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Authors: Toby Clements
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of this Hundred, is dead by natural causes, or by misadventure, or by reason of a felony in her own case, or by murder.’
As he speaks, there is a general grumble from the jury. It is a reluctant crowd, about thirty strong, every man over the age of twelve, from the nearest four villages, ordered from their fields and their trades to hear yet another inquest into yet another woman dead in childbirth, and they are not happy. They give off a vapour, like a herd of bulls in the cold, and one of them has brought a dog that whines and strains on its plaited rope leash. Standing in a ring about them are the grey shapes of women and children, spectating, the smog of their breath like pale scarves around their heads.
Finishing his preamble, the coroner turns to address Eelby, who is standing apart from the jury with his brown cloth cap clutched in his knuckly hands and his unshaven cheeks blue with the cold. Katherine thinks he looks unusually meek before the coroner, as if he were afraid of authority, and yet she knows he is not. She wonders what he is up to, and supposes she will find out soon enough.
‘And you are first finder?’ the coroner asks. Eelby nods.
‘I am,’ he says.
‘Name?’
‘John Eelby, of Cornford, of this Hundred.’
At his desk, the clerk records this.
‘And the dead woman?’ the coroner goes on. ‘Is your wife?’
‘Was, yes.’
‘May God rest her soul. Tell us what you found.’
Eelby swallows and begins.
‘I heard them calling,’ he says, ‘and I was worried about my wife, so I came running. They was in the kitchen up at the castle. I found her, with blood all over her dress.’
He points at Katherine. There is a murmuring among the jury.
‘And my woman was lain out on the table, all cut. Across here.’
Now he points on his own body, showing a slash from left to right, just above his pubis, though Katherine remembers the cut as being vertical. It is the longest speech she has ever heard him make.
‘And when was this?’
‘In the week before All Saints, this last year,’ he says.
‘And you raised the hue and cry?’
Eelby allows that he did, though in fact there was little need since there was no felon to chase down. After he had come into the kitchen, Katherine and Widow Beaufoy and the widow’s maid had stood there, gathered around the baby, Eelby’s son, whom they had miraculously saved.
‘Did the members of the nearest four households come running?’ the coroner presses.
‘Yes,’ Eelby lies. ‘Yes, they did.’
‘You will name them to my clerk at the end of the proceedings,’ the coroner instructs.
Eelby nods.
‘And then you called the bailiff?’ the coroner continues. He is eager to find any breach of the complex laws that surround any sudden or unexpected death, since any infraction will allow him to impose a fine on the Hundred or on Eelby himself, and so boost his own income.
‘I did,’ Eelby says, nodding at the bailiff, who gives his name, and the clerk makes another entry in his roll.
‘Only he wasn’t needed,’ Eelby goes on. ‘Because them who cut my woman open stood there just as if it right pleased the Lord.’
‘And these are they?’ the coroner asks, turning back to Katherine and Widow Beaufoy.
Eelby nods and the coroner studies the two women again. Katherine tries to see them as he must. She imagines he sees them in good, but old dresses, one, the widow, taller and broader than the other, while next to her she, Katherine, looks if she has been denied her portion of milk and butter over the long winter.
‘And which one made the cut?’ the coroner asks.
Eelby indicates Katherine.
‘It was her,’ he says. ‘Lady Margaret.’
The coroner reminds the clerk of Katherine’s name, and he nods as he writes it.
‘Why do you think Margaret, Lady Cornford, cut her?’
Eelby shifts from foot to foot now. There is a pause, almost as if he is coming to a decision, as if he were choosing which path to take in a wood, and the
As he speaks, there is a general grumble from the jury. It is a reluctant crowd, about thirty strong, every man over the age of twelve, from the nearest four villages, ordered from their fields and their trades to hear yet another inquest into yet another woman dead in childbirth, and they are not happy. They give off a vapour, like a herd of bulls in the cold, and one of them has brought a dog that whines and strains on its plaited rope leash. Standing in a ring about them are the grey shapes of women and children, spectating, the smog of their breath like pale scarves around their heads.
Finishing his preamble, the coroner turns to address Eelby, who is standing apart from the jury with his brown cloth cap clutched in his knuckly hands and his unshaven cheeks blue with the cold. Katherine thinks he looks unusually meek before the coroner, as if he were afraid of authority, and yet she knows he is not. She wonders what he is up to, and supposes she will find out soon enough.
‘And you are first finder?’ the coroner asks. Eelby nods.
‘I am,’ he says.
‘Name?’
‘John Eelby, of Cornford, of this Hundred.’
At his desk, the clerk records this.
‘And the dead woman?’ the coroner goes on. ‘Is your wife?’
‘Was, yes.’
‘May God rest her soul. Tell us what you found.’
Eelby swallows and begins.
‘I heard them calling,’ he says, ‘and I was worried about my wife, so I came running. They was in the kitchen up at the castle. I found her, with blood all over her dress.’
He points at Katherine. There is a murmuring among the jury.
‘And my woman was lain out on the table, all cut. Across here.’
Now he points on his own body, showing a slash from left to right, just above his pubis, though Katherine remembers the cut as being vertical. It is the longest speech she has ever heard him make.
‘And when was this?’
‘In the week before All Saints, this last year,’ he says.
‘And you raised the hue and cry?’
Eelby allows that he did, though in fact there was little need since there was no felon to chase down. After he had come into the kitchen, Katherine and Widow Beaufoy and the widow’s maid had stood there, gathered around the baby, Eelby’s son, whom they had miraculously saved.
‘Did the members of the nearest four households come running?’ the coroner presses.
‘Yes,’ Eelby lies. ‘Yes, they did.’
‘You will name them to my clerk at the end of the proceedings,’ the coroner instructs.
Eelby nods.
‘And then you called the bailiff?’ the coroner continues. He is eager to find any breach of the complex laws that surround any sudden or unexpected death, since any infraction will allow him to impose a fine on the Hundred or on Eelby himself, and so boost his own income.
‘I did,’ Eelby says, nodding at the bailiff, who gives his name, and the clerk makes another entry in his roll.
‘Only he wasn’t needed,’ Eelby goes on. ‘Because them who cut my woman open stood there just as if it right pleased the Lord.’
‘And these are they?’ the coroner asks, turning back to Katherine and Widow Beaufoy.
Eelby nods and the coroner studies the two women again. Katherine tries to see them as he must. She imagines he sees them in good, but old dresses, one, the widow, taller and broader than the other, while next to her she, Katherine, looks if she has been denied her portion of milk and butter over the long winter.
‘And which one made the cut?’ the coroner asks.
Eelby indicates Katherine.
‘It was her,’ he says. ‘Lady Margaret.’
The coroner reminds the clerk of Katherine’s name, and he nods as he writes it.
‘Why do you think Margaret, Lady Cornford, cut her?’
Eelby shifts from foot to foot now. There is a pause, almost as if he is coming to a decision, as if he were choosing which path to take in a wood, and the
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