The Wicked Winter

Chapter Sixteen

I walked along the back of the house in the direction of the stables, then turned left and crossed the inner courtyard, past the fish pond, to the gate set in the wall between laundry and dairy. The sun was mounting in the sky, and every now and then my eyes were dazzled by the sudden glitter, reflected from piles of banked-up snow. At the end of the path across the marshland, the tower swam insubstantially in the morning light. When I reached it, I did not enter, but turned yet again to my left, along the narrow track which led through the scrubland.

At first this was easy to see despite its white covering, for the clumps of sea holly and samphire were widely spaced, with coarse tufts of marram grass in between. It gradually became less obvious, however, overhung by crowding trees and dense undergrowth, and as I picked my cautious way amongst stunted oaks and snaking roots, I was forced to keep my eyes firmly on the ground. But I was relieved to note that, even under snow, the well-trodden path grew slowly visible. People passing and repassing over the years had broken down foliage and branches, leaving a clear, if narrow, track which rose steeply towards the high ground and thebroad, rutted road leading eastwards in the direction of Bristol.

The silence felt suddenly oppressive, and I realised how alone I was in this desolate wilderness. The manor was by this time somewhere behind me and out of sight, although now and again I briefly glimpsed the outline of a distant roof as trees thinned and the path began to climb. I also grew more aware of my body's aches and pains as it protested against the treatment it had received in recent days. I began to shiver, and it was not altogether on account of the cold.

The ancient gods of the trees seemed very close; it needed little imagination to fancy the Green Man following hard on my heels…

I took a firmer grasp of my cudgel and flung the right-hand side of my cloak up and over my left shoulder, making the garment more secure and freeing my ankles, so that whenever possible I could take longer steps. Every so often I raised my voice and called, 'Ulnoth!' but there was no reply.

I was certain, although with nothing to support my conviction, that the signs of life I had noticed yesterday morning from the direction of the scrubland had been made by the hermit. For some reason, he had set out early from home and walked to Cederffell Manor. It would have been a long and arduous journey in such terrible conditions, and it was almost impossible that he would have come so far in search of food. Had he then been looking for me? He knew where I was, for I recalled telling him my destination during that short, second visit to the boulder house on Tuesday. Yet why should he wish to find me? What was it he had been so frightened of? And if he had indeed managed to get as far as Cederwell, why had he not simply entered by the main gate and asked for me by name? There was no gatekeeper, but he had only to make his way around to the back of the house and knock. Why was he so obviously spying out the land before approaching?

I realised that I might never know the answers to these questions, for if Ulnoth had found no shelter last night- and the tinker had testified that his host had not returned — he could well have frozen to death by now. The thought made me quicken my pace and, in consequence, I slipped on a patch of frozen snow and slid to my knees. I cursed aloud.

That was my third fall in just under a week, and although my tumble from the tower stairs had not been my fault, I was nevertheless growing careless. My health, particularly my physical well-being, was my fortune, what little there was of it, and I could ill afford to be laid up if I were to earn a living for myself and my child.

Shaken, I stayed where I was for a moment or two, but as I made to rise I noticed that the bushes and small trees to my right had been disturbed, bits of twig snapped off and a passage forced between them. Moreover their covering of snow was lighter than that of the surrounding undergrowth, a soft powdering, the result of the storm during the early part of last night and not the heavy burden of many days' accumulation. I scrambled to my feet and very carefully began to penetrate the scrubland.

Trailing brambles tore at my cloak and hose, but I was too worried now to pay any attention or take heed of the damage they were causing. Something or someone had recently passed this way, beating a path through the tangle of wild vegetation. And there, hanging from a thorn, was a long black thread and, further on, what proved to be, when shaken clear of snow, a thin strip of black woollen cloth. My heart sank at this proof that my suspicions might have substance. I lunged forward, swinging my stick from side to side, only to be brought up short by an obstacle which blocked any further progress.

The man's body was wedged between the iron-hard roots of trees and stems of saplings, having been pushed down as far as it would go to keep it concealed throughout the winter.

Had I not formed a theory and come looking, had I not slipped and noticed the tell-tale signs, the chances were that it would have lain undiscovered until spring, by which time, a prey to the elements and the predators of the woods, it would have been barely recognisable. Certainly there would have been too little left of the flesh to show how he had died. The bruised throat, the bulging eyes, the protruding tongue would no longer have borne mute witness to the fact that Ulnoth had been throttled.

