I thought of the burning of Grizelda’s cottage. She had claimed it as an act of spite by the outlaws, and she could be right. Yet that same night, they had attacked the outlying homesteads of Dartington. Satisfied with their haul of plunder, why should they go out of their way to exact a petty revenge? Then there was the killing of Andrew and Mary Skelton. As recently as three days ago, when I first heard the story, there had been lingering doubts in a few people’s minds as to the outlaws’ guilt, but these suspicions were now forgotten, swept aside as unjust after the events of the past two nights. All the same, there were still too many unanswered questions about this particular crime for my liking. And whatever others might think, I knew that someone had tried to maim or even kill me, someone who could imitate the voice of a child, someone who was worried in ease I stumbled on the truth.
But what was the truth? My thoughts came round full circle to be brought up short once more by the testimony of Bridget Praule, Agatha Tenter and Master Thomas Cozin that Eudo Colet had been out of the house when his stepchildren vanished. They had been there when he left, but had disappeared by the time he returned. He had had no opportunity to harm them.
Suddenly the Priory forecourt began to clear as the posse, with the Sheriff at its head, moved off. In moments, I was left with only the other onlookers for company, and I saw Oliver Cozin put a consoling arm around his sister-in-law’s shoulders. The three girls huddled together for comfort as they and many others proceeded to the parish church to pray for their loved ones’ safety. I went with them as far as the porch, but then walked on to High Street and turned left, downhill, towards the East Gate.
Granny Praule had water heating for me over the fire, and when I had shaved, she insisted that I sat down to breakfast.
‘A shock like that needs feeding, lad,’ she said, frying a lump of fat bacon in a skillet, and producing a slice of horse bread from a crock which stood in one corner. She cast a scornful, if affectionate, glance at her granddaughter, who was sitting on the bed beside Peter Coucheneed and holding his hand. ‘I’ve no patience,’ she went on, gnashing her toothless gums in irritation, ‘with folk who fall over, like trees in a gale, every time there’s a bit of trouble. If the good Lord had intended us to live in comfort on this earth, it stands to reason He’d not have needed to create the Hereafter. Bestir yourself, girl, and fetch that poor creature alongside you a cup more of my damson wine. He looks as if he needs it.’
To my protests that I was taking the food out of her and Bridget’s mouths, Granny turned a deaf ear, and my offer of payment brought the vials of her wrath down about my head.
When she was young, she informed me severely, travellers had a right to expect sustenance on their journeys from whomsoever had the means to provide it, especially those of them who had suffered misfortune. She plunged a knife into the sizzling lump of bacon and tossed it on to the plate I was holding on my knees, pressing it with the flat of the blade so that the fat ran out and soaked into the horse bread. For this small consideration I was grateful, always having found the coarseness of such bread, with its mixture of peas and beans and bits of chaff, unpalatable.
When I had finished eating, I took Peter Coucheneed gently by the arm and urged him to his feet.
‘Come outside,’ I said. ‘The air will do you good.’ He followed me, docilely, like someone who had lost the power to think for himself and would do whatever he was told.
‘What will you do now?’ I asked him gently. ‘It has to be thought of, in spite of your grief, and the sooner the better. How long have the three of you been together?’ He roused himself a little, rubbing his forehead like a man awakening from a dream.
‘A month,’ he answered, ‘perhaps six weeks at most. I fell in with them on the road from Southampton, where they’d spent the winter, and Martin suggested that I join them.’
‘Ah!’ I was surprised by this. ‘I thought you had all three been friends for some long time.’
Peter shook his head. ‘No. Martin and Luke had known each other since childhood, leaving their parents’ company, set out on their own, flying the nest as we all must do sooner or later. But I was a stranger to them until we met in the shadow of Romsey Abbey. It was Martin who saw at once that with my height, my thinness, my baldness, I was the perfect foil for Luke, who, as you saw, was short and stout and blessed with more hair than any man has a need for.’ He smiled wryly. ‘“As a pair, you’ll raise a laugh wherever we go,” Martin said, and he was right, for people had only to see us side by side to begin to chuckle.’ Peter’s eyes filled with tears which overflowed and ran down his cheeks, his body racked with sobs. ‘I thought I’d found a family to replace my own, who all died of the plague one summer. But now I’m alone again. Sweet Jesus! Why ever did we come to this accursed town? If only we’d known earlier about the outlaws.’
I put my arms around him and hugged him, but I am ashamed to remember that the comfort I offered was absentminded. I was deep in thought.
Was it simply chance which had decreed that the two men who had been friends since childhood, who had spent their lives in one another’s company, should be the victims of this murderous attack, whilst the newcomer, a member of their band for only six weeks, should escape unharmed? Or was there some deeper, more sinister reason? Then I recalled the speech I had had, earlier, with Oliver Cozin and froze into stillness…
I became aware that Peter was asking me a question.
‘What am I to do about the wagon? It belonged to Martin and Luke, yet it seems a shame to abandon it here to rot. Martin has family… a brother …’
‘Nick won’t hay any claim to it, you may be certain,’ I answered, determinedly cheerful. ‘And where the rest of Martin’s kin are scattered, or Luke’s for that matter, I have no more notion than you have. Take the cart, use it for yourself I’m sure it’s what both of them would wish, could we but ask them. And who around here knows enough to contest your right?’
He smiled gratefully, the advice being what he wanted to hear. ‘I’ll be on my way in a day or two, then, when I’ve seen Martin and Luke decently buried. Do you think Dame Praule would let me remain here for a while with her and Bridget? I have a little money. I could pay my way.’
‘By all means ask her,’ I said, glad that his thoughts were taking a positive turn. ‘I don’t doubt but she’ll agree. Moreover, she’ll help you cleanse the mattress and the pile of costumes. Women understand these mysteries. My mother, God rest her soul, had remedies for any kind of stain, although she always said blood was difficult.’
But the mere mention of the word ‘blood’ was sufficient to start him trembling all over again, so I accompanied him back to the cottage and did his pleading for him. Not that Granny Praule needed much persuasion. She was delighted with any diversion in her humdrum life, especially one which would give her such standing amongst her neighbours. And the prospect of a little extra money pleased Bridget.
‘And we’ll take the mattress and the clothes down to the river, to the ford, and hold them under the running water,’ Granny said. ‘There’s nothing like cold, running water for dealing with blood.’ She patted Peter Coucheneed’s arm. ‘There, there, lad. Don’t take on so. We must be practical, and it would be a wicked shame to throw those good things away, or burn them. No, no! A little time, a little patience and we’ll have them almost as good as new.’