‘Child?’ Edith demanded, her smile instantly replaced by a black frown. ‘I’m nearly fourteen.’
Simon ignored his daughter, clambering to his feet and rubbing his belly ruefully. He was a tall man, with thick, dark brown hair frosted at the temples. With his face ruddy from the wind and rain, he scarcely looked his age, almost thirty-six.
His wife, Margaret, a tall, slender woman whose blonde hair was turning grey, smiled serenely. Over the years since their marriage she had seen him change considerably, but now she was delighted to see that he was losing the thinness about his cheeks and at the edges of his mouth. They had been caused, she knew, by her failure. It was easy to remind herself that many women couldn’t give their husbands the sons that they craved, but in Margaret’s case there was an intense guilt because she had regularly conceived but then miscarried since poor Peterkin died. She felt as though her womb had shrivelled inside her, was incapable of supporting another child.
After Peterkin’s death, Margaret had blamed herself for the way that her man shrank in upon himself. He withdrew, his hair greying and his complexion growing sallow. Each time she conceived she was aware of his solicitousness, which only served to make her feel still more wretched as each time she failed to give him another son.
Not now. Simon could hold his head high once more, and the light of contentment filled his eyes, making them gleam with an inner fire. Right now he was eyeing his daughter with orbs that appeared to shoot fire – and Margaret was convinced that their incendiary impact would soon make itself felt.
‘Well, Dad? You could have hurt me!’ Edith declared, hands on her hips. ‘You should have looked where you were going.’
‘You dare try to blame me?’ Simon thundered.
‘Edith, fetch wine! Go!’ Margaret ordered and, hearing the sharp tone of her voice, Edith shot her a glance, giggled, and sprang away. ‘You appeared in the doorway so swiftly you made me jump,’ she said reprovingly. ‘I could have dropped Peterkin.’
She saw his gaze flit down to the bundle in her arms and his fury cooled immediately.
‘I thought he was upstairs. Is he all right?’ Simon asked.
‘I think so, yes, but really, husband, in future, please be more careful.’
‘Careful?’ he repeated with a sarcastic lifting of his brows. ‘And pray how should one be careful about a daughter running into one’s stomach? She was like a whirlwind at full-pelt, the little heathen.’
‘Please don’t swear about your daughter,’ Margaret said distantly. ‘She is upset enough as it is. She has a brother – not something she had expected – and her nose is out of joint.’
‘Ah, you think so?’ Simon asked. ‘Jealous, is she?’
‘Just a little. And confused.’ Margaret looked down as Peterkin gave a short gasp and snuffle. ‘She is at an age when she will notice boys – and some have noticed her, too.’
‘Dirty little sods, the lot of them! Let me catch them sniffing about my daughter and–’
‘It’s only natural, my love.’
‘Many things are natural, but that doesn’t mean I have to condone them,’ he grunted. ‘The thought of some idle whoreson mounting my girl… ’
‘It will happen. Edith is a young woman,’ Margaret said softly. ‘She will be thinking of a husband soon.’
‘Humph.’ Simon knew she was right, but the idea that his little Edith was almost an adult, ready to breed and raise her own family, was hurtful – as if the girl had acted treacherously towards him and his wife.
‘Shush!’
He looked over his shoulder to see his daughter appear carrying a jug and mazer for him, walking slowly and carefully with a small towel over her left arm and shoulder like a steward. ‘Thank you, Edith.’
She passed him the cup and wine, watching with her head set to one side as he drank and replenished his cup. ‘That’s better!’ he sighed appreciatively.
Edith walked to her mother’s side and both women stood eyeing him narrowly.
Aha! he thought. This is it. ‘Is something the matter?’
‘We both saw him,’ Edith said accusingly. ‘Who was it?’
Simon gave her a serious look. ‘When a messenger is sent to me, little girls shouldn’t worry themselves about the messages. After all, they might be secret.’
‘Will you have to travel away?’ Margaret asked, frowning. ‘He wasn’t wearing the insignia of the Abbot.’
‘No, it wasn’t one of the good Abbot’s men,’ Simon confirmed. As Bailiff, he reported to the Warden of the Stannaries, who was presently Abbot Champeaux of Tavistock. ‘Although he came from the Abbot.’
‘Well?’ Edith demanded impatiently. ‘What did he want? He was in too much of a hurry to have been here to pass the day in chat with you.’
‘What if I was to say that he carried private and secret news for me alone?’ Simon asked aloofly.
‘I’d say you were lying,’ Edith said confidently.
Simon gave her a stern look.
‘I asked the stableboy after the messenger had gone in to see you,’ she explained with delight, her dimples flashing momentarily.
‘And what did he say?’
‘That the messenger was called Odo, that he’s a Herald for Lord Hugh, and that you have been asked to help organise a tournament. Oh, Daddy, is it true? Are we going to have one here?’ she begged, her pose of disinterest falling away like tresses under the scissors.
‘No, we are not,’ he said severely. And then his face broke into a smile. ‘It’ll be in Oakhampton.’
Sir Roger stood at the door to Benjamin’s hall and allowed his gaze to rise from the door to the jettied upper stories and windows – properly glazed with real glass, too – which looked out over the street.
His expression was grumpy. It often was, but today, standing here and staring at this magnificent house, he felt bitter. Never a man who had appreciated usurers and bankers, he found this place with its extensive undercroft, wide shopfront and large hall with solars and other chambers, an insult. ‘More rooms here than five houses,’ he muttered. Such conspicuous flaunting of a man’s wealth was obscene.
The door was opened by a maid. ‘Your mistress here?’ he grunted.
‘In the hall, sir.’
‘Show me to her.’
Mistress Mand Dudenay didn’t rise. Her hall was a long, broad room, its timbers darkened from the fumes of the fire which crackled in the hearth in the middle of the floor, and the high windows illuminated the space with a meagre light, the dirty glass letting in little compared with Sir Roger’s own unglazed holes.
The atmosphere suited the situation; it was dim and gloomy.
‘Madam, I’m sorry to be forced to ask you these questions.’
‘Then don’t. I’m in mourning, Coroner.’
‘I have a duty, as you know. I must discover, if I may, who killed your husband and where the murder weapon is.’
She was a short, dumpy woman and now she lifted a hand as if in surrender, not meeting his eyes. ‘What do you want?’
‘Did your husband have any enemies?’
‘None that I know of. He was a banker, but no one appeared to want his death.’
‘What of the men who owed him money?’
She turned her face and called over her shoulder. A white-haired clerk appeared in the doorway. She sent him away to fetch her husband’s papers and soon he was back, arms filled.
Mistress Dudenay gave a fluttering gesture with her hand. ‘My late husband’s accounts. If there is anything, it will be in there.’
She lapsed into silence as Sir Roger followed the clerk to a table at the wall. The Coroner was grateful for her composure. He was all too used to having to deal with the screaming bereaved, but somehow this woman’s quiet desperation was more unsettling. The clerk carefully laid the sheets down, apparently in some logical order, although Sir Roger could make no sense of it. He had never learned to read. Waving a hand at them, he asked, ‘What does all this mean?’