Breach of Faith Page 2

  “I’ve paid my taxes!” protested Pinchbeck. “I also gave him more money five years later to secure permanent ownership for my heirs. My son has the contract—still sealed!”

  “That may be so, but your legal ownership of the property is in question.”

  “I brought him here for poaching! He’s not even trying to get the property back.”

  “I would like my property back,” interjected Drogo Blount, looking both stunned and intrigued.

  “I’m afraid you unleashed the hounds with your poaching accusation, Master Pinchbeck. Now they must find justice.”

  “But the property has been mine, fair and square, for nineteen years! He came back hoping I’d be dead, and unfortunately for him I’m still kicking.” Pinchbeck glared at Blount but was starting to look nervous. As well he might.

  “I propose a wager of battle,” said Drogo boldly. He appeared to have grown a full foot taller. “The winner takes the property, and the loser relinquishes his right to it.”

  Ela stiffened. Trial by combat was an old-fashioned way to solve issues where right and wrong were in the eye of the beholder. Neither of these men seemed well suited to a fight. Although Pinchbeck was a few years older, Blount had obvious physical deficiencies from his injuries. He stood a little crooked, with one shoulder higher than the other, and walked with a pronounced limp. Unfortunately, their respective frailties meant that the contest was feasible. She inhaled a slow breath and looked from one to the other. “Do you both agree to the test?”

  “Absolutely,” said Drogo with enthusiasm.

  “I do not.” Pinchbeck’s face had grown pale.

  “Why?” asked Ela. “You’re not over sixty, or lame or blind.” Those—and female sex—were the only legitimate reasons to bow out.

  “I am lame. I have…spurs of bone in my right heel,” spluttered Pinchbeck.

  “You walked in here without a limp,” observed Ela.

  “I’m in pain with every step. This is preposterous! I found him poaching on my land!”

  “Except that it doesn’t legally appear to be your land. It seems to be his land.” Ela thought him a coward. What world would they live in if any man could refuse to wield a sword to defend his own property?

  On the other hand, she didn’t believe that fighting skill should be the full measure of a man. Where did that leave clerics and scholars?

  “Either man could choose to use a champion in his stead,” suggested Deschamps. Ela felt a surge of irritation. She didn’t like this relatively recent rule that allowed the rich to triumph over their adversaries with ease. Any man of honor would choose to fight for himself. She knew it would give the advantage to Pinchbeck because he had the funds to hire the strongest knight in Wiltshire, whereas Drogo would be forced to fight for himself.

  Clearly Deschamps favored Pinchbeck in the conflict. And she realized with chagrin that she favored Drogo Blount. She was supposed to be an impartial dispenser of justice. She would have to pray for her own judgment.

  “I accept the challenge if I can choose my own champion,” said Pinchbeck finally. The gleam in his eye suggested that he’d warmed to the idea. As well he might.

  “You shall have twelve days to choose your champion,” said Ela. “The fight will take place in the castle courtyard at midday on Monday week.”

  Pinchbeck left looking satisfied with the arrangement. Ela’s heart felt heavy as she wondered who he’d hire and how quickly Drogo Blount would be killed or gravely wounded.

  “Have no fear, my lady,” said Drogo, as soon as Pinchbeck had gone. “I have plenty of fight left in me.”

  “He has the coin to hire the best.”

  “I was once the best. Your husband knew it. I shall call on my inner strength to defeat the usurper and reclaim my home.”

  “May God be with you.” She sighed. “In the meantime you must eat and sleep well to conserve your strength. You may move freely within the outer walls of the castle but don’t leave the castle mound.”

  Blount bowed deeply. “Your trust honors me, my lady.”

  “If you’re willing to work in the armory honing the weapons, you shall earn money and the right to borrow armor for the battle.”

  He bowed deeply. “I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

  William had always put great importance in the constant inspection, sharpening and polishing of even the least-used weapon. Strength lies in readiness was one of his favorite mottoes. She was sure he’d approve this plan to employ his former savior and help him survive the contest.

  “I never thought I’d see a female sheriff in my lifetime,” said Drogo, as she rose from her chair and walked toward the fire to warm herself.

  She wasn’t officially sheriff yet, but she’d been acting in the role since her husband’s sudden death and simply awaited the official warrant from the king. “I won’t be the first. Nicola de la Haye has served as sheriff of Lincolnshire.” His forwardness surprised and slightly irked her. In truth, her own husband was so disturbed by Nicola’s boldness that he had himself taken and held the post of sheriff of Lincoln to rein her in.

  The fire guttered as the hall doors swung open with force. “My lady,” called the porter. “A messenger from the king.”

  This was it. Her commission as sheriff of Wiltshire. It was to be official, and she could command the role with confidence and all the wisdom and fairness that God chose to give her.

  A mud-spattered messenger approached her with a sealed scroll. She took it with thanks and broke the seal, her heart beating like a drum.

  But as she read the words on the scroll she had to struggle to keep her face steady and rein in a heartfelt howl of injustice.

