Forsaken Soul (3 page)

Chapter Four

Crowner Ralf wiped his hand across his mouth. “Not drunk enough to feel happy,” he muttered, staring into the brown liquid that still half-filled his leather jack as if accusing the ale of some crime. Were he to think more on that, he might have confessed that little had ever brought him profound contentment until recently, but he was rarely in the mood for contemplative debates. Tonight was no exception.

Earlier, he and Tostig had met at the inn to celebrate the crowner’s return from court. That they had done with pleasure enough, but his friend from childhood was a prudent man and left, like any responsible merchant, at a sensible hour. Thus Ralf was left alone, accompanied only by all the reasons why he had not been in the village for over a year.

Some time ago, he had glanced up to see Signy climb the stairs to the private rooms above. Resting his bristling chin on his hand, he let himself enjoy the sight of her soft buttocks swaying under the fabric of her robe. A tall and buxom woman, she gave this inn its especial brightness and had once shared his bed with ardent willingness.

He sighed and stroked the tabletop with lingering remorse. Had he not called her by another woman’s name when he was riding her, she might have continued to pleasure him, but his mistake had quickly cooled her eagerness. Since Ralf was not a complete boor, he did understand why and had even apologized, but all efforts to make amends were greeted with a broom to his head. He had not approached her since. After that night, she always sent another wench to serve him whenever he visited the inn.

This evening, although she stopped to speak to Tostig, she had turned her back on the crowner, ignoring him as if he did not exist and had not been absent from the area for well over a year. He had been hurt at the snub, and, when she disappeared through the crowd of men, Ralf realized he still regretted what had occurred between them. Although much had happened since he tried to escape his especial grief in mindless service to his unpleasant elder brother, he had retained a fondness for a woman he believed to be kind and sweet-tempered—unless provoked, of course. Now, he suspected she might have transferred her affections to Tostig, a pleasing thought overall.

Or was it? He frowned.

In any event, Tostig had said nothing about any feelings for Signy. He had not even spoken her name after the innkeeper’s niece left them. The man instead had amused the crowner pleasantly with village news and asked about Ralf’s brief marriage as well as tales from court.

Did that mean Signy had not captured his heart?

Perhaps he should simply overlook Tostig’s reticence to talk of any woman. The man had rejected all idea of marriage when his parents died and he chose to raise his younger sister, Gytha. The girl herself was now of marriageable age, but her doting brother had given her more choice about a husband than was considered wise. Since she had yet to settle on anyone, a few eager suitors now urged Tostig to simply decide for her, as was more proper. He ignored them.

“There’s a spirited girl,” Ralf said with a grin when Tostig told him that she had just rejected a goldsmith of acceptable means. “When she finds a husband she likes, he had better be a worthy fellow or he will have you to deal with.” And maybe himself as well, Ralf thought. He had always liked the lass.

Ralf sat back. Out of old habit, he began to scan the crowd. Most of the faces were familiar to him. Some of the tradesmen had grown grayer, stouter, or even frail. Sitting with them now were sons too young to have joined their fathers when Ralf was last here but since grown old enough to take on a man’s responsibility as well as vice.

Was Ivetta the whore still stripping these lads of their virginity, he wondered, or was she finally too raddled for that? Tyndal was not big enough to have an excess of young girls, lush and ripe for the swyving by rampant young men. The town prostitute had often provided that service, although it was not uncommon for a daughter to be churched before a father could push her to the church door for a wedding.

A movement at the corner of his eye caught Ralf’s attention, and he turned to see Will and Hob coming down the stairs, stumbling like a pair of drunken goats. His mouth filled with a foul taste and he swallowed some ale as antidote.

When they were all younger, the brothers were town bullies, picking on the weaker like the cowards they were while leaving him alone because he always blackened their eyes first. Martin Cooper was part of that gang, he remembered, and had added cruel jests to the brothers’ usual ill behavior. Most of the damage left by all three was minor enough in the life of any boy: some broken noses, a few burns, and one lost ear. There were also the inevitable, broken maidenheads, although more than usual were unwillingly burst as he had heard. The girls denied all. Out of fear, he suspected.

Once, however, the boys had gone too far. A lad had died of hanging when the rope caught in the tree. They panicked and ran, leaving him to jerk in the air and then choke to death. The boy’s mother had discovered his limp body and raised a hue and cry, but the boys suffered no consequence.

