He strode off to the toll-booth and went past it, marching steadily and firmly until he got to the door of his own house, and there he slammed the door closed with a firmness that rattled the plates on his sideboard.
‘Sir?’ His maid Rose, a thin, short girl of some fourteen years, stood nervously in the screens passage wiping her hands on her apron.
‘Fetch me a quart of wine,’ he demanded and tramped through to his hall. There he dropped into his chair near the fire and drummed his fingers on the arm until the maidservant returned, her face flushed with anxiety at the appearance of her master.
‘Here, sir.’
‘Put it down, then!’ he snarled, pointing at the table at his side.
She did as commanded, then stood back downcast, not daring to meet his gaze.
Eyeing her, he sipped his wine. It was good, a fine flavoured drink. Gradually he felt his foul temper fade under its influence. By the time he had drunk the first pint, life appeared in a more pleasant light. True, that woman, Dyne’s sister, could make life troublesome, but that was no reason why he should be concerned. He had good friends. If the worst came to the worst, he could humour her for a while and warn Harlewin that she had accused him of Joan’s murder.
There was no need to worry, really, Andrew thought to himself. Rose was still standing before him, her head hanging. She really was a pretty little thing, he thought with satisfaction; in every way suited to his tastes. He smiled and set his cup down on the table again. ‘Come here,’ he said, and Rose looked up once, wildly, as though thinking of running away, but then she dropped her head submissively and obeyed.
Entering the tavern, Avicia blinked against the smoke. The place was ancient and had no chimney, just a baked patch of earth in the middle of the floor where a few logs glowed, surrounded by small rocks to stop the rushes being kicked in and starting a fire.
This wasn’t a place she’d been to before, and as soon as she walked in from the road she winced: it stank of sweat, piss and puke. At the fire a slatternly woman crouched, rat’s tails of hair dangling before her and concealing her face, stirring a pot that seemed to contain a thin broth. All about her men lounged on benches, some women draped near them, and another figure lay comatose near a wall. It was dark, foul, and noisome.
‘This a new girl?’ a man asked Felicity, and reached out to touch Avicia’s arm as if to test the smoothness of her skin.
‘Keep your hands off!’ Felicity snarled and slapped his hand away. ‘Does she look like a slut? She’s a lady, so leave off.’ She led the shrinking woman over to a table and sat her down. ‘Now tell me all about it.’
Slowly Avicia ran through her tale. The Coroner had been having an affair for some months with Mistress Sherman, and…
‘How do you know that?’
Avicia blinked. ‘What, about him and Cecily Sherman? It’s been going on for ages.’
‘And you work for the Coroner?’
‘No, I work for John Sherman. It was the only way that Phil and I could keep together when our parents died. Phil got me the job. At least Sherman doesn’t fondle me when his wife’s not looking.’
‘The Coroner would?’
‘You bet! He’s a right lecherous goat.’
‘But you’ve heard he’s tupping Sherman’s wife?’
‘Yes. I saw them together once when I went into the hall, and heard them talking about meeting.’
‘Where do they meet? In Sherman’s house?’
‘No,’ Avicia laughed, ‘they wouldn’t dare – not with John Sherman’s temper. No, they go to a place he part-owns out beyond Withleigh, a mill. The miller wouldn’t dare complain, not if he wants to keep his post there.’
‘I see,’ Felicity breathed.
‘He murdered Joan Carter. That’s why he told my Philip to claim sanctuary and abjure, so that he could see to it that Philip was seen to confess, and then had him chased down and killed. That’s what I have to tell Andrew Carter.’
‘How could he admit to believing you? That would make your brother’s death a mortal sin.’
‘It wasn’t his fault – he was lied to. Anyway, Andrew would want to see the man who killed his daughter receive justice!’
‘She wasn’t his daughter.’
‘But…’
‘Oh, I know he described her as his, but she was the daughter of Matilda and her first husband. The husband died, and that’s when Matilda married Andrew, when they came down here from somewhere up north. When she first came back here with Andrew, you could hardly understand a word she said! My, her accent was strong.’
‘So, you think he wouldn’t want to avenge her?’
Avicia’s voice was almost a wail of despair. Felicity put a hand over hers and smiled. ‘I bet we can think of something.’ Her eyes widened. ‘What about speaking to his wife, to Joan Carter’s mother? Maybe she can help persuade him?’
‘Do you think she would listen when he wouldn’t?’ Avicia asked doubtfully.
Felicity ignored her. There was no point going today, not with the feast at the castle. Everyone, including Andrew and Matilda, would be going there. But tomorrow, that was a different matter.
‘Of course she’ll listen. She was Joan’s mother, wasn’t she?’
Chapter Nineteen
Baldwin and Simon spoke to an elderly steward at the castle who told them that Nicholas Lovecok was staying with his brother-in-law Andrew Carter and gave them directions on how to get there.
Carter’s house was in a part of the town Simon had never visited before, to the north eastern side. Like many towns, there were large areas of Tiverton which were very poor and shabby, and the two men had to pass through miserable quarters, past hovels which lacked doors and windows, with piles of human excrement lying in the shallow gutter that was the only drain, while in the shadows they saw rats scuttle. Women stood and murmured quietly as the two approached, only to fall silent, watching Simon and Baldwin with glittering eyes as if the men were dangerous killers or representatives from a hated lord.
‘They don’t seem to like us,’ Simon grunted.
‘An obvious comment – but I can’t argue with its accuracy.’
‘The thing that impresses me is how they always appear so clean,’ Simon said, ignoring his friend’s sarcasm.
‘It astonishes me, too. When you look at the state of the road here, or the quality of the houses, I can never understand how they manage to get their shirts white or remove the stains from their skirts.’
Simon dodged a small pile of faeces and winced as a toddler walked through it giggling fruitily. The bailiff turned away and saw gladly that they were almost at the edge of the poor area. Ahead of them the sunlight glinted off clean cobbles and fresh-looking limewashed walls. The maidservants here looked more wholesome than the women in the poor alleys and byways.
To Simon it felt as if they were leaving an area of degradation and sickness. There was a miasma, a foul air, about it which was absent in the more expensive parts. It was a relief to walk along the clean cobbled road, with a goodsized gutter fed by a spring which washed away all muck before it could accumulate.
The odours were better too. Here an occasional dog rose or honeysuckle clung to the wall of a house, while the scent of drying herbs was all about them, as was the smell of cooking meats as people prepared meals. Only a few places held the stench of dried urine where a man had pissed against a house’s wall, or the foul odour of a dog’s defecation in the shadow of a building, and Simon only saw two corpses, one of a dog, quite fresh, and one of a cat, very far gone and disgusting in putrefaction.
They were soon at the merchant’s house and Baldwin rapped smartly on the wooden door. There came a bellow from inside, a pattering of feet, and soon a girl was in the doorway. A pretty maiden, Simon thought; fourteen or fifteen years old, with a hanging head and cap awry, she gave him the impression of shame. Her embarrassment made him assume they had interrupted her in some carnal pursuit, and he peered over her shoulder expecting to see a bottler or steward tying his hose in the background, but there was no one.