Betrothed (18 page)

How
many steps to the exit?  Had Marta ever said?  On which side of the
door was the release mechanism?  Simon nearly fell again when he ran into
the wooden door.

He
held his breath as he listened through the panel separating him from the cellar
room.

He
waited—and waited. To him, it seemed like eons but at last he decided he had
tarried long enough. He traced the doorframe for the catch and added a splinter
in his finger to his list of grievances. He found the latch.

Quietly,
Simon eased the door open. Assured he was alone, he slipped through the narrow
opening and entered Bennington.

Even
with the earl in residence, the cellar appeared little visited. No personal
items or tools lay carelessly about. The only indication of recent visitors was
the carafe and goblet on the table.

Did
the carafe hold the earl’s wine?  Simon still thirsted. He strode to the
table, lifted the carafe and sniffed appreciatively. His curiosity over the
quality of Donovan’s cellar would be satisfied much sooner than expected. He
tipped the carafe and poured a generous portion down his throat.

The
taste was almost worth the trip underground. Almost.

Finishing
off the carafe tempted him but he decided it could wait until his return. He
needed to make good use of his time. Find candles for the tunnel. Where did
Isabeau sleep?  The castle would be disorganized due to the Allyonshire’s
sudden exit, giving him opportunity to explore.

Excitement
at his daring fueled Simon’s blood as he ventured into a corridor. Nothing
could stop him. The castle welcomed him as if he were already its master.

He
was well away from the wine cellar, well away from his secret avenue of escape
when his fanciful self-boasts crumbled to dust. After carefully peeking before
stepping around the corner, he came face to face with a wrinkled old bat
emerging from a doorway. She carried a cane as gnarled as her hand. She appeared
as startled as he.

“Lord
Olivet.”

The
old woman’s crackling voice grated and he wondered how she knew his identity.
Through narrowed eyes he watched her as he searched his memory. Ah, yes. She
had been with Marta on her first visit to Olivet. The old busy-body had clung
to Marta like moss on a rock. Syllba had persuaded Marta to shed the bitch on
future visits.

Then,
the woman had been a nuisance—a stumbling block to their plans, but now—perhaps
her loyalty to Marta could be a tool. Then he had dismissed her as a servant
well passed usefulness, but he still remembered her distain for the frequently
absent earl. She had even voiced a rather gleeful suggestion that Donovan might
not survive the king’s battlefields.

 “Welcome,
milord.” She lowered her cane to the floor as she respectfully bobbed her head.
“I was not made aware of your arrival. I suppose it is the reason for all of
the excitement.”

“Nay,”
he denied quietly. Damn, what was the bitch’s name?  She had a nominal
title. “Dame Jenna…”

“Granya,”
she corrected automatically.

“Beg
pardon, Dame Granya.” Simon apologized prettily, turning on his gift of charm.
“Tis not my presence which warrants such distraction.”

“Then
you are not here for the
wedding
?”

The
bitterness in the word assured Simon of an ally and he hid a smile.

“The
speed of such—festivities -- does not set well with you either?” he asked slyly
as he offered the bait.

“Tis
too soon…”

“Aye,”
he agreed. It was like catching fish in a puddle. “Countess
Marta is due
a proper period of mourning. I thought to persuade Lady Isabeau to delay the
deed. It does her no credit to rush.”

“Nay,”
Granya agreed; her head bobbling wildly
.
“I would help locate your
sister, but I do not know where the girl might find herself this morning. Or
Lord d’Allyonshire, either.”

Belatedly,
Simon checked his belt for his knives. Should Donovan return, Simon would not
let a chance meeting slip away. A well-aimed toss would end the matter soon enough
and he could escape away as quietly as he entered. The castle would be in
chaos, as everyone would look inside the walls for the assassin.

A
smile quirked his lips as an idea took fruition. What better way to leave
Little Izzie vulnerable?  She could not deny she had skill with a knife.
She would be begging for his protection should events suggest she threw the
fatal blade.

