Sword of shadows, p.16
Sword of Shadows, page 16
‘Very good. The priest is fond of our herbed cheese and told me that he had run out.’ He turned briefly to Jack. ‘It’s how we’ve grown from a humble farm to yon dwelling. We make cheese that is desired throughout Cornwall. My daughter shall have a fine dowry.’
‘Much blessings on that, sir.’
The man moved on, leaving the storehouse and out to the fields where the cows grazed in the drizzle. Jack and Penhall put up their hoods. Beyond the fields, Jack spied the vast wood stretching out over the countryside. He knew his master was in the thick of it there and he murmured a prayer for him.
‘Master Penhall, I must ask … did you know that Roger Bennet was … er, seeing other women in the village?’
He stopped and scowled at the ground. ‘This was not known … until recently.’
‘Aye, the village is in a bit of an uproar over it.’
‘That my personal business should be talked about in the streets … Well. That is the way of it. He had promised to marry my daughter. But I have since learned he promised this many times.’
‘This looks to be a fine farm, sir, with your cheese business and all. Were you in want of funds?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Why would you say such a thing?’
‘When I last met you, you seemed to be mourning the fact that your daughter would not wed. But I interpreted some of your distress to be the loss of a joining of wealth?’
‘That is very impudent of you. It’s a lie. Look around you. We are very profitable. I only mourned for my daughter’s sake.’ He pushed his hood up off his head. ‘If that is all, I have work to do.’
‘Aye, sir. Where can I find your daughter?’
Penhall suddenly did not seem as jovial as he had been upon Jack’s first meeting him a day ago. He waved his hand impatiently. ‘Ask a servant.’ He stalked away, stomping through manure.
Jack watched him go and considered. Any man would be irritated at the tidings of a betrothed behaving as disgracefully as Roger had. And being the butt of jests in his own village. He certainly had a right to his embarrassment.
Jack spotted a man carrying wooden buckets and trotted over to ask him. The man led Jack around the corner of a stone building where Janet and two other maids were putting buckets of milk on a handcart.
‘Demoiselle,’ said Jack with a bow. She startled and stared at him. The other maids stopped what they were doing and gave Jack admiring glances. ‘I have come again to talk to you. May we speak? Alone?’
She put a finger to her mouth and gnawed on it. It was red and raw, obviously a habit. She dismissed the others. Both girls each picked up a handle of the cart and rolled it back toward the storehouses where the cheese was being made.
‘You’re Master Tucker, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, demoiselle. And when last we met your father imparted very distressing tidings regarding Sir Roger Bennet.’
Janet’s eyes threatened to tear, but her frown seemed to stop them. ‘Yes,’ she said tersely.
‘May I ask … when was the last time you saw him?’
‘I don’t know. Three days ago?’
‘The day he was killed?’
She tossed her head and stalked away from him. ‘I don’t know. I suppose.’
‘Did he come to the farm or did you go to him?’
She whirled back. ‘Go to him? What do you take me for? A loose woman, like you see in the village? I don’t run to any man.’
‘No … of course not, demoiselle. Forgive me. I merely wish to get the facts right in me head.’
Janet seemed to calm slightly. ‘This is such terrible business. And such lurid talk in the village. I am a maid.’
‘I did not doubt it,’ he said quickly, now suddenly doubting it all the more. ‘And you were given to understand that you would wed him?’
‘We did have an understanding. I don’t believe the lies they tell in the village.’
‘Well …’ Tread carefully here, Jack. ‘There were three women at least who claim to have been his lover. Why would they lie?’
‘Because they are envious of me and my father’s money. Just because we are more industrious than that lot, just because we have found a way to make our money, they throw vile lies at us. They’ve never liked us.’
‘That is a shame,’ he said, rubbing his beard in thought. ‘They didn’t seem as if they were lying. They were fighting among themselves …’
‘Of course. They are a crude people.’
‘Oh. Are your family not from the village?’
