It was never good, seeing a man’s face that birds had been at, and worse when it was someone you’d known.
Meanwhile, the other men had seen to lifting Tom’s body onto the hurdle. Father Edmund had covered it with a blanket he’d thought to bring, and then with Bert, Walter, John, and Hamon doing the carrying and Father Edmund the praying, they’d headed back, Simon and Dickon trailing behind, Simon’s arm around Dickon’s shoulders.
By then all those who should have been doing something better had caught up to them and seen them all the way back the village, to Tom’s house, but when all was said and done, there were only the seven of them who had “found” it and brought it in; and with Dickon too young to be a juror and Father Edmund a priest, that had left Simon, Bert, Walter, John, and Hamon to be jurors when the time came, like it or not.
Simon hadn’t liked it. But he liked being left out of it even less, and his unease grew as he watched Bert and John shifting their bottoms on the bench and their feet on the floor, looking everywhere except at him, while Hamon gave him a short glance and snatched it away. Only Walter met his eyes but with a frowning worry that told Simon nothing except that there looked to be something to worry over, and that much he had begun to guess already.
He looked away to Dickon standing with his half-grown boy’s awkwardness between the jurors’ bench and the table and found the boy’s eyes fixed on him much like Walter’s, save that instead of only worry, there was fear.
At what? Simon wondered but just then Gilbey Dunn came in, brought by another of Master Montfort’s men and looking none too pleased about it. As the crowner’s man made his bow and stood aside, Gilbey gave a quick, assessing look at everyone, then stalked forward to Simon’s side, gave Master Montfort an ungracious bow, and demanded, “Yes? So? I’m here.”
‘And good thing, too,“ Master Montfort returned as ungraciously. ”Otherwise I’d have had you dragged in by your heels.“
Cockerel meeting cockerel, Simon thought, and no sense to it, just matching dislikes, left over from when they had last dealt together, once though it had been and years ago, Simon recalled.
He braced himself for whatever was next, ready when Master Montfort spread his glare and bristling displeasure to include him. “You’re both here because I have evidence that says you had to do with this Tom Hulcote’s death. This is your chance to confess and be done with it. Do you?”
Simon felt his mouth drop open, snapped it shut on a gulp, and said hotly, “What?” as Gilbey after an equally startled pause exclaimed angrily, “Are you crazed? We’re not confessing to anything. I’m not, anyway. Are you. Perryn?”
‘Of course not!“
‘You may as well. The evidence says you were both there when this fellow was killed and so either you killed him yourselves or you know who did.“
‘Says we were there when he was killed?“ Simon said. ”No one knows where he was killed!“
‘Don’t play cunning with me,“ Master Montfort snapped.
‘What’s cunning about that?“ Simon demanded. ”He…“
Quietly from where she stood aside, Dame Frevisse said, “If it please you, master crowner.”
‘I said you weren’t to speak, Dame,“ Master Montfort snarled.
Dame Frevisse bowed her head, acknowledging that with all possible outward humility but said anyway, “Mightn’t they be better willing to admit their guilt if they knew the evidence?”
Master Montfort glared at her. “I’m crowner here, not you. This business is mine and you’ll keep quiet or you’ll not be here. Do you understand?”
Dame Frevisse made a small curtsy and a slight backward step, and Master Montfort faced Simon and Gilbey again, ready to go on, but Gilbey said, “She’s right, though. What’s this evidence you’re claiming?”
Master Montfort sneered at him. “First, you both quarreled with him more than once and the latest time was not long before he died.”
‘Better to say he quarreled with us,“ Simon returned.
‘There was quarrel and threats were made,“ Master Montfort declared.
‘He made the threats,“ Gilbey said.
‘Threats were made,“ Master Montfort repeated stubbornly. ”Now the fellow is dead, and a belt of yours, Gilbey Dunn, and a hood of yours, Simon Perryn, were found with the body.“
‘You said they were found where he was killed,“ Simon cut it. ”He wasn’t killed where his body was found.“
‘Ahha!“ The crowner pointed a triumphant finger at him. ”How do you know that if you didn’t kill him?“
‘Because there wasn’t any blood where the body was found,“ Simon returned angrily. ”If he’d been killed there, there would have been blood from those stab wounds he had. Any fool can reckon that well enough.“
‘This belt,“ Gilbey bulled in. ”Who says it’s mine?“
The crowner jerked his head toward the jurors. “They do.”
‘Oh, aye,“ Gilbey scoffed, with a scorning look at them. ”Like that lot would know one strip of leather from another.“
‘Here!“ Bert Fleccher stood up, definite as always in his dislike of Gilbey, despite one of his own sons working for him. Or maybe because of that. ”It don’t take much to know that gilt buckle like no one else around here has except you, let be your belt is all stamped and patterned and painted and twice as long as a man rightfully needs except he’s prideful as sin and that’s you right enough, Gilbey Dunn!“
‘If it’s sin you’re talking of, you might have a look at yourself before starting in on others, Bert Fleccher,“ Gilbey shot back.
With no need to hear what he had heard often enough before, Simon put in, “Belt or not, how do you go about knowing it’s my hood? There’s no telling one piece of cloth from another that easily.”
‘It’s green,“ Hamon said. ”Yours is green.“
‘So are a few other men’s hereabouts,“ Simon retorted.
‘But not so new, or near to, as yours,“ Bert said, sitting down.
For the first time, Simon began to be alarmed at more than being stupidly accused. Anne had indeed made him a green hood for his New Year’s gift this winter just past, from her last year’s weaving. But as discomfiting as that was his sudden feeling that Bert, John, and Hamon at least were going to this like terriers to a hunt, seeming to enjoy he was the quarry.
That they could so much dislike him jarred him out of swift use of his wits, but Gilbey-probably too used to being disliked to be put off-shoved in with, “Let’s see this belt and hood, eh? Do you have them? Or are you just making will-o‘-the-wisps to see who you can lose in the bog?”
‘You want to see them?“ Master Montfort slapped the table with an open hand in front of his clerk’s nose bent low over paper and scratching pen. ”Show him!“
The clerk straightened, laid down his pen, bent over to take a bag from the floor beside his chair, and with great care-as if the things might break unless he went slow about it-took out first a green hood and laid it on the table beyond his inkpot, then brought out and laid beside it a long, embossed, painted leather belt with gilded buckle. Still with great care, he set the bag back onto the floor and took up his pen again, all without raising his head, while Simon stared glumly at both belt and hood. The belt was beyond doubt Gilbey’s; most days he wore one like everyone else, enough to keep his tunic cinched in and hang purse and dagger from when need be, but a few years back, for his marriage, he’d bought a “gentleman’s” belt such as no one else in the village had-trust Gilbey to that-and wore it holidays and holydays and to Sunday church, and there was no question but that this was it. Nor could Simon deny the hood, either, worse luck. It was his own, dyed a particular dark green from a dye batch Anne had made last fall for the summer’s wool-weave; Adam and Colyn had tunics and Lucy a dress all the same green, there would be no trouble matching the hood to any of those even if he denied it was his. And belatedly, too late to make a difference, he realized that what he had seen laid over Tom’s face in the ditch and paid no heed, taken up with Dickon’s need, and forgotten ever since had been his hood. How had it come to be there? And why had no one said aught to him about it until now? Or about Gilbey’s belt, come to that, since it had to have been there, too, from what was being said.