‘An opportunity to offer you my sympathy,’ he said, resting on a stool. ‘I have known you all your life, after all.’
‘You have,’ she said bitterly. ‘So I suppose you’re really here to see if I know why your relative is dead.’
‘My relative?’
‘You didn’t know?’
‘I guessed,’ he said, and sighed heavily. ‘So it was as I thought. I am glad I came here when your husband was out.’
‘My
husband
!’ she burst out, and covered her face with her hands as she began sobbing.
Surval watched her for a while, but her grief was too all-consuming for him to feel at ease. Powerful emotion was unsettling to him. Quietly he rose and walked from the place, heading back towards his home, wondering vaguely who actually
was
her husband.
Ben belched and swallowed hard. The cider he was drinking was rough and thick, and he could feel it fighting back in his stomach. He should have eaten something, but he wasn’t hungry. Already his head was growing dull, but he didn’t care. Not now. It was good to have evaded the eye of the Bailiff and the Keeper.
‘You were quiet enough about seeing the others, weren’t you?’ he chuckled to Elias.
‘I told all I had to.’
‘But you forgot Sir Ralph and his son passing by.’
Elias was startled. He shot a look at Ben. ‘I didn’t see the boy.’
‘I did when I was up having a leak. He was there, all right.’
‘I only saw his father,’ Elias said.
‘What of it? It must have been that priest, anyway. The shit got between Mary’s thighs and made her pregnant, then killed her. Why else would he have run off like that? He deserves to have his neck stretched!’
‘But if Esmon was there as well,’ Elias said, ‘it could have been either one of them.’
Baldwin followed Huward but didn’t try to catch up with him until they were out of sight and earshot of the castle. There was something about the place that was making him feel very wary. The little uproar in the court had been perfectly judged. If Baldwin had not reacted so swiftly and had not thrust the two watchmen into the midst of the crowd, Mark might already be hanging – and there would be nothing which Baldwin could have pointed at in order to appeal either Roger Scut or Sir Ralph. Neither had openly incited the peasants, the mob was merely incensed by the implication of their words.
‘Master Miller. Please wait a moment!’
Huward’s expression was that of a man who was about to be tortured to death and who was intimately acquainted with each device designed to inflict the maximum pain. ‘What do you want?’
Baldwin had left the watchmen with Simon, and now he was glad. Huward stood strongly, a large man with thick fingers and a broad back. He stood slightly bowed, as though he was preparing to spring, and Baldwin kept his attention fixed firmly on his eyes, watching for any sign that he might attack. However, Huward looked more like a man at the very end of his tether than one who was about to explode into murderous violence at any moment. Except there was something else in his face, Baldwin thought: a terrible, rending sadness that was wrenching him apart, a horror more overwhelming than any Baldwin had seen in many long years. It made Huward seem as though he was on the brink of complete collapse, as though he was about to submit to a fit of sobbing.
‘Huward, I know this must seem like a terrible time for me to ask you more questions, but I have to.’
‘Why? What about?’
‘Come, let us walk.’ Baldwin had a shrewd suspicion that a man used to working hard, either with his hands or simply with his muscles and his own lifting power, was easier to question when moving, as though a part of their minds only functioned when their bodies were engaged upon some activity. Huward appeared to have sprung from that kind of mould. His tension visibly reduced, and he moved his arms as though every muscle within had been tensed for action.
‘You haven’t said what you want to talk about.’
‘There are two matters, of course. You know that perfectly well. The death of your daughter, and the death of Wylkyn the miner.’
‘We know who killed my daughter,’ Huward said dully. ‘The Coroner said it was the priest. The mad monk.’
‘It is possible,’ Baldwin conceded, ‘but answer me some questions. Your daughter, she had many boyfriends?’
‘None. It made us rib her about it. She was never keen on any of the boys here.’
‘Perhaps because she was seeing the priest already,’ Baldwin said. He was silent a few moments. ‘She was a good and dutiful daughter?’
Huward cleared his throat. ‘She was perfect. Beautiful as a young doe, obedient and loving. I couldn’t…’ He broke off, coughed, and wiped at his face with an angry hand. ‘Whoever did that to her, if I could just get my hands on him for a few minutes…’
‘You mustn’t dwell on it. If it was that boy in court today, you cannot touch him. You know that.’
