The ashes appeared uniform over the floor, and Baldwin crouched down to view them from a lower angle to see if there was anywhere a lump which could have been a body, but there was nothing. The only thing he did notice was that the ash appeared to have worn in a channel from this doorway to the room at the back of the house. It led close to the wall, all the way round the room until it reached the archway.
A man walking might make such a little gutter in the surface, Baldwin thought to himself. Footprints wouldn’t last in this soft, feathery ash. A faint gust of wind would remove definition from all edges unless the ash grew damp, and this was still very dry. Slowly he rose to his full height. Taking a grip on his sword’s hilt, he pulled it a short distance from its sheath as he started to follow the trail. No, he could see no footprints, but the ash was so light it blew about his ankles even as he walked. Any prints would have been blown over and concealed in moments. Baldwin stepped slowly towards the open doorway. Inside the chamber it was darker, but suddenly Baldwin saw that there was a flickering. Someone had lit a fire in there. Even as he realised that, Baldwin could smell meat cooking. He set his jaw, drew his sword fully from his sheath, and was about to spring inside when he was stopped by a voice.
‘Sir Baldwin, please don’t prick me with that. Steel’s no good for my digestion.’
Humphrey closed the door behind him as he heard the men approaching. He froze a moment, thinking that someone was coming to fetch him, but he told himself not to be so stupid. No one could have seen what lay inside the chapel. He glanced over his shoulder and scowled at the party. ‘What is it?’
Perkin was not of a mind to be spoken to so churlishly, not after his morning. ‘There’s a dead woman at the manor. We want a priest to speak the words over her.’
Sweet Jesus! It had been a long time since Humphrey had spoken the viaticum over the dead. He hesitated and licked his lips. ‘Who is it? I didn’t know there were any women unwell?’
‘There aren’t,’ Perkin said gruffly. ‘It’s Lady Lucy, the woman who disappeared a little while ago at Meeth. She was found this morning. Someone killed her and threw her into our bog.’
‘Good God!’ Humphrey said and crossed himself. He shot a look at the chapel. ‘Um — very well. I shall come, but keep quiet out here. Father Isaac is asleep.’
Perkin shrugged. ‘He’s an old man. He deserves a little rest. We’ll keep silent, don’t worry.’
Humphrey hurried back inside, fetched his purse with the bottle of holy water, glanced at the altar and crossed himself hurriedly, then joined the men outside. By the time they were all walking up the lane towards Monkleigh, his mind was working quickly. ‘If she was on your lands, did no one see her?’
Perkin could hear the false casualness in his voice. ‘It’s none of us, if that’s what you think, Father. I had nothing to do with it, and I don’t think any of my friends in the vill did either. She was …’ He paused, seeking the right words, but could find no subtle phrase to hide the truth. ‘She was tortured before she died. Someone broke her bones and hurt her before he killed her.’
‘Who would do a thing like that!’ Horrified, Humphrey stopped in the lane to stare at him. ‘You have been listening to stories put about for children!’ But no one replied, and Humphrey felt a hollowness in his throat as the import of their silence struck home.
All had heard of the brutality of Sir Geoffrey’s master. The Despensers were ruthless in pursuit of their ambitions. Everyone knew the tales of people run down on the roads when they were recalcitrant; the king’s brother, Thomas of Brotherton, had been coerced into renting lands cheaply to Despenser, and later he had to give them over entirely; even the king’s niece, Elizabeth, Lady Damory, had been forced to surrender the lordship of Usk, despite being Despenser’s sister-in-law. Lady Damory herself had been left with almost nothing of the vast inheritance she should have been able to enjoy.
Humphrey was silent as they walked up the lane towards the field which had been drained, but now it was the silence of dawning horror.
It had seemed such a simple plot at first. He’d arrived at Hatherleigh a penniless outlaw, constantly on the run, and at first he hadn’t noticed the shambling old man behind him. When he turned and spotted the clerical robe he had wanted to bolt. It was only when he saw that the priest was almost blind, and very obviously in pain, that he had slowed and considered his options.
The trouble was, for a renegade like Humphrey, it was very difficult to survive. What openings were there for a man like him — the life of a thief and draw-latch? Spending the whole of his life from here on fearing the steps behind him, wondering whether it would be an officer hoping to catch him? Or should he find a nice quiet location where he could hide for a while, unconsidered, unnoticeable, gathering his resources until he could run again, take a ship abroad, make a new life somewhere else?
But for him it would be difficult to find somewhere to hide. There were no easy places of concealment, and in any case he had no money. Everything he had once possessed was still with the men who had taken it from him.
This priest was clearly ancient. He shuffled along the street like a beggar himself, stumbling into people, peering at them with eyes that were almost blind, apologising for his clumsiness. Humphrey began to follow him, watching him closely, because already a faint glimmering of an idea was forming at the back of his mind.
Isaac soon wandered off the main thoroughfare, and seemed content to wait by a cart in an alley nearby. Humphrey took his post in a darkened doorway. He peered at the old man, wondering how old he was, a speculative frown wrinkling his brow as he sucked his bottom lip. Yes, this man could well be his escape from this miserable existence. He looked at Isaac and saw a bed, food, a fire … Isaac was a refuge of sorts.
A youngish man arrived, short, stout, with mousy hair and a cast in one eye, belching happily. ‘Sorry, Father.’
‘It was a sound to be proud of, my son. The ale house?’
‘Yes. It was good in there. No dancing, though.’
‘Good. Dancing is a terrible thing. It’s the devil’s way of tempting youths and maids into sin, you know.’
‘Yes, Father,’ the man said. He was plainly unbothered by the warning. This was one of the old-fashioned priests, then, opposed to singing and dancing at any time, one of those men who would baulk at the thought of a maid and a man indulging their natural desires. So be it. Humphrey could act his part.
The cart moved off, lumbering slowly, and Humphrey let it go a way before he set off in pursuit … little realising how far he would have to walk. Yet it had been worth it. He trailed along after the cart until it left the town, and then he was fortunate enough to see the carter wave to a watchman at the edge of the market. He hurried to the watchman and said, ‘Excuse me, friend, but that cart, was that the miller?’
‘Him? No, he’s Guy from Monkleigh. There’s a mill there, but he’s not the miller.’
‘And the priest with him? He is also from Monkleigh?’
‘Yes. Poor old sod. He is from the chapel out there, but he’s as blind as a bat; deaf too. Can’t keep that job for long.’