annoyance. Baldwin left Adam’s house feeling only a grim expectation.
The cottage was a short way from the church and Adam’s home, a poor dwelling north of the main vill. Although the frontgarden was well cultivated, its walls were all but tumbledown, the rude cob failing where the thatch overhead had been twisted and pulled away by birds and rats. Green was the prevailing colour: the green of ivy and creepers tugging at what limewash remained; green mosses clinging to the thatch and all the cracks in the walls; green, foul water lying in the small pond in front of the place. The thatch had utterly failed some years before. It must have leaked and poured water in upon the miserable inhabitants whenever it rained. Baldwin felt compassion for whoever had existed in this miserable place.
Seeing his expression, Adam said apologetically, ‘There are always some poorer than others, even in a good vill like this.’
‘She was a poor woman? Not married?’ Baldwin asked. In a well-run manor like his own, all the peasants were made to help widows and the poor. It was also the duty of a churchman – of Father Adam here, for example – to assist those who were unable to look after themselves.
‘She was once, yes. Widow Broun, she was called.’
‘What happened to her man?’
Adam shrugged sadly. ‘The usual thing. He was ambling homewards from the harvest a year or two back along, and slipped and hit his head. Thought nothing of it, but then he caught a wasting disease, and in two weeks he was dead.’ He tapped his tonsure with an open palm. ‘It’s so sad when a father dies like that. Young family, of course, and …’
‘What of the family?’ Baldwin asked sharply.
Adam paled.
Gregory tugged at Adam’s sleeve. ‘Father, please! Athelina’s inside …’
Dispassionately Baldwin studied the priest. Now that they were here, Adam appeared fearful and reluctant to go inside. It added up to a weak figure for a man of God, Baldwin thought. Priestswere usually stronger in the belly than this. Adam should be there to welcome new members of his congregation, and would invariably have to minister to those about to depart from it. It was all a part of his job, just as seeking killers was the duty of Simon and Baldwin.
Baldwin and Simon walked to the door, leaving Adam standing in the roadway alone, his face cracked and desolate, like a man who was suddenly ancient.
The door consisted of four rough planks pegged together. To prevent as many draughts as possible, an old piece of material had been stretched between them, like a new cloth on tenterhooks, set there to dry after milling so that it wouldn’t wrinkle or warp. Except this was no new material; it was a revolting piece of thick fustian, sodden and stinking of horses. Baldwin assumed it had been a horse blanket, saved when it was no longer good enough for the beasts but adequate for a poor widow. That thought made him set his jaw.
He pulled the door wide. It grated on the dirt threshold, the leather hinges groaning quietly. To Baldwin, there was a sad tone to the sound, like an old woman moaning about pain in her limbs, knowing the pain would always be there, that there was nothing she could do to avoid it. Grief and pain were woman’s birthright ever since Eve’s betrayal.
The interior had a fusty odour, but over it Baldwin could detect the harsh, metallic tang to which he was grown so accustomed –
blood
.
‘Sweet mother of God,’ Simon breathed.
Baldwin nodded. Then the two entered, Baldwin leading the way.
Inside, it was cool, with a strange atmosphere. Even Baldwin felt claustrophobic in the quietness, and both men found their eyes straining in the darkness after the bright daylight outside. Stepping forward, Baldwin struck a rafter with his forehead, andthen was more cautious. Gradually their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, but before they could discern the interior, the boy Gregory had poked his head around the door and called to
The cottage was a short way from the church and Adam’s home, a poor dwelling north of the main vill. Although the frontgarden was well cultivated, its walls were all but tumbledown, the rude cob failing where the thatch overhead had been twisted and pulled away by birds and rats. Green was the prevailing colour: the green of ivy and creepers tugging at what limewash remained; green mosses clinging to the thatch and all the cracks in the walls; green, foul water lying in the small pond in front of the place. The thatch had utterly failed some years before. It must have leaked and poured water in upon the miserable inhabitants whenever it rained. Baldwin felt compassion for whoever had existed in this miserable place.
Seeing his expression, Adam said apologetically, ‘There are always some poorer than others, even in a good vill like this.’
‘She was a poor woman? Not married?’ Baldwin asked. In a well-run manor like his own, all the peasants were made to help widows and the poor. It was also the duty of a churchman – of Father Adam here, for example – to assist those who were unable to look after themselves.
‘She was once, yes. Widow Broun, she was called.’
‘What happened to her man?’
Adam shrugged sadly. ‘The usual thing. He was ambling homewards from the harvest a year or two back along, and slipped and hit his head. Thought nothing of it, but then he caught a wasting disease, and in two weeks he was dead.’ He tapped his tonsure with an open palm. ‘It’s so sad when a father dies like that. Young family, of course, and …’
‘What of the family?’ Baldwin asked sharply.
Adam paled.
Gregory tugged at Adam’s sleeve. ‘Father, please! Athelina’s inside …’
Dispassionately Baldwin studied the priest. Now that they were here, Adam appeared fearful and reluctant to go inside. It added up to a weak figure for a man of God, Baldwin thought. Priestswere usually stronger in the belly than this. Adam should be there to welcome new members of his congregation, and would invariably have to minister to those about to depart from it. It was all a part of his job, just as seeking killers was the duty of Simon and Baldwin.
Baldwin and Simon walked to the door, leaving Adam standing in the roadway alone, his face cracked and desolate, like a man who was suddenly ancient.
The door consisted of four rough planks pegged together. To prevent as many draughts as possible, an old piece of material had been stretched between them, like a new cloth on tenterhooks, set there to dry after milling so that it wouldn’t wrinkle or warp. Except this was no new material; it was a revolting piece of thick fustian, sodden and stinking of horses. Baldwin assumed it had been a horse blanket, saved when it was no longer good enough for the beasts but adequate for a poor widow. That thought made him set his jaw.
He pulled the door wide. It grated on the dirt threshold, the leather hinges groaning quietly. To Baldwin, there was a sad tone to the sound, like an old woman moaning about pain in her limbs, knowing the pain would always be there, that there was nothing she could do to avoid it. Grief and pain were woman’s birthright ever since Eve’s betrayal.
The interior had a fusty odour, but over it Baldwin could detect the harsh, metallic tang to which he was grown so accustomed –
blood
.
‘Sweet mother of God,’ Simon breathed.
Baldwin nodded. Then the two entered, Baldwin leading the way.
Inside, it was cool, with a strange atmosphere. Even Baldwin felt claustrophobic in the quietness, and both men found their eyes straining in the darkness after the bright daylight outside. Stepping forward, Baldwin struck a rafter with his forehead, andthen was more cautious. Gradually their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, but before they could discern the interior, the boy Gregory had poked his head around the door and called to
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