‘I don’t care what some Bishop in his great palace says. That shit killed my little angel.
My
angel,’ he repeated firmly. ‘
My
Mary. What do words from some priest above him mean to me? If he was here now, I’d pull his head off with my bare hands.’
He was flexing his fingers as he spoke, and Baldwin could all too easily imagine them gripping Mark’s head and pulling until his bones cracked and his flesh submitted. Hands used to hefting great sacks of grain were more than capable of tearing a lad like Mark limb from limb. It brought to his mind a picture of a woman with her neck broken. A neck was a tough construction, with strong sinews and muscles. Breaking one was not easy with bare hands.
‘What of the miner? Did you know him?’ he asked.
‘Yes. He was all right, Wylkyn. He made up potions and salves and helped Sir Richard.’
‘Why should someone kill him?’
Huward glanced at him. ‘He was waylaid and robbed. It happens.’
‘By whom?’
Huward threw out his hands. ‘By whom? What do you care? My angel is dead. Isn’t that enough? Christ’s cods! What do you want from me?’
Baldwin spoke soothingly. ‘I understand. But the miner: did you see anyone up there?’
Huward stopped in his tracks. He didn’t face Baldwin as he spoke, but stood with his head lowered like a peasant who has been found stealing and knows he must expect the stocks. ‘I saw the son of Sir Ralph with his men.’ He stared at Baldwin. ‘There! Are you satisfied? If you repeat that to anyone, I shall be killed too, I expect. Let that be on your head, knight.’
‘Why should he kill that man?’
‘Because he thrives on violence. He loves battle, and adores money. They think they’re impregnable, those bastards! They kill and rob, and because they have powerful friends they can get away with it.’
‘The body has been stolen. Do you know who could have done that?’
‘Only a fool. If any man thought to avoid the Coroner’s fines, he didn’t think well enough. He should have realised that once Piers heard of it, news would get out,’ Huward said scathingly.
‘Who, though?’
‘I don’t know, nor do I care. All I care about is my Mary, and what I am to do now with my family. My children…’ His wide eyes stared unseeing up the lane towards his mill. ‘My wife and children… Oh, God! What have I done to deserve this?’
‘Huward, I want to ask you one more question. Think carefully. I do not wish to expose you to more suffering, but I have to know what you think of this. If the boy, Mark, did
not
kill Mary, it must have been someone else. I understand from Elias that Sir Ralph passed by that road that day. Could it have been…?’
There was no need to complete the question. Huward’s face had crumpled like a rotten apple stamped into the ground. When he spoke his voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘He saw Sir Ralph?’
‘I am truly sorry,’ Baldwin said genuinely. ‘He was reluctant to confess, but yes. He saw Sir Ralph.’
Huward tottered as though about to fall. He stared up towards the heavens, and Baldwin could see the tears running in thick streams down his cheeks. ‘My God, I wish You had killed me with my Mary.
My Mary!
’ He choked, and then Baldwin saw he was chuckling to himself without humour. It was a repellent sight, and Baldwin was about to strike his face, to try to calm him, when the chuckle became a groan, and then a racking sob. ‘Oh Mary, my little angel! What can I do now? How can I live with this? Sir Ralph raped and murdered you? That’s the worst! Is there no end to my misery? Will no one just kill me and remove this horror?’
‘Friend,’ Baldwin said, glancing at the way ahead, ‘let me walk with you to your door. You shouldn’t walk alone today.’
‘I can walk to my own mill without help,’ Huward retorted.
‘Who is this?’ Baldwin said. A young, swaggering figure was strolling after them, whistling. Baldwin recognised the fellow as soon as he saw the jug dangling from his fingers. It was Ben, and he was plainly drunk.
‘Who is that, you ask? That is my son, Ben,’ Huward said thickly. He watched Ben’s approach with an expression of wistfulness, but when Ben stumbled, swearing foolishly as he dropped his pot and spilled his drink, Huward saw that he was drunk. Instantly his features radiated loathing and rage. ‘When his sister is dead, he goes and…’
‘Father. Have you finished at the court?’ Ben slurred.
‘Don’t call me Father! You are no son of mine!’ Huward spat, spun on his heel, and strode back towards the castle.
