The cottage was a short way from the church and Adam’s home, a poor dwelling north of the main vill. Although the front garden was well cultivated, its walls were all but tumbledown, the rude cob failing where the thatch overhead had been twisted and pulled away by birds and rats. Green was the prevailing colour: the green of ivy and creepers tugging at what limewash remained; green mosses clinging to the thatch and all the cracks in the walls; green, foul water lying in the small pond in front of the place. The thatch had utterly failed some years before. It must have leaked and poured water in upon the miserable inhabitants whenever it rained. Baldwin felt compassion for whoever had existed in this miserable place.
Seeing his expression, Adam said apologetically, ‘There are always some poorer than others, even in a good vill like this.’
‘She was a poor woman? Not married?’ Baldwin asked. In a well-run manor like his own, all the peasants were made to help widows and the poor. It was also the duty of a churchman — of Father Adam here, for example — to assist those who were unable to look after themselves.
‘She was once, yes. Widow Broun, she was called.’
‘What happened to her man?’
Adam shrugged sadly. ‘The usual thing. He was ambling homewards from the harvest a year or two back along, and slipped and hit his head. Thought nothing of it, but then he caught a wasting disease, and in two weeks he was dead.’ He tapped his tonsure with an open palm. ‘It’s so sad when a father dies like that. Young family, of course, and …’
‘What of the family?’ Baldwin asked sharply.
Adam paled.
Gregory tugged at Adam’s sleeve. ‘Father, please! Athelina’s inside …’
Dispassionately Baldwin studied the priest. Now that they were here, Adam appeared fearful and reluctant to go inside. It added up to a weak figure for a man of God, Baldwin thought. Priests were usually stronger in the belly than this. Adam should be there to welcome new members of his congregation, and would invariably have to minister to those about to depart from it. It was all a part of his job, just as seeking killers was the duty of Simon and Baldwin.
Baldwin and Simon walked to the door, leaving Adam standing in the roadway alone, his face cracked and desolate, like a man who was suddenly ancient.
The door consisted of four rough planks pegged together. To prevent as many draughts as possible, an old piece of material had been stretched between them, like a new cloth on tenterhooks, set there to dry after milling so that it wouldn’t wrinkle or warp. Except this was no new material; it was a revolting piece of thick fustian, sodden and stinking of horses. Baldwin assumed it had been a horse blanket, saved when it was no longer good enough for the beasts but adequate for a poor widow. That thought made him set his jaw.
He pulled the door wide. It grated on the dirt threshold, the leather hinges groaning quietly. To Baldwin, there was a sad tone to the sound, like an old woman moaning about pain in her limbs, knowing the pain would always be there, that there was nothing she could do to avoid it. Grief and pain were woman’s birthright ever since Eve’s betrayal.
The interior had a fusty odour, but over it Baldwin could detect the harsh, metallic tang to which he was grown so accustomed — blood.
‘Sweet mother of God,’ Simon breathed.
Baldwin nodded. Then the two entered, Baldwin leading the way.
Inside, it was cool, with a strange atmosphere. Even Baldwin felt claustrophobic in the quietness, and both men found their eyes straining in the darkness after the bright daylight outside. Stepping forward, Baldwin struck a rafter with his forehead, and then was more cautious. Gradually their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, but before they could discern the interior, the boy Gregory had poked his head around the door and called to them.
‘She’s there, sir, there!’
At last Baldwin could see her.
‘Poor soul!’ he heard Simon mutter, and Baldwin nodded to himself.
She was a tall figure in a cheap woollen dress. Her head was thrust forward, the knot of the hemp at the back of her neck suspending her so that her feet dangled a foot or so from the ground; she swayed a little in the still air. Thick hair fell about her shoulders, uncombed and lank. Simon and Baldwin went to her without hurry, for it was clear that any attempt to save her would be in vain. She had been dead for some little while. There was no breath in her, no twitch of muscle clinging to life.
While Baldwin steadied her, his arms about her waist, Simon drew his sword and hacked at the rope bound to the rafter above her. It soon parted with a crack like a whip, and Baldwin had her full weight. He took a step backwards and almost tripped over the stool which lay near her.
Simon saw. ‘She stood on that, then stepped off …’
Baldwin was about to nod when his foot knocked something else. ‘What’s that, Simon?’
As Baldwin half carried, half dragged the body out into the bright sunshine, Simon reached down and picked up a dagger. He took it with him as he followed Baldwin, and once outside he had to close his eyes in the glare. Gradually he could open them again, and then he gave a short grunt of revulsion.
‘What is it?’ Baldwin asked, settling the woman down on the ground.
‘Is she bleeding much? Christ Jesus, why’d she stab herself as well?’
Baldwin stared down at her. ‘She’s got blood on her hands, but there’s none elsewhere,’ he said, lifting her hands and studying her wrists.
‘Then whose blood was this?’ Simon demanded, showing him the dagger, its blade all besmeared.
It was Adam who answered in a hushed tone. ‘Where are her children?’
Baldwin and Simon re-entered. That was when Simon saw the blackened river of congealed blood that seeped from beneath the palliasse.
Lady Anne heard the noise as she left her chamber. It sounded as though all the men in the castle’s yard were shouting at once, and she stood near the opened window in her solar to listen, a hand resting softly on her rounding belly.
It was rare indeed for such a commotion to be raised in the castle. Generally things were calm and ordered. It was the way that her husband, God bless him, liked to run his life, and the idea that someone should be here causing such mayhem was more than a little disturbing. There were only twelve men-at-arms here, when all was said and done, and that was hardly enough to cope with a real attack, even with the help of their servants.
Then she forced herself to be rational. There was no clash of arms, only the roaring of commands and the answering shouts of men.
Soon she heard feet pounding up the wooden staircase, and her husband hurried in. Nicholas was dressed in his normal tunic of rough red wool, and the shade matched the colour in his face.
‘Dear heart,’ she murmured, and swiftly she went to him, bending her head to rest it upon his breast. Once more she felt secure, protected in his warmth, just as a child might. That was the effect of his love on her, the sense that she was entirely safe with him. As soon as his arms went about her, all memories were gone. She could sigh with comfort, forgetting that she had been a whore.
‘I have to go, my dear.’
‘Where?’ she asked, looking up at him. ‘Is it all that shouting?’
‘The priest sent a man — a woman’s dead. I have to go and see that it’s not murder, send a man for the Coroner, arrange the guards about the body — all that sort of thing.’ She shivered suddenly, and he bent over her with compassion. ‘My love, don’t worry! This is just a poor woman who seems to have killed herself from despair.’
‘Killed herself?’
‘Don’t worry yourself.’ There was already that subtle distance in his tone, as there occasionally was when he spoke of matters which he felt could upset her. It was as though he was protecting her from the trials of his job here in the castle. He had taken it upon himself to guard her from those who could cause her grief; but today she wanted to know what was happening outside in the world.