‘Yes, but we found a way to better ourselves.’ Janet pushed her veil back from her face with a dirty hand, leaving a smudge across her cheek. Jack couldn’t help but stare at it. ‘My father is going to be a knight. And they are jealous of that.’
‘Oh. I didn’t know.’
‘Yes. His growing wealth makes it a certainty. He’ll buy more land and have more servants. Soon, I will not have to be out with the cows any longer.’
‘And Roger’s family wealth would have made that happen all the sooner.’
‘Of course it would have! And I have a big dowry. Surely Roger saw that too …’ She gritted her teeth. Her hand clutched hard at her apron, fingers whitening. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘No, thank you, demoiselle.’ Jack bowed but stopped before leaving. ‘Well, there is something. Do you know Thomas Dunning, another knight at the castle?’
‘Do you think I make it my business to meet all the knights up there?’
‘No, demoiselle, but I thought—’
‘I do not.’
‘Very well. I bid you good day.’
She nodded to him like a noblewoman dismissing a servant and he turned on his heel. So the Penhalls had vain pretentions. He looked back at Janet. She was arranging her veil and her skirts like a lady, even though the hem of her dress was muddy with cow shit.
Jack couldn’t blame her. Everyone wanted to better themselves and have fine servants to do their bidding. How would it be, he wondered, for his own wife Isabel to have a lady’s maid to tend to her needs, comb her hair, dress her in fine clothes, with a wet nurse seeing to the babes? He would have done all he could to see that happen. Alas. Even when he inherited the tavern from Gilbert Langton, he’d not make enough to get her such a maid. It didn’t matter to Isabel. She was happy with her lot; Jack and the children. And she was a miracle-worker, making the household what it was on their meager income. But a husband always wanted to make life better for his wife. This he could not deny. It was the very nature of being a man, he decided; protection, earning a decent wage. And a good father for his daughter, as Penhall surely wanted. And Jack wanted it too, for he was also father to a sweet young daughter who would someday need a dowry. ‘Ah me.’ He sighed, reaching the house again. It was best not to dwell on it. He was certain that he and Master Crispin would see to it that his family did not starve.
He passed through the house, poking around. He climbed the stairs only so far and just peeked below the gallery to see if any doors were open. No luck. Down the stairs again, unchallenged by any steward or servants, he stuck his head through a door and found a passage to the kitchens. There was a cook busy at a wide plank table, grinding herbs in a mortar. A boy was keeping the fire fed with small sticks, until he looked up and spied Jack. ‘Oi! What do you want?’
The cook first glanced at the boy and then over her shoulder at Jack. ‘You shouldn’t talk to strangers like that, boy.’ To Jack, she said, ‘Good master, please tell me who you are and why you are here.’
‘My apologies, demoiselle,’ he said with a bow. He knew that kind of flattery always got servants to talk to him easily. When he looked up again, he smiled. Yes, she was flustered by his tone, his comportment, and by calling her ‘demoiselle’. ‘I am Jack Tucker, apprentice to the Tracker of London. I am investigating the death of Roger Bennet. Were you acquainted with the gentleman?’
‘Oh aye. That was a sad, sad thing.’
‘Indeed. When was the last time you saw him?’
‘It was Monday. He dined here.’
‘I see. He dined here in the company of Master Penhall and Mistress Janet?’
‘Aye. He came often. The castle doesn’t need defending, you see. And no one goes there but that funny man with the cart. I always thought castles were grand things, but that one is more like a crumbling hill, all by itself.’
‘Have you ever been there?’
‘Me? Oh no. Well … when I was a child, we used to go to it as close as we could. Children, you know.’ She glanced at the boy by the fire, who must have been hers. ‘You could climb the stone walls around it,’ she said in a husky whisper. ‘You could get mighty high. It’s an easy climb for a squirrely child. You could look far out to sea, and also beyond the battlements into the courtyard. There’s a narrow path up the side and around the battlements. Some of the braver boys used to go right up into the island castle from there. They’d tell tales of harrying the sheep.’ She clucked her tongue and shook her head at the memories. ‘We always thought the guards would chase us away but they never did. Even when there were workmen there. But the workmen soon left. If it weren’t for the smoke from their hearths, you wouldn’t think no one was there at all.’
