Read Online The Leper's Return by Michael Jecks - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Jecks
Tags: Historical, Deckare
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his wife, or at least the glow of a candle, but there was nothing visible. He watched while his grooms fetched the large trunk from the back of his cart. The light was fading, and he was glad to be back before it was fully dark.
His servants lifted the great box and staggered with it over the threshold and into the hall. They waited while he unlocked the door to his storeroom, then half-dragged, half-carried it inside. Coffyn relocked the door once they were out again, and sent his bottler for a pint of wine.
It had been a good trip. Coffyn disliked travelling, he was happier running his affairs here in Crediton, but for the last four months, through the summer, he had left his home and his wife to sell his cloth at fairs; it was a relief that this was the last of the year. There wouldn’t be any more during the winter months.
His business was profitable at long last, and he was determined to make as much gold as he could, and not only to repay his ruinous debts. Rumors were growing of the prospects of war both at home and abroad. Matthew needed the protection that money could provide; money was power, and power was safety. What with the French and the Scots, he found it hard to understand why people wanted to fight each other, but all he heard at the fairs and markets pointed to a battle between the King and Lancaster, and when the soldiers started marching, he wanted to have as large a fund as possible. Sometimes the only defense lay in buying off raiders.
Not that it should come so far south and west, he mused, swallowing a gulp of wine and sitting on the bench before the fire. The two English protagonists would probably slug it out round London and York. They were the wealthy areas, the places where the richest pickings could be had, and any captain of men knew that the best way to ensure loyalty among his army was to pick a field where the best profits were available.
Even if the English themselves didn’t go to war, there was always the risk of French pirates or an invasion. The thought was one he had considered several times recently, and once more he resolved to hire some men-at-arms. His eyes went to the locked door. There were dangers inherent in hiring itinerant soldiers, but the advantages outweighed them. He wouldn’t be happy until he had some better defense. There were always men at Exeter. He resolved to hire some at the first opportunity.
He wondered where his wife was, and bellowed for his bottler. “Where is my lady?”
“Sir, she went to her bed this afternoon with an upset.”
He waved away his bottler impatiently. The bitch was always ill. He slurped wine and belched, and his glower left his face for a moment to be replaced by a hopeful smirk. What if she was pregnant?
Matthew Coffyn was not a particularly cruel or even unkind man. He had been brought up on a farm north and east of Exeter, and had been apprenticed to a cloth merchant at seven because his father was desperate that his son would be able to keep him when he became old. The scheme had failed, though, because his father had died before he completed his apprenticeship.
But Coffyn had thrived, and when he was almost in his twenty-ninth year, he had wooed and wed. Now he was almost thirty-four, and his wife, his beautiful Martha, was just twenty. Yet he had not managed to sire a son, and the lack of children was aggravating. It wasn’t right that he should be childless: it wasn’t good for a man to go through life without an heir to leave his work to.
He sighed and drained his cup again. It was hard to blame his wife, for as she always pointed out, he was away so much through the summer that it would be a miracle for her to conceive. The optimism that was never far from his cheerful nature rose to the surface: winter was here, and offered unrivalled opportunities for early nights in bed.
The house was silent, and the hiss and crackle of the fire sounded almost deafening in the absence of all other noise. As Coffyn smiled at his
His servants lifted the great box and staggered with it over the threshold and into the hall. They waited while he unlocked the door to his storeroom, then half-dragged, half-carried it inside. Coffyn relocked the door once they were out again, and sent his bottler for a pint of wine.
It had been a good trip. Coffyn disliked travelling, he was happier running his affairs here in Crediton, but for the last four months, through the summer, he had left his home and his wife to sell his cloth at fairs; it was a relief that this was the last of the year. There wouldn’t be any more during the winter months.
His business was profitable at long last, and he was determined to make as much gold as he could, and not only to repay his ruinous debts. Rumors were growing of the prospects of war both at home and abroad. Matthew needed the protection that money could provide; money was power, and power was safety. What with the French and the Scots, he found it hard to understand why people wanted to fight each other, but all he heard at the fairs and markets pointed to a battle between the King and Lancaster, and when the soldiers started marching, he wanted to have as large a fund as possible. Sometimes the only defense lay in buying off raiders.
Not that it should come so far south and west, he mused, swallowing a gulp of wine and sitting on the bench before the fire. The two English protagonists would probably slug it out round London and York. They were the wealthy areas, the places where the richest pickings could be had, and any captain of men knew that the best way to ensure loyalty among his army was to pick a field where the best profits were available.
Even if the English themselves didn’t go to war, there was always the risk of French pirates or an invasion. The thought was one he had considered several times recently, and once more he resolved to hire some men-at-arms. His eyes went to the locked door. There were dangers inherent in hiring itinerant soldiers, but the advantages outweighed them. He wouldn’t be happy until he had some better defense. There were always men at Exeter. He resolved to hire some at the first opportunity.
He wondered where his wife was, and bellowed for his bottler. “Where is my lady?”
“Sir, she went to her bed this afternoon with an upset.”
He waved away his bottler impatiently. The bitch was always ill. He slurped wine and belched, and his glower left his face for a moment to be replaced by a hopeful smirk. What if she was pregnant?
Matthew Coffyn was not a particularly cruel or even unkind man. He had been brought up on a farm north and east of Exeter, and had been apprenticed to a cloth merchant at seven because his father was desperate that his son would be able to keep him when he became old. The scheme had failed, though, because his father had died before he completed his apprenticeship.
But Coffyn had thrived, and when he was almost in his twenty-ninth year, he had wooed and wed. Now he was almost thirty-four, and his wife, his beautiful Martha, was just twenty. Yet he had not managed to sire a son, and the lack of children was aggravating. It wasn’t right that he should be childless: it wasn’t good for a man to go through life without an heir to leave his work to.
He sighed and drained his cup again. It was hard to blame his wife, for as she always pointed out, he was away so much through the summer that it would be a miracle for her to conceive. The optimism that was never far from his cheerful nature rose to the surface: winter was here, and offered unrivalled opportunities for early nights in bed.
The house was silent, and the hiss and crackle of the fire sounded almost deafening in the absence of all other noise. As Coffyn smiled at his
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