T he tranter lay on a low mattress in the infirmary, a cheap russet cloth covering him. A monk was helping him to a little wine as the three entered, and was about to stand back when the Dean gestured for him to carry on.
John had changed, Simon thought. Gone was the cheerful, happy-go-lucky salesman with the gift of easy patter and a winning smile. Now the fellow looked shrivelled. His face had an ashen pallor, his eyes an unhealthy glitter, and his lips were cracked and dry. Where the red wine dribbled, it looked like blood.
His voice was weak. “Good day, gentlemen. I’d stand and bow, but you can see, I’m not at my best today.”
“John, how are you feeling?”
“Well now, Keeper, not to put too fine a point on it, and saving the presence of the two gentlemen in holy orders here, I feel like shite. I don’t recommend letting people use your head for practicing their aim with clubs and sticks. It gives you the most unholy headache you can imagine.”
“And how’s the leg?” asked Simon.
For answer, John flicked back the corner of the rough blanket. Simon winced at the sight of the blood soaking the fresh linen bandages.
It was the infirmarer who spoke, talking in a soft, gentle voice. “It’s badly broken. The bones of the shin were shattered. He must keep still for at least three months, and then we might be lucky and find he hasn’t lost the use of it.”
“I hope not, Brother,” said John weakly. The brother gave him a smile, and John returned it. He was enormously grateful for the man’s care, although he was still feeling feeble. It was the first time John had needed to visit a surgery of any sort and he was not looking forward to the pain of having the bones reset. Just the thought of the man’s determined, probing fingers trying to poke shards of broken bone into place made him feel sick. Swallowing hard, he turned to the knight and spoke, his voice gruff with pain. He still had to wince and slit his eyes, even here in the relatively dark room.
“So are you here to ask me who did this? If so, I’m sorry to say I don’t know. I didn’t get a good look at him.”
“What actually happened, John?” prompted Baldwin. He had noticed that as John spoke, his eyes had gone to the Dean.
“I’d been out, and when I got back the fire was low, so I bent down to blow some life into it. I suppose it was when I’d just got a flame that I realized something was wrong. Maybe he couldn’t see enough in there to be able to make sure of me, so he waited until I had produced a little light for him, and then he struck. And how he struck! Christ Jesus! Oh, sorry, Dean; sorry, Brother…”
“I think I should allow you a certain latitude, my son,” said Clifford affably. “When you are well again I shall give you a penance.”
John shot him a suspicious look, and became more cautious in his speech. “I saw the club. It was just an ordinary hazel or ash stick. The sort which is made of a young sapling, where the stem grows a few feet. The grip was a large ball, and that was what he hit me with. I could see it coming, and…Well, there was no time to move. It struck me, and I was down. Then I saw it rise again.”
“You remember all this?” Baldwin probed. From his experience of combat, he knew how often memories could become confused or imagined after a vicious blow to the head.
John was definite. “Oh yes, Sir Baldwin. Make no mistake, I saw it! I’ll never forget that sight as long as I live.”
“Is there anything you can think of which might explain why this was done to you?”
“No, Sir Baldwin. I’ve got no idea at all.” The sunken eyes, rimmed with agony, turned to him with disingenuous conviction. “Why should anybody want to hurt me?”
“I was wondering, after some of the rumors about you and-um…” Baldwin glanced thoughtfully at Peter. It was not the kind of question he felt the Dean would be happy to hear. The Dean caught his glance and grinned before tactfully muttering about his duties and walking from the room. Relieved, Baldwin continued, “What about a man? Someone who was married to a pretty young wife?”
“Sir Baldwin, there are many rumors about me, I know, but I can assure you that this has nothing to do with any woman-at least, not that I know of.”
“In that case, who could want to do this to you?”
“As to why they should want to, I have absolutely no idea.”
“Come on, be honest with us. You say you saw the weapon clearly enough-you must have seen the man.”
“Ah, but if I tell you, what’s to stop the fellow coming back and having another game of bat-and-ball with my head?”
There was an anxious look to him that the knight could understand. “As for that, what is to stop him doing so as soon as he hears you’re not dead? From the look of your wounds, one would assume he was trying to kill. He may well return.”
“You do have a point there,” John said, trying to grin. He winced as another bolt of pain shot up from his knee.
“Why didn’t you want to talk in front of the Dean?”
“Well, now-it’s like you say: there are lots of rumors about me, and I don’t want to see the good Dean being made to believe in them. The gossip about me isn’t true.”
“So who was it?”
“Matthew Coffyn.”
“So it was because of your adultery with Martha Coffyn,” said Baldwin sternly. “I have warned you before about your lechery. It’s only surprising that no one got to you before this.”
John sighed with unfeigned disgust. “I told you before, I have never committed adultery with Martha Coffyn.”
“You enjoyed her favors whenever her husband was away,” Baldwin accused roughly. “The whole town is full of gossip about it.”
Slowly at first but soon with a kind of helpless despair, John began to laugh. “Jesus, Mary and all the angels, it’s so daft. It’s funny! Sir Knight, I’ve never touched Martha Coffyn. I don’t like Martha Coffyn, and Martha Coffyn wouldn’t so much as look at a fellow like me. She thinks herself as far above me as a beech tree above a daisy. Oh, Christ’s Teeth!” And he burst out laughing again, moaning with pain between gales of mirth as his ribs and head complained. Calming himself, he at last gave a soft sigh. “No, Sir Baldwin. I never had anything to do with the lady. But I suppose if you believe it at least that explains why Coffyn decided to beat me like this.”
“If you haven’t why were you in Godfrey’s yard the night he died?” demanded Simon.
His reply was a twisted grin. “I wouldn’t lie, Bailiff. I never touched the lady. No, I was off seeing another girl.”
“Who?” Baldwin pressed him.
“I can’t tell you that, sir. Like I said, I can’t betray her honor. Would you betray your own lady? Of course not. If I was to tell you, it could hurt her reputation, and I won’t do that, but believe me when I swear that I’ve never committed adultery with Martha.”
“Then who has?”
“It’s not my secret, but if you want to know, go and ask Putthe.”
Peter was waiting in his hall, surrounded by piles of paper. Since the arrival of the Bishop, who was now with the Dean’s master, the precentor of the collegiate church, Clifford had been forced to dig out all of the accounts of the different outlying chapels and churches to help the Treasurer with his report to Stapledon. It was a relief to him to have another interruption when Baldwin and Simon walked in. “Did you get anywhere?”
The knight gave a distracted shrug. “He has given us a hint, but once more we are told to go and see someone else. Each time something happens here, we appear to be driven back to Godfrey’s household. It’s possible John is telling the truth, but that depends on how much another man has himself been deceived.”
“I would find it hard to trust too much that John tells you,” Clifford observed judicially. “We all know his background.”
“I fear you might be doing him a disservice,” Baldwin commented.
“So I may, but I have heard some stories about him…”
