‘Always fighting one another, like children. Killing each other for no good reason. Women need more say in the governing of things, Master Chapman, and then we might see common sense prevailing.’ When she saw that I was not to be drawn, she gave a gap-toothed smile and changed the subject. ‘Where are you sleeping tonight? At the Priory?’
I cleared my mouth. ‘Better than that. I’ve been given a house to myself.’ And I explained the circumstances.
I glanced up from scraping the last morsel of food from my plate to find her regarding me oddly.
‘So! Master Eudo Colet won’t be coming back, eh? Not even to protect his property.’ Once again, she spat contemptuously, this time finding her target on one of the smouldering logs on the hearth. The spittle hissed and sizzled. ‘Not to be wondered at, I suppose. Murder’s an evil thing to be touched by at the best of times. But the death of children is particularly heinous. And when there’s also the suspicion of witchcraft…’ She broke off lifting her ample shoulders.
I stared at her, horrified.
‘No one told me… I have heard of two children being murdered by the outlaws, but these, I presume, are not the ones you speak of?’
‘Aye, the same pair. Brother and sister. Rosamund Crouchback’s children by her first husband. Never saw him. Came from northern parts, and after she married him, they lived in London. But when he died, she came back home to her father, bringing her little ones with her. A wild, wilful girl she was, always, and when Sir Jasper himself died, leaving her everything, she said she’d married to oblige him the first time, and now she was going to marry to please herself. And so she did! Going off to London again – Bartholomewtide, it would have been, three years since – and staying away for a month or more, and leaving those pretty ones in the care of the servants. And when she came home, she was wed again, to Master Eudo Colet! An adventurer with an eye for an easy fortune if ever I saw one. And I wasn’t the only one who thought so. Everyone disliked him and thought him up a no good. But the one who hated and mistrusted him most of all was Rosamund’s cousin, the children’s nurse, Grizelda Harbourne!’
Chapter Five
‘Grizelda Harbourne?’ I jerked my head up sharply at the name. ‘Who has a holding near the river?’
‘The very same. The holding was her father’s, and when he died, not long after Sir Jasper, it passed to Grizelda.’ The landlady puckered her brows. ‘How do you come to know her? I thought you were a stranger hereabouts.’
‘She and her friends were up early this morning, hocking, and I fell into their clutches.’ I added, reddening slightly, ‘Mistress Harbourne took pity on me and made them settle for less than they demanded. A kiss apiece. Then she took me home with her and gave me breakfast.’
This story seemed to afford my hostess great amusement.
‘Been hocked, have you, my lad? Well, well! It’s a wonder you were allowed to get away so lightly. Had I been there, you wouldn’t have been as lucky.’ She gave me a lascivious glance and licked her lips. My blush deepened, and she chortled loudly. ‘Count yourself fortunate that Grizelda took pity on you. But she’s a good woman with a soft heart. She’s always protected those weaker than herself. Children and small, furry animals.’ She shot me a second glance, this time tinged with malice. ‘And big, dumb, ox-like creatures.’ The coarse features sobered. ‘Which is why she can’t forgive herself for abandoning those two young innocents that terrible morning.’
‘What terrible morning?’ I asked. ‘And why should Grizelda shoulder the blame? Where was the children’s mother?’
‘Dead, in childbirth, last November, around Martinmas. The child died, too. His child. Eudo Colet’s. So he was left with the little ones and Grizelda and the two servants: the cook, Agatha Tenter, and Bridget Praule, the maid. Grizelda stayed with him as long as she could, for the children’s sake, but she had always disliked him, and after her cousin’s death, it turned to something deeper. They quarrelled and fought incessantly, so Bridget Praule told me. And finally, that winter morning, three months since, when Mary and Andrew… disappeared’ – the landlady’s voice sank to a whisper and she crossed herself hurriedly, signing to me to do the same – ‘she could take no more, not even to protect her little darlings. She packed her box and summoned Jack Carter to take her home to Bow Creek.
‘She left the children playing upstairs, but within two hours of her departure, they had vanished, in spite of the fact of that both Bridget Praule and Agatha Tenter swore it was impossible for them to have quit the house unseen. Their bodies were discovered, horribly mutilated, six weeks later, caught in some branches on the banks of the Harbourne, downstream, a mile or so from where it flows into the Dart.’ The innkeeper swallowed some of my ale, her hand shaking so much that a few drops spilled from the cup on to the table, her face sallow and glistening with sweat. ‘They had been murdered by the outlaws.’ She gripped my wrist. ‘But how had they wandered so far without anyone noticing them? How had they got out of the house when every door was within view of one or other of the servants? It could only have been by witchcraft, practised by that devil, Eudo Colet!’
‘But it seems he’s not been arrested on any such charge,’ I pointed out. ‘And the authorities would most surely have acted, had there been any proof of malpractice against him. Where was he when the children vanished? How old were they? There’s so much I still don’t understand.’
She answered my last question first. ‘The boy, Andrew, was the elder. Six summers he’d seen, and looking forward to his seventh when he was so wickedly cut down. His sister, Mary, was a twelvemonth younger, and as pretty a little soul as you could wish to see this side of heaven. Eyes as blue as periwinkles and hair the colour of ripened corn. She took after her mother in looks, but was without the waywardness. A little angel, and her brother not much short of one, the children of Rosamund Crouchback’s first husband, Sir Henry Skelton.’
I made no comment. In my experience, children, however good or placid, were rarely angelic. Recalling myself at that age, I knew I must have been a sore trial to my long-suffering mother, falling out of trees, tearing my clothes, stealing apples and playing rowdy games of football in the street.
‘So, what of Eudo Colet?’ I prompted, when my hostess seemed inclined to sink beneath the weight of maudlin reminiscence. ‘Where was he when the children vanished?’
It was beginning to grow dusk. A flame, licking at the edge of a log, sent the shadows soaring. The landlady roused herself and shrugged.
‘Out of the house,’ she grudgingly admitted, ‘visiting Master Cozin on some affair of business. Business!’ she added scornfully. ‘What did he know of business, beyond how to spend the money it brought him? For you must understand that after Sir Jasper’s death, his partner, Thomas Cozin, had seen to everything for Mistress Rosamund. And very well he’d done it, too, by all accounts: she grew wealthier by the day. So no one was more dismayed than he, when she returned from London married to a man he knew nothing about. And never managed to know anything about, either, in spite of trying hard for information, like the rest of us. A mystery Eudo Colet was when she brought him home and a mystery he’s remained.’
‘But there’s no mystery where he was when his stepchildren disappeared,’ I interrupted gently. ‘You say he was with Master Cozin, who, to my certain knowledge, is a respected burgher of this town. If he vouched for his visitor, I don’t suppose anyone would doubt him.’
The innkeeper, who had risen to draw me another cup of ale and fill one for herself returned to the table. Her stool creaked protestingly as it again received her weight. She gave me a speaking look, drank deeply and wiped her mouth on her apron.