about it. She may be pointing a finger at a completely innocent person, but her conscience dictated she could not do otherwise.
Having finally made a firm decision, she reached for her stick and hobbled out of the door, bound for the home of a neighbour who would give her a ride in his wain to Bearsted when his day’s work was done.
CHAPTER 28
At Godser’s mill, Estrid was sitting with Judith, Humbert and Leofwine around the table on which they had earlier eaten the midday meal, discussing which way would be the most expedient to interview all those who had purchased one of the flawed bottles from Redwald. Tilde was out in the yard, tending to chores, and Godser and his nephew were at work in the fields.
They had been mulling over the problem for some three hours now and remained undecided. Not only would it be a lengthy process to call at the household of every customer on the potter’s list but, if they should find a bottle to be missing, it would be very difficult to verify a claim it had been lost or broken, even if it was genuine. This was the conundrum that faced them and so far they had been unable to devise a more certain way of searching.
With a sigh, Estrid leaned back and thought of her visit to Siward’s home earlier that day. Valerie had told her brother of how she had accidentally found the poison flask in Alfreda’s coffer and, as was to be expected, the miller was simmering with rage when they arrived. Showing him the container that Redwald had given her to use as an example, she had promised she would question all those the potter could recall having purchased one to see if any were unable to produce it. “But be warned, miller, if they cannot, that does not necessarily implicate them,” she said and then cited the reservations that confronted them. “There could be a perfectly reasonable, and innocent, explanation as to why they do not have it, such as it has been broken or lost.”
Harold had spoken up at that point. “Well, if Redwald told you Edith’s name, I’ll save you the trouble of asking her if she still has it,” he said and then gestured towards the open-faced cupboard against the far wall where Valerie had told them the bottle he had was standing. “The one she bought is on that shelf and it’s been there ever since we came here to my father’s house to attend Alfreda’s wedding.”
Not betraying she was already aware he had one of the bottles in his possession, Estrid merely thanked him for the information and said no more.
Now, Estrid looked around at her companions. “A decision must be made soon as to how we are to conduct this hunt,” she said, “for if we do not do it within a very short time, I fully expect Siward to go to Redwald and demand the customers’ names so he can question them himself.”
Once more they reviewed the list. As expected, Edith was on it but, more importantly, there were also the mothers of three suspects that had been interviewed at the hall—Sweyn, Rowena and Maud. It was entirely possible that one of these young people had taken the bottle their mother had bought and used it to contain the poison. But if all of these women were able to produce the one they had purchased, and thereby prove their children’s innocence, then they would be faced with the concern that all they had accomplished by the search was to alert the true culprit to their purpose. If that happened, it would give him or her time to invent a reasonable excuse for the absence of one that should be in their possession.
Just then Tilde came bustling in to serve up food for the evening meal, and Estrid rose from her seat to help her, saying, “Perhaps it would be best if we allow ourselves a few hours to think the matter over and review it again in the morning. For now, let us eat this excellent fare, and enjoy what is left of the day.”
They had just finished the meal when the clatter of a horse was heard out in the yard. It was Ugg, who had waited at Ashford until fitzHaimo had given him a supposed response to Estrid’s message. When he came in, he immediately handed it to her and sat down to enjoy the bowl of pottage Tilde set in front of him.
Estrid passed the sealed roll of parchment to Humbert and asked him to read aloud the message it contained. Since she, and the others, were not expecting it to be anything other than a confirmation that the king had been given Estrid’s latest report, they were all astounded as the monk relayed the words fitzHaimo had penned.
*************
“So it was a Norman behind it all,” Judith burst out, completely forgetting Humbert was also of that breed.
“Two of them, it would seem,” the monk corrected and then added gently, “but let us not forget they were in collusion with an Englishwoman.”
Judith flushed with embarrassment and immediately apologised. “I hope you will forgive me, brother. I did not mean to o
ffend you.”
“Of course I will forgive you,” the monk replied, patting her hand. “But although fitzHaimo is now able to give us the names of the two knights who instigated the crime—Ralf of Abetot and William of Evrecy—which were learned through the agency of a spy employed by the king in Dover overhearing a conversation between the pair, it is still unknown who it was that actually poisoned Alfreda. Her name was not mentioned in the spy’s hearing; she was only referred to as ‘the village woman’.”
“Who, without a doubt, is from Maidstone,” Estrid added.
“She could not be otherwise,” Humbert agreed.
Estrid considered the information for a space and then said, “If you would be so kind, brother, perhaps you would read Lord fitzHaimo’s message aloud to us again. There is much in it on which to ponder.”
“Certainly,” Humbert said, and spread the parchment out on the table. “Perhaps if I begin with the background of the two guilty knights—which fitzHaimo has placed near the end of his message—it might help to gain a better perspective of their motive.”
At Estrid’s nod, and tracing the passage he was referring to with his finger as he spoke, summarized what had been written. “This entire situation is believed to have been spawned, according to the king, from the fact that fitzRanulf trained for knighthood alongside Evrecy in the demesne of the latter’s father in Normandy. There the two became friends, and also acquainted with Ralf of Abetot, who is a younger son of a neighbouring baron. By the time fitzRanulf came to Winchester at the behest of his relative, Sir Hugh of Montfort, Abetot was already there, serving that same lord as part of his retinue. Evrecy had accompanied fitzRanulf to England in the hope that he would also be taken into Montfort’s service and, through his association with such a powerful lord, have more opportunity of achieving preferment than he would with one of the lesser barons in his homeland.
“But Evrecy claims that before they left Normandy, fitzRanulf had promised to marry his sister—a profession fitzRanulf says is untrue and that the only assertion he ever made to her was that he would never forget her kindness to him throughout the years he had been a guest in her father’s household. Whatever the truth of the matter, when fitzRanulf asked Evrecy, as one of his closest friends, to accompany him to Maidstone so he could introduce him to Alfreda and then said he intended to marry her, Evrecy became very irate at what he regarded as a betrayal.”