Mischief At Aescham Manor

PART TWO: As Pernelle and Cavelier continue to investigate Lady Maud’s mysterious fears, the danger increases

More Of Our Medieval Serial

Pernelle tiptoed into the larder in the undercroft, an instinctive action so as not to disturb the deadly silence. The body of Faucon, the swaggering French manservant disliked by Aescham’s marshal as well as a number of others there, was laid out on the slabs.

Pernelle thought he looked as though he merely slept, his brash features smoothed into a serenity he may not have enjoyed while awake.

“Checking up on the situation for Lady Maude, Mistress Vaux? Or are you just full of morbid curiosity?”

Pernelle turned, unsurprised to see the steadfast form of Peter Cavelier filling the doorway. She lifted her chin. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t disguising the truth so as not to aggravate my lady’s nerves. She still fears that someone means her mischief.” “I see… and your conclusions?” Pernelle turned and looked back down toward the body.

“No signs of a fight, or of him trying to purge himself of poison. It does appear that it could have been an accidental fall, as you surmised.” Cavelier came to stand beside her. “But you are not convinced.” “Not entirely.” Pernelle shot him a sideways glance. “No doubt you will say it is the superstitions of Samhain playing with my judgment.” A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “There has been a particularly intense blood moon this year. Mayhap we are all a little infected by its curse. For what it is worth, Bram the leech has taken a look at the body and found no evidence of foul play. But as your father would have told you, as marshal of the manor, it is my duty to confirm that this was naught more than an tragic accident, especially when the man was so mistrusted.

“By the way, I’ve checked up on our drunkard former groom, Will Nash. He’s been seen once in the vicinity since his dismissal from Aescham – on the day before the dead rat was found outside my lady’s chamber.”

Pernelle drew in a sharp breath at this news. “So he could have been our mysterious ‘rat’ wraith.”

“Perhaps,” said Cavelier, “although I am still not persuaded. I’ve strengthened the guard, nevertheless; he won’t get into Aescham unobserved again. Now, let us discover what our cocky Frenchman was doing in the time before his fall.”

Pernelle gathered her skirts and swept past him.

“If you are going to question anyone, let me do the talking. A little bit of honey goes a lot further that heavy frowns.”

Their enquiries led them to the brewer’s hut of Madame Wenda down in the dell in the keep’s long shadow, a gregarious woman who supplied Aescham with a steady stream of well-flavoured ale, and had the arms of an ox to attest to her labours.

She was quick to confirm the comments that had led the marshal and lady’s maid to her, in a no-nonsense manner, adding with a vigorous spit into the straw round her cauldron, “I won’t miss that Frenchman nor his type round here. He couldn’t hold his drink, that man – and besides, he gave the place a bad atmosphere what with his affected airs and talk of folk rising up against king and loyalist lord.” Cavelier’s features sharpened. “He made such statements, madame?” “Aye, when he’d had a few cups.” “Do you think he was serious?” “I think he was spoiling for a dust-up,” Wenda sniffed, “or else trying to pretend that he was more important than he actually was.”

“Did he ever succeed in riling anyone enough to take him on?” Pernelle asked. Wenda went back to stirring her pot. “Only Nash the groom, but then he was always drunker than the Frenchman, so it was more comical than anything else when they finally came to fisticuffs. Gave the rest of us a good laugh, which is always welcome in these tense times.” “He drank last night?” asked Cavelier. “Aye, a lot,” Wenda cackled without a pause in her rhythmic stirring. “Wove out of here like a bee who’d overindulged in nectar gathering, so ’ tis no wonder he slipped and broke his neck. Fancy roaming round an area he was unfamiliar with, blind drunk and in the dark, with the mischievous spirits of Samhain wandering about!”

Abandoning her simmering cauldron, she checked the contents of a nearby barrel then smiled. “Now, Marshal, I’d say this batch was about done. How about a cup on me, as thanks for keeping our borders free of rebellious knaves?”

