‘Yes, of course,’ Lady Alice said with some irritation. It was so hard to get time away from the castle just now, and shewas desperate for any help she could get.
Matthew had never said as much, but she knew that he felt the lack of children as sorely as she herself. They had tried — God knew all too well how hard! — but she could not conceive for some reason. And then she had had the idea of enlisting thehelp of this man Langatre.
It meant lots of foul potions, which she did her best to apply as he suggested, rubbing them in about her body, but, as heexplained, the trouble with these kinds of problem was the womb itself. It was a strange organ, which could move about thebody. Only when it was positioned firmly could a man pierce her with hopes of success. And in her case, it was rarely fixed.
She would have to pray that he made a swift recovery so that she might see him again soon.
And just then she felt her heart seem to stop. Time ceased as she stared at the man with the black eyes, the scruffy stubbleat his chin, the deep creases like knife-slashes at either side of his mouth, and there was a moment’s confusion in her mindas she felt her belly roil.
‘Mary Mother of God!’
Sarra saw her confusion and paleness. ‘Mistress? My lady? What is it?’
‘Sarra, go to the tavern up on the corner and fetch me a pint of strong ale. Go! Now! I shall wait here.’
And as soon as her maid had left her, she sank down onto a moorstone trough that sat nearby and waited, not daring to lookas he approached her grimly, his hand ready on his knife.
Chapter Twelve
North-East Dartmoor
Simon was growing concerned. He had been out on the moors of an evening often enough, but today the weather was rapidly growingchillier, and the clouds looked threatening. It might rain, but more likely they were going to be attacked by a blizzard.
‘Rob, can’t you hurry a little faster?’ he called over his shoulder. The boy was a nuisance at the best of times, but todayhe had excelled himself, whining about crossing a small area of boggy land when he had already seen the horses walk througheasily enough, and then falling flat on his face and refusing to get up for some little while, complaining that he had brokenhis toe on a rock. Now he was some yards behind them again, his face set in a lowering black mask of fury at the indignityof hurrying after the others.
‘I’m the one who’s not on a horse, master Bailiff,’ Rob responded with some asperity. ‘What do you expect me to do? Run thewhole way?’
Simon grunted his answer. It was only the truth. The worst delays had been caused by Busse. He had insisted on regular halts,supposedly to pray at the requisite hours of the day, and also to rest his horse, but Simon felt sure that it was more to do with his own sore buttocks. The last time, he had begged Simon to light a fire to warm his hands. True enough, Simon could see that Busse’s face was turning a little blue with the cold, but that was no excuse to use up their meagre supplyof firewood and tinder. Simon was painfully aware that they would need both tonight, and he was not going to risk the mainsupply of good tinder to light a fire when they might have need of it all later.
His attention was on the clouds forming to the north. It was plain enough that the weather was settling in for a cold blow. Simon was deeply unhappy to think that they could all be stuck out here on the moors for an extended period, but if the snowfell hard, that was exactly the risk.
It was growing dark as he stared about him, and he cursed the short winter days. ‘Right. We won’t make it off the moor beforenightfall. We have to find a shelter. I won’t continue in the dark, not with the moon hidden. It would be too dangerous.’
‘Surely we are almost at the end of the moors, Bailiff,’ Busse said, hearing his words. ‘There are plenty of farms out there.’
‘There are some, but I can see no sign of smoke yet,’ Simon said shortly. ‘Even all the miners seem to be hidden away. Withthis weather, I would expect them to be hidden away in a tavern. Probably up in Chagford, most of them. That’d be the nearestto us here, I think.’
He remained still, staring about him for a long time, making sure of his bearings, and then pointed ahead and slightly leftto a large outcrop of rock. ‘If we make for that, I think we’ll be close to the Grey Wethers. That’ll give me my bearings.’
‘You mean to say that you are lost,’ Busse said.
‘No. But look about you — if we were a mile behind us right now, would you know the difference? All is rolling hills, with occasionalrocks at their summits. It is easy to become confused, and always best to make sure of your bearings. However, once we hitthe Grey Wethers, I will be happier.’
‘Why, are they safe?’ Rob asked innocently.
Simon shot him a look, then glanced at the monk beside him. Busse, he saw, was nervous. Good! Well he might be, Simon reflected.
‘No, but their spirits may lead us to safety,’ he said at last, and kicked his horse to greater speed.
Exeter City
Baldwin and the coroner had to stop a while for refreshment, for, said Coroner Richard, his belly was so empty, they wouldsoon hear it rumbling in Cornwall. After some persuasion, Baldwin agreed to visit a pie shop on Cooks’ Row, and then the twocould head down to Stepecote Street, where there was a man, so the watchman said, who practised magic.
It was hard to curb his impatience as the coroner prodded at all the pies on sale, before settling on a pair of matched pastrycoffins filled with beef in gravy. Richard de Welles munched happily as they walked. If he had had his way, they would havebeen ensconced in a tavern by now, and eating and drinking their fill. Although that was by no means Baldwin’s plan, he wasfully aware of the dangers of an investigation with the coroner. He had witnessed the hung-over anguish on Simon’s face everymorning only recently when the coroner had stayed with the bailiff in Dartmouth. Baldwin was extremely keen to avoid suchpain.
Stepecote Street was the main thoroughfare to the west of the city. It took all the traffic from the city out to the great bridge ofwhich Exeter was so proud, so was well metalled. As in all the streets, the centre held the kennel, the great gutter whichtook all the rainwater away from the houses before they could be flooded in severe weather. However, the kennel here stoodout more, because the street was so steep that the tracks on either side were flagged as a series of shallow steps. It meantthat little traffic other than pack-horses could come this way, but that held the advantage to Baldwin and the coroner asthey walked down that there were no wagons or carts to be avoided.
Richard de Langatre’s house was halfway down the street on the southern side. Baldwin had stopped a priest on their way, andhe had confirmed where the man lived, although he cast an eye over Baldwin as he spoke. He seemed of the opinion that menshould not consort with a necromancer.
Seeing his look, the coroner had smiled broadly. ‘Don’t worry, Father. We’re only going to consult him about a murder.’
The priest’s smile fled his face, and he hurried on his way up the hill.
‘Coroner, please,’ Baldwin moaned.
‘What? What did I say? Eh?’
‘What is going on down there?’ Baldwin wondered, seeing a small crowd. ‘Do you think that is the house?’
‘Looks like it,’ the coroner said. He took a massive bite from his remaining pie, then threw away the crust. ‘Let’s go andfind out,’ he continued, showering Baldwin and the road in crumbs.
There was a pair of young urchins, perhaps ten years old, standing on a cart’s wheel to peer over the heads to the door. Asthe coroner moved forward, trying to force his way through, Baldwin asked one of the boys what was happening.
The lad, a scrawny, Celtic-looking fellow with black eyes and a shock of unruly brown hair, looked down at him with a speculativegaze, but his companion, a mousy-haired fellow with a pale and unhealthy complexion under the filth on his flesh, snarleda curse. Only when the first noticed that Baldwin was weighing a penny in his hand did the two become more interested. Brownhair nodded towards the house.