If
grief had an odor, smoke and death came close. Donovan looked to the sky and
sent up a prayer for rain. Heaven’s tears might wash away some of the stench.

Thanks
be to God, the fire had not spread into the fields. Donovan surveyed the
blackened shell of what used to be home to a young farmer, his pregnant wife
and their two-year old daughter.   

The
pointless destruction was enough to anger any reasonable soul. That the young
family would not feel the loss of their home stoked Donovan’s wrath. He would
see they had justice; it was the only service left he could offer them.

Would
he ever find respite from killing?
There would
be more before the day finished. He hated death. ‘Twas a pity he inherited the
talent for wielding the sword. A pity he excelled at the occupation.

Surveying
again the rows of new seedlings pushing towards the sun, he pondered where his
life’s road would have taken him had his father been a farmer rather than
distant kin to the king. Donovan remembered the joy his parents shared when
Duncan came home from the king’s business. Had his father shared the same
distaste for death but merely continued to do what needed to be done?

The
signs of arson and murder were easily read. Beyond using the fire in a poor
endeavor to cover the crimes, the culprits made no other attempt at
concealment. “You stay and do what is necessary,” he said to four soldiers. “We
will be about business.”

Tracks
from the devastation led Donovan and his men to a small inn—or rather the
attached stables, as those they followed apparently lacked the funds for more
than bedding down with the animals.

Signaling
his men to surround the tumble-down building, Donovan and Carstairs burst
through the sagging doors, swords drawn. The air was ripe with the smell of
fresh dung. There was a collective gasp from the third stall. And three grimy
faces stared at them. “Stand and drop your weapons,” demanded Carstairs.

“We
ain’t got no weapons,” stammered one of the men as they struggled to their
feet.

Four
of Donovan’s men entered from a far door and grabbed the three suspects. They
dragged the filthy men outside. In the fading daylight, the condition of the
three men’s clothes made identification of the cutthroats obvious. Smudges of
soot and the scent of smoke clung to them. Guilt stared out of the sunken eyes.

“We
ain’t done nothing,” whined the shortest and dirtiest of the trio

“Your
names!” barked Carstairs. “You don’t look like Bennington men.

“Why
you asking?” blustered the most brazen of the culprits. “We was minding’ our
own business, just settling fer the night.

Donovan
coolly ordered his men to bind them and cart the trio back to the site of the
carnage. The men left at the cottage had extinguished any remaining fires and
respectfully wrapped the bodies in singed linens. The sight of the smallest
bundle made Donovan’s blood boil. The child must have been close to Christian’s
age.

“I
accuse you of murder. What say you?”

Even
faced with the evidence of their crimes—the footprints, the spatter of blood on
a shoe, the scratches the young mother had inflicted while trying to defend
herself—they pleaded innocence.

Their
denials only served to fuel Donovan’s disgust. He looked them over with his
bile rising at the waste of humanity. Though ragged and sporting fresh bruises
from the recent trip back to the cottage, they all appeared to be in good
health. According to the innkeeper, they had been at the inn two days and were
strangers to the region.   

“I
ask you. Why?” Donovan’s voice cut like the sharpest sword. “These poor people
had nothing that would temp three able bodied men to murder them.” He felt
Carstairs go rigid and knew it was because of his tone. Donovan’s rage was
slipping out of control.

“We
w-was at the inn, m-milord.” The shortest of the trio, named Rudy, stuttered.
He seemed to be acting as leader over the other much larger men. “Cept when we
snared us two hares.”

“You
admit to poaching?” Donovan felt his brows arch. “Am I to believe a man who
steals from Bennington lands?”

“Nay,
milord.” Rudy began to sweat at the menace Donovan intentionally directed at
them. The small man danced on the balls of his feet. His arms remained bound at
his back, an armed man stood on either side.

“You
just said you snared two hares.”

“But
not poachin’ milord. We knows the Earl of Bennington---from the fightin’. He gave
us leave to hunt his lands should our travels take us here.”