‘Hmm. When Roger was here on Monday, how did he seem?’
‘You mean his character? Oh, he was always a jolly fellow. A fine gentleman. He laughed and loved his wine. I don’t believe them lies they tell in the village.’
‘About his seeing other women?’
‘It’s a shame what some people get up to when they want to tear another down. They don’t like the Penhalls. They think they are above their stations, but they just work hard is all.’
‘When did you find out about the stories they told about Roger?’
She came around her worktable and got in close. ‘That was common talk for a long time.’
‘Oh? Not just because he died?’
‘Oh no. We all knew about it.’
‘Are you certain it was just tales?’
‘Well …’ She glanced back at her boy until it looked like he was too busy to hear them. ‘Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t. But don’t tell the master, for Mistress Janet didn’t know.’
‘Did Master Penhall know?’
‘I can’t see how he couldn’t. He went to the tavern like all the rest of them. The village isn’t shy about poking a stick at a fellow to rouse him.’
‘I see. Well, thank you, demoiselle.’
She curtseyed. ‘God be with you, Master Tucker, in your quest.’
He nodded to her and left, leaving by the back door so that he could get around to his horse unmolested.
All the way back to the village, he chewed on his thoughts. Janet Penhall seemed terribly angry at the development that Roger was not as faithful as she had hoped. But could she truly have been unaware of talk of him? Surely she went into the village. She must have friends, and they must have told her.
If she knew ahead of time, then she was as good a suspect as anyone else.
And, of course, the both of them lied. The last time they both saw Bennet was in their very own hall … on Monday.
Master Crispin had told him about Menhyr Rouse who worked at the stables at the other end of town, but he thought he’d still save him for later. Rouse sounded like a rough man and he’d rather see to the women first. Jack knew he cut a fine figure and was not above a little flirtation to get his way. Now it was just a matter of finding Mabyn and Gwendolyn. He decided on the well. For if there was one place you could be sure of a gathering in a village – besides the tavern or alehouse – it was the village well.
It was at the edge of the green. He dismounted and, holding the horse’s lead, pulled it along to the stone well, where others had gathered. Women were taking turns pulling the bucket up from its depths and Jack hurried forward, letting the horse graze at the green.
‘Demoiselles, allow me to help you.’
They all quieted in their chatter when Jack grabbed the rope and began pulling it. They watched him for a time – and how predatory were their eyes! It made him a bit uncomfortable, like they were sizing up a pig hanging at the butcher, until he contented himself with the idea that it would be easier to use his wiles to get answers.
‘You’re with that man from London, aren’t you?’ asked a short and round woman.
‘Aye, that I am. I’m Jack Tucker.’ He smiled and gave her a wink. He saw the other women move in incrementally. Like a cat on a mouse, he thought.
‘Were you in London?’ asked another with a long blonde plait, balancing an empty bucket on her hip.
‘I come from there. Lived there all me life.’ He pulled up the full bucket and looked around with it. Several offered theirs until he just picked one. He filled it and then tossed the bucket back down the hole. It filled, and he hoisted it up again, one hand over the other, but taking his time.
‘You’re investigating Roger Bennet’s death,’ said another young thing with a pretty smile and raven black hair.
‘Yes, it’s true. Who do you think killed him?’
She shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t want no one to hang upon my saying.’
‘But all good Christians want justice to be done,’ said Jack. ‘Murder is against God’s law. It’s the fifth commandment, isn’t it?’
The women exchanged glances, nodding vigorously.
A woman with hair as red as Jack’s piped up. ‘I think Menhyr Rouse did it. He was angry as a stuck boar when he heard about Roger and Derwa.’
‘Aye,’ said the black-haired girl. ‘It’s true. And he’s strong, too.’ She said the last dreamily.
‘Did he know about it before?’ asked Jack, resting the full bucket on the edge of the well. ‘Did not everyone know about it before Roger was slain?’
