‘That wasn’t him,’ Nicholas grated, and she felt his muscles tighten again.
‘Perhaps you should make the Coroner aware of our doubts?’ she suggested. ‘He can take such action as he deems fit.’
‘You wish to have Richer hanged for something he didn’t do?’ Nicholas demanded.
‘No, of course not.’ Anne withdrew. ‘My love, I only seek to help you, you know that.’
He held his head, then shook it, like a dog clearing its brow of water. ‘Yes, of course I do.’ He finished his wine, turned and pulled her down to him. His lips tasted of the strong, sour wine, but she revelled in the flavour. She did love her man when she was with him like this.
As she smiled down at him, his face on a level with her breast, he gave a wolfish grin and buried his nose in her cleavage, rubbing his stubbly jowls up and down. She squealed and drew away. ‘Enough! Husband, you have work to do.’
‘Aye, I know. And you must rest,’ he said seriously, a hand patting her belly. ‘I don’t want you overdoing things. Take care of yourself for the child’s sake.’
‘I will,’ she promised as he rose and left the room.
She stood a while, her hand on her belly, smiling with satisfaction. Her man was prey to concerns at times, but her duty was to remain calm. She must uplift his spirits.
It was so sad she couldn’t tell him of her past. He knew much, of course — especially about the death of her parents and the hideous journey here with the lascivious friar — but nothing about that period of her life as a whore. She wasn’t sure he could understand or forgive that, any more than he could forgive her brief affair while he was away.
Yet it was all too natural that she should have panicked, convinced that he was dead. And seeking another man who might protect her had seemed so sensible. A woman who was without a husband or wealth was a woman in danger. She couldn’t return to the brothel; she would rather cut her own throat.
Outside there were voices, a relief from her grim thoughts, and she stood on the threshold from where she could see into the yard.
With a flicker of interest she saw that Sir Baldwin and his taciturn friend the Bailiff were both there, and she decided it would be diverting to learn how the two had fared. She knew they had ridden to see Father John at Temple that morning for there were no secrets in a small castle.
Standing on tiptoes, she waved to Sir Baldwin. The two men exchanged a glance, seeing her beckon, then she saw the Bailiff shrug and both made their way across the yard. Soon they were in the hall. She indicated the replenished jug of wine and cups, then took her own seat near the table. The two bowed and sat on a bench, filled cups in their hands.
‘Sir Baldwin, Bailiff. I heard you had travelled to see that odd fellow at Temple. Tell me, did he help you?’
It was Baldwin who responded. ‘Alas, he was little aid. He considered our questions impertinent, or perhaps he thought we touched on subjects which were more the domain of a priest than a King’s officer!’
‘John is very sure of himself,’ Anne agreed. ‘He is closely allied to the King’s cause, you know. His father died at Bannockburn, I believe. In any case, most priests would be reluctant to speak of their feelings about the miller. Most had reason to dislike him.’
‘You too?’
‘Oh, that’s different!’ she laughed, but there was an edge to her amusement. She hadn’t expected him to spot her weakness quite so swiftly. Yes, she could easily have killed Serlo for his attempted blackmail.
‘Do not fear, Lady,’ Baldwin said. ‘You didn’t kill him. In your present condition you would be quite unable to drag him along the track where he was killed and push him into his machine. I doubt whether you could have done so before you were pregnant, but it would be impossible now.’
‘I suppose I should be glad you feel so,’ she said with a hint of sarcasm. It was hardly chivalrous to speak to a woman in such a way.
‘Of course you could’ve paid someone else,’ Simon said.
She gazed at him, appalled. ‘You surely don’t …’
‘No, of course not,’ Simon said with a smile. Yet she noticed that he did not spell out exactly what he didn’t believe.
‘This Serlo was hated by all,’ Baldwin mused. ‘Which makes it hard to find his killer — unless his murderer was related to his apprentice Dan and this act was motivated by revenge. But I understand there are no living relations.’
‘I believe not,’ she agreed.
‘A lad doesn’t need to be related by blood to be loved,’ Simon said. ‘Maybe it was a jealous rival in love. Could a woman have killed him?’
‘He was surely too young,’ Anne chuckled. ‘He was only seven!’
‘All right,’ Simon tried. ‘Perhaps a woman attacked Serlo because Serlo had killed her lover.’
Baldwin shot him a look. ‘Think about her dragging the body to the mill. Few women would be strong enough.’
‘And setting it off,’ Anne said. ‘Surely only someone who knew about the mill would have been able to set the mechanism going.’
‘Hardly,’ Simon said. ‘I daresay I could start it myself. Mills aren’t complicated devices and many will watch while the grain is milled, both to gossip and make sure the miller is honest.’
‘That is an interesting thought,’ Baldwin frowned. ‘Gossip is useful currency anywhere … perhaps Serlo learned something about others in the vill, and was killed to silence his mouth?’
Anne felt her heart freeze. For a moment she thought she must collapse, and her pallid features caught Simon’s attention.
‘My Lady, we have upset you with all this talk of death! Please let me fetch you some wine.’
‘No, no,’ she protested, telling them that it was nothing, a mere passing faintness. Her child …
‘Ah yes,’ Baldwin said with a smile. He lifted his cup and drained it. ‘I hope your child brings you as much joy as my own did me.’
He was surprised to see her colour, but thought that it was simply the pleasure of a young woman to be so honoured by two rugged old warriors like Simon and him. The truth would take time to occur to him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Inside the alehouse it was dark and gloomy. Richer entered with his chin high and his hand near his sword’s hilt, stopping at the doorway to the screens passage, staring about him.
This early in the evening, only a few men stood with pots in their fists. One, Angot, was merrily drunk, sitting on the floor near the bar and humming a tune, occasionally breaking into a bawdy song when he could remember the lyrics, and then laughing uproariously.
Two men were strangers and watched Richer with unconcealed surprise as others glanced his way, and then swiftly averted their gaze, suddenly finding the ale in the bottom of their cups a source of fascination.
Susan went to see him, hissing angrily, ‘Richer, what’re you doing here? By my mother’s soul, I thought you’d have more sense, man! Go back to the castle before Alexander hears that you’re here! Quickly: go!’
‘I am going nowhere. I didn’t kill Serlo, and I won’t skulk in the castle like a felon seeking sanctuary. Fetch me ale, Sue. Wine for my master here.’
‘Why, so you can be hanged from my lintel?’ she countered. ‘Get back to the castle until they find out who did kill Serlo.’
‘And if they don’t, what then? Shall I remain there for ever? If I hide away, people will think that proof of my guilt.’
‘Can’t you talk sense to him?’ she demanded, turning to Warin in frustration. ‘He’s your servant, isn’t he? You have a duty to protect him, in Christ’s name!’
‘I’ll have wine; he’ll have ale. We’ll be at the table there,’ Warin declared, pointing to a table at the far wall.
Richer nodded. It was well-chosen. There was no window behind. Both men could command a view of the entrance, with no risk of an assassin behind them. On the other hand, there was no means of escape, either. He slapped his hand on his hilt and marched to the table. Grabbing a bench, he kicked it against the wall and dropped down on it.