She put the cup into the barrel of water to rinse it, and then sat on her stool in a patch of warm sunlight with needle and thread to mend a shirt which had torn.
This was a good vill. She had grown up here, initially as the daughter of the inn, and then, when she married and her father died, drowned in the vast quantity of ale he had consumed over the years, she and her husband had taken the place over. Wonderful. She would have been happy to live as her father had, taking part in all the vill’s events and making a fair sum from the sale of ales, but not Tom. He was a dreamer. That was the problem with some men, she knew. They had dreams which they constructed endlessly in their minds, but when it came to putting them into practice, they couldn’t do it. They just weren’t as practical as women.
It was the same all over. She’d been told that by her mum. ‘Don’t think that because a man’s supposed to be master in his home that you can’t guide him,’ she’d said once. It was half in jest, but then she had become serious. ‘It’s a foolish woman who won’t make sure she gets what she wants. You look at your father. He always knows what he wants and what he wants to do, but he doesn’t often end up getting his way when it’s important. I never tell him he can or can’t do something, I just ask him about it; keep questioning him until he thinks it’s not such a good idea. If you ask a man the right way, he’ll realise what he’s said is stupid. Or you make out that it’s going to be better for you than for him. Men can’t bear to think that their toys will be used by their wives instead of them. Don’t ever try to stop them by pointing out you can’t afford something, though. That’d make them buy it out of bravado!’
They had laughed at that, their amusement curtailed only by Susan’s father walking in to ask what was so funny. His bemusement was increased by their response, still more giggling. It wasn’t as though he was a hard master; he was a kind, generous soul. The trouble was, like all men, his mind ran on one road: what pleased him. Anything else was of no interest whatever. He adored Susan and went out of his way to make her happy, and would spend money they could ill-afford to buy her a trifle.
It was the same with her mother. Many was the time she sent Susan’s father to market to get an essential item, only to have him return without it, but with a pretty bolt of material or ribbons. Or he came home hangdog, having found a game of dice and blown all his money on ale and gambling. The two curses of an innkeeper’s life.
Men weren’t safe with money. It was what appealed to her as an alewife. If a man came into her house, she could fill him with ale, feed him some bread and cheese, flirt and make him happy, reassure him that he was desirable, and send him away smiling, while she pocketed all his money. It was a silly game, life, but she played it for all she was worth. She enjoyed it again, now that her fool of a husband was gone. Never again! She had no need of a man!
No, all she needed were punters walking through her door, that was all. But just now there was no one to serve. Usually by this time, she’d have had at least a few of the locals in, demanding ale or cider to soothe parched throats.
As though on cue, a shadow fell over her threshold, and looking up she saw Serlo. ‘Ah, an ale?’
He glanced at her as though hardly seeing her. Then he nodded, thoughtfully wandering to the stool near the window.
‘Quiet today,’ she said as she passed him a large jug.
‘Reckon there’s something happening folks want to see,’ he grunted.
‘What’s that, then?’
‘Athelina. Heard she’s been found dead,’ he said, his face still and unemotional. ‘Silly bitch! She was useless in life, and now she’s killed herself.’
Chapter Seven
Muriel watched the proceedings, fascinated by the sight of the strangers. Many of the women were scared, she saw, but she concentrated on the two men in quality clothes talking to the priest.
She had been to see the smith for Serlo. His old shovel had finally given up the ghost, the steel rusting away completely, and Serlo had grumpily accepted that he needed a new one. Once she’d put in her order, she returned past the cottage, and saw the people gathering. Since it was her husband’s cottage, she wanted to know what all the fuss was about, and stopped to gawp and listen.
Poor Athelina! She must have been so desperate to have done a dreadful thing like that. Muriel hoped that the recent rent increase hadn’t tipped her over the edge. No, it couldn’t be Serlo’s fault. Athelina had always been a nervous type, a scrawny wench, too much like a game chicken, Serlo used to say, with her thin thighs. Well, she spent so much time hungry, it wasn’t surprising. But to kill her boys, that was terrible … Muriel couldn’t have done that, not in a hundred years.
‘Who are they?’ she asked a neighbour. It was young Gregory, and he was staring with his mouth agape at the sight of these strange men talking to Adam.
‘Foreigners,’ came the gruff whisper. ‘I think they only got here this morning, an’ soon as they came here, they found her. Do you think they murdered her? Might have. Can’t tell with foreigners. They talk funny, too,’ he added as an afterthought.
Muriel was about to comment when Nicholas came marching up with two men-at-arms. The three men stopped at the sight of the trio in front of the cottage, then made their way to join them.
From where Muriel stood, she thought that Nicholas looked wary, like a man who feared sudden attack. He stood slightly distant from the two strangers, his hand near his belt.
‘Lordings, Godspeed. I am the castellan, Nicholas of Bodmin. What is this about Athelina?’
Adam began talking quickly and in a high-pitched voice like a man who was close to tears but daren’t shed them, the words falling over one another. ‘She’s in there, Nicholas; she hanged herself and slit the throats of her boys! It’s awful in there. It’s a slaughterhouse! How could she?’
Muriel shook her head. It was appalling! Those poor boys! Unknowingly, she pushed her way through the crowds until she was at the front and could hear more clearly.
One of the strangers was taller and, although his hair was showing silver at the temples and he wore a beard that just followed the line of his jaw, he looked quite young. His movements were as precise and assured as a man in his early twenties, but somehow Muriel knew that he was a great deal older than that. He spoke now, waving a hand at the open cottage door.
‘Sir, my friend and I were with the good priest here when he was called to see this woman. My name is Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, and this is my good friend Bailiff Simon Puttock from the Stannary of Lydford. He is appointed Bailiff by Abbot Robert of Tavistock, and has helped the Devonshire Coroners in many murders. I myself am Keeper of the King’s Peace in Crediton. We have both some experience of murders, so we came as soon as we heard of this sad case, and we cut the woman’s body down.’
His companion had flesh that looked as though it had been bronzed by the sun, but now he was pale, his features stretched and haggard. It was an expression of anguish and horror, Muriel could see. When Aumery suffered from a nightmare, he often woke with that same look set upon his face, his eyes wild like this man’s. It made her realise just how hideous the scene must be in the cottage.
Sir Baldwin continued, ‘If you would care to follow me, I can show you the bodies. The woman is here, but her sons are still inside, covered by their palliasse. They should be left where they are for now, so that the Coroner can see them in situ, but that is no reason why you shouldn’t satisfy yourself about their situation.’
‘I have no need to see her or them.’
‘She must have been truly evil,’ one of Nicholas’s men commented, staring at the cottage with a curled lip.
At his side, Muriel saw her husband’s terrible enemy, Richer. He was pale and fretful. ‘She was a saint, you fucking cretin!’