Simon had no compunction in ousting what had been the thegn from his hut and appropriating his chair. The only chair. My God, no wonder these people shuffled round older than their years if they squatted all the time! He asked each villager, freeman or serf, the same questions, making them lay their hands on his Bible as they replied. And Simon, even without this, would have believed them. There was an air of bafflement about them, not to mention the terror of losing more of what little they had.
At the end of a tedious morning, Simon waved them all away. ‘Beom, get them all back to work. My wife will be coming next week: everything must be ready for her.’
It was the sort of day that you wished you could cram into a flask and keep forever. The sun was warm on his back, the air full of birdcall. And the news, that the Lady Rosamunde had but this morning whispered that she was soon to offer him another pledge of her love for him, still sang in his ears. Simon rode gently down to the village. Another hut was being built: Beom had told him it was his and his new wife’s. Aedburgha was nowhere to be seen. She must be near her time now. The squeals of her charges told him where he might find her, and he never had any objections to being smiled on by – what was the term? – a comely wench. He reeled in shock when he saw what she and another woman were doing to the young pigs they’d penned immovably in a tight wattle tunnel. It was all very swift, of course, but the very thought brought tears to his eyes.
If Beom was now speaking a little of his tongue, Aedburgha still relied on sign language. She pointed to the sows, the sleekest and best looking he’d seen since he’d come over from Beaune. Then there came piglets. She mimed a fierce boar, then a snip. She smiled, waving her hands to show all fierceness was over, and that the desexed animals would grow big and fat and healthy. Next came a fearsome pregnant sow. She gestured a slit: The female ones, untroubled by pregnancy, would do the same. Suddenly she reached for one and held it up, still bleeding after surgery. Heavens, she was giving him a pig.
He took it graciously, but handed it swiftly to the soldier escorting him. He hoped and he trusted that the villagers were coming to appreciate his humanity and realise they could get a man six times worse in his place, but he didn’t take risks. This, however, must be the ultimate peace offering – a woman who had been insulted by one of his henchmen giving something she could ill afford. She waved away the coin he offered. A good woman. The sort who might attend the Lady Rosamunde when her time came.
‘Pig?’ he said carefully, pointing at the wriggling animal. No, it would be another word for the female. ‘Sow?’
She shook her head. ‘Gilt,’ she said. She pointed to an animal which had not yet been on the receiving end of her ministrations. ‘Sow.’ Then she pointed to the one she’d given him. ‘Gilt.’
Lords might do as they liked, and if Simon chose to visit a small wattle enclosure to check his animal’s daily progress, there was no one with the temerity to laugh. In fact, it was while he was scratching her ears and speculating on the quality of the meat she would produce that Luc came up to him. One look at his face told Simon he’d rather not hear his news.
Luc produced from his tunic a ring. ‘Found it when I was casting a line yesterday evening. Villeneuve’s, isn’t it, my lord?’ He polished it before he handed it over. ‘See – that’s his crest.’
Simon took it. Yes, it looked like it, didn’t it? ‘The river you say?’ He held Luc’s gaze. ‘The man must have dropped it and tried to save it. The water’s very swift, and of course his helm and hauberk would weigh him down. Even Villeneuve wasn’t so stupid as to go round without them. Drowned, swept away. Poor bastard. Still, it’s good to have the mystery solved. I’ll get the priest to write to his family. Thank you, Luc.’
Alone once more, Simon stared at the sow, currently tucking into scraps from last night’s venison and some mouldy bread. Her little eyes were contented, almost benign. Not like those of the raging sow that had almost done for Villeneuve. The pregnant ones were dangerous under provocation. Aedburgha had shown him. He shivered. Provocation? What if Villeneuve had renewed his assault on Aedburgha? What if the sow -? Or, God help him, what if pregnant women were equally dangerous. God knew she’d been provoked…but sufficiently provoked to kill? There was no doubt how she’d have disposed of the body – her pigs would have fallen readily upon anything they thought edible.
He buried his face in his hands. He represented law and order and justice here. If there was a crime, it must be punished. But Beom had told him only two days before that he was now the proud father of a hopeful son, and Simon had offered to be a sponsor at the child’s christening. In his mind’s eye he could see the little family, the newborn suckling at its mother’s breast – a breast that he’d hoped would nourish his and Rosamunde’s own child when the time came. Could such a woman really have killed a man and fed his flesh to those remarkably healthy sows? If he ordered Beom’s hut to be pulled down, would they find the contents of Villeneuve’s purse buried under the foundations? He looked at the ring.
The armour! That would provide the answer.
But a woman who knew the forest as she did would have had no difficulty hiding a helm, even bulky chain mail – up one tree, inside another.
Simon looked across at the mass of green, pulsing in the gentle wind. The sky was blue again, with fluffy clouds. The pastures were dotted with sheep and cattle cropping their way to a prosperous future. Wheat and corn were greening the fields.
No, he told himself, there’d be no reopening of the inquiry. If wrong had been left unavenged in his life, the Almighty would deal with it in the next. And if he felt a tremor of remorse as he called for the priest to convey his condolences to the Villeneuve family, he knew he’d just have to endure it. He’d live with the guilt.
And with the gilt. He leant over and scratched her ear again.
Window of Opportunity by Peter Lovesey
‘There is a window in your life. All you have to do is open it and let the sunshine in.’
Nikki listened, fascinated. She’d come here expecting a con, but the man spoke like a prophet. He had his audience enthralled. He was a brilliant speaker. Looks, perfect grooming, charisma. He had it all.
‘How many times have I heard someone say, “You should have been here yesterday. It was glorious”?’ He smiled. ‘A comment on our English weather, but it sums up our attitude to life. “You should have been here yesterday.” My friends, forget about yesterday We are here today. Seize the day. Open that window and let the sunshine in.’
The applause was wild. He’d brought them to a pitch of excitement. And this wasn’t evangelism. It was about being effective in business. The setting was Lucknam Park in Wiltshire, where the government held its think-tank sessions. Companies had paid big bucks to send their upcoming executives here. Lives were being changed forever. Not least, Nikki’s.
This was her window of opportunity. She’d been sent here for the weekend by the theatrical agency to help with the role play. Inspired by what she had heard, she was about to act a role of her own. She stepped to the front, scythed a path through the admirers, and placed a hand over his arm. ‘If you don’t mind, Julian, there’s someone you should meet upstairs, in your suite.’
To his adoring fans she said, ‘He’ll be back, I promise.’
It worked. In the lift, he said, ‘Who is it?’
‘Me.’
His amazing blue eyes widened. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’ve seized the day.’
The moment he laughed, she knew she’d succeeded. He was still high on the reception he’d got. When they entered the suite, she put the Do Not Disturb sign over the doorknob. The sex was sensational.