“You
know the Earl of Bennington?”

“Aye.”
Two heads vigorously bobbed up and down.

“Doos
you know him, my lord?” one of the taller men asked in a quivering voice; obviously
not as confident as Rudy.

“I
have heard tales about the man,” Donovan answered non-committally and stared
down Carstairs’ snicker.

“Good
man, the earl.” Carstairs interjected. “Heard tales myself. Some said he is
covered in ugly scars from not keeping up his guard. Lost half his face to a
sword in Normandy—cut the poor devil in half for payment.”

“A
good man,” Rudy agreed. “A just man. Our bellies were kissin’ our backbones --
we was that hungry. The earl would not begrudge us a full belly.”

Donovan
nodded contemplatively. “You are correct. The Earl of Bennington would not
begrudge a rabbit or two. But the loss of one of his families is a somewhat
different matter.”
                  
“We was in the forest,” Rudy repeated desperately. “We heard a wild commotion
and run for our lives.”

“Then
explain the smoke on your clothes and hair.” Donovan circled the men and
pointed to each detail as he voiced it. “Explain the blood on your trousers and
on these shoes.”

“We
skinned the rabbits afor we spitted them o’er the fire; ‘tis a messy business.”

“And
you did not think to save the fur?”

“’Tis
back at the stable,” Rudy countered.

“Tell
me how you acquired the scratches down the side of your face. Did the rabbits
put up such a valiant fight?”

Rudy
hunched his shoulder as if the action would hide the bloody marks.

“And
you?” Donovan gestured to the one who had kept quiet throughout his capture and
the trek back to the farm. “What is your name?”

“Sam,
milord.” His voice sounded as if he wanted to burst into tears.

“You
are very quiet. Have you nothing to say? I see your hand is wrapped. What of
your wound?  How did you earn it?  Does it pain you?”

“Just
a nasty splinter, milord. Was going to have one of the boys cut it out.”

“Where
did you pick up such a nasty splinter?”

“I
don'na recall.”

“Carstairs,
help the man remember.”

Sam
cowered as Carstairs stepped towards him with a shovel. The handle was broken.
As Carstairs hiked the implement to everyone’s view, Sam’s bladder released.

“Did
your splinter come from this spade? What were you doing with it, Sam?”

“Just
digging, milord.” Tears leaked down the grimy face.

“What
were you digging?”

“Just
roots,” Rudy interrupted loudly, answering for his friend. “Just roots for
eatin’ -- and greens. The earl gave permission to forage. Like I told ya. We
done nothin’ wrong.”

Donovan
shook his head. “Do you believe Rudy, Carstairs?  Do you think they struck
up a friendship with the earl in Normandy?”

Carstairs
mirrored Donovan’s headshake. “They may have traveled across the channel but I
have my doubts. I am sure they lie about being acquainted with the Earl of
Bennington.”

“How
do you know, Carstairs?”

“Because,”
Carstairs stabbed the ground with the broken spade and propped his elbow on the
point of the handle. “You would never befriend men who would murder innocent
people, my lord.”

Even
brash Rudy’s mouth hung open under the impact of Carstairs’ statement.

“Now,”
Donovan stared in the eyes of the triad. “You will tell me why. Be swift with
the truth for your immediate future depends on the words coming from your
mouth. What did you hope to find, digging under the corners of Zeke’s cottage?”

“Gold,”
Sam answered on a whimper.

“Nothing!”
Rudy contradicted at the same time before turning on the taller comrade and
ordered in a hiss. “Keep your tongue in your mouth.”

“You
di’nat have the brain of a rabbit,” Sam snapped at Rudy. The little man shrunk
back as if a blade of grass just took a bite out of him. “I knows we gonna die.
I druther die swift than feel the pains of torture. If we tell the tale mayhap
the earl will show mercy and git it over.”

Donovan
tipped his chin. “I reward honesty.”