Pernelle was ponderous as they walked away from the row of pond’s edge cottages.

“You BELIEVE there could be a SPY at Aescham?” she asked, biting her lip

Cavelier gave his head a few vigorous shakes, mumbling ruefully, “If that’s a taste of how strong that woman brews, no wonder Faucon lost his footing! What are you thinking?” he asked at last, as the silence between them lengthened.

Pernelle pulled a spindly yarrow root from the ground and absently began to strip it bare.

“About this rebellion, pitting King Henry against his wife and sons, and turning innocent folk into potential traitors. A pitiable state of affairs.”

“A dangerous one, too,” Cavelier added, “since not only did Henry and his supporters rout the rebels at the recent Fornham battle, he’ll be on the march for anyone loyal to his treacherous queen.”

“But if the rebellion is indeed coming to an end,” reasoned Pernelle, “surely there isn’t the need to punish Machel or by extension, his manservant. There’s no reason for anyone to murder Faucon.”

“The battles may officially be over and parties suing for peace,” Cavelier agreed after a moment. “But cessation of outright conflict is a far cry from a complete end to hostilities. The reason for the rebellion is still there – Henry will never relinquish control over any of his dominions, whatever his sons say or do. He has imprisoned his own wife, a queen and a powerful Duchess in her own right, for daring to stand against him. There will always be bad feeling between these factions, and a need to know the actions and intentions of the other.”

“Spying, you mean?” When Cavelier inclined his head, Pernelle bit her lip. “You believe there could be a spy at Aescham?”

“Mayhap our strutting, garrulous Faucon, or even his master, Machel himself.” A strange look crossed his face. “Well, well, speak of the devil and he shall appear…”

Pernelle was brought up short by the sight of the Lady Maude emerging from the undercroft on the arm of Yves Machel. The Frenchman’s golden belt links glistened, reflecting the autumnal sun in splintered rays, as did the fleur-de lys cabochon-gem clasp joining the folds of his rich crimson cloak.

Maude, in contrast, looked pale and lunar-like, her natural elegance softening his stride to a more suitable funereal pace. They brought the bailey to a temporary standstill as they crossed to the thatched chapel beyond the central keep. Machel’s head was bowed, Maude’s hand gripping his in a show of trust.

Both Pernelle and Cavelier bowed in respect as lady and lord passed by, Pernelle in a low curtsey. Maude acknowledged her obeisance with a wan smile, patting her cousin’s hand as they entered the chapel and shut out the curious world they left behind.

Cavelier considered the closed arched door for a long moment as the daily activity of a busy manor started up again around them.

“They seem very close,” he remarked at length, making Pernelle narrow her eyes at him.

“What exactly are you implying, Marshal?”

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“That the ties of family can be strong,” Cavelier shot back, “and old loyalties run deep.”

“So Lady Maude is to be suspected of your spy theory simply because of her French blood?” Pernelle’s laugh was tinged with irony. “Then by that definition, you too must be suspect, sir, as you are also from those shores.”

“I am Norman, not French, madam,” he corrected her. “The Caveliers came here with the Conqueror, and are thus loyal to those of his blood, and their rule of this kingdom.”

Pernelle shrugged as they climbed the outer steps of the keep up to the hall. “Norman, French; it’s still not Angle.” The scowl on his brow broke suddenly into a smile. “And you call me cynical?”

“We are straying from the point,” Pernelle said irritably, his smile doing something annoying to her innards.

“Indeed.” Cavelier remained irksomely amused. “So if the Lady Maude and present company are to be exonerated, mayhap the most obvious person is the right one, after all. Yves Machel is far too smooth for my liking, rather too obviously grief-stricken at his manservant’s death.”

“Perhaps he was close to Faucon,” Pernelle reasoned. “The man could be charming in his own way, just like his master – at least, a lot of ladies considered him so. And he is – or was – a tangible link with Machel’s homeland.”