In fact, after the crowner’s jury found the death accidental, she was fined for falsely raising the hue and cry. After the decision was announced, Ralf and Tostig had discussed whether the verdict had been decided more on other considerations than the event itself: two of the boys were the blacksmith’s sons; the dead lad’s mother was believed to be a meddler in magic.

Tonight, the two brothers passed near enough that Ralf could smell their sooty sweat, but the men were too deeply involved in some argument to pay him heed. The crowner was glad enough of that. Just remembering the death of that young boy had made his fist itch to strike. When he had been named crowner, it was the memory of this tale, among other things, that caused him to swear never to choose the easy answer to any crime.

As he watched the two men disappear, he recalled Tostig remarking that the younger brother had become almost respectable over the last several months, although he still bloodied his knuckles in Will’s defense when necessary. Had Hob changed that much? Although Ralf had seen the younger blacksmith grow less wild over the years, he believed that few men ever truly repented until they were on their death beds, knowing they must face God’s judgment.

The crowner poured himself more ale and raised the jack to drink. “Maybe some do, a bit,” he whispered, setting the jack down. After all, he was not drinking himself into oblivion tonight. The reason was his wee babe, a daughter he adored. Why find some empty solace at the inn when he had a child at home who would smile when he picked her up for a hug?

“After all the horrors I saw in my soldiering years and the cruelties I have seen men commit against each other, how can this leathery heart still melt so?” A veritable miracle, he decided, his mouth twisting into an embarrassed grin as he pushed the drink further away.

He never thought fatherhood would affect him so. Perhaps his own father had been right when he called Ralf a disappointment, the contrary one, compared to his elder brothers. A man was supposed to want strong sons, but he had roared with joy when he learned his wife had given birth to a lass. But how could he not love this beautiful little girl? Weren’t her cheeks pink like a fine apple and her ten fingers perfection in miniature?

Shifting on the bench, he knew he must find her a new wet-nurse very soon. As he was rocking the baby to sleep in his arms last night, the woman his brother had sent complained bitterly about the rank pig swill and steaming piles of manure all too near the house on the land Ralf had acquired through marriage. He might have been pleased that the manor was situated close to Tyndal village, but few women, used to the comforts of such things as castle latrines, would enjoy what the remote and lonely land of East Anglia had to offer. He had promised the woman he would send her back to Winchester soon enough.

Aye, the land stank of dead things from the sea and hobby-lanterns danced above the fens on misty nights. Yet he loved this place despite all the sad memories it evoked. Perhaps he was happiest back at Tyndal village after all. Old habits must die hard, he decided, and suddenly realized he was hungry.

He waved at a serving wench and asked for stew. When she put the bowl down in front of him, the pungent smell of well-spiced rabbit cooked with onions brushed aside his mild alcoholic haze and led his stomach to rumble with pleasant anticipation.

As he plunged his spoon after a bit of meat and onion, he caught sight of Signy waiting on a group of men nearby. He felt a twinge of lust as he recalled how those rounded thighs had held him fast in the night. Then he shook off the image and filled his mouth with flavorful stew.

Two men beside him roared out an irreverent song, slamming their jacks on the wooden table.

Ralf turned to grin at them.

It was just then that a woman’s piercing scream from the upper loft shattered all merriment.

Chapter Five

Thomas heard shouting and grew cold with fear. He quickly took a deep breath but smelled no smoke. That brought him hope, but what besides fire would warrant such an outcry?

He bent to listen to Tibia’s strong, steady breathing. It would be a blessing if she could sleep like this until morning, and if there was no purpose in doing so, he would not rouse her.

A fire was the most probable cause for the uproar, a horror that could destroy the village so swiftly, but he still could not smell smoke. Might it have been an attack by lawless men? That was doubtful and had never occurred in his memory. There was no reason to believe it had now. Puzzled, he rose to investigate first before carrying her from her bed.

As he squeezed through that narrow hole that served as entry to her hut, he saw a crowd of villagers milling about just outside the inn. “No flames or smoke at all,” he noted with relief, then grew curious. Why did they seem so distraught, yet remain as if awed by something? He pulled the rough door closed and went to discover the reason for the commotion.

