“Tell me all you know.”
The bottler sighed and took his seat on a barrel. As an afterthought, he reached between his knees and poured himself a jug of ale. He seemed to have no intention of drinking, but held the drink as an aid to his concentration, much, Baldwin considered, as a knight might toy with a sword or dagger while he regaled an audience with a story.
“I told you before about the master finding John in the garden. It was true. And later the master told me about it. He thought it was quite funny, the way that he caught the little Irishman. But now I have heard something a little different. Now I am told that John never had an affair with Martha Coffyn; the man who was going over to see her was not the Irishman, but my own master!”
Baldwin nodded slowly. “So each time Coffyn went off on his travels, your master used to say he was going out to keep an eye on things and protect the garden from the hired thugs next door, whereas in reality he was visiting Coffyn’s wife?”
“That’s it, sir. Every journey Coffyn made, he would warn his partner, my master, so my master knew exactly when to go and see Martha.”
“But why should Godfrey have invested in the business in the first place? Oh, of course!”
“The last thing he wanted was for Coffyn’s business to fail. That would have meant an end to the trips away. No, my master was happy to make sure that Master Coffyn’s business did well enough.”
“What has this to do with the smith?” Simon demanded.
“Sir, my mistress had to have the mare’s hoof fixed, and she didn’t want the master to find out about it, because he was always berating her for the money she wasted. Not that it was fair. Mistress Cecily has always been quite frugal. Still, that was why she asked Jack to come here and refit the old shoe, to save money.”
“It would have saved more if she had sent the mare with the shoe down to the forge, and not asked the smith to come up here,” Baldwin commented.
“Jack doesn’t charge for coming up here,” Putthe corrected him.
“But her father came in here and saw the smith,” said Simon.
“She didn’t know he would come in here. As it was, it was so long after Jack had done her mare, it didn’t matter. Master Godfrey thought the smith was here socially.”
Simon scratched at his head. “There’s one thing we still don’t know, and that is what you promised to tell us: why did Cecily want the smith here?”
Putthe gave him a lugubrious stare. “I couldn’t tell you for certain. That smith is a rather repellent character and isn’t the sort of man I’d want to entertain in my buttery usually, but the mistress asked me to look after him, and I was happy to.”
“What did she actually say to you?” Baldwin frowned.
“She just asked if I could fill him with ale once he’d finished playing about with the horse. In fact, I remember she said she was sorry to ask me to do it, because she knew Jack wasn’t the most generous soul in the town. She made some comment about how intolerant he was.”
Simon gazed blankly at him. “”Intolerant?“ What would she have meant by that?”
“Jack can be a complete fool on occasion. Look at his behavior with the lepers last night. There was no excuse for that. No excuse whatever.”
Baldwin nodded, then he went perfectly still, staring into the distance. After a few minutes his brow cleared. “Very well, Putthe. You’ve been very helpful. Let me know if anything else occurs to you, won’t you?” He rose and stalked from the room.
In the screens, to Simon’s surprise, he stopped and peeped into the hall. When Simon went to his side, he saw what the knight was staring at.
The maid, Alison, was at the cupboard, rearranging the pewter on the shelves. Simon’s eyes opened wide as he saw that the shelves had all been filled. On the top was a pair of silver plates and a drinking horn; beneath were six pewter plates and a silver salt cellar shaped like a swan; below that was another row of six plates, flanked by two large flagons; on the lowest was a row of eight smaller plates. Simon gasped, but before he could speak, Baldwin put a finger to his lips, and led the way from the building.
The sun was waning as Rodde reached the top of the high street, and he moved more slowly as the air cooled. His hip held him back, for every step he took made it ache. Many years before, he had fallen from a ladder and broken his shoulder, and this reminded him of that, a dull, throbbing pain that expanded when he put his weight on it. It made him wonder whether he had actually broken something.
At the inn he paused. Cristine saw him patiently leaning on his staff and came out with a jug of ale. Giving her a smile of sheer gratitude, he held out his bowl. It was illegal for a leper to touch a jug or pot that could be used by a healthy person, but the girl poured straight into his bowl, and he drank greedily.
Cristine filled the bowl again, and watched solicitously while he drained it a second time. There was no need for her to try to say anything; her kindness in giving him ale to drink was itself enough. She couldn’t think of anything to say to him in any case. Thomas Rodde was not yet so hideously deformed as some of the others, but the sores on his face were enough to make her want to keep her distance.
Finishing his drink, he gave her a slow bow and made off back to the leper house. Cristine stood some while watching him go, his staff tapping regularly at his side while he shuffled away. She was trying to imagine how he would have looked before he had been struck down.
In her mind’s eye she straightened his back. That would surely add six inches or more to his height, she realized, which would make him a tall man, possibly almost six feet. Then his hair, now so lank and besmeared with mud, still showed signs of its underlying tawny hue, a color which would make him stand out. His eyes were unchanged, he hadn’t yet lost his sight, and were a peculiarly bright blue, while his flesh was bronzed from exposure. He was just the sort of man she had always fancied. The sort of man she might have chatted to in the tavern before he became scarred with leprosy.
She felt a shiver pass down her back. Someone’s walked over my grave, she thought, and crossed herself automatically.
“Hello, Cristine. Can you get this filled for me?”
“You’ve finished the barrel already? Jack, you must have too much work if your thirst is that bad!”
