‘How is the Fleming?’ Wat asked.
Petronilla sighed, shaking her head. ‘He’s very quiet, but he’ll live. The cut went deep, though, and he’ll be in a lot of pain for some time to come.’ She ran a hand over her brow, tucking a few hairs under her cap, feeling her exhaustion. Van Relenghes was deeply shocked by his attack. She had a shrewd suspicion that for all his tales of warfare and the life of a soldier, he had never been in danger of his life before, and being gripped and stabbed by Nicholas had terrified him. That, she thought, was why he had collapsed after the first slashing cut, not because he was so badly hurt, but because he was so petrified.
‘Where is everyone?’ she asked. ‘I heard them riding off.’
‘They’ve gone back to see where the boy was found,’ Wat said off-handedly.
‘Why? They’ve been there before, haven’t they? That day when they got so wet.’
‘Oh yes, but now they’ve been told what happened, and they’re going to see the footprints.’
‘Told what happened? What do you mean? Have they discovered something new?’
‘Yes, miss. They’ve found the priest’s shoe.’
Petronilla set the jug down carefully, concealing her horror as best she could. ‘Where did they find it?’
‘Two boys found it, and the bailiff and Sir Baldwin have gone to match it to the prints in the mud up there.’
She nodded, trying to control the pounding of her heart. It felt so strong she was surprised the lad couldn’t hear it. Thank God she’d been up there and raked the soil clear, so at least the men wouldn’t be able to fit the shoe to the print.
But Petronilla had to know what the knight and the bailiff had been told. There was no one else to question, for if she were to go into the hall, surely the two men there would become suspicious as to why she was so interested.
She fixed a smile to her face, and winked at Wat. ‘I’ll tell you what, I could do with some wine after all the things that have happened today – would you like some too?’
The track was as distinct as before, although sheep had begun to use it, and they had cut through from one place to another, so that the trail which had been so precise now had the appearance of a tree, with branches spreading in all directions.
Baldwin and Simon led the way, riding to the left side of the path. It stood out in the late afternoon sun, the light striking the top of the bushes and leaving the track in shadow, and the knight walked his horse up, the feeling that he had missed something still niggling at him.
The boys’ explanation had covered most aspects of the matter which had confused him before: the strange paths, meeting and diverging up on the hill, were obviously where the lads had been wont to play. Likewise, the trail leading back to the road was clearly where Herbert’s body had been dragged.
They dismounted and tethered their beasts to a bush near the spot where they had found the marks.
Simon stared, then paced further down towards the stream. ‘Some bastard’s raked the place over!’
Baldwin climbed from his horse and gazed about him, baffled. ‘But why? Did the priest come here to do this? When did he have the time? He’s been busy conducting Herbert’s funeral. And if he didn’t – who in God’s name did?’
‘Do you know what Hugh told me about Petronilla?’ Simon rasped.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Petronilla left the room with her belly churning. In the screens she stopped, uncertain where to go, staring about her with confusion. Only when Stephen called a second time did she hear him. Even with the revulsion she felt for him now, she couldn’t refuse his pleading expression.
‘They’ve gone to see the footprints, haven’t they?’ he asked.
She nodded. His gaunt features were almost corpselike. ‘You’re safe. They won’t find anything. I cleared it all.’
‘Pet, you’re an angel,’ he said, taking her hand. She instinctively drew away. ‘Come, forgive me! You know the truth. I may not be a good priest, but I am not a bad man. Ah, well, God will give me strength. Petronilla, you have to tell the bailiff that you left me. Don’t worry about protecting me, because I am safe already. I have immunity from the bailiff or the Warden. You must tell them you left me before I went down to the stream – that way you will be safe as well.’
‘Safe?’ she demanded, the tears springing back to her eyes.
‘You will live, girl!’
‘Petronilla?’
She turned at the voice of one of the grooms. Stephen stepped back to conceal himself in the doorway to the pantry. ‘Yes?’ she asked.
‘That damned Fleming needs his cut stitched, but no one’s about to help. Would you come?’
‘Give me a moment.’
He turned and wandered back to the kitchen, and Petronilla was about to follow him when Stephen grabbed her arm.
‘Don’t forget, Pet! If anyone asks you, tell them you left me before I went to the stream. You’re safe enough then.’
Hugh grew bored with answering questions from the two boys about his fighting skills and where he had learned to use half-and quarter-staffs. The lads were keen to know all about him at first, but the taciturn servant fitted no boy’s dream of the ideal soldier, especially since he didn’t even own a sword, a fact they ascertained early on, and soon they were demanding details of Edgar’s life and weapons training, a fact for which Hugh’s gratitude was roughly matched by Edgar’s annoyance.
It was in an attempt to get some peace that Edgar went to the buttery. Petronilla had left some minutes before, and now Wat sat alone on an empty ale barrel. Edgar didn’t notice that Wat’s face was a little flushed, nor that his smile was slightly fixed. To the servant’s mind, he had found a young boy, someone who would be the perfect playmate for the two pests in the hall. Nodding to himself, he went back to the hall, and smiled thinly at the boys as they began to bombard him with even more questions.
‘I have to prepare my master’s room now, so I shall leave you two with Wat,’ he said, leading them through to the buttery. ‘Don’t wander. My master will probably want to speak to you again when he comes back.’
Wat beamed at them. He felt wonderful again. The half pint of wine which Petronilla had given him was coursing through his veins like liquid fire, and he felt more alive and awake now than he had all day. He wanted to run and laugh and tell jokes and play – but no one else was about to enjoy the sport with him. Petronilla was fun: he should go and find her, maybe persuade her to drink some more wine with him. But he wasn’t sure where she had gone. It was sad, especially since he was expected to sit with these two children and look after them when he wanted to go and find other adults like himself.
Alan sat quietly on a stool near the door. Jordan remained standing by the door, staring awkwardly down at the paved floor. To Wat, both looked filled with trepidation, and he felt sorry for them. It wasn’t fair that he should be complaining about having to entertain them, not when they had obviously been through so much.
Wat was a generous lad. He felt much better after trying the best wine in the buttery: it had cheered him no end, and he was filled with the conviction that the same cure could be worked on the two boys. He glanced at them, wondering, and swiftly arrived at the conclusion that the only means of testing his hypothesis was to try it out.
He let himself down from his barrel and went to the door. Peeping out, he could see no one, and grinned to himself.
‘Feeling thirsty?’ he asked the two visitors.
Baldwin dropped lightly from his horse as a groom took the bridle. ‘Simon, something about all we have heard rings false. I want to speak to the girl Petronilla.’