He had scarcely known this woman. When he first met her, she had been a fearful novice in need of help, and it was to Hugh’s credit that he had given it. Hugh had taken her away from the convent where she had been so unhappy and brought her here, and had protected and served her to the best of his ability. Monosyllabic, morose, taciturn Hugh had given up everything for this woman, and now, because Hugh was dead, this pathetic grave was all that would ever be erected in memory of Constance. Simon felt another sob start to grip him. It washed over him like a shiver of utter coldness, as though the whole of the winter was condensed upon his shoulders and spine, and he shuddered with the bone-aching misery of it all.
He had lost Hugh, and Hugh had had life, woman and child stolen from him. In the midst of his intense wretchedness, Simon felt a rising surge of something else: rage.
If Constance had been unknown to him, perhaps Simon wouldn’t have been so moved to fury, but the sight of her grave, and the knowledge of what had been done to her and his man, swamped his sense of justice with the desire for vengeance.
He spoke quietly. ‘Have a carpenter put up a proper cross. One with jointed timbers and their names carved on it.’
‘If you are sure,’ Matthew said. ‘Be assured, though, she had all the benefits of a Christian burial, and I prayed with the mourners all night before burying her.’
‘I am grateful. And let me know how much the mourners cost, and I’ll pay for them.’
‘There is no need …’
‘I want to,’ Simon snapped harshly, eyes blazing as he spun round to confront the priest.
‘The other man has already paid. The man-at-arms.’
She had only once known a man’s love. That was something she still found painful to recall, the memory was so poignant. When she had been at Jeanne’s uncle’s house for some while, she had met a boy delivering meats to the kitchens, and she had stopped whatever it was she was doing.
He was slim, but with broad shoulders and thick thighs. His hands were elegant, with long fingers, and they weren’t yet calloused from work. But it was the face that attracted her. Long, with a slightly pointed chin, it bore a faint beard of reddish-gold, and a tousled mop of fair hair that begged to be stroked and patted into a neater shape. His eyes were laughing blue, and his mouth looked as if it was made to kiss a girl. He was perfect to her.
She and he had managed to meet every so often. Back in those days, of course, Emma had been slimmer, but very full-busted, and she liked to think that she was pretty enough in her own way. Not that many would have argued. Men often pinched her buttocks, like women prodding and poking at slabs of meat on the counters at the market; and there was the behaviour of her master to prove her allure.
When she left Bordeaux to come here, she had lost him. Perhaps he was the only man who could have made her happy for life. Yet at the time she had no thought for that. She was leaving to start a new life in England — a life with her mistress, but without Jeanne’s uncle. That in itself had been enough to make her happy … and when she’d told poor Ralph, he had been devastated. Now she could see why, but at the time she was irritated, thinking that he should be glad for her, for this wonderful opportunity.
His face when she left him that last time was desolate. She was sure now that he must have gone home and wept for a week to see her go.
Heaving a sigh, she shook her head. There had been other men in her life. There were plenty of them in any household, and she’d made her use of them when she’d wanted to, but not since Ralph had she known the all-devouring love that a woman needed. That was something she would never know again.
And a good thing, too! A woman had better things to do than go mooning about after men. There was no point in all that flirting and circling, like a dog and a bitch sniffing each other. No, better that she should be beyond such diversions. She was an old maid now, nearly thirty years old. It was best that she should forget any thoughts of love.
Which was why it was so annoying that her thoughts kept bending towards men.
‘What other man?’ Baldwin managed after a few moments.
‘The man-at-arms. Haven’t you seen him?’ Matthew said.
‘No, we have only been here a short while. Was he from one of the local manors?’ It seemed quite possible that the murder was the result of some dispute between local lords. After all, from all Baldwin knew of Hugh, he would be perfectly capable of giving insult to a rich and powerful man — intentionally or not. Burning down a house with the man and his family inside was not the act of a peasant with a grudge, it was more brutal than that. More the behaviour of a minor war-lord who was bent on removing an annoyance. But that must mean that Hugh was in the way of someone. Why? What possible obstruction could Hugh be, other than the fact that he was an obstreperous, froward, stubborn churl to deal with at the best of times?
Although it was no excuse for his murder, it may be that Hugh’s manner and demeanour could hold a clue to the crime, and Baldwin stored that thought for later.
‘It is quite possible,’ Matthew said with a certain cooling of his manner. ‘Again, I think you should speak to Isaac at the chapel in Monkleigh. He would know the men-at-arms that way better than I do.’
‘There are many down there?’ Baldwin asked.
‘They don’t show their faces in daylight if they can help it. They live in the manor all higgledy-piggledy, and only seem to come out at night. As though they are nervous of being seen.’
Baldwin nodded, and now he thought he had a possible group of suspects. He had no doubt that a man-at-arms who was less than entirely honourable could find Hugh’s mulish behaviour to be intolerable. If he had insulted a man from the manor, that man might well decide to repay the insult.
He would visit this chapel and learn what he could.
Perkin winced and wiped at his face with his upper sleeve. The smell here was appalling, and he was reluctant to reach down and pick her up, but someone would have to. Beorn was standing at the other side of the body, and now the two of them reached underneath the corpse’s torso and lifted her from the shallow, muddy grave. They were up to their groins in the thick mud still, but it was a relief that the worst of the filth seemed to have drained away. Perkin had the black mess up to his breast from falling into a deeper pool, but Beorn had managed to avoid the worst of it.
‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ Beorn said quietly.
‘Looks like it,’ Perkin responded shortly.
They both knew her by sight. Lady Lucy had passed through their vill often enough. She had been a slight woman, attractive, with a snub nose and long fair hair that somehow had always escaped from her coif or wimple when she was out. Perkin could remember the way that she had smiled as she snared a stray tress and tried to tuck it back neatly. Somehow she always ended up with more loose than before, but she’d always grin at her failures, as though it didn’t matter anyway.
That was before her old man died, of course. After that, she had grown a great deal more reserved, and her rides tended not to encompass the Monkleigh roads, as though she knew she was in too much danger there.
As she had been. Someone had taken her and broken her limbs, and then killed her. This was no accidental falling into a bog and drowning — not unless she had bound the rocks to her waist herself. She had a great blackened wound in her chest.
Adcock was already waiting at the edge of the bog, and Perkin and Beorn carried her to dry land and set her down as gently as they could.
‘The poor woman!’ Adcock said in a hushed voice. ‘Does anyone recognise her?’
‘Lady Lucy of Meeth,’ Perkin said, and although his voice was cold, he knew that Adcock had to be innocent of this killing. He only arrived here after she had disappeared.