“My thirst is bad enough, I reckon,” he muttered, but his eyes were fixed on Rodde’s back.
As Cristine watched, he made off after the leper, and when she called to him, “Hey, what about your ale?” he merely waved.
“I’ll come and get it later.”
His urgency made her hesitate, and her gaze moved off toward the limping man.
23
B
aldwin and Simon walked out to the street while Edgar unhitched their mounts and followed after them. In the roadway, Baldwin glanced at Simon.
“Interesting.”
“Baffling! What on earth can it mean? Someone stole all the plate, and has now returned it?”
“No,” Baldwin chuckled. “No, I think it’s a great deal simpler than that. Simon, we are coming closer to a solution to this problem.” He bit his upper lip, sucking at his moustache contemplatively. At last he gave a slight groan. “Enough speculation! Right, it is not a pleasant duty we must go and perform now, but it must be done. Are you ready?”
Simon immediately understood him. “As ready as one can be. I don’t want to be involved in reminding a man of his wife’s infidelity, but we have to know the truth, don’t we?”
Baldwin nodded sourly and marched through the gate into Coffyn’s garden. He strode up to the front door and knocked loudly. Edgar joined them as they waited. Soon they were in the hall, and here they saw William and his master sitting at the great table at the dais. There was no one else in the room, which was some relief to Baldwin.
He confronted the merchant. “You were responsible for the beating given to John of Irelaunde last night. He is not dead, but he is sorely hurt, and you will be paying him compensation. If he desires to press charges against you, I will help him.”
Throughout this little speech, Coffyn had remained coolly silent. Now he spoke. “I don’t know what makes you think I was there, Sir Knight. I was in this hall almost all the night. My men were with me.”
“You were seen and recognized by John.”
“The man who was wounded? Perhaps his brain was addled. It can happen, you know, when a man is badly wounded about the head. He was wrong in this case. I was here from a little after dark, and never went out again. Why should I want to hurt a fellow I’ve never met?”
Baldwin shook his head. “Good, but not good enough. We know why you went to molest him.”
Coffyn rallied well, Baldwin thought. He made a great show of pouring wine and sipping it slowly, concentrating all the while on Baldwin’s face. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“You thought John was involved with your wife. You were hurt, naturally, and shocked too, I have no doubt. You had no idea who could have been responsible, but it was easy to hazard a guess. Or maybe you didn’t need to—maybe you heard rumors of how John behaved, and reasoned that there was no smoke without fire. In either case, it was you who went to John’s house last night and waylaid him. You wanted to make sure that John was given to understand that you wouldn’t tolerate his flirtation.”
“You’re talking nonsense,” said Coffyn, but his face was pale, and Baldwin saw that the hand holding his goblet was shaking.
“I wish to speak to your wife,” Baldwin stated bluntly.
“That isn’t possible.”
“Matthew, this won’t achieve anything. You can refuse me permission to talk to her if you want, but you need to hear the truth as well. The man you beat last night was not her lover. I have heard that from two people today who ought to know. Why don’t we ask your wife?”
“You have no right to demand it.”
“No, I don’t,” Baldwin said reasonably. “But I happen to know that you are wrong in thinking John has anything to do with her. Of course you are hurt and struck with grief by her adultery…”
Coffyn started and glowered.
“…but that is no reason to attack the wrong man. John has had nothing to do with your wife.”
“I won’t believe it! He was seeing her every time I went off to a fair or market.”
“Someone was, but not John. John was seeing somebody else.”
“I heard him leaping from my roof and making off through the garden.”
“It wasn’t John. Fetch your wife, and we’ll see what she says.”
“My wife is indisposed. She can see no one.”
Baldwin leaned on the table so that his face was close to the merchant’s. “Matthew Coffyn, I cannot order your wife to make any statement which might incriminate you. But if I can make you believe that John was innocent, I may prevent you having him beaten again. Please call your wife here.”
With a bad grace, Coffyn surrendered. He waved a hand at William, and the man-at-arms strolled from the room. There was quite a delay before he returned, wandering along behind the young wife of Matthew Coffyn.
This was the first time Simon had seen Martha Coffyn since his move to Lydford. Then she had been an elegant young woman who had a tendency to put on a little too much weight, but with her lively nature and sense of fun, she had never lacked popularity. Before Coffyn had managed to ensnare her, she had attracted a host of admirers not only from Crediton but from several miles away.
But the woman Simon now saw was not the same—not at least at first sight. She was still a little overweight, but her size only added to her voluptuous attractions, emphasizing her heavy breasts, the sweep of her broad hips and the length of her legs. The difference lay in her manner and her face.
Her beautiful pale complexion, which in color had always reminded the bailiff of the finest clotted cream from Tavistock Abbey, was mottled and blotched with red. Her eyes looked as though they were raw from weeping, her nose shone, her lips were bloated with sobbing, crimson as blood itself. Even her hair was unkempt and bedraggled, hardly contained in her wimple.
She stood before her husband, but her gaze never met his. Instead, she stared at Baldwin with a kind of arrogant disdain. “Well, husband? You wanted to see me—here I am! What do you want now you have witnessed my utter destruction? What more do you want of me?”
Coffyn sank down in his chair. “You’re in error, my lady. It was this knight who wished to speak to you. Please answer him.”
“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.