‘When would all this have been?’ Baldwin enquired.
‘He died in the famine. Shortly after Denise had been found.’
‘After her man disappeared?’ Coroner Roger asked.
‘Yes. Ansel disappeared in 1315, while her brother died in 1316, just before Mary died.’
‘Ah, Mary!’ Simon said. ‘We have heard a little about her. She was an orphan?’
Gervase bent his head in assent.
‘Did she die the same way?’ Baldwin demanded. ‘Throttled and eaten?’
‘May God take her to His breast and comfort her, yes,’ the Parson said, closing his eyes as the vision rose before his eyes. ‘The little child had her legs cut away, as though someone had… as you would a haunch of venison. I can still see her poor little face. She was such a sweet, kindly little girl. No one deserves that sort of death. It was an obscene attack: a violation! Hideous.’
‘You buried her?’
‘Of course. And there is never a day I don’t go out there and pray for her. I love children, just as Our Lord did, if you know your Gospels, Sir Knight.’
‘Except you never reported her death, did you?’ Coroner Roger rumbled.
Gervase looked away, but Baldwin was frowning. ‘This brother. What was he named?’
Gervase felt the clamminess at his palms as he took up his cup and took a deep draught. It served to soothe his spirits, and as he put the cup back down, he could say without a tremor in his voice, ‘Just some fellow called Athelhard.’
‘And you say he too is dead? In a fire?’
‘Yes.’
‘An accident?’
‘I can tell you no more. I’m bound by secrecy and the secrets are not mine to divulge. Only let me say that I may have inflamed them, and I am heartily sorry. I feel my guilt most terribly.’
‘Damn this!’ Coroner Roger roared with frustration. ‘I need answers, Priest! Who can answer if you won’t?’
‘I can’t. I am tied. Why not speak to Mad Meg – she may be able to help.’
‘Is there nothing you can tell us?’ Baldwin asked, his tone more gentle.
Gervase looked into his dark, intense eyes and found himself wavering. ‘I can’t tell you secrets told to me under the oaths of the confessional, Sir Knight. All I can say is, I heard that Athelhard shouted out a curse before he died. A terrible curse, one which still stalks the vill even now, six years later.’
Chapter Eighteen
‘This is maddening. There is a secret in this vill, I am sure of it,’ Baldwin said bitterly as they left the Parson’s place. ‘Look at that fellow’s attitude in there. Did you see how he reacted when I asked about this man Athelhard? He almost chewed through his cup!’
‘You’re reading too much into it,’ the Coroner protested. ‘There may be some secret, but it’s probably just that they’ve been holding back on some of their grain, trying to conceal it from Lord Hugh, or perhaps it’s avoidance of the tithes or some other tax. There are always secrets in little vills like this. They have to struggle hard enough just to survive, God knows, and you can’t blame them for keeping a bit back for themselves.’
‘My Heavens! And this is the terror of Exeter talking?’
‘There’s no call for sarcasm. I’m only pointing out that there could be a perfectly innocent explanation.’
‘Let us find this woman Meg and see what she thinks,’ Baldwin decided.
‘We need to talk to the other child as well,’ said Simon. ‘The girl called Joan, whom I saw returning from the moors on the day of the inquest.’
‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said, ‘but later. She can wait. Let’s see this Meg first.’
‘Very good,’ Coroner Roger agreed, but as he spoke he stumbled on a dried rut, and his ankle turned painfully. ‘Ach! Christ Jesus! My leg.’
‘You cannot walk down the lane,’ Baldwin observed.
‘Christ’s bones, trust this to happen.’
‘Do you want me to help you back to the inn?’ Simon asked.
‘No. I can manage,’ the Coroner said. ‘Thanks all the same.’ He pointed to a tree. ‘Bring me a branch and I will be fine. I’ll get back to the inn, you two go ahead without me.’
‘If you’re sure,’ said Simon. The inn wasn’t that far away, fortunately. He hurried to cut a stave.
Baldwin lent Roger his shoulder while they waited, but his thoughts were not with the Coroner. Since hearing that Mad Meg lived out at the western tip of the vill in her own assart, Baldwin had wanted to go there and talk to her. He felt a curious certainty that if he could visit the place with the level-headed Simon, he would be able to confront his dream head-on and reduce the potency of his fear. Somehow his dream had grown more virulent here, as though something in the vill associated itself with his own dark past and drew upon his own guilt and secrets. It was foolish thinking, immature and irrational, which irritated him beyond belief, but as Simon passed the stick to the Coroner, he felt relieved that he and Simon would continue alone.
Once Roger was gone, hobbling slowly back to the inn, the two approached the spring. Baldwin could not help his steps from faltering. A fine sweat broke out upon his forehead and back, but there was no heat. He felt stony cold as he stared down the track between the trees. Aylmer stopped at his side and looked up into his face.
Simon, of course, could see nothing. For all his superstition, he was quite insensitive. He peered down the trackway. ‘You think this is the road, then?’
Baldwin said nothing, merely moved on along the track, his own sense of foreboding growing as he let himself slip under the shadow of the trees. He felt like Orpheus entering the Underworld.
Still in his garden, Gervase felt dread overwhelming him. He knew that the three men who had visited would not be content with half truths for long. The knight in particular had a peculiarly intent gaze, as though he could see right through a man’s deceits to the filth and lies that had held him together all his life. Talking to him had been difficult, like confessing to a foul deed before a Bishop, but there had not been the slightest hint of Absolution at the end of it. He had not confessed with honesty, he had concealed more than he had admitted. It would remain on his conscience until somehow he let it out. And yet he couldn’t.
He wanted to cry, to bawl his head off, to admit his crimes and receive some form of penance, but he knew that he must wear the mask of an ordinary village Parson. Only a few knew his guilt, and they knew because of their complicity.
If he could, he would give all his wealth, such as it was, to bring back that life. He was a sinner, for he had murdered. Doubly a sinner, for he had withheld the extreme unction and viaticum. He had knowingly condemned a man to Purgatory or Hell, thinking he was guilty of murder, but now the real killer had struck again.
The thought forced him to close his eyes and weep. It was unbearable, this guilt. Maddening and incurable. Perhaps he should travel to Exeter, confess his crimes to the Bishop, admit all that he had done and wait to hear what penance he would receive. At least then there would be an end to it, although he might well be condemned to a monastery hundreds of miles away, to spend the rest of his days in silence, without the solace even of sunlight playing on flowers, of the feeling of warmth on his back. Even the simple delight of standing in a summer’s shower would be lost to him for ever.
He stood, feeling suddenly ancient, and walked through his house. Shutting the door behind him, he went over the road to his chapel and entered it, genuflecting to the altar, before which lay the body of young Emma. Two women sat beside her, and he recognised them as Gunilda and her daughter, Felicia. They were holding vigil. Gervase nodded to them, then approached the altar himself. He knelt, pressed his palms together in the modern way and begged for forgiveness.