Nicholas slowed his mount, turned a little in his saddle, and swung again. This time Gervase was ready, and rolled out of the way. ‘You can hit me as often as you like,’ he shouted, ‘but I swear on my mother’s grave, he wasn’t my son! Christ’s blood, Matty spread her legs for any man when she’d had a jug of cider. She was the sort of wench for one of the castle’s cooks, not me! I wouldn’t have gone near her unless there was little other choice.’
‘Then whose son was he?’ Baldwin asked.
‘Everyone in the castle swore he was Gervase’s. He’s raised bastards all over the place,’ Nicholas snarled. ‘This was just one more. He seeks to deny paternity because he doesn’t want his revenge to be known.’
Gervase sniffed gingerly. ‘You think so? Then tell me, wise man, why I’d wait so long to enjoy my revenge. Ballocks! I have never killed anyone in my life. The man who says I have is a liar!’
‘Then who did? Who else could have fathered that boy?’ Nicholas demanded.
Baldwin looked up at him, then at Gervase. ‘Either of you, I suppose, but then there are other men in the vill.’
The thought tugged at his mind all the way back to the vilclass="underline" who else could have fathered the apprentice? Through the last days there had been a momentum which had all but prevented rational consideration of the issues, first because of the rush to find a reason for Athelina’s murder, and then the murder of Serlo himself. His connection to the death of his apprentice was so apparent, the paternity of the child was so plainly crucial to the discovery of the killer, that all else seemed irrelevant. Yet now, Baldwin wondered again whether the thrust of his and Simon’s questionings should have been redirected.
Something Susan at the alehouse had said was lingering in his head. It had felt important at the time, but again, other issues drew his attention away. All she had questioned was the sequence of the deaths of Athelina and her children. There was something in that. Surely, if the two boys had been together, killing them would have been difficult. A man like Gervase appearing might frighten them a little, because the lads knew he was an official at the castle, but that wouldn’t necessarily make them trust him enough to let him get so close he could cut both their throats. Did that mean Athelina arrived after her children, or before? Perhaps she was first to die, and the murderer sprang upon the boys as they arrived? If only he could think straight …
At Warin’s insistence they stopped at a tavern he knew up on the road to Launceston, and there as well as wines and some food, the party were able to hire a horse to speed their return. While they sat and ate, Gervase standing soaked and wretched, staring longingly at the food, for Nicholas refused point blank to allow him to eat, Baldwin glanced up at him with a frown. ‘Gervase, you can see that you are the obvious culprit in the murders. Can you think of anyone else who could have benefited from the deaths of Athelina and Serlo?’
‘Richer, of course,’ Gervase shivered. ‘He would have won the revenge of the years, killing the man who had wiped out his whole family.’
‘There was no one else?’ Simon asked. ‘Surely someone would have benefited from Serlo’s death?’
‘Everyone in the vill gained from his death,’ Gervase scoffed, a little of his past arrogance returning to him.
‘Except his brother,’ Nicholas said.
‘His brother can be excluded from this,’ Simon agreed.
‘Although it’s odd. Alexander is the only man I saw on the night Serlo died. He was out near the tavern,’ Nicholas said.
Baldwin glanced up at him. ‘Why?’
‘No idea.’
Simon was peering into the middle distance. He sat back on his stool, resting against the wall. ‘We thought Serlo could have murdered Athelina. What if …’
‘What?’ Baldwin asked. He was thinking of Athelina again, and as he realised how relevant Susan’s comments were about the killer being known to the children, Simon squinted.
‘Well, if Serlo had a financial motive to do away with her, surely Alexander had the same one? He had a share in the cottage where Athelina lived. And Serlo had been taking gifts when it was Alexander’s money that paid for the farm of tolls. That meant Serlo was defrauding Alexander too.’
Warin was listening, and now he scoffed. ‘You’re simply guessing! Why should Alexander kill Serlo?’
Baldwin took a deep breath. ‘It was odd that Serlo should be killed just now — but what if Alexander wanted children, and had fathered Danny? Serlo had allowed his son to die, crushed in the machine. And then Serlo allowed his own son to die, once again through his own negligence. Would not any father be so appalled that his mind could be unbalanced?’
‘By Christ’s bones!’ Simon whispered suddenly as his eye caught Baldwin’s.
Chapter Thirty-One
They were back in the vill late that evening. On the way they met with one other party, which included Richer, and left Gervase with them while Simon, Baldwin, Warin and Nicholas continued on their way.
‘What is your rush?’ Warin demanded as they clattered into the vill.
‘When there is something to be learned, there is always a need to hurry,’ Simon said shortly. It was galling to be so out of breath; he wasn’t as used to fast riding as he once had been. All he could think about now was a warm fire, the chance to throw off his clothes and commandeer a bench to sleep on or, failing that, a cosy hayloft, than confronting a murderer.
Baldwin looked entirely fresh again. He had the knack of absorbing any pain and weariness when he had mental activity to stimulate him, and now he was frowning at the road, deep in thought. Simon knew why. The idea that Serlo’s murderer could be his own brother was so appalling, and yet so logical, if Danny was Alexander’s son. That gave them the motive of revenge for Serlo’s negligence, added to his theft of the tolls. With regard to the death of Athelina, Alexander might well have killed her to remove her from the cottage which he and his brother owned.
‘There is another thing,’ Baldwin murmured as he drew up outside Alexander’s house. ‘The killer tried to strike again last night — at Julia. I had a feeling that the attacker was not Gervase, which was why I told Ivo to return to his woman and protect her.’
‘Why’d anyone attack her?’ Warin asked.
‘Perhaps to distract us and confuse our enquiries? Or perhaps he detests women who have children out of wedlock. A jealous man whose marriage is barren might well form an irrational hatred of women who breed without effort.’
‘If the boy Danny wasn’t his, what then?’ Simon asked as they dismounted.
‘He must have been,’ Baldwin said with quiet certainty, and drew his sword before beating on the door with his pommel.
The door gave way when he tried the latch, and Baldwin entered warily, his sword at the ready. There was no sound from within, and he walked into the chilly room with the hackles rising on his neck. This felt like a dead house. It was a simple hall, with the hearth in the middle of the room, a pair of stools, a bench, and a table at one end. Tapestries hung from the walls and a thick layer of rushes covered part of the floor. A tripod with a big pot stood over the cold fire. At the far wall was a thickly rolled palliasse.
Baldwin had a dreadful premonition. As Simon and Warin walked in and stared about them, he strode to the palliasse and pushed it over. His worst fears weren’t realised, thank God. It fell open, displaying rugs and blankets, but no body.
He went through the screens passage to the buttery and pantry. Empty. He turned back and marched past the other two men, through the hall to the door at the rear. There might be a solar block where the couple slept, he thought, but when he opened the door, he found only another storeroom, containing two big chests. Baldwin looked at them: both were padlocked. By one there lay a number of bags. This, he thought, was where the man kept his wealth. And then he saw a small stain, and his belly lurched.