The passages between Amice’s home and those on either side were narrow. But if she earned a living as an ale wife there must be a toft behind her hut where she had vats and tubs for brewing. And if so, there must be a door opening to the toft from the rear of the dwelling. Such a door would not, I thought, be stronger than the door which opened to the street, so might be more easily forced, with the added advantage that doing so would be unobserved by a neighbor.
The space behind Amice Thatcher’s house was as I expected. The tubs and kettles necessary to her trade were there, and a door did indeed open from the house to this work space. It would be impolite to burst in upon the woman if she was within, so I rapped upon the door as I had earlier at the front of the house. There was, again, no response.
Oddly enough, this rear door was more stoutly constructed than its fellow at the front. Perhaps Amice believed that if some intruder sought uninvited entry he would be more likely to do so from the privacy of the toft than the street, where his deed might be observed. If so she thought, she was correct.
No fences separated Amice’s toft from those of her neighbors. I studied both spaces before turning to Arthur and making known my intent. There was no latch or lock upon this rear door — iron is too dear for such folk. The door was simply barred inside. A thin blade, slipped between door and jamb, might raise the bar and gain us entry. With my dagger, while Arthur kept watch, I hacked away at the doorframe until I could slide the dagger between door and jamb. The bar lifted readily.
Someone had been here before us. Amice Thatcher’s few belongings were strewn about the single room. Even the hearthstone in the middle of the chamber was overturned, and some man had dug up the soil beneath it. Arthur and I stood silently and gazed at the mess. After a moment I walked to the front door and tested it. It opened readily. It was not locked. Either Amice had failed to lock it when she and her children were taken off, or men had come in the night with a key. I chided myself that I had not tried the door the day before.
Little sunlight penetrated the single window of oiled skin, for the day was cloudy and a light drizzle had begun to fall. But there was enough light that the shambles which was Amice Thatcher’s home was plain.
“Didn’t tell ’em where the chapman found ’is coins,” Arthur said.
“Aye. Doesn’t know, or wouldn’t tell, else they would not have overturned this place seeking loot.”
“Did they come in the night, I wonder, or did this happen yesterday?” Arthur swept his hand and his gaze about the ruin.
“We might learn from the old woman who lives across the way. She strikes me as the sort who allows little to escape her notice.”
Arthur grinned agreement, and followed as I pushed through the front door and crossed the narrow lane to the crone’s hut. Vigorous thumping upon the woman’s door brought no response.
In the silence after my pounding Arthur heard something which had escaped me. The gentle mist softened other sounds, so when the old woman groaned a response to my knocking Arthur barely heard her and I heard nothing at all. And at the moment he was unsure of what he had heard.
I saw Arthur raise a finger and frown, then cock his head attentively toward the door.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Dunno… someone in there’s in trouble, I think. Heard a moan, like, just now.”
I tried the latch and the door swung open. If someone was within they had not troubled themselves to bar the door. They had not done so, I soon discovered, because they could not.
Rusty hinges squealed when I pushed the door open. When they quieted I heard from within the house a groan, frantic in nature, as if the soul who voiced it feared she would not be heard or discovered.
The interior of the house was dark, my vision obscured, but when I sought the source of the moaning I saw, propped against a wall, the shape of the old woman who had told me of Amice Thatcher’s departure the day before.
Rushes were thin upon the floor, and had not, I think, been changed for many months. So when I knelt beside the woman my knees rested upon dirt. She looked up to me and seized my arm with bony fingers when I bent close. Her bed lay nearby, and I wondered why, if she was ill, she had not sought it rather than the uncomfortable place where she lay, her head pillowed by the wall of her house. I soon discovered the reason.
“Kicked me, the knave,” she whispered.
“Who?”
“Them as was pryin’ about Amice’s house last night.”
The effort to report this to me sapped the woman’s strength. She had raised herself upon an elbow when she spoke, but fell back against the wall, exhausted, when she finished.
Arthur peered over my shoulder. I told him to take the old woman’s shoulders, and I would lift her feet. Together we would lay her upon the bed. Then, when she was more comfortable, perhaps I might learn more of who had kicked her and why they had been prowling about Amice Thatcher’s house. I thought I knew the answer to both questions.
The crone gasped when Arthur and I lifted her from the floor, but sighed gratefully when we set her gently upon her bed. I placed her pillow beneath her head, and when I did, she spoke again. “Ale,” she whispered.
Arthur heard, and crossed the small house to a crude table where rested an equally crude ewer. I watched as he lifted it, then turned it upside down.
“Empty,” he said. “Seen another ale house down toward the marketplace. Be back shortly.”
“Who was it did you this injury?” I asked when Arthur disappeared through the door.
“Dunno,” she mumbled. “Heard voices. Opened the door to see who was about so late, an’ saw a light in Amice’s house.”
The woman fell silent for a moment, as if to renew her strength, then continued. “Thought Amice was come home, so went ’cross the street to see was it so. Wasn’t.”
Again she hesitated, longer this time, and did not resume until Arthur entered with the ewer filled.
“Two men was searchin’ her place. Overturned all, they did.”
“You surprised them?”
“Aye.”
Arthur poured ale into a cup, gave it to me, and I lifted the woman’s head from her pillow so she could drink. The liquid seemed to invigorate her. She continued her tale with a stronger voice.
“I heard thrashin’ about, an’ seen they was up to no good, so left ’em an’ sought me own door, but one of ’em saw me an’ caught me up before I could get home. Knocked me down, ’e did, then kicked me in the ribs. Kicked me again, in the head. I must ’ave swooned, ’cause next I remember is the two of ’em draggin’ me inside. One said, ‘We can’t leave her on the street. Someone will find her, mayhap before we can finish the search.’
“They thought I was dead, see, or near so. The other said, ‘Don’t worry. Folk’ll not trouble themselves over some old woman found dead in her house.’ They left me where you found me.”
“Were these the same fellows who took Amice Thatcher away?”
“Dunno. Too dark, an’ they had but one cresset lit in Amice’s house.”
“Where did the fellow kick you?”
She drew a hand to her ribs. “Just here,” she said.
I touched the place through her threadbare cotehardie and the woman gasped under the light pressure of my fingertips. “Ow,” she rasped. “Hurts, that does.”
I touched another rib, above the tender place, and received no response. But when I moved my fingers lower, the crone caught her breath again. I found two cracked ribs where some villain had delivered a kick to the old woman’s side as she lay upon the street.
“You say he kicked you in the head, also?”
“Aye.”
“Let’s have your cap off and see what injury may be there.”
“Who are you, an’ why are you seekin’ out my wounds?”