House of Shadows (22 page)

Henry Capun gaped. He took a stumbling step backwards, a hand reaching out wildly for a chair. Hurriedly Simon ran to his side, grasped a stool and thrust it behind the banneret. Capun half fell into it, his hand gripping Simon's forearm as though it was the only thing to maintain his sanity. ‘She…no!'

‘This man Pilgrim was also murdered. His body lay only a short distance from your daughter's. She was married at the end of November last year. I have spoken to the man of God who witnessed the ceremony. Her marriage was fully legal.'

‘My God! The
bastard
! If he had left her alone, none of this would have happened!'

‘Do you think she may have married this Pilgrim?'

‘I don't know…my God!'

‘Well, can you think of anyone who would have had cause to harm them both?'

‘Only that murderous son of a whore William de Monte Acuto, the boy's father!'

‘Why should he want to kill them?' Simon blurted.

‘Because he and I are enemies. I'll have nothing to do with him, nor he with me. Christ's bones, if he's killed my little Juliet, I'll have his heart!'

‘Explain, please.'

Henry scowled. He had recovered from his first shock, but he was still shaky as he reached out for a mazer of wine on the table. ‘When we were younger, William and I were friends. We were of a similar age, had similar backgrounds, and we were keen to do all we could to advance ourselves. But then I did better than him and started to win honours and money, and we lost contact. I think he blamed me for his own lack of opportunities, and that led to bad feeling. It was nothing to do with me, though. I treated him in the same way as I ever had. The trouble is, William has a lousy temper. He always did have.'

‘How did your lives change so greatly?' Baldwin murmured.

‘William sought to advance himself early on, and he allied himself to men in the early days of the century. When the king was still a prince, William did all he could to curry favour. Meanwhile I concentrated on money and left politics alone. When I had money, I was noticed by powerful men, and they advanced my cause for me.'

Which meant that he was able to bribe the powerful to achieve what he wanted, Baldwin reckoned, while his erstwhile friend and companion languished. ‘You were allied with those who are still in power, then?'

Henry's mouth twisted. ‘I can count the young Hugh Le Despenser as a friend. William was allied with Piers Gaveston.'

Gaveston, the king's companion, was so detested by the barons that he was captured and hanged like a common felon in the fifth year of the king's reign.
⁵
Baldwin began to understand the depths of the jealousy William de Monte Acuto might feel for this man – especially since as Gaveston's star waned the Despensers' waxed full mightily.

Simon was frowning. ‘You say that this man de Monte Acuto might have killed your daughter – but that hardly makes sense. Why should he kill her when the only effect of her liaison with his son was to annoy you? And why kill his own son?'

Henry looked at him for a moment. ‘Because, bailiff, he would look on any alliance with me as being a betrayal of his own honour. He hates me for all I have done.' He looked away, closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘You see, there is one last thing I didn't mention. The woman I married, my poor wife Cecily, I won from him. He was wooing her when I snatched her away. He has never forgiven me for her death.'

And neither have I
, he added to himself.

Thursday Next after the Feast of St George the Martyr
⁶
,
Bermondsey Marsh

The next morning was bright and clear, with only a few clouds sitting stationary over the city. Baldwin and Simon rose early, and after a light breakfast they crossed
the bridge and turned left to go up to Bermondsey again.

The space about the two bodies was filled with people. There was huddled a jury of men, for the most part grim-faced at the stern duty before them, although one or two of those who were only twelve or thirteen were anxious at the sight of the coroner. People here were used to seeing the rich and powerful, but few enjoyed the sight of those who could fleece them unmercifully for any infraction.

Baldwin reckoned that the inquest itself was notable only for the severity of the coroner. In his own experience, many coroners could be too demanding, and frequently they were thoroughly corrupt, soliciting bribes to prevent a man being taken to court or demanding more to ensure that some other fellow was arrested in his place. There were any number of tricks that could guarantee a man a well-filled purse.

