The man nodded, his bucket and cloth forgotten as he watched the little silver coin spin and curve in the air so prettily. He could almost hear it calling to him, demanding a comfortable resting place in his purse.
“Was Godfrey mean with his horses?”
“No, he was always careful to make sure they were well looked after, sir.”
“Yet on this occasion he had a shoe replaced on his mare’s hoof. Why didn’t he send the mare to the smithy for a new one?”
“Well, the mistress saw her mare had cast a shoe-she pointed it out to me when she was back from her ride-and said it seemed a pity to have a new one made when the old one was fine.”
“You mean she saw the shoe come off and went to fetch it?” Simon asked disbelievingly. “Do you think that’s normal?”
The servant gave him a long-suffering look, as if nothing much that happened in his household would surprise him. “Her father could have an evil temper. Maybe she was nervous about causing extra expense.”
“But you said he always saw his horses were well looked after?”
“That doesn’t mean he’d appreciate seeing others frittering away his money on their own.”
Baldwin nodded. “And your mistress might have been nervous about his response? Do you have good reason to suppose he’d treat her badly?”
“I haven’t seen her being beaten, but we’ve all heard her weeping. Especially over the last few weeks.”
“Had Godfrey been different, then, over that period? Had he treated everyone more harshly?”
“No, sir. Generally, he was better to us all.” The servant was frowning, as if he was himself surprised by the recollection. “But the mistress has certainly been very upset. I assumed she was being beaten by her father. He could have a violent turn of mood on occasion.”
“So you said. Very well, so Cecily asked you to go to the smith?”
“Yes, sir. Her mare lost the shoe on the morning that the master was killed. As soon as the mistress came home she asked me to fetch the smith, and tell him to get here for the afternoon. He said that was fine, but if the shoe needed replacing he’d have to take the mare back to the forge to make one. As it was, Mistress persuaded him not to bother and just to refit the old one, and told him he could join Putthe in the buttery when he was done.”
“You heard all this?” Baldwin pressed.
“Yes, I was there while they were looking at the mare. Mistress said he could carry on, and she went back inside.”
“And this was early afternoon?”
“Yes, I guess so, by the time the smith got here.”
“One thing,” Simon asked frowningly. “Was the smith an especial friend of the bottler? Did Jack often drop in to meet with Putthe over a jar or two of ale?”
“Him?” the servant guffawed, dropping his cloth into the bucket and holding his chest with mirth. “You must be mad! Putthe friends with a smith? Look, Putthe is the bottler in a good hall. He gave his vow to the master for life-and a man like Putthe takes that kind of oath seriously. You honestly think a fellow like him would be the comrade of a peasant who’s managed to learn a trade? No, Putthe and Jack aren’t friends. At best they’ll pass the time of day, but no more than that.”
“So why should Putthe be expected to entertain Jack in the buttery with him?”
“You know how it is-the master or mistress tells the servant who to meet and talk to. I daresay Putthe was not pleased to be told to have a boorish fool like Jack in the room with him, but once he was told, what was he supposed to do?”
“I think it’s time we went to speak to Putthe again,” said Simon.
Rodde was unaware of the steps behind him. He had other things to consider. Apart from anything else, his hip hurt as though the bone was chipped-a rock had struck him there the night before, and it burned as if he had been branded. It was so painful, it overwhelmed all the other bruises and scrapes of his body, and caused his slow, limping gait.
It was not the pain that made him pensive and furrowed his brow, it was Cecily’s words. He had refused her, as he should, but she had been very determined, and he wasn’t sure she had listened to his condemnation of her idea. It would be mad for her to try to win a place in the leper camp-he couldn’t permit it. He knew some women, especially the insanely religious, sometimes copied Christ and tended to the sick. The most fanatical would kiss a leper’s sores, demonstrating their faith by their devotion to those whom God had chosen, but for Thomas Rodde the thought that Cecily should join the lepers was intolerable.
There was only one route for him, he felt, and he was now determined to take it. He must go from Crediton and find somewhere else to end his days. This place was no longer safe or peaceful. Since first seeing Cecily, it had become a place of horror-especially now her father had died because of him. Yet it was impossible while his leg was so painful. He couldn’t run away when running was impossible.
That night was branded on his soul. The way that Godfrey had rushed in, hauling his daughter from the window, punching her and sending her flying, before turning to Rodde himself and holding up his hand to order him not to flee. Hearing his agonized shout, seeing the man’s eyes turn upward until the white showed, and slowly toppling forward like a felled tree.
And behind him, holding the heavy staff, the man who had only wanted to protect Rodde, his friend Edmund Quivil.
Edgar pounded on the sun-darkened oak. There was a call from within, and soon footsteps could be heard approaching. “I’m coming, I’m coming!”
It opened wide, and Putthe stood on the threshold. His face, grim at the best of times, fell into a scowl when he saw who waited on the doorstep.
“May we come in?” asked Baldwin smoothly as he walked into the screens. “I think we can speak easiest in your buttery, don’t you?”
Putthe gave a non-committal grunt and the knight led the way inside.
“Your head looks as if it’s a bit better, Putthe,” commented Simon.
“Wish it felt it.”
“Still giving you grief? I know head wounds can take time.”
“It hurts,” he conceded with an ill grace.
“We aren’t here to talk about your wound, however,” said Baldwin, sitting at Putthe’s own stool and watching him speculatively. “We’re here because of the odd way that Jack happened to come along here on the afternoon Godfrey died.”
Putthe was not made of such strong material as his mistress; he gave a start and shot a look at the knight. He hadn’t expected the blasted Keeper to have realized how odd that little event was. When he spoke, his tone was wary. “What do I know of that, Master? I’m the bottler, I don’t know what goes on in the stableyard.”
“So you know something was wrong, too. Either that or you suspect something-or someone. What was strange about calling Jack out like that?”
“How should I know?”
“I don’t know how you should know, but you are about to tell us. What struck you about having Jack called up here that day? Was it the fact that Godfrey would never normally stint on looking after his horses, and the mare might just as well have been sent to the smithy? Or was it that Cecily herself appeared to have some ulterior motive in it?”
“What sort of motive could my lady have had in asking the smith to come up here?” the bottler asked scornfully.
“That,” said Simon, who had moved behind the bottler, “is what we wish to find out from you. What advantage was there, having the smith up here?”
“Because,” Baldwin added smoothly, “there is always the other possibility: that it was you who arranged matters such that the smith came up here.”
“Me?” the bottler squeaked. “What possible reason would I have to ask a slovenly fool like him to come up here?”