She was close to being sick. Her stomach was rebelling against the tension, and she felt sure that she must dirty herself like a baby when she saw him take hold of the sill and enter fully. He stood there a moment as though listening, and then he started to walk towards her and Arthur.
It was too much. She gave a short cry of panic and hurled herself from the bed, ripping the coverings from it. Arthur was startled awake and gave a shrill scream even as Cecily tripped on a blanket and fell headlong. There was a clatter as her head knocked an iron candle-holder against a table, the candle rolling over the table top, the metal stand striking a pewter plate, which rang with a shivering rattle as it rolled across the floor.
There was a roar, a harsh, unintelligible bellow, and the clumping of heavy feet. Cecily looked up to see her father and the hooded man grappling. There was a blow, a shriek, and she saw her father’s face twisted and distorted with horror and agony just before he collapsed, and then her mother grabbed her and mercifully covered her eyes as the tide of blood crept over his shirt, his eyes still staring accusingly towards his killer as the stranger fled through the window.
Chapter Seven
There was that snuffling again, and if Jeanne had heard that every night for the last few years she would be out of her mind by now. As things were, she listened to it sympathetically and even with some thankfulness.
Edgar had been guarding his master from a murderous attack when he was knocked down. This snuffling was the result. Jeanne only hoped that whatever was causing it would eventually right itself, because if she knew Edgar’s wife Petronilla, he would not be forgiven for keeping her awake at night.
The main thing was that both these men, one whom she regarded with the single-minded adoration of a girl for a first lover, the other with the respect of a mistress for an entirely faithful servant who would die in order to protect his master and herself, were alive and safe, although Baldwin was not quite out of the woods yet. His physician, Ralph of Malmesbury, an insufferably arrogant man with the manners of a prince who knew his own importance, had drawn Jeanne aside only four days ago to tell her to watch her man carefully.
‘If he begins to find himself breathless, or his colour changes, let me know, madam. And if his humours appear disordered, send for me.’
She knew what that meant, of course. The well-being of a man’s body depended upon maintaining the correct balance of the natural humours. Baldwin had always been somewhat sanguine, and she had more than once been a little anxious at the sight of his reddened complexion after he had taken exercise. Even more concerning was his occasional lapse into a phlegmatic disposition, such as when he had to spend too much time at one of the many courts at which he sat in justice; at such times his manner became desperately indolent. He would drink more than usual and eat more, and his belly would begin to grow until he had a paunch.
If anything, he was looking quite phlegmatic just now, she felt. While Edgar snored quietly on his palliasse on the floor by their door, Jeanne eyed her husband.
He lay on his back with his face to the ceiling, his expression, even in sleep, fixed into that intense glower which she recognized so well. The first time she had seen that look she had thought that it denoted either doubt or disapproval, but more recently she’d realized that it was a sign of his confusion about the world. He had many secrets … she knew a few of them, but she knew also that there were large parts of his life about which she might never learn. It didn’t concern her. Provided he continued to love her, that was all that mattered. She could still recall her desperation only a short while ago when she had thought that she had lost his love. That had hurt her more than she had thought possible. It was appalling to think that her man could have grown like her first husband, the unlamented Ralph de Liddinstone.
No. Baldwin was not like him. He was kind, generous-hearted and thoughtful. He had a natural empathy with others that went deeper than mere understanding of another man’s position. Baldwin had endured a depth of suffering that meant he could comprehend how others reacted to their own pain.
She loved him. A hand went to his face to stroke his cheek, but although she allowed it to hover a little way above him, she couldn’t disturb him. He looked so restful. Even the intensity of the frown on his face only served to make him look more childlike, somehow, like a boy trying to understand what made a river continue to flow and never empty. There was a depth of innocence in his expression that was entirely endearing to her.
There was a rattling at the inn’s front door, and she saw his face stiffen slightly. A disturbance in Edgar’s breathing told her that he too was awake. At the sound of steps and a shout, Edgar sprang up. Still naked, he snatched his sword from the stool beside his makeshift bed. At the same time Baldwin tried to rise, grunting as the pain in his shoulder returned. He stood flexing the muscles for a moment, then picked up his sword and drew the blade free of the scabbard, the blue steel flashing as he tested its weight on his wrist, spinning it round and round.
‘Sir Baldwin! There’s a message for you. The Coroner asks you to go with him.’
Baldwin threw a look over his shoulder at his wife, who drew the bedclothes up to her chin with a smile. ‘Leave me a moment and I shall be with you,’ he called, and reached for his clothes.
The body lay at the foot of the stairs. Not far from him there was a discarded rag doll, and Baldwin was struck by the similarity between the two figures. Both looked derelict, unnecessary and unloved. The doll should have been in the child’s arms; the man should still have been in his wife’s bed. Instead they had been cast aside lifeless. Neither possessed even the semblance of vigour.
‘What happened?’ Baldwin asked.
The man at the body’s side was a youngster with a perpetually running nose. Watery grey eyes peered at Baldwin from under reddened lids, and he gripped his staff with the resolution of a man clinging to a rope dangling over a chasm. ‘The maid said that there was someone down here. They heard the children cry out, and he came down. His woman followed to help, and was just in time to see the murderer getting out through the window.’
‘Did anybody else see the man?’
‘Only the wife and the little girl.’
‘Where is the woman?’
The man nodded towards the front of the building. ‘She’s taken the two children to the neighbour’s house over the road: widow Gwen’s place. Took them in as soon as their screams were heard.’
‘Some people can show true Christian charity,’ the Coroner observed.
He had entered in Baldwin’s wake, and Baldwin felt his hackles rise just to hear that smooth, silky voice behind him. It was unjustified, he knew, but he couldn’t help it. There was something about this knight that always rubbed him up the wrong way. He nodded curtly, and instantly felt guilty as Sir Peregrine led the way back out into the road. There was no need to be gratuitously rude to the man. He was only performing his duties in the way he knew best. It was no crime to make a comment on the kind behaviour of a neighbour.
On the road Sir Peregrine paused. ‘I would ask, Sir Baldwin, that you be kind to the woman. She has seen much to disturb her this night.’
It was tempting to snap at him, but Baldwin took a breath and agreed. He walked along behind the Coroner, meeting a glance from his servant. Edgar smiled broadly.
‘I know,’ Baldwin muttered. Both of them could remember how Daniel had walked alone from St Peter’s on the previous Sunday. Juliana had walked some distance in front of her man as though not with him. Perhaps she disliked him — even hated him? ‘Yes, I know: Estmund was not viewed as a threat by people, or they would have attacked him, or at least threatened him with the law. Instead they tolerated him because of his loss. And of course many times a man’s murder will be caused by a jealous wife.’