on him, and we’d soon see how disrespectful he would be after that.”
“You do have several new fellows here,” Baldwin noted dispassionately.
The merchant shot him a look. “Are you insinuating that one or two of them could have been involved in this?” he demanded hotly, but his temper cooled as quickly as it had erupted. “My apologies, Sir Baldwin. I seem only ever to hear of complaints about my men. No, I know that three were here last night before I returned, and the others were with me on my trip. But when I got back here, I had all of them in my yard helping me unload my cart. And none of them could have gone next door between that time and my hearing the call from Godfrey’s.”
“I see. Tell me, when you heard the shout, where were you?”
“When I got home, I had the wagon pull up in the yard, and immediately went inside to seek my wife. She wasn’t in the hall, so I told all the guards there to help unload the goods and went to see her in my solar. I…I had thought I heard someone in my private chambers, so I had a good look around. I even called up the guards to help me. That was when I heard the shout-while I was in my bedchamber.”
“And you didn’t go straight out when you heard the cry?”
“Well, no. No, I had the impression that someone was here, you see. It was only when I heard the scream that I realized something was dreadfully wrong at Godfrey’s house, and I ran there with one of my men.”
“Leaving the other guards…?”
“I left them looking still.”
“For whoever might have been in your private rooms.” Baldwin nodded; he need ask no more. The merchant’s face had become flushed, but not with anger, and now he avoided Baldwin’s eye. It was clear enough that Coffyn had expected to find someone there, and that he had been unwilling to give up his search. That was why he had left most of his men there when he eventually decided to find out what was going on next door. He was still hoping that they might catch the man. “Tell me, which guard did you take with you? He might have noticed something you did not.”
Coffyn shrugged and bellowed, “William! Come here a minute.”
The guard from the door appeared a few moments later. There was something unsettling about him, something that grated, and the knight tried to isolate what it could be. Generally, the man looked happy and calm, with an easy demeanor, and a relaxed attitude: he still had his thumbs hooked into his belt. His mouth was fixed in a perpetual half-grin, but there was nothing sneering about it, it merely made him look as if he knew that meeting someone new was bound to be interesting and rewarding. His eyes too looked frank and cheerful, with little crow’s feet at the corners, as if he was ready in an instant to burst into laughter. He gave one the feeling that he would be good company over a jug of ale.
But there was still that hint of readiness about him. Baldwin had lived among soldiers for the greater part of his life, had trained with them, and seen them in action, and this guard had the same aura of danger. His dark eyes were almost bovine, but they were also steady and intelligent; his hands hardly moved from his belt, but that meant they were always close to his dagger’s hilt; he stood easily, his legs a short distance apart, but he was also braced as if prepared to repel an attack at any moment.
“I believe you went with your master yesterday to the house next door, and you found Godfrey’s body with him?”
“That’s right, sir. We went straight in as soon as we heard the scream, and found all three of ”em on the floor.“
“Your master then sent you to find the constable and raise the Hue?”
“Yes, sir. He remained to prevent anyone else from breaking in and stealing anything.”
“Did anyone come in?” Baldwin asked Coffyn.
“Only the maid. Almost as soon as we got there, she came down. She had been too scared to come down before, but when I called for help, she ran in quickly enough and helped us carry Lady Cecily up to her bedchamber. William and I left the two of them there, and that was when I sent him to fetch the constable. Not long after that, the constable arrived, and he said we could leave.”
“You saw no one else in the house?” Baldwin asked, turning once more to the soldier.
“I saw only the three people on the floor and the maid.”
“And there was no sign of anything being moved or stolen, as far as you saw?”
“No, sir. But I’d never been in there before, so how could I?”
“I hope you have some reason for asking all these questions, Sir Baldwin, because I have plenty to be getting on with, and surely you have enough other people to question,” Coffyn interrupted irritably.
“There are others I need to speak to, yes,” said Baldwin, rising. “I thank you both for your help.”
“At least you know no one escaped from the front of the house; he must have gone out by the back. And it seems as if he was trying to rape Godfrey’s daughter. That appears plain.”
“Does it?” Baldwin peered at the merchant. There was an eagerness in his face, an almost greedy look, like a dog which expects its reward after performing its trick. Baldwin felt only revulsion for the man. 7
“I t is later than I had thought,” Baldwin said once they had retrieved their horses. He climbed the step and mounted, turning the beast toward the road and setting off at an easy walk. At the gate he hesitated, torn with indecision. He knew he should go to study the body again, see if he could speak to the girl Cecily and, from what he had heard, talk to John of Irelaunde, as well as seeking out other suspects, but he could only sit staring at the road, wondering what to do for the best.
This confusion was a novelty. Usually Baldwin was certain of the path he must take, no matter what the issues which confused the way. If he was involved in a judicial matter, he could find a logical solution; if he investigated a robbery or murder, he would be able to decide upon an appropriate course of enquiry-after all, most killings were committed in the heat of an argument, and premeditated murder was a rarity. But whenever he had embarked upon solving a crime of this kind, he had always had the assistance of his friend Simon Puttock. This time, Simon was not around, and Baldwin found his absence to be a constant niggling emptiness. The knight had never before thought of Simon as essential to his function as a servant of the King, but now that there was a serious crime to consider, he realized that he needed the bailiff, not only in his capacity as a sounding board, but also because his friend was apt to think of points that the knight, with all his education and experience, would never have considered. “Where are you, old friend?” he muttered.
“Sir?”
“Nothing. Let’s get something to eat before we see the girl.”
Thomas Rodde sat resting against an oak near the western edge of the town and dozed. The sun was warm on his face, the thick grass of the roadside was as soft as the finest down beneath him, and for a few minutes he could forget the horror of his disease and cling to a memory of what life used to be like before he became ill.
Now he was twenty-nine those far-off days of his youth seemed to be suffused with a rosy glow. Nothing bad or evil ever seemed to interrupt their easy flow. The weather, as now he remembered it, was always balmy-and when it did rain, it was always gentle showers, never harsh, bitter drops that felt as if they had been frozen before falling.
These reflections made him give a small smile, his eyes still closed against the brightness of the sun. He knew, logically, that the rain had been bitterly cold on occasion, just as he knew he had seen thunderstorms, had suffered biting winds while riding through the winter, and had more than once felt frozen to the core when he had been out in snowstorms-yet it was hard now to bring them to mind. It was as if his memory was separated into two parts: that before his illness, the happy life, and that after, the living death. All that happened in his early years was splendid: it was as if his childhood was a perfect dream in which even the elements had conspired to ensure his memories were delightful-and now, since developing leprosy, his entire existence had been blighted.
Whenever he thought about the winter, it was the desolate plains of the northern marches which sprang into his mind. The misery-of being constantly damp; of having the rain driven into his face by a wind that felt so cold it froze the blood in his veins; of walking through puddles and rivulets that might have been composed of pure, liquid ice, that penetrated his cheap shoes in an instant; the pain while his feet at first went cold, then became vessels of pure fire before losing all sensation, followed by the torture of recovery. It often seemed to him that he would be better off staying out and allowing the life to leave his freezing body. Once he had attempted this, remaining in the open air as the ground around him hardened and his breath misted before his eyes. But his will to live was too deeply ingrained in his soul, and he had returned, half-unwillingly, to the protection of the fire at the leper camp.
That was all he could recall of the bleak wasteland of Northumbria. He had loathed the climate, the country,