“He could also have been a liability,” Cavelier pointed out. “A troublemaker with loose lips who was in danger of giving away his master or himself and their true reason for being here. Or else an embarrassment to a proud man in a tricky situation.”

Pernelle pondered a moment then shook her head, her braids spinning.

“Nay, sir, this cannot be the answer. Spies, by their very nature, must be discreet to be effective. They would not frighten or put their sources on their guard, nor entrust unwise – or worse, drunken – men with such secrets.

“I would look more toward an aggrieved servant who is using the time of year to scare my lady, get a little of their own back for the loss of their place at Aescham. If Will Nash is still in the area, there will be a reason for it, and it is surely sinister… What, sir?” The last was asked in a wary tone as Pernelle noticed the marshal’s gaze levelled broodingly on her.

“I had not realised you were so perceptive, Mistress Vaux.”

Pernelle felt that embarrassing colour leap into her cheeks again. “I had a good teacher,” she murmured, turning her face away to hide the telltale blush.

“Ah, yes.” Cavelier drew her closer to the warm, flickering hearth, extending his hands toward the flames to chase away autumn’s chill. “I miss your father too, for what it is worth. Would that he were here now, for not only could he identify trouble a mile away, he could handle women a lot better than I as well.”

Pernelle drew in a steadying breath.

“Do not despair,” she said after a moment, a flicker of laughter now flirting with her lips. “I believe you are still young enough to learn.”

Pernelle watched from the window arch of Maude’s chamber as the marshal’s men made a meticulous search of hamlet and woodland beyond the manor walls. The mist of the morning had been slow to dissipate, and it danced around the moving figures like one of Maude’s hired mummers, obscuring them from view every now and again, like silent phantoms in the fields.

She sighed. The celebrations of Samhain and All Saint’s Day were a time for feasts and reflection before November’s busy preserving tasks then the darker, colder nights of winter must be faced, and something Pernelle usually enjoyed. The death of Faucon and the sinister planting of a dead rat outside this chamber sometime in the night had cast an ominous shadow over proceedings, a feeling that seemed to seep into the very walls of the flinted keep.

Was it merely coincidence that these incidents were happening at All Hallow’s, with its legends of spirits and evil sprites? Or was someone taking action before the return of Aescham’s lord, and any potential repercussions for those who had supported queen and princes in the Great Rebellion against King Henry? “What are you staring at?” The harsh tones of Johanna Hynde, Maude’s official lady’s maid, had their usual effect upon Pernelle. She stiffened and reluctantly turned to answer her. “I was watching the search.” Johanna tossed her head, crossing to drag open my lady’s chest by the curtained bed.

“Oh, really!” She declared with a sniff. “’Tis all a fuss over naught, encouraged no doubt by your desperation to be of some use to Maude.”

Hands curling into fists, Pernelle pushed herself away from the window embrasure. “So now you are accusing me of playing on my lady’s sensitivities just for some attention? That is low, mistress, even for you.”

Johanna raised her elegant frame to its full length, staring down her nose at the smaller Pernelle. “Do you really believe I care what a soldier’s daughter thinks?”

“Nay, mistress,” Pernelle replied softly, “and I feel sorry for you. All that you miss by your narrowed view of the world; no wonder your beautiful skin begins to show its age.”

Johanna sucked in a gasp; for a woman constantly trying to check her reflection, Pernelle’s arrow had shot home. Then she uttered a tinkling little laugh. “Touché, Mistress Vaux. That was almost worthy of me! But enough banter. Maude has asked me to air out her burgundy wool for the All Hallows

Was it COINCIDENCE these incidents were happening at ALL HALLOWS?

feast, and get you to choose something to wear as well, something better than your usual sparrow ensemble.”

She drew out two shorter, older gowns from the bottom of the chest and scrunching them in her fists, suddenly threw them at Pernelle. “Here. One of these should be good enough for you.”

Pernelle smiled and offered her an exaggerated curtsey.