“What took place?” he asked, walking up to a broad-shouldered man who stood at the far edge of the crowd.

“The Devil flew into the inn’s loft, I heard.” Rivulets of moisture twisted through the stubble on the man’s face.

“Did you see him?” Thomas asked, noting that the hot summer night was insufficient cause for such rank sweat.

“Nay, but I have more sense than to let Satan come close and grasp my soul with his twisted fingers. Someone in the inn wasn’t so clever and now lies there a corpse, or so I was told. That’s why I stand here.”

The Devil would not be put off by such a short distance, Thomas thought, but decided there was no merit in frightening the man further. If it was Satan, perhaps he could be of service. Sinner he might well be, but he still bore a monk’s tonsure. Oddly enough, he found himself eager to confront this tormentor of his and pushed his way through the crowd toward the entrance to the inn.

“Don’t go in there!” someone shouted at him.

“It is a monk from the priory. Prioress Eleanor has sent aid!”

“Brother Thomas!” another cried out. “Praise God and the holy priory for sending you to us!”

“May God forgive my sins!” A fat man collapsed to his knees as the monk passed. “Save us from the Evil One, and I will bring the priory an offering at daybreak. I swear it, Brother!”

Thomas hesitated a moment, recognized the man as one more prone to fair sayings than fine acts, and hurried on through the inn door. Shutting it carefully, he pressed his back against it, made the sign of the cross for protection, and looked around for imps or their fiendish prince.

There was nothing. He relaxed. How shabby an empty inn looked, he caught himself noting, and was oddly troubled by the observation.

Near the bottom of the stairs, he saw Signy standing beside her uncle and walked toward them. Their faces were pale; their staring eyes dark with fear.

“What happened?” he asked gently.

Startled, Signy gasped and her hand flew to her heart. “How did word reach the priory so quickly?”

“It has not,” Thomas said. “I was sitting with old Tibia after she took a potion sent by Sister Anne. When I heard shouting, I rushed here to find the cause.”

The innkeeper grunted. “It’s well you did. Our crowner is in the loft alone, except for a corpse and a whore. Some claim Satan is flying about up there with his dark angels. Now that good King Henry is dead, the Prince of Darkness has little reason to show respect for a king’s man. What’s needed upstairs is a man of God to get rid of any rank spirit and save the crowner!”

“The Devil may be evil but he is not stupid,” Thomas replied. “King Edward is coming home from the Holy Land.” Looking up the stairs, he could see little and heard only the thud of footsteps mixed with muted speech. If Ralf was confronting Satan, they were both behaving in a most courteous fashion. “Satan knows how much God favors a crusader king and would face our crowner knowing that.”

“I am so grateful the herb woman left the inn before this happened!” Signy hugged herself to keep from shaking. “Is she well, Brother? Should I go to her now that you are here?”

“The drink caused her to fall into a deep sleep. Methinks she will be well enough until morning.” He turned to the innkeeper. “You said our crowner is in the loft with a corpse and a harlot. Then the Devil came? Or was this in reverse. I do not understand.”

The man puffed his florid cheeks out. “My business did not need this. It is hard enough to keep good customers with the common twists and turns of trade, but news of violent death in an inn scares people away faster than rotten meat.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow at the reply. If the innkeeper was now worrying more about trade than fork-tailed imps, he was recovering from his fright. Any conclusion that Satan had made a personal appearance here was also growing less likely.

“A man is dead,” the man continued. “When the news spread, someone claimed to have seen a black-winged imp with a bloody mouth fly out the door. My customers fled and now rumor is rife that my inn has been taken over by the Prince of Darkness.” The innkeeper waved at the crowd outside. “My trade suffers! The ale I bought turns stale, and the stew grows rancid. Those men outside should be drinking and eating in here.” He blinked, then began to grin at Thomas with new hope shining in his eyes. “Could you do an exorcism to scare the Fiend away, Brother? Done while the whole village could watch? Doesn’t the Devil flee in a great puff of smoke, or something like that, to prove he’s left?”

“Uncle, I think we might show some concern for the safety of our crowner—and the whore as well,” Signy said through clenched teeth.

The innkeeper’s expression did not suggest he was regaining much interest in either.

“Has anyone called for his sergeant?” Thomas asked.

The innkeeper shrugged and looked at his niece.