  Chapter 2

  Ela’s hands started to tremble and she knew she couldn’t command her features much longer. “Please take food and drink while I prepare a response for the king.” Sibel, her lady’s maid, hurried forward to take charge of the messenger. Ela turned and almost ran toward the solitude of her solar.

  Up the stairs and with her door closed and bolted behind her, she finally let a low keening sound rush from her mouth.

  How could he?

  She opened the scroll again, still hardly able to believe what she’d read. “By the order of His Royal Majesty King Henry III”—more ceremonial blather—“the new sheriff of Wiltshire is Simon de Hal.”

  Tears blurred the words. There was no mention of her at all, as if she didn’t exist and was never under consideration. It further elaborated that since the sheriff must inhabit the king’s garrison, she and her family must repair forthwith to one of her many fine manors.

  She wanted to growl with frustration, but sound might carry even through the stone walls of the castle and she did not intend to give anyone cause to call her weak or emotional. She’d summon her wits and prepare a response that the king couldn’t ignore.

  If only she could stop her hands shaking long enough to do it. She wished she could go down into the storeroom for a sheet of the finest vellum but didn’t trust herself to be seen in company just yet.

  She laid a sheet of workaday parchment on her desk and ran her fingers over it. She wished she could pour out her heart, bemoaning the death of her husband, which she still blamed on the king’s closest friend and adviser. But that would gain her nothing.

  Instead she picked up her quill, dipped it and wrote a forceful—she hoped—description of her own experience with public affairs at her husband’s side, her commitment to peace and justice in the shire, and her successful resolution of the recent case involving two murders with multiple suspects.

  As far as she knew, Simon de Hal was a minor noble with limited experience in public affairs and tastes that stretched the limits of his income. He might be tempted to usurp the position to enrich himself and possibly pervert the course of justice to win bribes. She did not spell this out but simply made her own aversion to such behavior clear as the black ink on the page.

  She signed it with a flourish, folded it and dripped red
wax onto it. It was a shame her new seal hadn’t yet been delivered. It had more authority than the girlish one she’d used all her married life. Still, it was better than a thumbprint and she pressed it into the warm wax.

  She studied herself in the mirror at her dressing table. Fortunately, her tears had not reddened her eyes with their salted misery.

  One more obstacle. Another mountain to climb. She was her father’s daughter, the Countess of Salisbury, and this minor setback wasn’t going to unseat her.

  She hurried back down the stairs, forcing a smile onto her face as she entered the hall. She strode over to the messenger and placed the sealed document in his hands. “I thank you to deliver this to the king today.”

  His face fell. No doubt he’d hoped for a night of rest before starting the long journey back to Westminster or Windsor or wherever the king was. He might even have to hire a horse if his was too tired from the journey. But no matter, she didn’t want King Henry to think this was anything less than a matter of burning importance to her.

  Drogo Blount sat there in the hall, playing a game that induced one of the hounds to jump up and touch his hands, while the children gathered around and laughed. In her current mood she saw the dark shadow of everything. For all she knew he was a blackguard whom she’d welcomed into her home, and when he was found out she’d be the object of mockery and scorn for that as well as being passed over for sheriff.

  She approached Deschamps and instructed him to keep Blount busy and also under watch. He might as well earn his keep and stay out of trouble. He might be a hero and an old battlefield companion of her husband’s, but he had a ragged edge to him and she didn’t want him honing it on her children and servants, or even her dogs.

  The king’s written response three days later stung like a slap across the face.

  He did have the decency to apologize for disappointing her in her ambitions. He even held out the hope that she might be sheriff on some future occasion, but Simon de Hal was to move into the castle on Thursday of the following week.

  He wants money. A lot of money.

  Most things could be bought in this day and age, even from the king, who always needed funds to finance whatever campaign of conquest made his heart beat faster that year.

  How much, though? Should she offer a figure—say, a hundred marks—or wait for him to suggest one? It was clear she’d have to move out for now and plan her own campaign of reconquest.

  The prospect of removing her entire household even just a few miles away seemed exhausting and onerous but it wasn’t as if she’d never done it before. She could retreat to the manor at Gomeldon and enjoy the spring flowers in the deep woods that lay behind the house.

  But she’d be back. She decided to leave the figure up to the king but made it clear she understood that there would be a payment. She enjoyed the subtle insult that came with implying that he could be bought. He wouldn’t argue. Most men could be bought, and probably most women, too.

  As she sealed the second letter she muttered a vow to herself that she would gain the role of sheriff. In the meantime she’d participate in the pursuit of justice in Salisbury in her role as countess.

  Gomeldon was barely three miles away. Simon de Hal would see more of her than of his own wife.

  The following day was taken up with a reconnaissance trip to the manor at Gomeldon, where they made a long list of work needed to render it habitable. The house was more than seventy years old, built from sturdy wood beams arranged in a decorative pattern and filled with wattle and daub. It was picturesque, nestled in a small, wooded valley, and recalled an earlier and simpler time.

  Unfortunately the house was damp from disuse, the paths were overgrown, the chimneys needed cleaning, the exterior needed whitewashing, the cellars had rats, and the thatched roof had fallen in at one end of the stables.