“Why, thank you, Johanna. Either of these gowns will look lovely in all the Hallow’s Eve candles. How kind of you.”

Johanna stared at her for an arrested moment then stamped her foot and, whirling on one heel, swept out of the chamber. Pernelle chuckled to herself, gliding back across to the window to take advantage of the light. That woman was adept at doling out discourtesy, but not so good at receiving it.

She held first one gown then the other up against her, comparing sage-green to buttermilk, lacing to long belled sleeves.

It was a shame that Johanna disliked her. Apart from Lady Maude, Pernelle had no other female companion she could confide in, and none at all to giggle and share secrets with. She missed her mother for that, among other things, as much as she longed for her papa and his stalwart, protective love. He had met Queen Eleanor once; what would he think of her being held prisoner now, a punishment for what some believed was her instigation of the uprising against Henry’s rule?

Pernelle’s thoughts turned to the man who had stepped into her father’s boots. Peter Cavelier was certainly good at his job, a worthy successor as Aescham’s marshal. She’d accused him of taking Lady Maude’s, and indeed her own, suspicions too lightly, but was that really true? He had his men scouring the countryside, after all, and had investigated the death of Faucon at her side despite the lack of suspicious circumstances.

Sighing, she selected the sage gown and positioned it against her chest once again, smoothing a hand over the delicate acorn embroidery encircling the neck. She would never have Johanna’s lovely complexion nor the natural dignity of Lady Maude, but with a little bit of ingenuity and this dress, she would at least not look out of place beside them.

Now to ensure that the preparations for the festivities were well in hand before she should consult with Cavelier…

Sourcing lantern creators and apple collectors took quite some time, and the day had already turned to dusk before Pernelle could join the rest of the manor in the hall at the heart of Aescham, with its sturdy flint walls insulating all of the warmth – and the smoke – from its large hearth.

She partook cautiously of the viands on offer this even, wary of her upset stomach from last night. She was glad to see that recent events had not overly affected the manor.

My lady was in better looks, her paleness receded somewhat since her earlier brush with death. She was seated on the dais, mistress of all she surveyed, and surrounded by retainers and friends, which could account for the lessening of the worries that had shadowed her features of late.

Studying Yves Machel sitting at her right hand with a new and deeper consideration, Pernelle could detect naught of malice or malcontent in his manner. However, this could just be a front and he could be using Maude for information, or her position as wife of a knight close to the king. She must remain on her guard, Pernelle thought, then smiled at the evidence of Cavelier’s influence. Where was he, anyway? She had expected him to have sought her out by now with the latest news of their investigations. Slipping from the hall some time later, Pernelle descended the outer steps into the quiet bailey, lit at limited intervals by flickering braziers, and headed for the gatehouse, deflecting on a whim to look at the place where Faucon’s body had been found. In reflected light from a nearby torch, the steep, old stairs leading up to the hayloft showed signs of damage, which the Frenchman must have fractured when he fell.

Pernelle sighed then, spying something glimmering among the dust and chaff, bent to retrieve it, stepping closer to the light to examine her find.

Her attention was diverted by the sight of a cloaked figure emerging from the darkness between the nearby storerooms, a drawn hood obscuring any identifying features. On feet that were suddenly shaky, she followed the silent, swift form, only to breathe a sigh of relief when it vanished into the chapel.

Honestly, she berated herself, she really was becoming paranoid, seeing Samhain spirits or flesh-and-blood folk up to mischief in every shadow!

High above the shedding branches of the orchard’s apple trees, she could see the fabled blood moon, staining the leaves that had not yet fallen to their deaths a deep red.

“I blame you,” she whispered then, smiling at her own foolishness, turned to go back inside.

It was then that she heard an unmistakable sound of footsteps behind her, and before she could react, felt something hard smash across the back of her head…

A cloaked figure EMERGING from the DARKNESS diverted her ATTENTION

Next week: Has Pernelle been silenced for good? Don’t miss the exciting conclusion to our medieval mystery!