This man started proceedings by fining the vill because not all the men of over twelve years had appeared. Then he imposed another fine because Hob did not answer him in the required manner, apparently. Before they had reached the point at which the bodies were displayed, the jury was already cowed. Baldwin could see that their damp shuffling in the mud was stilled, and they stared at the ground with sullen resentment.

Not that the coroner minded. He appeared to relish their grim bitterness.

Soon, though, when the witnesses began to come forward, Baldwin found his attention being diverted – especially when he caught his first sight of the man he had been keen to question: William de Monte Acuto, the father of the dead Pilgrim.

To his surprise, for he had expected someone who would show the same dissipation as Henry Capun, William was a tall man with the physique of a warrior.
He had the same muscled neck, powerful right arm and thick thighs as a knight. Clearly this was a man who had fought in his youth. He had a calm face, and even with sorrow marking his eyes he was still a handsome fellow, the kind of man whom women would like. There was a softness and soulfulness in his features that was attractive and spoke of an inner gentleness. It was a great shame that he had allied himself with Piers Gaveston, but, as Baldwin knew, men would connect themselves with the greatest fools and felons in order to protect themselves politically.

‘I am William de Monte Acuto.'

The coroner was questioning the witnesses in a bullying manner, as though he enjoyed cowing those who came before him. With William, he seemed a little unsure how to continue. At last he jerked his head at the woman's body lying on the ground before them. ‘You know her?'

‘I do.' William did not look down at her, but kept his gaze fixed forward.

‘She knew your son?'

‘Yes.'

‘Where was your son on the night of the vigil of the feast of St George? That is two nights ago, Master William, the night of Tuesday and Wednesday.'

‘He was with me at our house.'

‘And no doubt your servants will vouch for you?'

‘Of course they will – but I am happy to swear on the Gospels if you do not trust my word.'

Baldwin smiled at the man's suave courtesy. It was in marked contrast to the coroner's hectoring manner.

‘I am glad to hear it. Perhaps we should have both you and your servants swear in like manner?'

‘If you command it, coroner.'

‘Your son desired this girl, did he not? Were they lovers?'

William de Monte Acuto's face hardened, but with pain, not anger. ‘My son was a man. This young woman was lively and pretty, so perhaps it is so.'

‘You were not aware that he was wooing her?'

‘I guessed so, yes.'

‘He lies dead there, stabbed through the heart. She holds a dagger in her hand. Perhaps she killed him, then herself?'

William looked at the coroner for the first time now, his face blank of anything but his sorrow. ‘My son is dead, and you wish me to
speculate
about who did it?'

 

Later, Baldwin managed to push through the crowd and reach William de Monte Acuto. ‘May I speak to you a moment, friend?'

‘What – do you wish to question me like that
cretin
of a coroner?'

‘No, I merely seek the truth – I act for my lord Bishop Stapledon.'

‘Then how can a poor man like me refuse?' William said sarcastically. ‘The king has many advisers, but there are few who can command the respect of my lord bishop.'

Simon said, ‘Friend, I have a son. You have my sympathy. To lose a son is terrible…to then be questioned by that coroner is obscene.'

William bent his head. ‘I could have happily taken his head from his shoulders.'

‘Your son,' Baldwin said. ‘When did you know he was missing?'

‘The day he was found. I have a hall with a solar at each end. The servants sleep in the eaves between them. William used to sleep at the other end of the house, and recently…well, we were not on good terms in the last days.'

‘Why?'

‘Because of Juliet, of course!' His anger subsided as quickly as it had flared, and he hesitated. ‘I had no wish for my son to be associated with her.'

‘Her father and you were once friends?'

‘Yes, we were. But then Cecily died because of him, and he started his rise to prominence and wouldn't talk to simple folks like me and my son. We weren't significant enough to measure in his estimation. No, he'd prefer to be spending his time with all those magnificent fellows in their great houses.'

‘Whereas you…?'