“Everybody
told tales of your travels,” Sam nodded. “They is proud of you. Never trained
with a sword myself, but once I thought to offer my arm to your service.”

“Tell
me about the gold.”

Sam’s
head bobbed once, tears glinting in his eyes. “We was going ta find a farmer
what could use us in the fields. ‘Tis the season, afta all. Got as far as the
inn; rather the innkeeper’s stables. A young baron crossed our road. Said he
been rough used, as a villain of a farmer and his two ruffian sons stole his
pouch. He knew where his gold was buried but he lacked the muscle to retrieve
the coins. Three agin’ one he couldn’t take on. The baron was goin’ to the
magistrate and let the law deal with ‘em. Rudy got the idea to beat the law to
the gold. He asked if the baron knew where to find the villains. And we went
off the help ourselves. They were thieves after all.”

“An
interesting tale,” Donovan prompted. “But it does nothing to explain the
murders.

“We
followed the baron’s direction and found a farm just like he said.” Sam
swallowed before resuming his confession. “We waited in that little copse of
trees and Rudy watched. When, as we thought, one of the sons went down the
path, Rudy told Tom to follow and git answers. Answers was all we wanted. We
might bruise the thieves up some but that’s all we was going to do. Rudy told
me to start diggin’ aroun’ the cottage corners and handed me a shovel he
pilfered ‘fore we left the inn…”

“Continue,”
Donovan demanded when Sam’s voice trailed off into silence.
     

“I
dun what I was told. Snuck around to tha back and started digging.’ Rudy took
the front. I heard Rudy get in the door. Heard him laugh. Then I heard him
shout real angry like. I put my head down and just kept diggin’. Rudy can be
like a wild boar when riled. I moved to the other corner when Rudy come runnin’
and said we was to come back when the flames burnt down. That’s when I smelled
smoke. Never seen Rudy like that, jumpy as a frog afire. Took to runnin’ back
to the inn, musta’ dropped the shovel then.”

“Is
this true?” Donovan stared at the other two for verification.

Tom
nodded quickly. “I was to git the son who was alone. But he fought me and I hit
him too hard. Anyways, he died.”

Rudy
was slower to respond but after a moment under Donovan’s scrutiny, his
rebellion deflated and he jerked his chin once.

“Brave
one, you.” Donovan narrowed his eyes in contempt. “Slaughtering a woman heavy
with child and her little girl.”

“A
woman?” Sam cried out in distress. “Rudy said ‘t’were
an
old man and his growed son.” He bent over and puked up his guts on Rudy’s
bloodied and muddied shoes.

“You
did not know of the woman and child?” Donovan asked as Sam straightened.

“Nay,
milord.”

“Tom,”
Donovan turned on the third man. “When did you know a woman was in the
cottage?”

Tom
licked his lips. His eyes flickered towards Rudy before answering. “I saws her
at the door when she waved off her man. Rudy hushed me when I told him we was
at the wrong place.”

“Let
me understand this.” Donovan closed his eyes for a moment as he tried to
control his rage. “Even though you had reason to believe you were at the wrong
farmstead, you still followed Rudy and killed Zeke, an innocent man, his
pregnant wife, and little daughter?”

A
quick nod sufficed for Tom’s answer. “Rudy says this was the place the traveler
told us about and maybe he lied about it being three men who jumped him. The
man who told the tale was a bit puny.”

“Bah,
I’ve heard enough. Murder is murder. Justice must be served. Let it be known
that Rudy and Tom will hang this day at the nearest crossroads for their deeds
against a man of Bennington, his wife and child.”

He
turned to Sam. “Digging might not be a crime depending on circumstances. You
thought to steal from a thief, but stealing is stealing. You say you knew
nothing of your companions’ deeds, but that does not make you innocent. ”

Sam
shook beneath Donovan’s glare but he stood as straight as his bindings allowed.
“I accept your judgment and pray to My Lord God for forgiveness. I deserve no
better.”