“Beat me?” she repeated, staring at the knight. “How did you guess?”
Baldwin took his seat at a stool near her. “Was it he who punched you that night?”
Cecily stepped away from him. Her hand rose as if to ward him off, and she gave a short gasp. “I could believe you were the Devil himself!”
“So he did, then. And I believe it was because he saw who you were talking to at the window. He was so enraged that he dragged you from it and struck you down. Your friend did what? leaped inside in a murderous frenzy? Struck with all his might and killed Godfrey to protect you from any further attacks?”
“I’ll say no more.”
“Why? Because you love your suitor so much more than the father who had become hateful to you that you would happily see him escape justice?”
“There can be no justice for him,” she said, and Baldwin was concerned to see that her eyes appeared to be filling with tears.
He was careful to use a more gentle tone of voice. “But doesn’t your father deserve justice?”
“He’s gone. I have to think of the living.”
“You have a duty as a daughter!”
“And I don’t forget it!”
“Then who was it?” Simon demanded.
She ignored his outburst. “You have been dreaming, Keeper. There was no one. I went into the room, and as I came close to the window, someone sprang out and hit me. When I awoke, I was in my room, in my bed. That’s all I know. And now, if you don’t mind, I shall go home and change my clothes. I have some of that poor Irishman’s blood on my skirts.”
Peter Clifford stared after her as she drifted from the room, then at Baldwin. “I cannot understand this. She declares she doesn’t forget her duty as a daughter, but willfully continues in what you obviously think is a deception. Whom could she be protecting?”
“When we know that we’ll have the killer,” Baldwin said pensively. He was still gazing after the girl, a slight frown wrinkling his brow. Recalling why he was in the Dean’s hall, he faced Clifford. “Now, tell us what has happened to John. All we know is what your messenger told us-that he was found badly beaten up, and brought here in a cart.”
“That’s about it. He’s taken several blows to the head, and his leg was broken below the knee. I think he’ll be crippled for life, from the look of it. He complains that he didn’t see who did it, but then with his head so sorely bruised, I think he’d hardly remember if he had seen his attacker.”
“Let’s find out.” 21
T he tranter lay on a low mattress in the infirmary, a cheap russet cloth covering him. A monk was helping him to a little wine as the three entered, and was about to stand back when the Dean gestured for him to carry on.
John had changed, Simon thought. Gone was the cheerful, happy-go-lucky salesman with the gift of easy patter and a winning smile. Now the fellow looked shrivelled. His face had an ashen pallor, his eyes an unhealthy glitter, and his lips were cracked and dry. Where the red wine dribbled, it looked like blood.
His voice was weak. “Good day, gentlemen. I’d stand and bow, but you can see, I’m not at my best today.”
“John, how are you feeling?”
“Well now, Keeper, not to put too fine a point on it, and saving the presence of the two gentlemen in holy orders here, I feel like shite. I don’t recommend letting people use your head for practicing their aim with clubs and sticks. It gives you the most unholy headache you can imagine.”
“And how’s the leg?” asked Simon.
For answer, John flicked back the corner of the rough blanket. Simon winced at the sight of the blood soaking the fresh linen bandages.
It was the infirmarer who spoke, talking in a soft, gentle voice. “It’s badly broken. The bones of the shin were shattered. He must keep still for at least three months, and then we might be lucky and find he hasn’t lost the use of it.”
“I hope not, Brother,” said John weakly. The brother gave him a smile, and John returned it. He was enormously grateful for the man’s care, although he was still feeling feeble. It was the first time John had needed to visit a surgery of any sort and he was not looking forward to the pain of having the bones reset. Just the thought of the man’s determined, probing fingers trying to poke shards of broken bone into place made him feel sick. Swallowing hard, he turned to the knight and spoke, his voice gruff with pain. He still had to wince and slit his eyes, even here in the relatively dark room.
“So are you here to ask me who did this? If so, I’m sorry to say I don’t know. I didn’t get a good look at him.”
“What actually happened, John?” prompted Baldwin. He had noticed that as John spoke, his eyes had gone to the Dean.
“I’d been out, and when I got back the fire was low, so I bent down to blow some life into it. I suppose it was when I’d just got a flame that I realized something was wrong. Maybe he couldn’t see enough in there to be able to make sure of me, so he waited until I had produced a little light for him, and then he struck. And how he struck! Christ Jesus! Oh, sorry, Dean; sorry, Brother…”
“I think I should allow you a certain latitude, my son,” said Clifford affably. “When you are well again I shall give you a penance.”
John shot him a suspicious look, and became more cautious in his speech. “I saw the club. It was just an ordinary hazel or ash stick. The sort which is made of a young sapling, where the stem grows a few feet. The grip was a large ball, and that was what he hit me with. I could see it coming, and…Well, there was no time to move. It struck me, and I was down. Then I saw it rise again.”
“You remember all this?” Baldwin probed. From his experience of combat, he knew how often memories could become confused or imagined after a vicious blow to the head.
John was definite. “Oh yes, Sir Baldwin. Make no mistake, I saw it! I’ll never forget that sight as long as I live.”
“Is there anything you can think of which might explain why this was done to you?”
“No, Sir Baldwin. I’ve got no idea at all.” The sunken eyes, rimmed with agony, turned to him with disingenuous conviction. “Why should anybody want to hurt me?”
“I was wondering, after some of the rumors about you and-um…” Baldwin glanced thoughtfully at Peter. It was not the kind of question he felt the Dean would be happy to hear. The Dean caught his glance and grinned before tactfully muttering about his duties and walking from the room. Relieved, Baldwin continued, “What about a man? Someone who was married to a pretty young wife?”
“Sir Baldwin, there are many rumors about me, I know, but I can assure you that this has nothing to do with any woman-at least, not that I know of.”
“In that case, who could want to do this to you?”
“As to why they should want to, I have absolutely no idea.”
“Come on, be honest with us. You say you saw the weapon clearly enough-you must have seen the man.”
“Ah, but if I tell you, what’s to stop the fellow coming back and having another game of bat-and-ball with my head?”
There was an anxious look to him that the knight could understand. “As for that, what is to stop him doing so as soon as he hears you’re not dead? From the look of your wounds, one would assume he was trying to kill. He may well return.”
“You do have a point there,” John said, trying to grin. He winced as another bolt of pain shot up from his knee.
“Why didn’t you want to talk in front of the Dean?”
“Well, now-it’s like you say: there are lots of rumors about me, and I don’t want to see the good Dean being made to believe in them. The gossip about me isn’t true.”
“So who was it?”
“Matthew Coffyn.”
“So it was because of your adultery with Martha Coffyn,” said Baldwin sternly. “I have warned you before about your lechery. It’s only surprising that no one got to you before this.”
John sighed with unfeigned disgust. “I told you before, I have never committed adultery with Martha Coffyn.”