Chapter Twenty-One
Simon watched as Baldwin strode off hurriedly in the wake of the miller, and when he saw Elias and Piers exchange a look, he shrugged. ‘He knows where we are going. Let’s be off.’
They were walking along the road towards the barton where Elias and Piers lived, when there came a clattering of hooves, and a figure on horseback bolted from the castle’s gates. Piers and Elias immediately hurried out of the way, and Simon glanced at them suspiciously, thinking that they were about to make a run for it, but then he heard a shout, and felt someone slam into his flank. To his astonishment, he found himself flying through the air, only to land in a large muddy pool.
Struggling upright as the noise of hooves died away, he saw it was Hugh who had knocked him down. He opened his mouth to roar at his servant, when he saw the blood starting to spread thinly, like an oil slick on water, over Hugh’s face from a deep gash at the back of his scalp. At the same time Hugh’s eyelids fluttered, and then he gave a loud gasp before slowly letting his head fall.
Baldwin could have wept to see how hurt Huward was by his son’s behaviour. He felt like punching Ben as Huward stumbled off, but Ben had no interest in Baldwin or his father. ‘Old cretin!’ he muttered, tilting his jug to see whether there was any cider remaining. Seeing there wasn’t, he flung the jug from him and set off towards the mill with a disconsolate frown.
The sight was repellent. Baldwin was about to move away when he saw another man observing Ben. It was the old hermit, clothed still in his worn and shabby tatters, leaning on a long staff. Seeing that Baldwin had noticed him, Surval made his way slowly towards him.
‘It is a fine afternoon, Sir Knight.’
‘Yes.’
‘You sound like a man who has unasked questions. Carry on! Ask me what you want.’
‘I’ve heard you used to be a priest.’
‘That I was. Ah, but you want to know more, don’t you? Very well. I was a priest in London. I always had what I thought was a vocation, and I was delighted to be so honoured. But then I learned to love. It is a terrible thing, to love. I adored a woman. She was young, fresh, beautiful, and determined to see me succeed in my profession.’
‘So you were another Burnell?’ Baldwin asked unkindly. Robert Burnell, the Bishop of Bath and Wells and sometime Chancellor of England until his death in 1292, had been notorious for promoting and helping his many ‘nephews’. Archbishop Peckham hinted that he had fathered five boys from one woman alone.
‘I was not so prolific,’ Surval smiled sadly. ‘I had one child by her already, and then I committed the worst of sins. My woman was arguing about money she needed when she was pregnant with our second and I – well, I was drunk. I beat her up, and that was the end of her
and
the child.’
‘What happened to the other child?’
‘He is here. But no – I shall not say who he is. That would only leave him open to still worse opprobrium.’
Baldwin felt the man’s pain, but he could give no comfort. This man was hideous by his own confession. ‘I suppose you claimed Benefit of Clergy?’
‘I am alive, aren’t I?’ Surval asked. ‘Tell me, do you think that priest killed Mary?’
Baldwin sniffed. He didn’t want to remain in this hermit’s company longer than he must. ‘Perhaps. I am not sure.’
‘I am: he couldn’t. When you hit a pregnant girl, you realise what a terrible sin you have committed. You might remain at her side to ease her agony or, if you’re a coward, you might run away – but you wouldn’t run away and then return to finish her off by breaking her neck.’
‘How do you know that’s what he did?’
‘The vill’s idiot, Sampson. He was in the next field and heard the argument, then Mark run away. A short time later, he also heard Sir Ralph on his horse, but remained hidden because he was so fearful of the man. Later, Mark returned, and that was when he saw her.’
‘Sampson did not tell me that. You are saying Sir Ralph killed her?’
‘My God, no!’ Surval said with obvious shock. ‘Sir Ralph would not have harmed a hair on her head.’
‘Then who did?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t see anything myself.’
‘What about the death of Wylkyn? Do you know what happened to him?’
Surval gave him a look from under thick, bushy eyebrows. ‘You know he was keen on potions and herbs? And Sir Richard died quite suddenly after a short illness. He had been prone to all kinds of illnesses, the poor man, but that was the consequence of his willingly ignoring the Pope’s words and taking up weapons to entertain people in the joust.’