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Authors: Barry Unsworth
Tags: Historical Novel
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Paradise?'
'This murder you were talking of,' he said, 'we heard something of it on our way to see the priest.'
I am gifted with foreknowledge, as I began this account by saying. Sometimes we do not know we are waiting until the awaited thing arrives. It arrived now with these words of his, which should have come as a surprise but did not. The first dread, I felt it then, in that poor place, seeing the light on his face, light of temerity. 'The ostler at the inn spoke of it,' I said. 'I did not think you had taken notice of this talking.'
'Why, yes,' he said. 'It is our trade to take notice of such things. These were all women. They had voices long drawn-out, as women have when they agree together about a bad thing and find pleasure in so agreeing.' He opened his eyes wide and turned down the corners of his mouth and in a voice little louder than a murmur he imitated this talk of the women: 'Ye-e-es, she was always so seemly, who would have thought such a thing of her, eyes for men she had not ... Well, neighbours, what man would want her for a wife?' He stopped and looked seriously at me. 'All the voices were the same,' he said. 'Like a chorus. Why would no one want her?'
'When she had done such a thing-'
'No,' he said, 'they were speaking of the time before the murder. Perhaps she is ugly, perhaps she is a witch.'
I did not want to speak of it but his will was stronger, eclipsing mine - then and later. His desire, the light of interest on his face, compelled me. I fed this interest with the scraps he had given me himself. 'It was the Lord's confessor found the money,' I said. 'He found it in her house.'
'Not her house,' he said, 'her father's. She is a young woman, unmarried. She has no house.'
'How do you know this?' I asked him, and watched him shrug slightly. There was a strong smell of the privy out in the yard. The nightsoil gatherers had not yet passed this way. I was weary now and fearful, though I did not know of what. I had a sudden memory of the ostler's face as he turned from shadow into light.
'I spoke to the priest's woman while I was waiting,' Martin said. 'Tobias stayed outside because with him he had that cur he loves so.'
'You asked her ...?'
'Some few questions, yes.'
I waited for a moment but he said nothing more. Even then I could not leave the matter. 'All the same,' I said, 'it is strange, it is unusual, that a woman without help would kill a man in that fashion.'
'What fashion? We do not know how the killing was done.'
'I mean on the open road. A woman might kill a man in rage or jealousy, choosing a time when he was off his guard.'
'It was not a man, it was a boy of twelve years.'
I found no answer to this. Thomas Wells was a child then. Small puzzles removed do not make a lessening of wickedness. A woman could more easily kill a child, yes ... He had questioned the priest's woman more than a little, I saw.
He smiled now and began to speak in signs to me, something he did often, and always without warning, for the sake of giving me practice. He made the snake-sign of tonsure and belly for the monk; then the swift chopping motions of roof and walls; then the sign of urgent question, thumb and first two fingers of the left hand joined together and the hand moved rapidly back and forth below the chin - a sign very like the one that signifies eating except that in this latter case the thumb is uppermost with the elbow held out and the movements somewhat slower.
How did the Monk come to be in the house?
He waited, pressing back his head to show the need for an answer. I am sorry to say it but truth compels me, I craned forward my head to show eagerness and did my best to make the rapid tongue movements of lechery, though could not do it with the gibbering speed I had observed in Straw.
Martin laughed at this. He seemed in great good humour now. 'But she did not look at men,' he said, 'if we are to believe the good dames.' And he compressed his lips and made a gesture of the right hand
'This murder you were talking of,' he said, 'we heard something of it on our way to see the priest.'
I am gifted with foreknowledge, as I began this account by saying. Sometimes we do not know we are waiting until the awaited thing arrives. It arrived now with these words of his, which should have come as a surprise but did not. The first dread, I felt it then, in that poor place, seeing the light on his face, light of temerity. 'The ostler at the inn spoke of it,' I said. 'I did not think you had taken notice of this talking.'
'Why, yes,' he said. 'It is our trade to take notice of such things. These were all women. They had voices long drawn-out, as women have when they agree together about a bad thing and find pleasure in so agreeing.' He opened his eyes wide and turned down the corners of his mouth and in a voice little louder than a murmur he imitated this talk of the women: 'Ye-e-es, she was always so seemly, who would have thought such a thing of her, eyes for men she had not ... Well, neighbours, what man would want her for a wife?' He stopped and looked seriously at me. 'All the voices were the same,' he said. 'Like a chorus. Why would no one want her?'
'When she had done such a thing-'
'No,' he said, 'they were speaking of the time before the murder. Perhaps she is ugly, perhaps she is a witch.'
I did not want to speak of it but his will was stronger, eclipsing mine - then and later. His desire, the light of interest on his face, compelled me. I fed this interest with the scraps he had given me himself. 'It was the Lord's confessor found the money,' I said. 'He found it in her house.'
'Not her house,' he said, 'her father's. She is a young woman, unmarried. She has no house.'
'How do you know this?' I asked him, and watched him shrug slightly. There was a strong smell of the privy out in the yard. The nightsoil gatherers had not yet passed this way. I was weary now and fearful, though I did not know of what. I had a sudden memory of the ostler's face as he turned from shadow into light.
'I spoke to the priest's woman while I was waiting,' Martin said. 'Tobias stayed outside because with him he had that cur he loves so.'
'You asked her ...?'
'Some few questions, yes.'
I waited for a moment but he said nothing more. Even then I could not leave the matter. 'All the same,' I said, 'it is strange, it is unusual, that a woman without help would kill a man in that fashion.'
'What fashion? We do not know how the killing was done.'
'I mean on the open road. A woman might kill a man in rage or jealousy, choosing a time when he was off his guard.'
'It was not a man, it was a boy of twelve years.'
I found no answer to this. Thomas Wells was a child then. Small puzzles removed do not make a lessening of wickedness. A woman could more easily kill a child, yes ... He had questioned the priest's woman more than a little, I saw.
He smiled now and began to speak in signs to me, something he did often, and always without warning, for the sake of giving me practice. He made the snake-sign of tonsure and belly for the monk; then the swift chopping motions of roof and walls; then the sign of urgent question, thumb and first two fingers of the left hand joined together and the hand moved rapidly back and forth below the chin - a sign very like the one that signifies eating except that in this latter case the thumb is uppermost with the elbow held out and the movements somewhat slower.
How did the Monk come to be in the house?
He waited, pressing back his head to show the need for an answer. I am sorry to say it but truth compels me, I craned forward my head to show eagerness and did my best to make the rapid tongue movements of lechery, though could not do it with the gibbering speed I had observed in Straw.
Martin laughed at this. He seemed in great good humour now. 'But she did not look at men,' he said, 'if we are to believe the good dames.' And he compressed his lips and made a gesture of the right hand
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