“Of whom?”
“Bertha. They were friends, their lives intertwined from birth, their hopes shared, their joys celebrated together and their disappointments taken upon each other’s shoulders. Could any two young women have been closer?”
“No, Master Bret.”
“Then there is the real explanation of her conduct in the night.
Eadgyth could not rest until she had made one last contact with the person most dear to her after you.”
“But why do so in such a frightening way?”
“Your wife was not frightened,” argued Gervase. “Love is its own best protection. When she stepped out into the night, she did not even think what hazards might lurk in the darkness of the city. Her desire to be with Bertha was strong enough to sweep all such thoughts aside.”
“That may indeed be so,” conceded Osbern as he thought it through. “But did she have to take our son with her?”
“I think she did.”
“Why?”
“Did you not tell me that Bertha more or less moved into the house when the child was born? She was second mother to baby Osbern. She helped your wife when that help was vitally needed.”
“That is very true.”
“And she nurtured the child like her own.”
“You are right,” said Osbern. “He had to go. Eadgyth and our son took their leave of Bertha together.”
The reeve was now more reconciled to the shock of his wife’s unheralded departure in the night but his conscience was still sorely troubled. Gervase whispered some advice.
“Helto is not the only doctor in the city.”
“Should I call in another physician?”
“One who can medicine her soul.”
“Whom do you mean?”
“Reinbald the Priest. Though she dwells here in the shadow of the cathedral, your wife will always look towards St. Mildred’s.
That is where Bertha lies. Gall in Reinbald. He is young but earnest in his ministry. He will be a visible link between Eadgyth and Bertha.”
“You counsel well. It will be arranged.”
“A priest may cure where a doctor fails.”
“I will bear that in mind.” Despair brought a sudden groan out of him. “What a change there has been! A week ago, there was not a cloud on our horizon. Then lightning strikes. Bertha is killed, then Brother Martin, and-but for the grace of God-my wife and child might have ended up in their coffins as well. Four possible victims!”
“Five.”
“Who was the fifth?”
“Alwin the Sailor.”
“Expiring from grief, you mean?”
“No,” said Gervase. “He was set to take a bloodier exit from the world than that. According Brother Martin, he tried to kill himself by smashing his head on the flagstones at the church of St. Nicholas. It was all they could to to save him from his own rage. Alwin was demented. Brother Martin did not realise he had so much violence inside him.”
“Tell me!” shouted Alwin, kicking him again. “Tell me!”
“There is nothing to tell,” gasped the man.
“You’re lying!”
“No, Alwin.”
“Tell me the truth!”
Alwin kicked him once more and the sailor doubled up in pain.
They were alone in one of the warehouses at Fordwich. It was a private place. Blocks of stone were stacked all around them to await transport to the cathedral. The door was closed. No cries for help could be heard outside.
The man was bigger and stronger than Alwin but he was no match for his assailant. Lying in wait, Alwin had felled him from behind with a stout length of timber, then kept him on the ground with a succession of blows and kicks. Blood was oozing from the man’s chin and from his temple. One of his eyes was already puffed up and encircled with a darkening ring. Alwin was in no mood to temporise.
“Tell me!” he ordered, jabbing the timber into his victim’s stomach. “Or you’ll never get up alive.”
“Have pity, Alwin!” whimpered the other.
“This is your last chance!”
“I have a wife and child.”
“I had a daughter of my own until a few days ago!” said Alwin with a surge of fury. “That is what it is all about.”
“Believe me, I only wish that I could help you.”
“You will!”
Alwin belaboured him with the timber until the man was writhing in anguish, then he sat heavily astride his chest. Hands well apart, he pressed the timber against the other’s throat until the man was spluttering. He exerted relentless pressure. The victim’s eyes bulged, his veins stood out like whipcord and his face slowly changed colour. He used his last ounce of energy to signal agreement with a raised hand.
Lifting the timber, Alwin kept it an inch from the throat by way of a warning. The man coughed and panted.
“When did you bring him?” demanded Alwin.
“At the start of the week,” confessed the other.
“From Caen?”
“Yes, Alwin.”
“I knew he was here. Why did you lie?”
“He paid me.”
“Yes,” said Alwin darkly, “that was always his way. Money and soft words. Bring him over and take him back. No questions asked, no answers given.”
“I needed the money. What else was I to do?”
“Nothing. Did he talk to you on the voyage?”
“Hardly a word.”
“Did you agree to take him back?” A defensive look came into the man’s eye. Alwin brought the timber back into play. “Did you?” he said, pressing down hard. The man nodded at once and he was liberated again. “When?”
“Next week, Alwin.”
“What day?”
“Wednesday.”
“Where must you take him?”
“Boulogne.”
A spasm of pain shot through Alwin and he dropped the timber on the ground. He clambered to his feet and brooded in silence.
Released from his ordeal, the man sat up and took stock of his wounds. No bones were broken but his whole body was a mass of aches and bruises. Blood was now dripping down on to his chest.
Alwin offered a hand and pulled him up.
“Thank you,” said the man.
“Wednesday?”
“We arranged a time to meet.”
“I will be here.”
Faversham was a colourful mixture of thatched cottages, civic buildings, shops, stables and hovels, running down to a creek.
In earlier centuries, it had been the administrative centre of the whole Lathe and a vanished dignity still hung from it like a tattered robe of office. The town had a wooden church, a mill, two salt pits and a busy harbour, but most of the inhabitants worked the surrounding land. Ploughmen, cowherds and shepherds lived on the outer fringes of Faversham but sent their wives into its bustling market. Over a hundred pigs foraged for acorns in the woodland.
Ralph led the canter across the meadow. His men-at-arms fanned out to ride beside him but Reinbald the Priest was left well behind. Still struggling to stay on the horse, he did not want to goad any more life out of it than the animal was already showing, and tugged on the reins with all his might. His hands were raw from the effort but it was another part of his anatomy which bore the most vivid memories of the journey. For all that, he arrived at his birthplace with a brave smile and looked eagerly across at the tiny church.
They came to a halt near the mill and watched the swift waters of the River Swale turn its noisy wheel as they waited for the laggard rider to catch them up. Ralph noted the marshland to the north of the village and saw that flooding was an annual problem.
Faversham was in a pleasant spot. After the teeming streets of Canterbury, it was a relief to be in a more rural community.
Reinbald arrived but needed a further two minutes to bring his horse under control. When it finally stopped, he slipped his feet from the stirrups and dropped to the ground. His legs almost buckled beneath him.
“Where does Juliana live?” said Ralph.
“In the main street, my lord, but she will not be there.”
“Where will we find her?”
“Follow me,” he said, walking gingerly and leading his horse along the riverbank. “Juliana inherited one of the salt-houses from her father. That is where she will be.”