“My lady, I am sorry to have brought you down here to ask you these questions, but I have to prevent any more violence if I can, and you are the key. I know your husband has been keeping you locked in your room, but-”
“Keeping me locked in my room?” she demanded, eyes flashing. “You think I would let him do that? He did no such thing, Keeper. Oh no, I chose to stay in my room.”
“Please, Martha,” Coffyn groaned, putting a hand to his brow and shielding his eyes from the contempt in her own.
“Please, Martha!” she sneered. “He pleads with me now, trying to stop me telling you what I know, while-”
“Martha, these men are here because yesterday I beat your lover to within a breath of his death,” Coffyn said coldly. “They want you to tell me I was wrong and had the wrong man almost killed.”
She gaped at him, before giving a wild laugh. To Simon it sounded like the beginning of hysteria, and he was about to move nearer her to offer some comfort when she held up her hand. “Don’t approach me,” she hissed. “I am perfectly well, although it is a miracle in this household. So this absolute cretin had the monumental stupidity to try to have someone killed in an attempt to get him to leave me alone?”
“It was John of Irelaunde,” Baldwin murmured.
“Him!” she spat contemptuously. “The pedlar? You dare to think I would defile myself with a slovenly little shit like him?” Her voice became harsher. “You think I would demean myself with a pathetic creature like that? How dare you?”
Simon was intrigued by her rage. It was entirely genuine, he was convinced of that, but he was staggered that the woman could feel so degraded by the allegation. She felt no shame about her wanton adultery, but could be appalled when her husband felt she would give herself to a lowly tranter.
Baldwin interrupted her protestations. His attention had been fixed on Coffyn, whose face had taken on the appearance of a man who had seen a ghost. His hand had fallen, and now he sat as though struck dumb with horror.
“Mistress Martha,” Baldwin said. “I think you have said enough.”
“Who was it, then?” Coffyn’s voice was a whisper.
“Your friend, dear Matthew! Your favorite-your partner. Dearest Godfrey was my lover, and had been for months. You never guessed, because you were never here to see, but he was with me every night whenever you went away. He stole into my room each night, and he stole my heart when he left me.”
“Why, Martha? All I ever wanted was to please you, to make you comfortable. Why should you betray me in this way?”
“You’re pathetic!” Her anger made her enunciation slow and deliberate. “You think you own me because of a contract, but you never bothered to satisfy me. You thought by buying me new jewels and robes you could hold my love-but you never realized that to hold my love, first you had to hold me! Why should I betray you, you ask! Why should I remain loyal when that means living the life of a celibate?”
She turned sharply, the long skirt sweeping over the rushes. “Sir Baldwin, I have answered your questions. I hope my husband is not stupid enough to try to attack anyone else, but if he is keen to, perhaps the next man he springs on will do me the favor of sending my husband to Hell. I have no use for him.”
With that parting shot, she marched haughtily from the room.
Matthew shivered and rested his head on his hands. He had never before felt the vastness of his wife’s contempt for him. It came as almost a physical blow to his stomach to see Martha behave in this way. He felt sickened, revolted by her absolute disgust for him.
“Matthew, do you accept your wife’s word?” Baldwin asked softly.
“I believe her.” The words came as if wrung from his very soul. Matthew Coffyn shook his head. His future was blasted. There could be no hope of peace or renewed love in his marriage. Before her outburst there was still a chance, but now that chance was gone. Her words had scorched his pride. It was impossible that she would ever be able to reciprocate his feelings. He had hoped that with his competitor out of the way, her love for him would return-instead, her loathing for him had increased.
“You accept that John of Irelaunde had nothing to do with your wife’s infidelity?”
“It seemed so obvious!” He held up his head appealingly to the knight. “Everyone knows of John’s reputation. As soon as I realized what was happening with my wife, I was convinced it had to be that little sod!”
“On the night Godfrey died, you were here looking for John, weren’t you? You came home earlier than expected, and were searching for him in your home when you heard Godfrey’s scream.”
“Yes. The time before when I’d been away, I returned late at night instead of the following morning, and although Martha came fairly quickly to meet me, I heard someone jumping from the roof and making off through the garden. Well, John lives out at the back of Godfrey’s-I thought it would be easy for him to clamber over Godfrey’s wall and thence into my garden. It seemed so obvious that the little git was ravishing my wife, I hardly gave it a second thought.”
“It took you a long time to decide to have him beaten,” commented Simon.
“I intended catching him.” The merchant turned his angry, unblinking eyes on the bailiff, worrying at a fingernail. “What would you have done? I had no real proof. That was why I invented this charade of a final trip away. I said I had to go to Exeter for a couple of days, but after a few hours at a tavern on the way, I came back. My men I sent into the garden to block any escape, while I ran upstairs. There was no sign of anyone, and my wife insisted she was alone, but I searched her chamber, and went through all the chests. There was no sign of him. I just thought John must have heard us in the street before we got here, and then made use of the same escape route as before, climbing through the window and leaping from the roof before making off.”
“Whereas it never was John,” Baldwin reminded him.
“No. Instead, when I ran next door to save my neighbor from being attacked, I was in truth trying to save the man who had been cuckolding me. Oh, my God!” he cried, and covered his face with his hands. “I have lost my wife, and now I’ll be prosecuted for having my revenge on the wrong man! How could I have been so stupid!”
Baldwin sighed. “You may well find that an apology to John will prevent him from taking you to court. For my part, so long as you ensure that he is furnished with money while he recovers, I will not try to take matters further. This is all a ridiculous mess. In future, don’t take the law into your own hands. If you are aggrieved, take your case to court and seek redress there.”
“Redress, Sir Baldwin?” asked Coffyn, looking up at the knight blankly. “Redress for losing my wife? What redress could I expect for having had my life taken, for having my future wrested from my hands, for having my opportunities for wedded happiness stolen? What hope is there for me, Sir Baldwin?”
Ralph left the chapel. He could see the limping figure of Rodde making his way from the gate, heading back to his room. The brother wondered whether to have a talk with him. Rodde was spending too much time outside the hospital for his liking; lepers were supposed to remain within their walls, devoting themselves to prayer, not wandering the roads whenever it took their fancy. Ralph considered, but decided not to speak to him yet. Rodde and Quivil both appeared to need time to themselves. If they were shown compassion, Ralph thought, they might come to appreciate God’s mercy, and find their own salvation within the hospital grounds.
Having deliberated over this for a minute or two, Ralph was about to go to his little room when he heard voices at the gate. Tutting to himself at this interruption to his routine, he turned to seek the source. His mouth fell open in astonishment.
“What is this?” he demanded.
“She wants to come in to see Rodde, the new one. I told her she can’t, but she won’t listen.”
“Lady, it’s impossible. This is a leper hospital, somewhere for men who have been inflicted by the disease. You mustn’t come in.”
“Brother, I would like to speak with you.”
“Very well,” Ralph sighed. “Wait there, and I’ll fetch a cloak.”
He signed to the gatekeeper to keep it closed and marched off to his room. His cloak was on top of his chest, and he pulled it over his shoulders. The sun was already dying in the west, and with its passing the warmth of the day was rapidly fading.
“Here I am, madam. Now,” he opened the gate and passed out, “What is the matter? Why make such a fuss here?”
“You have an inmate here, a man called Rodde, I believe?”
