The Holy Innocents

Chapter Sixteen

I did not stir the whole night through, and awoke just after dawn to the distant crowing of a cock. There was a dull ache behind my eyes, which opened reluctantly upon the pallid daylight, only to shut themselves again as fast as possible. My mouth tasted as if I had swallowed pigswill, and when I moved, the stubble on my face scraped against the linen covering of the mattress. I had drunk more deeply the previous evening than I had realized at the time, and guessed that Martin Fletcher and his two friends must be sharing my discomfort. They, however, could afford to sleep a little longer in their wagon. I, on the other hand, must rouse myself at once, for I could already hear rustling sounds from the other side of the makeshift curtain, sounds which told me that Bridget was up and stirring. Granny Praule, also, for, a moment later, there was a familiar, if subdued, cackle of laughter.

I got up, trying to ignore the pain in my head, and pulled on my boots and tunic. I cleaned my teeth with willow bark, and taking one of the bone combs from my pack, ran it quickly through my hair. Until Bridget heated some water, could not shave. Sometimes I wondered if it would not be less trouble to grow a beard. Needing to relieve myself, I unbolted the door and went outside, round to the back of the cottage.

It was raining a little, not the thick pall of dense drizzle which, yesterday afternoon, had blotted out the far horizon, but bright, white spears of springtime rain, which would soon give place to sunshine. Fragments of blue sky were already showing through the cloud, promising another fine, warm day.

I returned to the cottage after a few minutes, to find Bridget and her grandmother both up and dressed, the former lighting a fire on the central hearthstone. Beside her, a leather bucket stood ready to fetch water from the well, farther up the hill.

‘Let me do that,’ I said, grasping the bucket’s handle.

The words were hardly out of my mouth when there was a frantic knocking at the cottage door. A voice I recognized as that of Peter Coucheneed, shouted urgently, ‘Roger! Roger Chapman! Are you there, man?’

‘Come in!’ I called. ‘The door’s unbolted.’

‘My, my!’ Granny Praule exulted. ‘What a to-do! Whatever can be the matter?’

The door opened and Peter Coucheneed burst in, forgetting to stoop and cracking his high, domed forehead against the lintel. Such was his perturbation, however, that he scarcely seemed to notice. His face was ashen, what hair he possessed awry, his clothes crumpled from sleeping in them. There was a smear of blood on one of his cheeks and another dark patch on the breast of his tunic. His hands, too, were liberally stained. Granny Praule gave a horrified shriek and Bridget looked as though she were going to faint. I dropped the bucket and guided her to a stool. Then I turned back to Peter.

‘What in God’s name has happened? Where are you hurt? Who has attacked you?’

‘Not me! Not me!’ he gasped, once he had found his tongue. ‘Martin and Luke, both murdered as they slept.’ He lifted one bloodstained hand and made a sawing motion across his neck. ‘Their throats are cut.’

Granny screamed again, but she was made of sterner stuff than her granddaughter, who gave a little moan, slid off the stool and sank, unconscious, to the ground.

‘It’s them wicked outlaws!’ Granny Praule wailed, going to Bridget’s assistance. She knelt down, gathering the girl into her arms. ‘Wake up, child! Wake up! This is no time to be losing your senses. Someone has to run for the Sheriff. What a piece of good fortune he’s here in the town.’

‘I’ll go,’ I said, but Granny shook her head. She let Bridget’s inert form slip back, unceremoniously, on to the beaten-earth floor, and scrambled with surprising agility to her feet.

‘You go to the wagon with this poor lad,’ she instructed, unhooking a rusty black cloak from a nail beside the door and draping it round her shoulders. ‘Wait with him till I come.’ She saw the worried glance I cast at Bridget, and added impatiently, ‘Let the silly child be. We can’t be bothering with the megrims at a time like this. She’ll come to, if you pay her no attention.’ And with this callous utterance, she was out of the door and off up the hill before I could stop her.