“Not yet,” Signy said. “Ralf ran upstairs as soon as he heard a scream. He has not come down or asked us to do anything yet.”

“He must be safe enough,” the innkeeper added. “I may have heard some curses but haven’t yet smelt burnt flesh.”

“Then I shall join him,” Thomas said, looking up at the loft.

“Take care, Brother,” Signy cried out. “I will send someone for Cuthbert.”

“If you get rid of the Devil while you are up there, Brother, spread the tale.” The innkeeper winked. “I will double my next gift to the priory hospital.”

Thomas nodded and started his climb upward. If the innkeeper even paid his expected tithe to the parish church, he thought, Prioress Eleanor would count it a minor miracle.

***

Thomas gagged as the stench from excrement and vomit hit his nose and bore into his stomach.

“Get out of here,” Ralf roared at the sound of the monk’s retching.

The harlot, Ivetta, cowered naked on a bed in a corner of the room. She held one arm across her breasts and a hand between her thighs. “It’s a monk,” she squealed.

Ralf turned around, his expression softening with both fondness and amusement. “What brought you here, Brother? Does the Virgin now send your prioress visions or is her new anchoress truly an all-knowing saint?”

Thomas swallowed hard, then coughed. “I was close by, sitting with old Tibia, and heard the shouting. What is going on?”

As the crowner rose from his crouch, he pointed to the corpse. “Martin, formerly a cooper,” he said as calmly as if he were making polite introductions.

The dead man lay on the floor, a dull, rough sheet twisted around his naked body. Both were spotted with yellow, brown, and blood-red stains. Considering the pattern of body fluids scattered around the room, the cooper must have violently flung himself about before he died.

“It was the Devil did it,” Ivetta whimpered.

“Or else you because he wouldn’t pay your fee,” Ralf snapped.

Thomas looked about for something to cover the woman, then spied a crumpled gown on the floor nearby and tossed it to her. “Why do you think it was Satan?”

She snatched the thing and fingered the coarse cloth as if finding some comfort there. “You should have seen Martin’s eyes. Just before he started to jerk about, they grew so big! They changed color from blue to black. He must have seen the Evil One!”

“If his eyes were big, maybe he did. The sight of you, in any light, would cause a man’s parts to shrink.” Ralf was back down on his knees.

She spat at him, then pulled the round-necked tunic over her head and let it fall carelessly around her body.

The crowner rolled the corpse over. “What think you, Brother? I smell no fumes from Hell. I’d swear the Devil had less to do with this crime than his handmaid.”

“The stench seems mortal enough, but I would not conclude much else from that.” Thomas continued to study the pale-faced woman in the corner.

“What handmaid, Crowner?” Ivetta cried, suddenly aware of what Ralf was suggesting.

“Did Martin refuse to pay his entry fee when he found the doorway fouled?”

Ivetta flew at Ralf, her fingers bent like eagle talons.

Thomas grabbed her before she did damage to a king’s man. “Be still, woman! You were witness to what happened. We must hear the details from you.”

She pushed the monk away, then gestured at the man kneeling on the floor. “Do you think he will listen to a whore, Brother?”

“If you doubt he shall, then believe that I will.” Thomas reached out as if offering peace.

“Why are you not terrified of a woman like me?” She stared at him.

“The founder of my Order sought out women in brothels to spread God’s truth. In consequence, I fear you not and would hear what you have to say.”

“What does that matter if you do?” Ivetta shrugged. “He’ll hang me for this in any case.”

“Our crowner is a fair man.”

“You heard what he just said.”

Thomas glanced down at Ralf and wondered himself why this man, who had always shown more love of truth than anything else, had spoken so cruelly to this woman.

“I have naught to say,” the woman said. “Why waste the little breath I have left, talking to a man who has already condemned me.” Ivetta fell silent. The sulky expression in her eyes did little to mask the pallor of fear on her face.

“Go back to the priory, Brother. This murder has naught to do with you,” Ralf said as he rose and wiped his hands on his leather tunic. “It has all the common marks of a man’s act, not the Devil’s.”

“Then may I tell the crowd outside that Satan had no direct hand in this?” Thomas asked. If he could not serve God in this matter, he could at least do something for priory business since it was priory ale that the innkeeper bought.

“Aye, this is solely the king’s affair,” the crowner said, glaring at the woman in the corner.