  It would take a miracle to get it ready for occupation within a week, but she gave the orders and told everyone she expected to move in on Thursday. She fully anticipated her chests of blankets bumping up against de Hal’s in the castle courtyard.

  The next morning, Nicholas was crying over the move—and how he’d miss living in the great castle like his daddy—while Stephen tried to console him by pointing out that Gomeldon had a stream to sail boats in, when the hue and cry was raised again.

  Deschamps marched into the hall and approached Ela. “I’m afraid there’s disturbing news.” He spoke quietly, then looked at the children.

  Ela rose from the table and hurried to a spot away from the table. “What’s happened?”

  “Jacobus Pinchbeck is dead.” He paused. “Under suspicious circumstances.”

  Ela stared. “How?”

  “Crushed under the wheels of his own cart in the courtyard of Fernlees manor.”

  “Who found him?”

  “His manservant. Apparently he dressed and prepared to leave for Exeter this morning, and his servant thought him an hour or more on the road. But at dawn he was found dead in his own courtyard with the horse still hitched to the cart and grazing nearby.”

  “Has the coroner been called?”

  “Giles Haughton is on his way there.”

  “Where is Drogo Blount?” she whispered. He must be the first suspect since he stood to regain his family estate without fighting if his opponent was dead.

  “In the armory, my lady, honing the blades. Trust me, he was the first person I looked for once the news broke.”

  She heaved a sigh of inward relief. “Let us ride there at once before the evidence gets disturbed.”

  Deschamps hesitated for a moment, as if wanting to say something. Did he think that—because Simon de Hal would soon be arriving to take over the role of sheriff—she should mind her own business?

  “Until Thursday the peace of Salisbury is in my care,” she said curtly.

  “Yes, my lady. I’ll bring four guards so we can send two to make an arrest if needed.”

  She thanked him and gave some instructions for the children’s tutor. She also found Bill Talbot mending a piece of his own armor and quietly asked him to keep an eye on Drogo Blount. The death of his rival just days before their contest was a little too convenient for comfort.

  Fernlees, the disputed manor, was a short ride away by a well-worn cart road. The morning was brisk, spring flowers bursting from their buds as the earth warmed under a misty sun. The manor itself sat directly on the London road but set back down a long lane. Two stone posts marked the entrance to the manor, and Ela asked all but one guard to wait there so as not to mar the site.

  Coroner Giles Haughton was already there, bent over the body, and he looked up as she climbed down from her horse and handed it to the soldier. “How long has he been dead?”

  “Two or three hours only. His manservant says he left just before dawn.”

  “I wonder why he would leave in the dark, rather than waiting for morning.” She moved closer. Her gut seized when she saw the way his chest was caved in under his blue tunic, the lower part of his rib cage crushed. “Why is there no mark of the cartwheel on his chest?”

  “The mark is on his cloak.” Houghton flipped the gray cloak back over him, and she could see the muddy track over the rumpled cloth.

  “How is his manservant sure it was murder and not an accident? Was anyone out here with him?”

  “Apparently not. The ostler prepared horse and cart for him. Pinchbeck mounted up and left. No one knows when or how he returned.”

  “He must have returned home to retrieve something he forgot. Then perhaps his horse startled in the darkness and upset the cart, then he was knocked down and run over.”

  Giles Haughton looked at her. His knowing eyes shone with humor. “Have you ever known anyone to be run over by their own cart?”

  “Well, no, but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen. Where’s the manservant?”

  “Inside, apparently inconsolable.”

  Ela asked Deschamps to fetch him. A master’s death was devastating to servants,
especially older ones who could find themselves suddenly without a job or a home and with few prospects for the future.

  “Do you think the cart wheel killed him or was he already dead when it ran him over?” She peered at Pinchbeck’s face. It looked strangely placid, like he lay there asleep on the damp ground.

  “I’ll need to strip him and examine him for other marks once we get him back to the mortuary. There are hoofprints in the lane and in the courtyard, but it hasn’t rained properly for a couple of days so they might not be from this morning.”

  Deschamps emerged from the house with a much younger man than Ela had expected, maybe five-and-twenty. He wiped at his eyes as he approached but any tears had dried. “I c-can’t believe he’s gone,” he stammered.

  “How long have you worked here?” asked Ela softly.

  “Eleven years. Since I was a lad. He hired me to scrub pots in the kitchen and I’ve w-worked my way up—” He sniffled and rubbed at his eyes.

  “Do you think it could have been an accident?” asked Ela.

  “Never! He traveled in the cart by himself all the time. The horse is an old faithful companion that never put a foot wrong. Someone must have shoved him under the wheels.” The servant’s lip quivered. His distress seemed genuine. “That’s why I raised the hue and cry.”

  “You saw him leave this morning, but he came back. Do you have any idea why?”

  The lad shook his head. “None. He was headed to Exeter to collect some goods he ordered that docked on a ship in Exmouth last week. He was going to stay there overnight, then come back tomorrow.”

  “Do you know who he was meeting? Or the name of the ship?”

  “I don’t. He didn’t talk business with me. Kept it all to himself.”

  “Do you have any idea what the goods were?”

  He shook his head again. “They’re all kept in the warehouse.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “I don’t know.”