Peter Coucheneed was shaking from head to foot, so I found a pitcher of Granny’s damson wine and poured us both a generous measure. It was a potent brew. A slight colour crept back into his cheeks, and the palsied movements of his hands steadied a little. By this time, Bridget was beginning to stir, and I was able, with his assistance, to see her comfortably laid down upon Granny’s bed before we left the cottage.

The wagon stood a hundred yards or so to the south, not far from St Peter’s Quay, in the lee of some bushes which hedged the Cherry Cross estate. It was still not full daylight and few people had as yet strayed very far from home. No word of this new disaster had reached them, so at present, the cart was of no interest. It stood silent, its shafts empty, the mule some way off, contentedly nibbling the grass. As we drew close, Peter Coucheneed stopped and gripped my arm.

‘You must prepare yourself …’ he began, but was unable to say more, his voice clogged with horror, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

I patted his arm. ‘I understand,’ I whispered, and braced myself for what I was about to see.

I stared into the open back of the wagon where the two sprawled figures lay. The canvas, stretched over the willow framework, cast a gloom which made it seem, at first, as though both men were still asleep, but the sickly-sweet smell of blood quickly dispelled any such notion. As I leaned nearer, I was able to see that the head of Martin Fletcher, who lay stretched out with his feet towards the front end of the cart, was at a peculiar angle to his body, and that his exposed throat looked almost black, as did the stiffened breast of his shirt and tunic. The bedding and pile of costumes beneath him were also darkly stained, and, at his side, the supine body of Luke Hollis showed similar signs of abnormality. I touched the neck of each man in turn, and my fingers came away sticky with congealing blood. I shuddered.

‘Where did you sleep?’ I asked Peter Coucheneed, although I could guess the answer.

‘At the front, across their feet, from side to side of the wagon. Not so easily reached. It’s probably what saved my life.’

I grunted, but made no other reply. It was certain that whoever had killed Martin Fletcher and Luke Hollis had been presented with an easy task. The back of the canvas hood was open to the elements, both men’s heads towards the cart-tail, both deep in an ale-soused slumber from which very little would have roused them. And, because of this, both were probably sleeping on their backs in order to breathe the easier. The silent-footed murderer would have had no difficulty in lifting each man’s head and cutting his throat with the minimum of fuss. Yet, having killed two, and with no danger of an alarm being raised, it would have been simple then to walk round to the side of the cart and dispatch the third. So, surely, if Peter Coucheneed had been spared, it was not because of his whereabouts in the wagon.

The next question to present itself was why had the two men been killed at all? I asked if anything had been stolen.

My companion shook his head. ‘No, nothing. What do we have that’s worth the taking? But do wolf-heads need a reason for what they do? They live by violence. The murder of innocent people is nothing more to them than sport.’ This was a point of view shared by most of the town’s inhabitants as word of the killings spread rapidly amongst them. The Sheriff, busy assembling his posse in the Priory forecourt, was too hard pressed to come himself but sent instead one of his sergeants, who had no hesitation in branding these latest murders the work of the outlaws. News had only just been received, within an hour or so of sunrise, of the looting of a farm and holdings in the parish of Berry Pomeroy. It was plain that the outlaws, returning to their lair, had come across the wagon, and slaked their blood-lust by murdering two of its sleeping inmates.

Such, at any rate, was the conclusion drawn by the sergeant, and eagerly taken up and repeated by all those who had gathered at Cherry Cross, attracted, as folk always are, by the, smell of death and destruction. In half an hour, it would be in every mouth, and quoted as Gospel truth, without any need for further thought or explanation. An atmosphere of hysteria pervaded the town and Foregate, for if the outlaws had not yet managed to breach the walls or stockade, it seemed as if they had come very close to doing so, far too close for peace of mind and comfort.

I left Peter Coucheneed to the ministrations of Granny Praule and Bridget, the former cock-a-hoop at thus finding herself the centre of attention, with a succession of visitors calling to inquire after herself and her guest. Four of the strongest Brothers from the Priory were summoned to take away the bodies, and I went with them, at Peter’s request, walking beside the litters.

