The inquest went much as Perkin had expected, with an amercement for him, more from all the witnesses, and the value of the weapon being guessed at. The coroner’s job was to record all the relevant details of a suspicious death, so that when the case was investigated later in court, all the men involved could be called to give their accounts. Amercements were taken as sureties to make certain that all the witnesses turned up at the court.
When the stranger turned up, Perkin wondered who he was. He didn’t recognise the man, and he assumed, like the other men there, that the fellow was a passing merchant who had heard about the inquest and decided to go and watch the proceedings. You sometimes got that, when people were staying in an inn: if they heard that there was some form of local dispute or death which could be diverting, they’d go along.
Except this man seemed rather odd. He looked young, well groomed, and nervous, which was curious in a man who was travelling. Usually the sort of merchant who passed by Iddesleigh and Monkleigh was already stained and worn, especially at this time of year, and they were invariably gregarious, often trying to foist their more rubbishy wares onto unsuspecting villagers. It was hardly surprising, bearing in mind how far they would have travelled already and how much further they must go to reach any decent towns.
The fellow stood quietly at the rear of the witnesses, listening intently, a good-looking man in a newish green tunic with a heavy crimson cloak about him. He carried a solid staff, and at his waist there was a dagger alongside his leather purse and horn.
It was very odd, and Perkin looked away only reluctantly, eyeing the coroner as he pronounced on the case. It was as Perkin had expected: because the vill could not bring forward any suspects who might have killed Ailward, they were to pay the murdrum, the tax levied for planned homicides.
Perkin knew that some believed that he could be the murderer, but for all those who believed he had motive enough there were dozens more who thought it was likely to be Rannulf, or perhaps one of the men from Fishleigh. Fortunately Perkin had good alibis for the afternoon and evening, and in any case he was known for his mild manner. Not enough men in the jury were prepared to accuse him; many others had more reason to wish to kill Ailward. Plenty of others.
But such matters were not the business of the coroner. Perkin listened as the case was wound up, and watched thoughtfully as the clerk started putting his rushes and inks away in his scrip. All Perkin could think of was the detail he had left out.
It was not in his nature to lie. He knew that an oath sworn here in the court was as binding in God’s eyes as an oath in church with his hand resting on the gospels. Yet he had felt it might be best not to mention the reason why he had gone up there. He was sure now that Walter and Ailward had been there together. When Perkin stumbled upon them, Walter grabbed the ball to turn all the camp ball players away from Ailward. And the reason was obvious to Perkin now: they were concealing a body.
He had kept it to himself in the coroner’s court because he had no proof, and he daren’t accuse Walter. What, he should say that Walter and Ailward were carrying another dead body? He’d be laughed out of the court — and then be accused of villeiny-saying, spreading malicious lies about other men. That would cost him at least a huge fine in these litigious times. He hadn’t even told Beorn or Guy. Yet he was sure that Walter and Ailward were hiding someone, and he had a suspicion he knew who it was, too. Lady Lucy had been missing for some little while.
Perkin grew aware of the well-dressed stranger sidling towards the knight. As the coroner patted the clerk on the back and made as though to leave, the stranger reached him and spoke urgently. The knight looked him up and down, glanced round the jury and witnesses, and then nodded.
Watching them walk away, Perkin frowned. There was something strange here, he could see, but he wasn’t sure what it was. All he knew was that he was delighted he hadn’t told the coroner anything of his doubts.
It was only later that afternoon, when he heard of the deaths at the little house at Iddesleigh the day before, that he began to wonder who it was who had arrived to take the coroner away with him.
Late on Tuesday morning Baldwin was aching again when he drew up at the manor at Liddinstone and slowly eased himself from the saddle. He stood a while, slowly swinging his arm, feeling the pain in his upper breast and wincing as the muscles stretched and contracted.
‘My love — I was growing worried lest you had fallen,’ Jeanne said.
‘I did not see you there,’ Baldwin said. He passed the reins to the waiting stable boy and only with an effort of will did he avoid reaching up to his shoulder. If he did that, Jeanne would stop him riding and make his life hell.
‘I came to watch for you,’ she said.
He eyed her suspiciously. There was a lightness to her tone which seemed to belie her words. ‘That is all?’
‘Of course, husband. The air in the hall is a little stale.’
‘I see,’ he said, nodding but unconvinced.
‘And …’
To his secret delight, he saw that she was colouring. If there was something to embarrass her, he would be safe from condemnation for riding too far. ‘Yes?’
‘Oh … nothing.’
And it was nothing, Jeanne told herself. Merely the foolish words of a maid who should know better. Nothing more than that.
It was Emma again.
Baldwin had never liked Jeanne’s companion, and, to be fair, Jeanne could easily have found a more congenial maid. Yet there was something about Emma’s bovine loyalty which comforted her. Emma was stolid and ugly, heavy, slow, dull-witted and moody, and yet she plainly adored Jeanne, and for that reason alone it was hard to conceive of sending her away. Unfortunately, Emma had been very fond of Jeanne’s first husband, and no replacement would ever be able to live up to him in her eyes.
This morning, while Baldwin was off riding, Emma had told Jeanne that Sir Baldwin was looking very ‘done in’, and that Jeanne should demand that he give up all exercise and betake himself to his bed to rest. Emma had very pronounced views on the efficacy of rest for all ills, and she felt certain that Jeanne’s husband was in desperate need of it. However, she could not make any comment without comparing Baldwin to Sir Ralph, and this morning she had spoken unfavourably about Baldwin’s reluctance to support either of the factions in the country’s politics.
Other men were bold and sought to promote the interests of their lords: some the Lord de Courtenay, some the Lords Despenser and the king. ‘Because it will come to war, lady, make no mistake!’ Emma had declared, jowls wobbling.
It was hard, when Emma was in such a state, not to study her closely. She was short, but with a large frame, and her breast was carried like a weapon, projecting far before her. Her eyes were a soft brown, but Baldwin had once said that they held the bile and spite of a dozen Moors whenever they latched on to him. Jeanne knew what he meant, because Emma’s eyes were shrewd and calculating. When she fixed a man with her gaze, he would quail. The jut of her warty chin was enough to make a lion whimper. Jeanne had seen strong market stall holders blench when she fixed them with her sternest look.
When Emma compared Baldwin with her first husband, Jeanne would try to defend him, but in Emma’s eyes it was irrelevant what the man said or did. She adored Jeanne, and in the usual way anything that would make Jeanne happy was Emma’s delight, but that did not extend to Baldwin.
When Emma and he had first met, she had been entirely unimpressed with his home, his lands and his choice of companions in his hall. Most despised of all, as Jeanne and Baldwin knew only too well, was his mastiff, Uther. Emma detested the old monster, and although even Baldwin could, on occasion, admit that Uther was a little overwhelming at times, he would never admit that in front of Emma, and especially not since Uther had died. If anything, his loyalty to the brute had increased rather than diminished now that Uther was dead.