‘Baldwin? Wake up, man!’
Taking a deep breath, Baldwin went and unlocked the door.
‘That knight Furnshill and his friend Puttock the bailiff were here looking for you yesterday,’ Andrew said as he broke his bread and dipped a crust into his pottage.
Nicholas had been pouring himself a pot of thin ale, but on hearing his brother-in-law’s words he started and spilt it over the table. ‘Me? Why?’
‘Something to do with the death of another man. Sir Gilbert of Carlisle’s servant: the one who pointed us to where Dyne was in the woods.’
Nicholas set the jug down and shrugged. ‘We’ve told the Coroner all we know.’
‘They were asking about the night before that, too. Wanted to know where you were, what time you’d got in and so on.’
‘Did they say why?’ Nicholas enquired casually.
‘No.’
Their breakfast completed, Andrew said he would be going to the Fair to see how his stalls were doing. Nicholas said he would go along later, but in the meantime, he waited until Andrew had disappeared, then hurried to his roll of clothing in his chest near the hall’s doorway. Searching through it, he pulled out his old sword belt.
The blade was as clean and unmarked as when he had first been given it, almost twenty years ago now, in Lincolnshire, by a grizzled old warrior who had taken it from a Moor outside Acre. Nashki script ran along the fuller, saying, according to the older man, ‘Praise to God’ – although Nicholas had never learned Arabic or the strange letters that flowed over the metal like some kind of liquid fire. Now, as he studied the metalwork, he felt a little of his courage return. Any man who tried to make him out to be a heretic would have to fight him.
Putting the belt about his waist, he was tying the cords when his sister entered.
‘What are you doing with that? Has Andrew told you about Sir Baldwin?
He stood upright once more. With the comforting weight at his side, he felt more like a soldier-monk again, as if the mere carrying of his weapon reminded him of his duty and of honour. ‘I am preparing to meet with Furnshill. He’s learned about me from someone.’
Matilda went to a chair and, fell into it as she stared up at her brother. ‘He knows you were a Templar. He asked me yesterday – before the feast.’
Nicholas gazed at her. He had never confessed to her that he had stolen his money from the Order. She still believed that he had saved money while he was a Templar, as he had told her. Much of his wealth now was based upon the shrewd investment of his money and hers, but it was all founded upon his theft.
‘What will you do?’ she asked, worried by his anxious but determined mien.
He gave a slow, sad smile. The money he had taken was legally the King’s. If he was discovered, Nicholas knew he would die. ‘I have no idea what I should do, Matilda. No idea at all.’
In the roadway, Felicity saw Andrew and then Nicholas leave the house. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘You have to come with me now and tell your story, if you want to hear what really happened to your brother.’
Avicia nodded, but she was still unsure why they had come. ‘I just don’t understand why we’re here. If, like you say, Andrew Carter is not particularly bothered about his daughter’s murder, what good can it do, me saying that Philip was innocent?’
For answer Felicity led the way over the road to Andrew Carter’s door and knocked.
‘But he’s gone! We just saw him,’ Avicia protested, more confused than ever.
As the door opened and Rose peered out, Felicity pushed the door wide. ‘Tell Mistress Matilda that Felicity would like to speak with her.’ She paused, and an unpleasant smile transformed her features. ‘And if she asks who I am, tell her I’m Felicity the Whore and I know who really killed her daughter.’
It was the tapping at the door that woke him from his dreams.
Harlewin was drifting delightfully. With Cecily warm, soft and plump at his side, he saw no need to waken. His eyes opened once, took in the little room, the fire now dead in the hearth, the packed earth floor without even rushes, the chest owned by the miller. The only item of value was this, the miller’s bed, which Harlewin himself had bought for the man and his family. Harlewin wanted a good bed when he came here to sleep with his woman. It was a small price to pay, the fact that the miller and his family slept in it all the time Harlewin wasn’t here. When the Coroner wanted the place, the miller and his brood went and slept in the mill itself.
Closing his eyes, he was annoyed to hear the tapping again. ‘Bugger off!’ he roared.
His bellow made Cecily jump, and before she could properly open her eyes and take in the sight of him, he closed them again with kisses while his hand rested first on her hip and then stroked its way down to her thigh. She moaned and rolled onto her back, and he felt her legs part slightly, just enough, and then snap together as her whole body went tense.
‘Come on, my love,’ he whispered, ‘let’s just–’
‘Christ bollocking Jesus!’ she blurted.
He blinked, startled, and gazed down at her. ‘What on earth…?’
‘I fell asleep, you fat twerp! My husband!’ she snapped and leaped from the bed grabbing at clothing, pulling her tunic over her head and letting it settle anyhow, before drawing a shift over it. In the chest she kept a change of clothing, and now she went to this and pulled out various dresses and skirts, muttering to herself all the while. ‘God! That I should be so stupid! How could I have fallen asleep? I must be a complete fool! He’ll want an explanation this time.’
Harlewin leaned on his arm and watched as she pulled on a skirt and patted it smooth, then a clean shirt, cotte and surcoat. ‘How do I look?’
‘Fine, once your hair is done.’
The miller’s daughter shyly obeyed Cecily’s bellowed command and Harlewin watched while the two worked swiftly to repair the damage of the previous night, and then the red-faced maiden was sent out. Cecily quickly went to his side and patted his cheek.
‘You should have covered yourself. She hardly knew where to look.’
He grinned widely. ‘I thought she knew exactly where to look!’
‘Don’t make the poor girl jealous for things she can’t touch.’
He kissed her.
‘You should be gone.’
‘Yes. You will be careful?’
‘Don’t think of me,’ he said, and his brow creased. ‘You make sure you’re safe from that husband of yours.’
Edgar could see that his master was not of a mood to tolerate jesting. He quickly sent Wat away to fetch wine and Petronilla for bread and cold slices of meat: a simple diet to help his master’s head.
Baldwin sat at a bench and sourly eyed the folk about the room. Two men who had drunk more than was usual for them were still snoring near the fire, but most guests had risen earlier when the servants appeared to begin preparing the place for the new day. Lord Hugh had eaten in his chamber, Edgar told Baldwin, and the knight grunted his jealousy. Edgar smiled and left his master to his meal.
Simon chewed happily on an old mutton bone he had found in the kitchen and took a pint of ale, smacking his lips and giving a loud grunt of appreciation as he finished.
‘Have you no feeling of queasiness when you think of what you ate last night?’ Baldwin asked.
‘It was good food, wasn’t it?’ Simon said happily.
At Baldwin’s side Jeanne snorted. ‘I’m surprised you can remember it, the way you sank so many pots of wine.’
‘It was good wine!’ Simon protested defensively. ‘Baldwin liked it too. Why shouldn’t a fellow take a little wine with his food? A man has to drink!’
‘Man has to breathe; fishes need to drink,’ Jeanne noted caustically.
‘I find both help,’ Simon said cheerfully. ‘Do you want that fat?’
Baldwin winced as Simon stabbed the thick, yellow pork fat that he had left at the edge of his trencher. Simon studied it closely: it was crisp and burned at the outside, and he beamed as he put it in his mouth. ‘Ah, good, that!’