Inside the town, all was feverish activity. Seemingly, from the numbers thronging the streets, few people remained indoors, only the very old and very young children. News of this latest outrage had spurred many able-bodied men to swell the posse’s ranks who might otherwise have hesitated to spend long days in the saddle, riding over rough and uncharted terrain. I saw Thomas Cozin, mounted on a mettlesome bay, his wife and daughters hanging devotedly about his stirrups and trying their best to dissuade him from such a hazardous enterprise. The Sheriff was dividing his volunteers into groups and placing each one under the direction of a sergeant. Plans were drawn up as to the ground to be covered by the different companies, so that as much of the surrounding countryside as possible would be covered.

I saw the bodies of Martin Fletcher and Luke Hollis safely bestowed in the mortuary chapel, before leaving them to the ministrations of the Brothers. Pushing my way back across the crowded forecourt, I found myself unexpectedly accosted by Oliver Cozin. He was on foot and clearly not a member of the posse. He seemed irate.

‘Master Chapman, I’m glad I fell in with you. You have, some explaining to do, sir, have you not? Damage to my client’s property.’

I was confused, there being no room in my mind at that instant for anything other than the deaths of my friends. For however short a time I had known them, I had grown to count them as such, and Martin Fletcher, because of his likeness to his brother, had quickly found a special place in my affections.

‘Damage?’ I asked stupidly. ‘What damage?’

‘Don’t play the innocent with me, lad!’ was the sharp rejoinder. ‘I am talking about the gallery, which now lies in ruins, thanks to your heavy-footed carelessness. For Mistress Harbourne says you fell through its floor.’

‘She told you so?’ I demanded, feeling betrayed.

‘She told Master Colet when he observed the damage for himself, rightly deciding that she should not be held responsible for something which was not her fault.’

‘The wood was rotten,’ I answered truculently, at the same time wondering what else Grizelda might have been tempted to disclose.

‘Quite probably,’ the lawyer replied austerely, ‘but you should have informed me of the accident when I called yesterday morning, and not chosen Mistress Harbourne to confide in.’

I was in no mood for such a scolding. ‘If Master Colet thinks I shall pay for the repairs, he may rid himself of any such notion. I did you and him a favour by sleeping in the house, only to be turned out unceremoniously when my services were no longer needed. Good-day, sir!’ And I turned to walk away.

Oliver Cozin caught at my sleeve. His tone was still frosty, but his words slightly more conciliatory.

‘I mentioned nothing about payment, Master Chapman. But my client and I would have appreciated a little honesty.’ He took a breath and forced himself to unbend even further.

‘I am distressed to hear about these terrible murders. I understand that you befriended the mummers when they arrived in the town yesterevening. One of them, I am told, leaves a brother who is a monk at Glastonbury Abbey, known to you when you yourself were a novice there?’

The last words ended on a rising note of query, as though he could not quite credit that I had ever had so respectable a calling. I inclined my head in assent, and the lawyer continued with sudden warmth, ‘Then let us hope that the lord Sheriff and the goodmen of this town have successful hunting. Such foul deeds cannot be tolerated. Although for some of our number to be joining the posse,’ he added, glancing with concern in his brother’s direction, ‘is inexcusable folly! Good-day to you, Master Chapman!’ And he swung on his heel, elbowing his way through the crowd to Thomas’s side.

I remained, wedged in a corner of the Priory forecourt, staring after him. It occurred to me that everything which had recently happened amiss in the good town of Totnes, was being laid at the door of the outlaws. No other explanation was even contemplated, so large did the wolf-heads’ presence in the district loom in people’s minds. Watching the swirl of feverish activity all about me, I sensed the underlying fear, which this morning’s gruesome discovery had only excited still further. There was no gainsaying the fact that the robbers were evil men, and bore the stigma of murder as well as theft, but surely that did not make them guilty of every crime committed in the neighbourhood. Why should they have paused last night for wanton killing, without the possibility of gain? It made no sense. The killing, moreover, of two wandering mummers as poor and as homeless as the outlaws themselves, and for whom, if such men had feelings, they might have experienced a sneaking sympathy.

