‘You’ll get a right thrashing for that,’ Emma said unsympathetically.
Joan shrugged. ‘It’ll wash out. I’ll rinse the mud off in the river before we go back.’
‘Ugh! It’ll be freezing in the water today,’ Emma said with a grimace. She turned and jumped to the next rock, her bare feet gripping the stone with the unconscious skill of long practice.
‘I’ll live,’ Joan said. She wasn’t looking forward to stripping and washing her garment, still less to putting it on again afterwards, but there was nothing else for it.
The hut stood a few yards below the warren on the side of the hill. It was a short distance from where Joan had fallen, and the two girls made their way to it without further mishap, walking around the stone-built warren on their way. The warren was quite large. Some three yards wide and ten or so yards long, it was built of good moorstone like any of the walls, but every few yards, gaps in the stonework made doorways for the rabbits to enter. To keep it warm in winter and cool in summer it was covered with turves.
Serlo had once told Joan that warrens had to be built all over the country to protect rabbits, because they weren’t clever beasts and couldn’t hide or run away from faster creatures. Martens and stoats, weasels and foxes could all hunt the slow and rather dim creatures in the open, while smaller predators would ferret down into the warrens as well. But at least when there was a decent warren like Serlo’s, they could be protected. Serlo maintained a wall around the warren, with small stone traps installed in the angles. Here, if a weasel or marten should try to gain access, they would trip a lever which would release slate shutters in front and behind. Serlo checked his traps daily, with a large stone hammer to despatch the captured thieves.
The wall itself was a trophy display. Hanging from it, in various stages of decomposition, were many smaller carnivores, as well as magpies, jays, crows and rooks. There was even one skeletal buzzard. All were animals which had tried, or might have tried, to eat one of Serlo’s rabbits. In the vill there were rumours that Serlo had killed men who had tried to break into his beloved warren. Even children, so people whispered. Joan thought the rumours silly.
His home was a circular hut with a thick thatch roof. The two girls walked straight inside, expecting to find him, but to their surprise, there was no sign of him. They sat and waited for some while, but then, as Joan felt the mud drying on her clothes, they carried on down into the valley to the river at the bottom. Quickly stripping, Joan shivered as she plunged her tunic into the water, rubbing it against the rocks at the edge until she was satisfied that it was clean enough. Then, thankfully, the sun came out, and she draped it over a bush, squatting naked on a rock while Emma lay back chewing a long stem of grass with her head on her hands.
‘Where do you think Serlo could have gone?’ Emma asked after a while.
‘How should I know?’
‘Do you think he went along to watch the inquest?’
‘P’raps.’
‘He’s never asked to the juries in the vill, is he?’ Emma frowned. ‘Why not?’
‘Well, he isn’t from the vill, is he? He’s from… the forest, I suppose.’
‘He’s so close, though. It seems odd.’
‘People just feel uncomfortable with him around,’ Joan said. She felt her tunic. Still wet.
‘He’s always nice to us.’
‘So? That doesn’t make other people like him,’ Joan responded, thinking about the priest again. She shouldn’t dislike him, she knew, because he was the man who could save souls or destroy them. He had the power. At least, that was what she thought he had said.
Emma was frowning now. ‘Why shouldn’t they like him, though? He’s always kind. I’ll never forget how he helped my mummy when I was little.’
‘It’s his back: all twisted like that. I think it makes people scared.’
‘He can’t help that,’ Emma said.
‘No. But it scares people,’ Joan repeated.
‘Does it?’
The girls sprang up like startled deer and spun around. Behind them, standing a short distance away, was Drogo the Forester. ‘What are you doing here, girls?’
Joan flushed as he eyed her all over. She snatched her tunic from the bush and put it on. ‘We were just talking about Serlo,’ she said defensively.
‘Where is the lazy whoreson? I was looking for him myself.’
‘We don’t know. Maybe he’s gone to the inquest,’ Emma said, noticing that Joan was red-faced with resentment.
‘They’re holding it today?’ Drogo rumbled. His manner was pensive, as though he was considering other things while he spoke. ‘That girl – poor thing.’
‘We found her,’ Emma said proudly. ‘We went up to the hole in the wall and we found her.’
‘My, wasn’t that clever of you,’ Drogo sneered. ‘And then you pissed yourself and ran all the way home. You’re no better than your mother, are you?’
Emma flushed hotly. She had never been able to counter an adult’s scorn.
Seeing her wilt, Joan angrily stood up to Drogo. ‘At least we found her. It’s more than you and all your men were able to do, isn’t it?’
He turned and stared at her. ‘We did all we could, girl.’
‘And it wasn’t enough,’ Joan stated contemptuously. ‘If we weren’t so young, we’d be down there talking to the Coroner. Why aren’t you there?’
‘I have other things to do.’ Drogo’s face was unreadable.
‘You should be there with the others, shouldn’t you? I thought all the men from the vill had to go.’
‘I’m not from the vill. I live in South Zeal.’
‘Oh!’ She was silent for a moment, and then added more quietly, ‘They’ll be able to bury her after this. At last.’
He shot her a look. ‘Really? Let’s hope they can give her poor soul rest, then.’ Turning abruptly, he stalked back up the hill towards Serlo’s home, leaving the girls gazing after him with surprise.
Emma sniffed. ‘What do you think he meant by that?’
‘I don’t care,’ Joan said. ‘Let’s get back down to the vill.’ She shivered. ‘I don’t like this. Something feels wrong. I hope Serlo’s all right.’
As an inquest, Baldwin could not feel that the gathering on the sticklepath was particularly helpful.
While Coroner Roger ate there was a slow movement of people towards the inn, and Baldwin was aware of an increasing number of villeins and serfs gathering in the hall about them. Ill-kempt and undernourished, they were an unprepossessing lot, and their sullen, anxious looks made Baldwin study them more carefully. There was more to this whole matter than a girl’s death, he felt.
In truth, he had not given the inquest much thought. As he had said to Jeanne on the day the messenger arrived, he had no doubt that the murderer would be found. The fact that there was a rumour of cannibalism did not affect him. There had been plenty of suspected cannibals during the famine, and some were genuine, although most were simply unfortunates disliked by their neighbours. More often than not, it was their accusers who were thrown into Exeter Gaol or fined for lying.
Eating other humans was repellent to all but the insane. There was no doubt about that, of course, and yet… and yet sometimes a person could be in such appalling straits that there was no apparent alternative. Baldwin had heard examples of cannibalism during sieges, when all other foods were exhausted; more recently there had been reported cases during the famine. As people lost everything, as their crops wilted, their animals expired from lack of feed, as children swelled from malnutrition, it was not surprising that they should turn to the only food available: other men and women.