As the man cried and dropped his shovel, Ivo glanced up towards him. He knew well enough that this was a dangerous moment for the Reeve and Drogo, for he had seen them burying the body near here; if it turned up now, his hold over the Reeve would be ended. He shrugged. Oh well.
A small boy ran down the lane, narrowly missing Ivo as he passed, and the man pursed his lips. Illegitimate spawn of a sow and a hog! Next time the little sodomite tried that, he’d get a boot up his arse. See how he liked sprawling in the dirt.
Ivo loathed children. Always had. Mother had told him that he would love his own, but thank Christ there was no risk of that. His wife was barren, useless cow. Shame he’d ever married her. She was only ever a drain upon his purse, no good as a bedfellow or housekeeper. Couldn’t manage a servant to save her life.
It was as he was thinking of his wife that he saw her again, and felt his heart flutter: Nicky.
She had a natural grace about her, an elegance that was without comparison in this dump; it must be her French blood, Ivo thought. He had often heard it said that Frenchwomen had more style and grace than their English counterparts, and Nicky proved it. She was gorgeous. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her, strip her naked and lay her on his bed.
Caution made him glance about, looking for her husband, his brother, Thomas Garde. Tom was a jealous git at the best of times, and he hated Ivo. Jealousy, Ivo thought smugly. Here he was, Manciple to the nuns at Canonsleigh, and Thomas no better then a peasant. If Ivo could, he’d get rid of Thomas, permanently. That would give him a chance to have a proper go at Nicky, without fear of interference. All he need do was think up the right plan… Of course, knowing Thomas’s temper, any attempt to trap him would carry certain risks. He’d have to be very careful.
It occurred to him that he should use Tom’s well-known temper against him – get him convicted of breaking the peace or something. Nicky would have to ask him for help then, and he could seduce her. Ivo groaned silently. It was a delicious thought.
Then he remembered his malicious comment the night before, to Sir Baldwin’s manservant at the inn. He had merely thrown out the suggestion that his brother could have been responsible for the recently discovered murder in order to drop Thomas in the shit. No man liked to be interrogated like a felon, especially someone as fiery-natured as Thomas Garde. Ivo sniggered nastily.
If, however, Ivo was somehow able to implicate him properly – Ivo might yet be grappling with his widow before too long.
Looking about him, he was relieved to see no sign of his brother, although he must be there somewhere. The only man he noticed was Bailiff Puttock, who was watching him closely. Ivo saw his gaze go to Nicky, as though puzzled by Ivo’s smouldering looks.
Ivo shrugged. He wasn’t the only man to show an interest in his sister-in-law. Finally taking an interest in the proceedings, he glanced back at the grave, and then a frown passed over his face as he heard people mention the name Aline and speak in hushed terms of a girl’s corpse.
‘But what happened to him?’ he said in astonishment.
Chapter Nine
When the peasant digging gave a shocked curse, Baldwin immediately peered into the grave. The man had exposed the ribs of a skeleton. As Drogo had suggested, this must be an old corpse.
Baldwin looked up and noticed the three men who had been with Drogo at the inn when he arrived. He nudged the Reeve and pointed. ‘Who are they?’
‘Drogo le Criur’s men, the Foresters. Young Vin, Adam Thorne is the man with the limp and the other one is Peter atte Moor.’
‘Tell them to come here,’ ordered Coroner Roger. ‘They can help this fellow instead of gawping.’
Vincent looked as though he might be sick when he saw the blackened bones protruding from the grave. Even Adam crossed himself as he limped over to it, a sad-looking man with heavily lidded eyes, but it was Peter atte Moor’s behaviour which struck Baldwin most: he sprang up onto the wall and stood gazing down into the hole almost hungrily. When the three men were in the grave, they began to tug gently at the fabric and somehow managed to lift the bones from the clinging soil.
‘Hurry up!’ the Reeve called.
Baldwin noted that Alexander de Belston was no longer so languid. In fact, he looked very tense. He appeared almost stunned – but desperate to get the bones out of the grave.
By some miracle the material held until they had the headless corpse out of the hole and were standing before the Coroner; then there was a tearing sound and the cloth ripped, spilling the discoloured bones in a heap at Roger’s feet.
‘Not an adult, then,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘No, sir. I think it’s a young girl who disappeared a few years ago,’ the Reeve answered.
‘I see,’ Coroner Roger said quietly.
The Reeve’s voice was convincing, and so was the fact that no one in the crowd saw fit to dispute his words. However, there was something that interested Baldwin. ‘You saw that there was a body and left it covered?’
‘What else could it be when we found the skull, Keeper? Yes, I set a guard over it day and night. We are law-abiding folk here.’
Baldwin smiled suavely. The ‘Keeper’ had almost been spat out, as though the Reeve held men like him in low esteem.
Alexander beckoned and one of his men came forward with the skull wrapped in a cloth. He set it down with the bones as though hoping the body might reassemble itself.
Coroner Roger glanced at the Parson, Gervase Colbrook, who was licking his lips and staring at the skeleton. Feeling the Coroner’s eyes on him, he picked up a reed and dipped it in his ink, ready to take down the details.
‘All right! Silence! Shut that brat up there!’ bawled Roger. ‘I’m the King’s Coroner and this is the inquest into the death of this child. Does anybody know who it was?’
‘Swetricus,’ the Reeve called. ‘Come forward, man.’
Baldwin watched as a large man shoved his way to the front of the crowd and stood before them all, his head bowed. The knight recognised the shambling gait, the hang-dog stance. Swet’s demeanour was so like those of Baldwin’s comrades after the destruction of their Order that he felt a pang pull at his heart.
‘This is Swetricus, Coroner.’
‘What do you know of this, good fellow?’ Coroner Roger asked gently.
‘I recognise the cloth. It’s like Aline’s. My daughter.’
The Coroner nodded. Swetricus had a steady, deep voice, but there was a slight tremble in it as his eyes slid down to view the pile of bones that might have been his daughter. ‘When did you last see her?’
Swetricus looked at Alexander with a pleading expression. ‘Four years ago.’
‘I see. What happened to her?’ Coroner Roger glanced down at the corpse again, wondering how someone could want to hurt a pathetic little bundle like this.
‘Sir, I don’t know. It was the middle of summer. I was out in the fields. She’d been there with her sisters that morn. First I knew was that night, when she didn’t come home.’
‘Did you search for her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Speak up, you dull-witted son of a whore!’ Alexander grated. ‘The Coroner doesn’t have all day for you to order your brains!’
‘Just answer the question,’ the Coroner said, with a long, cold look at the Reeve.
‘The Hue was raised. Didn’t find nothing.’
‘Really?’ The Coroner’s voice was quieter. ‘How old was she?’
‘Must have been eleven. Maybe twelve.’
That was a relief, Roger thought to himself. So often a father or mother had no idea how old their offspring were. ‘Did she have a boyfriend?’