I thought of the burning of Grizelda’s cottage. She had claimed it as an act of spite by the outlaws, and she could be right. Yet that same night, they had attacked the outlying homesteads of Dartington. Satisfied with their haul of plunder, why should they go out of their way to exact a petty revenge? Then there was the killing of Andrew and Mary Skelton. As recently as three days ago, when I first heard the story, there had been lingering doubts in a few people’s minds as to the outlaws’ guilt, but these suspicions were now forgotten, swept aside as unjust after the events of the past two nights. All the same, there were still too many unanswered questions about this particular crime for my liking. And whatever others might think, I knew that someone had tried to maim or even kill me, someone who could imitate the voice of a child, someone who was worried in ease I stumbled on the truth.

But what was the truth? My thoughts came round full circle to be brought up short once more by the testimony of Bridget Praule, Agatha Tenter and Master Thomas Cozin that Eudo Colet had been out of the house when his stepchildren vanished. They had been there when he left, but had disappeared by the time he returned. He had had no opportunity to harm them.

Suddenly the Priory forecourt began to clear as the posse, with the Sheriff at its head, moved off. In moments, I was left with only the other onlookers for company, and I saw Oliver Cozin put a consoling arm around his sister-in-law’s shoulders. The three girls huddled together for comfort as they and many others proceeded to the parish church to pray for their loved ones’ safety. I went with them as far as the porch, but then walked on to High Street and turned left, downhill, towards the East Gate.

Granny Praule had water heating for me over the fire, and when I had shaved, she insisted that I sat down to breakfast.

‘A shock like that needs feeding, lad,’ she said, frying a lump of fat bacon in a skillet, and producing a slice of horse bread from a crock which stood in one corner. She cast a scornful, if affectionate, glance at her granddaughter, who was sitting on the bed beside Peter Coucheneed and holding his hand. ‘I’ve no patience,’ she went on, gnashing her toothless gums in irritation, ‘with folk who fall over, like trees in a gale, every time there’s a bit of trouble. If the good Lord had intended us to live in comfort on this earth, it stands to reason He’d not have needed to create the Hereafter. Bestir yourself, girl, and fetch that poor creature alongside you a cup more of my damson wine. He looks as if he needs it.’

To my protests that I was taking the food out of her and Bridget’s mouths, Granny turned a deaf ear, and my offer of payment brought the vials of her wrath down about my head.

When she was young, she informed me severely, travellers had a right to expect sustenance on their journeys from whomsoever had the means to provide it, especially those of them who had suffered misfortune. She plunged a knife into the sizzling lump of bacon and tossed it on to the plate I was holding on my knees, pressing it with the flat of the blade so that the fat ran out and soaked into the horse bread. For this small consideration I was grateful, always having found the coarseness of such bread, with its mixture of peas and beans and bits of chaff, unpalatable.

When I had finished eating, I took Peter Coucheneed gently by the arm and urged him to his feet.

‘Come outside,’ I said. ‘The air will do you good.’ He followed me, docilely, like someone who had lost the power to think for himself and would do whatever he was told.

‘What will you do now?’ I asked him gently. ‘It has to be thought of, in spite of your grief, and the sooner the better. How long have the three of you been together?’ He roused himself a little, rubbing his forehead like a man awakening from a dream.

‘A month,’ he answered, ‘perhaps six weeks at most. I fell in with them on the road from Southampton, where they’d spent the winter, and Martin suggested that I join them.’

‘Ah!’ I was surprised by this. ‘I thought you had all three been friends for some long time.’