‘I stayed where I had been born. I never lost my roots. I am a simple man, when all is said and done. I was born a serf, and I make my own way in the world. My business keeps me well enough. Henry Capun is a knight now, and he can claim Hugh Le Despenser as a friend. What use am I to him now?'

‘Who could have wished to harm your son?'

‘Only one man,' William said darkly. ‘Henry Capun hates me and would seek to ruin me in any way he might. Killing poor William is just one way to attack me. Poor William!'

‘You think he would kill his daughter in order to get at you?' Baldwin asked sharply.

William looked at him. ‘My only love, Cecily, was taken from me by him. She died because she was desperate to give him a son. She wasn't ready for another child after little Juliet's birth, but he was ever a demanding devil, and she fell pregnant again. It killed her.'

‘This son of his, Timothy – he is from another woman?'

‘Yes. Henry married Edith after Cecily died, and Edith gave him Timothy, but then she, too, died in the famine seven years ago or more.'

‘Still,' Simon suggested, ‘he would have loved his daughter, surely?'

William wiped a hand over his face. ‘God forgive me for saying it, but I doubt it. He looked on her as a chattel. Nothing more. If she was no further use, he'd have discarded her as easily as a man throwing away a broken staff.'

 

When the carter arrived at the gates, John was sent to find Lawrence. The cellarer was the main contact for any tradesmen with food.

John could see him with the group about the body with the coroner and hurried to him just as he saw Simon and Baldwin approaching him. The two men were a little alarming, with their strange accents. Especially the knight, with his black, intense eyes. John only hoped that Lawrence was not in trouble.

The arrest of Prior Walter the previous year had alarmed all the monks. That their leader could be removed and replaced at the whim of the king was unsettling. For John it was worse, though, because he knew secrets none of the others had heard. Every day he feared that the men would come to arrest his master, Lawrence. The cellarer had been involved in the escape of Mortimer. He knew that. He'd seen Lawrence return that night.

 

Simon and Baldwin caught sight of the cellarer, and, while the coroner demanded refreshment and adjourned the inquest, Simon led the way to the monk, struck with a thought.

‘Brother Lawrence – when you mentioned the marriage of Juliet, you said you heard the vows. Were there any witnesses apart from you?'

‘I cannot tell you of that wedding. I swore.'

Simon was staring at him with a shrewd narrowing of his eyes. ‘If a maiden weds, it is rare indeed that she will do so without her maid at least at her side. Was her maid there?'

‘You must ask
her
that. Why?'

‘I was wondering…'

Another voice interrupted them. ‘Yes? What were you wondering, master?'

Simon could almost smell the man before he heard him. There was an unpleasant odour of sourness, and when Simon caught sight of his ravaged face he could see why. It was only natural that a man so terribly scarred by the pox or some similar malady should be noisome to others. ‘Who are you?'

‘I was going to ask you the same, master. You have so much interest in my household, I thought you might like to explain what you were questioning this man about?'

‘Your household? You are son to Sir Henry?'

His knowledge of Timothy's father should have been no surprise, for as Simon had already noticed most people in London seemed to know of Sir Henry, and yet it seemed to make the son still more suspicious. The man laid one hand on Simon's arm, the other on his sword. ‘I'd like to know more of you and your fascination with my family.'

‘Good. When you have let go my arm, I shall be happy to talk,' Simon said.

In response, Timothy half drew his sword. ‘You'll talk now, or answer to—'

As he spoke, Baldwin's bright blue sword blade rang, and rested gently on his throat. ‘Master Capun, I would have you release my companion. And do please take your hand from your sword. We would not want more blood shed, would we?'

Simon took Timothy's hand and pulled his arm free. The younger man's eyes were filled with loathing, but he didn't try to prevent him. As soon as Timothy's hand had fallen away from the hilt, Baldwin whipped his sword away and sheathed it in one fluid movement.

‘We wanted to speak to you,' Simon said, glancing about him to find Lawrence. The monk had disappeared as soon as Baldwin's sword flashed from its scabbard.