[Roger the Chapman 06] - The Wicked Winter by Kate Sedley Page A

calm. The house was suddenly quiet, the silence broken only by the rustle of women's skirts and the low rumbling of muttered conversations as members of the household forgathered either in the kitchen or the great hall, according to their rank. The body of Lady Cederwell, her identity confirmed by her husband, had been carried home and now lay on the bed in her chamber, still locked into its unnatural pose. No laying out could be done, and therefore no proper mourning begun, until the rigor had passed.
    Both Simeon and I had been offered shelter for the night which we had thankfully accepted, for the nearest habitation, the boulder house, was at least half an hour's walk distant.
    'We'll leave early tomorrow morning,' the friar muttered, as we warmed our chilled bones at the kitchen fire. 'We must not intrude upon a house of grief.'
    I said nothing, but in my private opinion there was precious little of that commodity on display in the wake of Lady Cederwell's tragic fall. Only two people had so far shed any tears in my presence, my lady's half-brother, who had been summoned in from the stables when Simeon and I first returned with our terrible news, and her personal maid, Audrey Lambspringe, cousin, as I recalled, to young Bet at Lynom Hall. The housekeeper, Phillipa Talke, the sister-by-marriage, Mistress Empryngham, and, above all, Sir Hugh himself, were either remarkably adept at hiding their sorrow or were indeed as unaffected by the calamity as they appeared to be.
    There seemed no doubt in anyone's mind that Lady Cederwell's death had been accidental.
    'She would often clamber on to the parapet,' Sir Hugh had confirmed in answer to a question from Simeon. He had shrugged and spread wide his hands. 'I've warned her- we've all warned her - of the danger, but she refused to listen. She would only reply that by doing so she could get still nearer to God. It was why she liked the tower, why she spent so much of her time there, why she set up a private chapel of her own in the topmost storey.'
    He had gone on to explain that the tower was an ancient Saxon dwelling, built by one Eadred Eadrichsson, who had fought for King Harold at Senlac.
    'My forebear, Sir Guy de Sourdeval, was granted the property five months later when Eadred was dispossessed, as recognition by King William for his valour in that same battle.'
    A poor recompense, I thought, this blighted tract of land on the edge of nowhere. Sir Guy de Sourdeval had evidently been of little importance; probably an impoverished knight who had followed in the wake of his overlord to see what modest pickings could be gleaned in a conquered country, if Duke William should prove successful. And in the 400 years since, I judged, little had altered. The name of Sir Guy's descendants, together with that of the house which he had built, had been mangled by the English tongue into Cederwell, but other than that no great change had taken place. No increase in fame and fortune had accrued to the family, no dynastic marriages had been contracted, no resounding feats of arms had been performed. And Sir Hugh, like those before him and in common with so many others of his kind, was content to live out his days on the periphery of events, the sole and sufficient source of his pride being his Norman ancestry.
    Friar Simeon and I continued warming ourselves at the kitchen fire while Martha Grindcobb and the little maid, whose name I had learned was Jennifer Tonge, started to prepare the evening meal.
    'It'll be late. It's already well past four o'clock, but that can't be helped, I suppose,' the cook observed, before suddenly recollecting herself and raising one comer of her apron to wipe away a non-existent tear. 'Poor lady[ Poor lady!' Her voice rose sharply. 'Watch that broth, you stupid girl! It's boiling over!'
    There was a loud hissing sound as the liquid ran down the sides of the pot and extinguished some of the flames. A cloud of steam rose towards the blackened ceiling where it hung,