The short round woman held her empty bucket behind her back as she rocked on her heels. ‘Oh well, when it comes down to it, we all knew.’
‘It’s true,’ said the one with the blonde plait. ‘And Menhyr knew, too. He was using Derwa to get money from the man. The priest did not approve of that.’
‘Aye, it sounds unsavory,’ said the short one.
Jack poured the water in the third bucket, and dunked the well bucket again. ‘How was she getting money?’
‘Oh, you know,’ said the ginger girl. ‘A girl wheedles and asks her lover for things. He gave her bits of jewelry. Menhyr promptly sold the things to travelers.’
Jack breathed a laugh. ‘It sounds like this was no secret at all.’
‘It wasn’t,’ laughed the ginger girl.
‘Then do you think it was Menhyr Rouse?’ he asked her.
Ginger Girl folded her lips. ‘Could have been. But … those druw men. They’re a rough sort, aren’t they?’
There was some shushing and hands waved at her.
‘Isla,’ hissed the black-haired girl. ‘It’s bad luck to talk about … them.’
The others murmured, crossed themselves, and stopped talking altogether. Jack poured his last bucket and settled on the edge of the well. ‘Why is it bad luck to talk about them men?’
‘Because it is,’ whispered the blonde plaited one. ‘They’re rough and pagan and frightening. We don’t talk of them.’
The black-haired girl said, ‘They’ve enticed many a maiden to them, and they were never seen again.’
‘But they’re just beyond the trees there. Only a couple of miles, eh?’
She shook her head and would say no more. It gave him the shivers.
‘Do any of you know where Mabyn lives? Or Gwendolyn? I would talk with them.’
Glances passed from one to the other, fingers over tittering mouths. He wanted to rebuke them all for being such scolds, but he needed their information and so kept his face passive.
Ginger Girl pointed. ‘Mabyn and Gwen are working at their looms, at the cottage up the hill by the broken tree.’
‘They work together?’
‘Aye.’ She began to giggle and the others followed suit. ‘They’re sisters.’
What a world, he thought, and said his good days. He grabbed the horse’s lead and tugged it along as he hiked up the road. It was little better than a track by the time he reached their hill and cottage. He heard the clack of a shuttle and the sound of two angry voices. The voices rose and then the sound of furniture clattered and something like crockery was smashed. A scream.
Jack ran to the door, tried the handle and found it barred. He rammed it with his shoulder … once … twice … and finally crashed through, splintering the door. He fell into the room and lay stunned for a moment. Until another scream rent the air and another piece of crockery flew over his head.
SEVENTEEN
‘She’s a troublemaker,’ growled Gloyn to Crispin. ‘And you’re a troublemaker. What do you want?’
‘I wish to talk of Roger Bennet … and Thomas Dunning,’ said Crispin, sitting straight on his saddle.
‘I have naught to say about Roger. And this other. I don’t know him.’
‘As I said,’ said Crispin dismounting, ‘I wish to talk to you. We can do it here in the street or go somewhere more private.’
As soon as his feet hit the turf, a fist crashed into his cheek. An explosion of stars accompanied it and he staggered back into the horse’s flanks. A quick shake of his head, and he fastened his sight on Gloyn, rubbing his fist in his palm. The villagers gathered, closing a circle around them. Crispin took the chance that they only wanted to watch, and swung hard at Gloyn’s face.
His knuckles smacked the man’s nose with a satisfying crunch. Gloyn stumbled backwards but never could regain his balance. The crowd made room for him as he fell back on his rump and scowled, blood pulsing from his fractured nose.
‘You broke it, you churl.’
‘I’ll break more than that,’ said Crispin, standing over him, fists still balled and ready. ‘I only want to talk, and I’ll help you up if you agree to it.’ Extending a hand to the man, he waited.
Gloyn glared at the offered hand until he finally took it. Crispin hauled him up, but no sooner had the man regained his feet than he swung at Crispin again, catching him at his ear.
