Crowner Ralf wiped his hand across his mouth. “Not drunk enough to feel happy,” he muttered, staring into the brown liquid that still half-filled his leather jack as if accusing the ale of some crime. Were he to think more on that, he might have confessed that little had ever brought him profound contentment until recently, but he was rarely in the mood for contemplative debates. Tonight was no exception.
Earlier, he and Tostig had met at the inn to celebrate the crowner’s return from court. That they had done with pleasure enough, but his friend from childhood was a prudent man and left, like any responsible merchant, at a sensible hour. Thus Ralf was left alone, accompanied only by all the reasons why he had not been in the village for over a year.
Some time ago, he had glanced up to see Signy climb the stairs to the private rooms above. Resting his bristling chin on his hand, he let himself enjoy the sight of her soft buttocks swaying under the fabric of her robe. A tall and buxom woman, she gave this inn its especial brightness and had once shared his bed with ardent willingness.
He sighed and stroked the tabletop with lingering remorse. Had he not called her by another woman’s name when he was riding her, she might have continued to pleasure him, but his mistake had quickly cooled her eagerness. Since Ralf was not a complete boor, he did understand why and had even apologized, but all efforts to make amends were greeted with a broom to his head. He had not approached her since. After that night, she always sent another wench to serve him whenever he visited the inn.
This evening, although she stopped to speak to Tostig, she had turned her back on the crowner, ignoring him as if he did not exist and had not been absent from the area for well over a year. He had been hurt at the snub, and, when she disappeared through the crowd of men, Ralf realized he still regretted what had occurred between them. Although much had happened since he tried to escape his especial grief in mindless service to his unpleasant elder brother, he had retained a fondness for a woman he believed to be kind and sweet-tempered—unless provoked, of course. Now, he suspected she might have transferred her affections to Tostig, a pleasing thought overall.
Or was it? He frowned.
In any event, Tostig had said nothing about any feelings for Signy. He had not even spoken her name after the innkeeper’s niece left them. The man instead had amused the crowner pleasantly with village news and asked about Ralf’s brief marriage as well as tales from court.
Did that mean Signy had not captured his heart?
Perhaps he should simply overlook Tostig’s reticence to talk of any woman. The man had rejected all idea of marriage when his parents died and he chose to raise his younger sister, Gytha. The girl herself was now of marriageable age, but her doting brother had given her more choice about a husband than was considered wise. Since she had yet to settle on anyone, a few eager suitors now urged Tostig to simply decide for her, as was more proper. He ignored them.
“There’s a spirited girl,” Ralf said with a grin when Tostig told him that she had just rejected a goldsmith of acceptable means. “When she finds a husband she likes, he had better be a worthy fellow or he will have you to deal with.” And maybe himself as well, Ralf thought. He had always liked the lass.
Ralf sat back. Out of old habit, he began to scan the crowd. Most of the faces were familiar to him. Some of the tradesmen had grown grayer, stouter, or even frail. Sitting with them now were sons too young to have joined their fathers when Ralf was last here but since grown old enough to take on a man’s responsibility as well as vice.
Was Ivetta the whore still stripping these lads of their virginity, he wondered, or was she finally too raddled for that? Tyndal was not big enough to have an excess of young girls, lush and ripe for the swyving by rampant young men. The town prostitute had often provided that service, although it was not uncommon for a daughter to be churched before a father could push her to the church door for a wedding.
A movement at the corner of his eye caught Ralf’s attention, and he turned to see Will and Hob coming down the stairs, stumbling like a pair of drunken goats. His mouth filled with a foul taste and he swallowed some ale as antidote.
When they were all younger, the brothers were town bullies, picking on the weaker like the cowards they were while leaving him alone because he always blackened their eyes first. Martin Cooper was part of that gang, he remembered, and had added cruel jests to the brothers’ usual ill behavior. Most of the damage left by all three was minor enough in the life of any boy: some broken noses, a few burns, and one lost ear. There were also the inevitable, broken maidenheads, although more than usual were unwillingly burst as he had heard. The girls denied all. Out of fear, he suspected.
Once, however, the boys had gone too far. A lad had died of hanging when the rope caught in the tree. They panicked and ran, leaving him to jerk in the air and then choke to death. The boy’s mother had discovered his limp body and raised a hue and cry, but the boys suffered no consequence.
In fact, after the crowner’s jury found the death accidental, she was fined for falsely raising the hue and cry. After the decision was announced, Ralf and Tostig had discussed whether the verdict had been decided more on other considerations than the event itself: two of the boys were the blacksmith’s sons; the dead lad’s mother was believed to be a meddler in magic.
Tonight, the two brothers passed near enough that Ralf could smell their sooty sweat, but the men were too deeply involved in some argument to pay him heed. The crowner was glad enough of that. Just remembering the death of that young boy had made his fist itch to strike. When he had been named crowner, it was the memory of this tale, among other things, that caused him to swear never to choose the easy answer to any crime.
As he watched the two men disappear, he recalled Tostig remarking that the younger brother had become almost respectable over the last several months, although he still bloodied his knuckles in Will’s defense when necessary. Had Hob changed that much? Although Ralf had seen the younger blacksmith grow less wild over the years, he believed that few men ever truly repented until they were on their death beds, knowing they must face God’s judgment.
The crowner poured himself more ale and raised the jack to drink. “Maybe some do, a bit,” he whispered, setting the jack down. After all, he was not drinking himself into oblivion tonight. The reason was his wee babe, a daughter he adored. Why find some empty solace at the inn when he had a child at home who would smile when he picked her up for a hug?
“After all the horrors I saw in my soldiering years and the cruelties I have seen men commit against each other, how can this leathery heart still melt so?” A veritable miracle, he decided, his mouth twisting into an embarrassed grin as he pushed the drink further away.
He never thought fatherhood would affect him so. Perhaps his own father had been right when he called Ralf a disappointment, the contrary one, compared to his elder brothers. A man was supposed to want strong sons, but he had roared with joy when he learned his wife had given birth to a lass. But how could he not love this beautiful little girl? Weren’t her cheeks pink like a fine apple and her ten fingers perfection in miniature?
Shifting on the bench, he knew he must find her a new wet-nurse very soon. As he was rocking the baby to sleep in his arms last night, the woman his brother had sent complained bitterly about the rank pig swill and steaming piles of manure all too near the house on the land Ralf had acquired through marriage. He might have been pleased that the manor was situated close to Tyndal village, but few women, used to the comforts of such things as castle latrines, would enjoy what the remote and lonely land of East Anglia had to offer. He had promised the woman he would send her back to Winchester soon enough.
Aye, the land stank of dead things from the sea and hobby-lanterns danced above the fens on misty nights. Yet he loved this place despite all the sad memories it evoked. Perhaps he was happiest back at Tyndal village after all. Old habits must die hard, he decided, and suddenly realized he was hungry.
He waved at a serving wench and asked for stew. When she put the bowl down in front of him, the pungent smell of well-spiced rabbit cooked with onions brushed aside his mild alcoholic haze and led his stomach to rumble with pleasant anticipation.
As he plunged his spoon after a bit of meat and onion, he caught sight of Signy waiting on a group of men nearby. He felt a twinge of lust as he recalled how those rounded thighs had held him fast in the night. Then he shook off the image and filled his mouth with flavorful stew.
Two men beside him roared out an irreverent song, slamming their jacks on the wooden table.
Ralf turned to grin at them.
It was just then that a woman’s piercing scream from the upper loft shattered all merriment.