Ralf sat back. Out of old habit, he began to scan the crowd. Most of the faces were familiar to him. Some of the tradesmen had grown grayer, stouter, or even frail. Sitting with them now were sons too young to have joined their fathers when Ralf was last here but since grown old enough to take on a man’s responsibility as well as vice.
Was Ivetta the whore still stripping these lads of their virginity, he wondered, or was she finally too raddled for that? Tyndal was not big enough to have an excess of young girls, lush and ripe for the swyving by rampant young men. The town prostitute had often provided that service, although it was not uncommon for a daughter to be churched before a father could push her to the church door for a wedding.
A movement at the corner of his eye caught Ralf’s attention, and he turned to see Will and Hob coming down the stairs, stumbling like a pair of drunken goats. His mouth filled with a foul taste and he swallowed some ale as antidote.
When they were all younger, the brothers were town bullies, picking on the weaker like the cowards they were while leaving him alone because he always blackened their eyes first. Martin Cooper was part of that gang, he remembered, and had added cruel jests to the brothers’ usual ill behavior. Most of the damage left by all three was minor enough in the life of any boy: some broken noses, a few burns, and one lost ear. There were also the inevitable, broken maidenheads, although more than usual were unwillingly burst as he had heard. The girls denied all. Out of fear, he suspected.
Once, however, the boys had gone too far. A lad had died of hanging when the rope caught in the tree. They panicked and ran, leaving him to jerk in the air and then choke to death. The boy’s mother had discovered his limp body and raised a hue and cry, but the boys suffered no consequence.
In fact, after the crowner’s jury found the death accidental, she was fined for falsely raising the hue and cry. After the decision was announced, Ralf and Tostig had discussed whether the verdict had been decided more on other considerations than the event itself: two of the boys were the blacksmith’s sons; the dead lad’s mother was believed to be a meddler in magic.
Tonight, the two brothers passed near enough that Ralf could smell their sooty sweat, but the men were too deeply involved in some argument to pay him heed. The crowner was glad enough of that. Just remembering the death of that young boy had made his fist itch to strike. When he had been named crowner, it was the memory of this tale, among other things, that caused him to swear never to choose the easy answer to any crime.
As he watched the two men disappear, he recalled Tostig remarking that the younger brother had become almost respectable over the last several months, although he still bloodied his knuckles in Will’s defense when necessary. Had Hob changed that much? Although Ralf had seen the younger blacksmith grow less wild over the years, he believed that few men ever truly repented until they were on their death beds, knowing they must face God’s judgment.
The crowner poured himself more ale and raised the jack to drink. “Maybe some do, a bit,” he whispered, setting the jack down. After all, he was not drinking himself into oblivion tonight. The reason was his wee babe, a daughter he adored. Why find some empty solace at the inn when he had a child at home who would smile when he picked her up for a hug?
“After all the horrors I saw in my soldiering years and the cruelties I have seen men commit against each other, how can this leathery heart still melt so?” A veritable miracle, he decided, his mouth twisting into an embarrassed grin as he pushed the drink further away.
He never thought fatherhood would affect him so. Perhaps his own father had been right when he called Ralf a disappointment, the contrary one, compared to his elder brothers. A man was supposed to want strong sons, but he had roared with joy when he learned his wife had given birth to a lass. But how could he not love this beautiful little girl? Weren’t her cheeks pink like a fine apple and her ten fingers perfection in miniature?
Shifting on the bench, he knew he must find her a new wet-nurse very soon. As he was rocking the baby to sleep in his arms last night, the woman his brother had sent complained bitterly about the rank pig swill and steaming piles of manure all too near the house on the land Ralf had acquired through marriage. He might have been pleased that the manor was situated close to Tyndal village, but few women, used to the comforts of such things as castle latrines, would enjoy what the remote and lonely land of East Anglia had to offer. He had promised the woman he would send her back to Winchester soon enough.
Aye, the land stank of dead things from the sea and hobby-lanterns danced above the fens on misty nights. Yet he loved this place despite all the sad memories it evoked. Perhaps he was happiest back at Tyndal village after all. Old habits must die hard, he decided, and suddenly realized he was hungry.
He waved at a serving wench and asked for stew. When she put the bowl down in front of him, the pungent smell of well-spiced rabbit cooked with onions brushed aside his mild alcoholic haze and led his stomach to rumble with pleasant anticipation.
As he plunged his spoon after a bit of meat and onion, he caught sight of Signy waiting on a group of men nearby. He felt a twinge of lust as he recalled how those rounded thighs had held him fast in the night. Then he shook off the image and filled his mouth with flavorful stew.
Two men beside him roared out an irreverent song, slamming their jacks on the wooden table.
Ralf turned to grin at them.
It was just then that a woman’s piercing scream from the upper loft shattered all merriment.
Chapter Five
Thomas heard shouting and grew cold with fear. He quickly took a deep breath but smelled no smoke. That brought him hope, but what besides fire would warrant such an outcry?
He bent to listen to Tibia’s strong, steady breathing. It would be a blessing if she could sleep like this until morning, and if there was no purpose in doing so, he would not rouse her.
A fire was the most probable cause for the uproar, a horror that could destroy the village so swiftly, but he still could not smell smoke. Might it have been an attack by lawless men? That was doubtful and had never occurred in his memory. There was no reason to believe it had now. Puzzled, he rose to investigate first before carrying her from her bed.
As he squeezed through that narrow hole that served as entry to her hut, he saw a crowd of villagers milling about just outside the inn. “No flames or smoke at all,” he noted with relief, then grew curious. Why did they seem so distraught, yet remain as if awed by something? He pulled the rough door closed and went to discover the reason for the commotion.
“What took place?” he asked, walking up to a broad-shouldered man who stood at the far edge of the crowd.
“The Devil flew into the inn’s loft, I heard.” Rivulets of moisture twisted through the stubble on the man’s face.
“Did you see him?” Thomas asked, noting that the hot summer night was insufficient cause for such rank sweat.
“Nay, but I have more sense than to let Satan come close and grasp my soul with his twisted fingers. Someone in the inn wasn’t so clever and now lies there a corpse, or so I was told. That’s why I stand here.”
The Devil would not be put off by such a short distance, Thomas thought, but decided there was no merit in frightening the man further. If it was Satan, perhaps he could be of service. Sinner he might well be, but he still bore a monk’s tonsure. Oddly enough, he found himself eager to confront this tormentor of his and pushed his way through the crowd toward the entrance to the inn.
“Don’t go in there!” someone shouted at him.