For I had no doubt that it was Ulnoth, even before I stooped and turned his face towards me. The bald, almost skeletal head was instantly familiar, as were the thinly fleshed bones. His rusty black cloak was still fastened about his neck, but had fallen away from his body to reveal his much darned, greyish-brown tunic and hose. His hunting knife, however, remained in its sheath, attached to the leather belt around his waist, surely an indication that robbery had not been the killer's motive.

Anger licked through me with a steady and persevering flame, and I swore to bring to book whoever had committed this appalling crime. Ulnoth had been a quiet, kindly and, above all, gentle soul, offering harm to no one. Yet his life had been cut short, not by the forces of nature but by one of his fellow humans. The bruises on his throat were the shadows of two thumbs, pressed hard against his windpipe, and there was no doubt at all in my mind that when the back of the neck was exposed, I should find the imprints of fingers.

Someone had seized him by the throat and strangled the life out of him with no more compunction than if he had been a chicken destined for the pot.

Cautiously I straightened my back, vainly trying to avoid further damage to my clothes, and stared down at this latest victim of the murderer who stalked Cederwell Manor. It was impossible that I should move the body on my own, and I must therefore return to the house with news of my discovery, and get help. It would come hard on most of the inhabitants to be faced with yet another death, even though they acknowledged no connection between this one and the previous two. Ulnoth's would be attributed to a marauding thief, abroad looking for sustenance, who had quarrelled with the hermit over some precious morsel of food.

And might not that indeed be the case? I asked myself, as I retraced my steps through the scrubland. But I could not accept the explanation. I had spent four days in Ulnoth's company, during which time I had got to know him, if not well, at least as well as any stranger could. I was certain that he would not have strayed over a mile from home unless for a purpose, and that purpose would not be to forage. He knew all the places close to the boulder house where food could be obtained, even in the worst of winter weather. No, I felt sure that Ulnoth had come searching for me in order to unburden himself of something he had remembered…

And yet, I wondered, suddenly hesitant, why should he do so? Why should he seek me out? He knew nothing of the other deaths at Cederwell Manor. How could he? Nor could he be certain that, having reached there, I had remained in the house for the past two days. I might, after all, have travelled on beyond the manor to the cottages ranged along the river's edge, where lived Sir Hugh's tenants and many of his workers. I paused, resting on my cudgel, staring sightlessly before me. Perhaps I had made a false assumption in thinking that Ulnoth had come to find me. But if I were indeed in error, what had he been doing here?

My news was received at Cederwell in exactly the way I had anticipated; dismay at the report of yet another death, but each one, in its own way, attributable to the terrible weather.

Lady Cederwell had slipped from the look-out platform of the tower, partly through her own folly in standing on the parapet, but partly, too, because conditions were already treacherous, with ice forming between the crenellations. Her half-brother had walked in his sleep and fallen headlong into the well, a tragedy which might have been precipitated by a treacherous patch of frozen snow. And now the hermit had undoubtedly been attacked and murdered for some scrap of food coveted by another fellow creature, desperate to keep body and soul together in this bitter cold.

Such was the version of events presented to me not only by Martha Grindcobb, heartily endorsed by Ethelwynne and Edith, but also by everyone else to whom I spoke, including Sir Hugh and Mistress Lynom. (The general atmosphere between these two seemed to have improved very slightly since the previous day, but it was obvious, nevertheless, that suspicion of each other still lingered, although they were careful to disguise this fact from others.) The weather explained everything to their satisfaction, as apparently it did to the rest of the household. The Capsgrave brothers, who accompanied me into the scrubland, bearing a litter, and who assisted in bringing back Ulnoth's body to the manor, were confidently of the opinion that the bad winter was the cause of all. And who could blame them? Who, if given the choice, would prefer the idea that a killer was loose amongst them; a killer who, for aught they could see, might strike again for no good reason?

There was only one person who did not pretend to share the general view, and that was Brother Simeon. He suggested that, as the sun was shining, we take a walk around the courtyard until dinner was ready.

'It's a little warmer, I think, than earlier this morning. Besides, there's no way we can talk in the kitchen. The clack of women's voices is unceasing.'

I readily agreed, so we wrapped ourselves in our cloaks and went outside. The slight thaw was increasing, and some of the icicles beneath the eaves were beginning, steadily, to drip. We directed our feet towards the outer courtyard and circled the fish pond, where carp and pike swam like ghosts beneath the coverlet of ice, or came now and then to the hole made that morning by whoever had fed them, to see if there was anything more for the taking.

'Well?' Simeon asked. 'What is your idea now about these deaths?'