Peter shook his head. ‘No. Martin and Luke had known each other since childhood, leaving their parents’ company, set out on their own, flying the nest as we all must do sooner or later. But I was a stranger to them until we met in the shadow of Romsey Abbey. It was Martin who saw at once that with my height, my thinness, my baldness, I was the perfect foil for Luke, who, as you saw, was short and stout and blessed with more hair than any man has a need for.’ He smiled wryly. ‘“As a pair, you’ll raise a laugh wherever we go,” Martin said, and he was right, for people had only to see us side by side to begin to chuckle.’ Peter’s eyes filled with tears which overflowed and ran down his cheeks, his body racked with sobs. ‘I thought I’d found a family to replace my own, who all died of the plague one summer. But now I’m alone again. Sweet Jesus! Why ever did we come to this accursed town? If only we’d known earlier about the outlaws.’

I put my arms around him and hugged him, but I am ashamed to remember that the comfort I offered was absentminded. I was deep in thought.

Was it simply chance which had decreed that the two men who had been friends since childhood, who had spent their lives in one another’s company, should be the victims of this murderous attack, whilst the newcomer, a member of their band for only six weeks, should escape unharmed? Or was there some deeper, more sinister reason? Then I recalled the speech I had had, earlier, with Oliver Cozin and froze into stillness…

I became aware that Peter was asking me a question.

‘What am I to do about the wagon? It belonged to Martin and Luke, yet it seems a shame to abandon it here to rot. Martin has family… a brother …’

‘Nick won’t hay any claim to it, you may be certain,’ I answered, determinedly cheerful. ‘And where the rest of Martin’s kin are scattered, or Luke’s for that matter, I have no more notion than you have. Take the cart, use it for yourself I’m sure it’s what both of them would wish, could we but ask them. And who around here knows enough to contest your right?’

He smiled gratefully, the advice being what he wanted to hear. ‘I’ll be on my way in a day or two, then, when I’ve seen Martin and Luke decently buried. Do you think Dame Praule would let me remain here for a while with her and Bridget? I have a little money. I could pay my way.’

‘By all means ask her,’ I said, glad that his thoughts were taking a positive turn. ‘I don’t doubt but she’ll agree. Moreover, she’ll help you cleanse the mattress and the pile of costumes. Women understand these mysteries. My mother, God rest her soul, had remedies for any kind of stain, although she always said blood was difficult.’

But the mere mention of the word ‘blood’ was sufficient to start him trembling all over again, so I accompanied him back to the cottage and did his pleading for him. Not that Granny Praule needed much persuasion. She was delighted with any diversion in her humdrum life, especially one which would give her such standing amongst her neighbours. And the prospect of a little extra money pleased Bridget.

‘And we’ll take the mattress and the clothes down to the river, to the ford, and hold them under the running water,’ Granny said. ‘There’s nothing like cold, running water for dealing with blood.’ She patted Peter Coucheneed’s arm. ‘There, there, lad. Don’t take on so. We must be practical, and it would be a wicked shame to throw those good things away, or burn them. No, no! A little time, a little patience and we’ll have them almost as good as new.’

Feeling that Peter was now in good hands, I picked up my pack and cudgel.

‘I must be going,’ I said. ‘I have things to do.’

Granny sighed. ‘You’ll be away from here, I suppose. You’ve your living to earn.’ She proffered me her wrinkled lips to kiss. ‘Take care of yourself, lad. It’s dangerous out there, on the roads. Where are you bound for?’

‘London,’ I answered. ‘There’s someone there I need to talk to. A woman.’ Granny snorted derisively. ‘You mistake,’ t told her. ‘Neither a sweetheart nor a leman. In truth, I’ve never set eyes on the lady. I shall be gone some weeks, but I’ll be back. That, however, is for your ears only. If anyone should ask, anyone at all, you understand, I have left Totnes and resumed my travels.’

Granny Praule regarded me with bright, shrewd eyes.

‘You can trust me,’ she promised. ‘But you’re up to something, and you can’t tell me otherwise. Go on, get along with you, but remember what I said. Take care!’