[Roger the Chapman 04] - The Holy Innocents Read Free Page A

the necessary impedimenta of cooking. At one end of the room, another piece of tapestry, faded and darned, imperfectly concealed a bed, the foot of which protruded some inches beyond the curtain.
    I felt a stab of surprise as, invited in by Grizelda, I stepped across the threshold. There was no reason for my astonishment; the cottage was typical of its kind and no more than I should normally have expected to find on any smallholding.
    But there was something about my hostess, her bearing, her tone of command when speaking to the other women, the slightly disdainful glance she cast around her present home, which suggested to me that she had known better times, been used to more gracious surroundings.
    'Have you eaten?' she asked, waving me to one of the benches against the wall.
    'I had some bread and cheese an hour or more ago, down by the river. Food left over from last night's supper.' She smiled understandingly. 'Not enough for a great frame like yours. If you can wait awhile, I'll give you breakfast. There's ale and bread and some salted bacon, or I can cook you a mess of eggs, if you'd prefer it.'
    'The eggs would make a welcome change,' I said. 'Could you also spare me a pot of hot water to shave with?'  
    She nodded. 'There's water heating in the cauldron over the fire.' She reached down an iron pot with a handle from a shelf. 'Here, use this. And while you shave, I'll collect the eggs and free the poor bird from her coop.'
    She went out, and I took the razor from my pack, looking for something with which to sharpen it. Then I noticed a leather strop hanging from a hook behind the door. I wondered who it belonged to, for there was no other sign of a man's presence in the cottage. I dipped the iron pot in the seething water, lathered my chin with a piece of the cheap black soap which I always carried with me, and began to scrape off the night's growth of stubble. I had hardly begun before Grizelda reappeared in the doorway.
    She extended both hands. 'Well, here are the eggs,' she said, 'but there's no sign of the hen. The door of the coop has been forced and there are feathers on the ground. I'm afraid she's been stolen.'

Chapter Two

    I hurriedly finished shaving, then followed Grizelda outside to the coop, where I knelt down to examine it more closely.
    She was right: the wooden latch had been forced and there was a drift of white feathers lying close by. I glanced up at the cow, placidly grazing, then at the pig, snorting and tootling in its sty.
    'You may count yourself very fortunate, Mistress Harbourne,' I said, 'that only the hen was taken. They must have stumbled upon your holding during the return journey, when time and their capacity to carry anything more was limited. Otherwise, you would have lost your other animals as well.'
    'They?' Grizelda frowned. 'Who are "they", Master Chapman?'
    'Why, the outlaws who, I understand, have been terrorizing this district for some months past. Surely, living as you do in these parts, you can't be ignorant of their depredations?' She turned very pale and raised one hand to her heart, as though to still its beating. Her eyes dilated.
    'The robbers, you mean? The idea had not occurred to me. I assumed it was some local thief - largely, I suppose, because there is no other damage apart from the theft of Félice. I know of these men, of course, but they slaughter cattle, root up whole plantations.' She drew a long, shuddering breath. 'They even do murder. But none of that has happened here. Only my poor little hen has been stolen. Why should you think them responsible for the theft?'
    Briefly, I told her of my encounter with the outlaws earlier that morning. 'And one of them was carrying a hen under his arm, her beak tied to keep her from squawking.' Grizelda blinked back tears. 'Will they kill her?' I straightened up, stretching my cramped legs, and smiled reassuringly. 'I shouldn't think so. If that had been their intention, they would have wrung her neck before carrying