I answered promptly, 'That they are the work of one person and are all connected, although I think Ulnoth's murder to have but an indirect link with the other two.'

Simeon frowned. 'What makes you say that?'

I chewed my bottom lip. 'Because,' I said at last, 'I believe the death of Lady Cederwell and her half-brother to have been for a single purpose. Ulnoth, on the other hand, may simply have seen or heard or noted something that he shouldn't. In spite of his seeming stupidity, he had greater perception than you might think; he was perfectly capable of drawing conclusions from what he saw which were unnervingly close to the truth. It was a kind of sixth sense such as animals seem to have, and which alerts them to danger or evil in their vicinity.'

The friar hunched his shoulders.

'I'll accept your word for that as our paths never crossed. So, what do you think to be the reason for the deaths of Lady Cederwell and Gerard Empryngham?'

I hedged. 'I haven't yet decided.'

'But you have some inkling of the truth?'

'Perhaps. But whether it is of the truth or not, I'm still uncertain.'

There was a short silence before Simeon demanded testily, 'Well? Do you intend to share your suspicions with me?'

I shook my head. 'Forgive me, Brother, but they are too nebulous to be told to anyone, even to your good self. All I can say at present with any authority, is that I'm sure the spark which ignited this conflagration was the invitation extended to you by Lady Cederwell. Your presence here at the manor posed a threat.'

Simeon's lips thinned. 'And we all know to whom! Sir Hugh and his paramour!' He fairly spat the last word, as though it were an imprecation. 'And to Maurice Cederwell and his mignon!'

I shushed him. 'We have no proof of that calumny now that my lady's letter of accusation has been lost.'

'And whose fault is that, pray?'

'I'm hardly to blame, Brother, if someone pushes me off the stairs and renders me unconscious.'

'You should have foreseen something of the sort. You should have anticipated the possible danger.'

I opened my mouth to reply, then shut it again. It was pointless to argue, and I realised that the friar's sudden burst of bad temper had its origin in my refusal to share my innermost thoughts with him. He had been as deeply involved in the events at Cederwell Manor as I had, and, if I were fair, had played a more important and central part. But I had no desire to expose an imperfect theory to Brother Simeon's incredulity and scorn.

I laid a hand on his shoulder. 'Forgive me, but I need more time.'

'Which is what you do not have.' He shook off my hand with a petulant shrug. 'We shall both be gone from here by tomorrow.' He nodded at the surrounding snow, which was already showing small lakes and rivers amongst its undulations. 'It's thawing apace. The air is several degrees warmer than at this same time yesterday. We have no excuse to trespass on Sir Hugh's hospitality after tonight. You've said so yourself.'

Sadly I acquiesced, thinking, although not saying aloud, that this was one occasion when I might not be able to bring a murderer to justice. There were things I should be doing, but somehow the will to bestir myself had deserted me. I felt tired, my body ached, and I watched with dull eyes as the friar, with a curt word of farewell, scuffed a path through the ankle-deep snow and vanished around a corner of the house, on his way back to the warmth of the kitchen. For a moment, I was tempted to join him. I could comfortably spend the remainder of the morning and the afternoon checking through the contents of my pack and resting, husbanding my strength, ready to set off tomorrow as soon as it was properly light. Within three days, maybe four in this unfriendly weather, going at a steady pace and with no diversions this time to ply my trade, I could be home in Bristol, settled by the fireside with my mother-in-law and daughter. Margaret, who must be worried, would be delighted to see me, and even Elizabeth might hold up her little arms in recognition…

Then, or so it seemed to me, God took me by the scruff of the neck and shook me. Certainly my whole body trembled as a gust of icy wind hit me in the face. And yet, a second later, there was not the slightest breeze to be felt, no powdering of disturbed snow on any of my garments. I drew in a deep breath of ice-cold air.

'All right, Lord,' I said grudgingly. 'All right!' And I went back to the house.

The tinker had finished his task and gone, even before I had returned with the news of Ulnoth's death, the lure of perhaps more work to be had in the riverside dwellings urging him on and making him refuse, however reluctantly, the cook's invitation to stay to dinner. This was now almost ready, as Martha Grindcobb acidly informed me on my arrival.

'What's wrong with you, lad? You can't be still for half an hour together.'

'What have they done with Ulnoth?' I inquired.

'Who? Oh, the hermit. God rest his soul! Sir Hugh ordered that the body be placed in the chapel. Saints defend us! Where are you off to, now?'

'Upstairs, to pay my respects.' I kissed her cheek. ‘I’ll be down again before you've taken the pasties out of the oven.'

