Matillida stared after them. She could not comprehend the enormity of the straits in which the family found itself. Her head moved from side to side in silent denial of her son’s guilt. It was impossible, incredible, that he could be an object of suspicion. John, her son, always so bright, so honorable… Her thoughts moved on swiftly to the implication of that. John had known of Bruther’s act, running from the Manor and bringing shame and embarrassment on the family, and had plainly heard of the insult offered to his master. If he had then been angered by another humiliation to Sir Ralph, it was possible he could have determined to avenge it and by so doing exorcise the spirit of evil that Bruther had imposed on Beauscyr. He was wild and headstrong, always had been, and surely he was capable of murder.

Only one man could shed some light on all this. She looked at Sir Ralph, who was gazing at the door with a perplexed frown. “What did the miners say to you both that night?”

Startled from his reverie, Sir Ralph scratched his head. “They were obscene, lady. Insulting us both, and our parentage. They made some comments about you, and it was that which angered your son most of all.” He stared at her bleakly.

“Did he kill Bruther?” she asked, her voice even, as if enquiring about the weather with no quaver to show her inner turmoil. Though he did not answer, his haunted eyes told her what he thought. She had to swallow hard before standing unsteadily and walking out to the solar.

18

Hugh and Edgar had been waiting at their favorite place down by the kitchen, where they had set the bottler to filling jugs with his best strong ale. When Simon and Baldwin rejoined them, the bottler scurried for more drink. They took their seats at the bench, Simon resting his head in his hands and massaging his temples. When he looked up, he found a pot beside him on the ground, and he took a long draft.

“That’s a bit better,” he sighed and wiped his mouth with his hand. Burping, he glanced at his friend. “So what do you think?”

“Me? If the boy won’t answer, it will go badly for him,” said Baldwin quietly. Instantly their servants set themselves to finding out whom the two were discussing, and Baldwin explained what had happened in the hall. “John is keeping something back,” he concluded.

“From his behavior, it seems clear enough that he has at the very least had a hand in the murder,” Simon told them. “Why else would he go so quiet? But why did he not even invent a story, that’s what puzzles me.”

“What, no alibi?” Edgar set his pot down. “Didn’t he have any kind of explanation to offer?” he asked, surprised.

“No. Nothing at all. He refused to discuss where he had gone.” Simon shook his head, troubled. “It’s not as if he’s a fool. He must know what we’re bound to think. If he makes no effort to show his innocence, there can only be the one assumption.”

“That is strange,” mused Baldwin, so softly that the other three almost missed his words. When they turned to him with mystified faces, he went on: “I mean, it seems odd that John and Sir Ralph should go to the inn for Molly – the same girl whom Bruther apparently wanted. I wonder…” He frowned into the distance.

“What?” asked Simon after a minute, irritated by the pause.

“Hmm? Oh, I was just thinking: if John really wanted to annoy Bruther, surely the best way would have been to say that he was going to bed the miner’s woman. There would be nothing he could do about it, after all. Except maybe… offer a challenge!”

Simon stared at him open-mouthed. “He could have, couldn’t he?”

“It would explain the facts: Sir Ralph and John see the miner, words are exchanged, the squire threatens to go and see Molly, the miner promises a fight if he does, the knight and his man go to the inn, meet the girl, the miner returns in their wake, sees her going with the knight and waits outside. A little later the squire goes out, they agree to fight, meet out on the moors, fight to the death, and…”

“And the boy dies. John takes the body to Wistman’s Wood and hangs it, then…”

“Yes, that’s the trouble, isn’t it?” said Baldwin as Simon faltered.

Hugh stared from one to the other. “Surely that explains it, doesn’t it?”

“No, Hugh,” sighed Baldwin. “It doesn’t. Firstly, John would not be afraid to admit it. The challenge issued in front of the miners would give him witnesses and make it self-defense, clearing him from a charge of murder. Secondly, the whole inn would have been aware that there was going to be a fight. And thirdly…”

Simon leapt in, “And thirdly, since when did men fight to the death with only thin cords to strangle each other?”

Glaring at the ground truculently, Hugh said, “Maybe they fought with knives or swords and you didn’t see his wounds?”

Baldwin glanced at him. “No, Hugh. There was no stab – I would have seen it. Bruther died from the cord round his neck. It bruised, and bruises only appear on a live body. The mark was thin, and the cord which killed cannot have been any thicker. If someone lives, their bruises smudge and diminish with time. The more clear the outline, the more recent the wound; but if someone dies shortly after a blow or, in this case, strangling, then the changes in the marks don’t happen. It is as if they are frozen. I was told it was God’s way of helping us to find how a man died.”

The servant looked amazed. “How can that be?” he frowned. “Are you sure?”

“I have seen many dead men, Hugh,” said Baldwin, and his voice was sober. “Too many, maybe. But I have lived through wars and seen their effects on the victims. That is how I know.”

They were all silent for a moment. Simon could see that his friend was sunk into a gloomy reverie, but could not think of a way of pulling him back. To his relief, Edgar did it for him. The servant contemplated his master quickly, then, with a motion as if of disinterest, said, “So, where did these miners go to?”

Simon suppressed a grin as Baldwin turned distractedly to look at his servant. “Eh?”

“I was just thinking – there were miners with Bruther on his way back from the inn that night, but they can’t have been with him when he died. Where did they go?”

Baldwin mused, “We only have the word of John and Sir Ralph that there were any men there at all.”

“If you’re right,” Hugh broke in suddenly, his face still holding his doubtful scowl, “couldn’t John have offered a fight anyway?”

“What?” sighed Simon, throwing his servant a look of long-suffering exasperation.

“Well, if John agreed to meet Bruther alone and fight, maybe he went out early, before Bruther expected him, and got him by the neck. That would explain it, wouldn’t it?”

Simon stared, then turned to Baldwin. The knight nodded. “If, as you say, John had agreed to fight him, had left for the inn and then sneaked off to ambush Bruther, it would make sense. It could also explain why Sir Ralph would keep his silence, for the knight could feel that blame could attach to him, after the way that Bruther had insulted him before. And he might feel guilt for the behavior of his squire, because it would be bound to reflect poorly on him. But,” he sighed, “I find it hard to believe that Bruther or John would have trusted the other enough to agree to meet alone.”

Edgar poured more ale, then topped up the other pots. Setting the jug down, he said, “One moment. Surely there are no other witnesses to say that there were any miners there, only Sir Ralph and John? What if the whole roadside meeting was an invention? Could it not be that the two came across Bruther, throttled him and hid his body, and then went on to the inn for an alibi? Afterward John slipped out, took the body again and rode over to Wistman’s, where he hanged it?”

“His guards were there – or so Molly said,” Baldwin insisted.