'If you're not, you'll just have to eat yours cold,' she retorted, but her tone was softer and she gave me an affectionate slap on the shoulder.

The litter bearing Ulnoth's corpse had been placed in front of the altar, its poles supported by a trestle at either end. He was still lying on his side as I had found him, but the body was already beginning to lose its stiffness. He must therefore have been killed yesterday, sometime after I had seen him moving through the scrubland. His cloak had been removed and rolled up neatly beneath his head, so I eased it from under him and shook out its folds. The black cloth smelt musty and, strangely, of fruit. I realised that it must have been dyed with blackberry juice. It was as carefully mended and darned as was the rest of his apparel, for, in his own poor way, Ulnoth had been as particular about his appearance as the King of England. There were no holes or rents in his garments, unlike those of many another man who had a woman to look after him.

I stared down at his distorted features and again vowed to bring his murderer to book. Then I went next door to visit Father Godyer.

The chaplain was looking a little better today, his nose less watery and a faint trace of colour in his cheeks. As I entered the bedchamber, he screwed up his eyes and peered towards the door.

'Who's that?' he quavered.

'Roger Chapman. We met yesterday.'

'Have you brought my dinner?'

'No. It's not quite ready. Don't worry, Mistress Grindcobb will send one of the girls up with it as soon as it is.'

'She forgets me sometimes. Well, sit down! Sit down on the edge of the bed and tell me what's happening elsewhere in the house. I get no news up here, you know. I heard more commotion this morning, and something's been placed in the chapel. Is it my lady? I'd like to think she was near me. What's going on?'

So I recounted the history of Ulnoth, which interested him, but caused no distress other than for that of a soul untimely dispatched to meet his Maker. In common with everyone else, the priest attributed the killing to a fight over scarce and precious food.

'And when word of his slaying gets about, as it will surely do, someone else will find a home in the boulder house. It will provide warmth and shelter for another wanderer who's tired of the road and wishes to put down roots. God will not let the hermit's death be wasted.' Father Godyer sighed. 'Although I doubt there's any chance of catching the man who killed him. But sometimes, you know, those who cheat the law of the land come to a worse end than choking away their lives at the end of a rope.' He saw my raised eyebrows and smiled thinly. 'I was thinking of poor Raymond Shepherd, the man I told you about, who defiled my lady. The outlaws beat him to death so violently, that he was recognisable only by his clothes.' His normally mild tones held a repellently vicious note of triumph. 'That is what I call true justice, God's justice,' he added with satisfaction.

I regarded him thoughtfully. He had admitted during our previous talk to feeling more for Lady Cederwell than he should have done; to looking upon her as his real, rather than his spiritual child. Now, I could not help wondering if he had felt a deeper affection than that for her. Had he experienced a physical love for Jeanette Empryngham to which he could never own, not even to himself, but which was all the stronger for being constantly suppressed? Edith knocked and came in with a tray bearing a savoury smelling pasty and a mazer of ale.

'Your dinner, Father,' she announced, setting the tray down on his knees. She addressed me. 'Mistress Grindcobb says yours is ready as well, Chapman, and if you don't come at once, she'll feed it to the birds.'

I laughed and accompanied her downstairs to the kitchen, but not without a backward glance at the chaplain as I reached the bedchamber door. His appetite seemed to have returned and he was eating heartily, holding the pastry coffin between his hands and gnawing on the meat with an excellent set of teeth. The gravy was running down his chin. Yesterday, I had thought him a sad, unhappy man; today, I had different ideas.

Brother Simeon pointedly ignored me during dinner. I had plainly offended beyond hope of present forgiveness, so I munched my way in silence through three of Martha's pasties, excellent even if the dried, salted meat proved to be somewhat tough, and devoted myself to my thoughts.

These included a view from a window, a russet cloak flung over Mistress Talke's arm, a conversation with Adela Empryngham, the discovery of her husband's body and an unguarded remark. There were other things, too; a man and a woman quarrelling, the name on a dying woman's lips…

'You're very quiet, my lad,' Martha Grindcobb accused me. 'What's the matter? Has the cat got your tongue?'

Brother Simeon looked up and said spitefully, 'Oh, the chapman believes that Lady Cederwell and her half-brother were murdered, don't you, Roger? Furthermore, although he won't tell the likes of you and me, Mistress Grindcobb, he thinks he knows the murderer's name.'

I stared at him, horrified, my hand, clutching a half-eaten pasty, suspended in mid-air. This sudden burst of venom on the part of the friar could easily have put my life in danger.