Forsaken Soul (9 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Ralf did not get far from the inn. As he stepped out the door, he saw Thomas walking away from him. “Have you visited Hell of late, monk? You look like it,” he shouted at the monk’s back.

Thomas spun around. “I must therefore be grateful that all vanity was forbidden me when I took the tonsure, Crowner.” He cocked his head to one side and studied his friend with much care. “But I fear you have much the same appearance,” he said at last, breaking into a grin. “However, now that I look more closely, I see no difference in your face from the last time we met.”

“It is dusk, monk. When did you begin leaping priory walls at night for bright village joys?”

“I am bringing a sleeping potion to old Tibia and have just delivered dill water to a young mother.” He pointed behind him. “The babe is colicky. Neither she nor her husband sleeps much at night.”

“Are these evening visits Prioress Eleanor’s idea?”

“Sister Anne’s but our prioress saw the charity in it.”

“You say you are visiting old Tibia?”

Thomas nodded.

“Then I will walk with you. I am on my way to see Will the blacksmith.”

“How goes the murder investigation?”

“Slowly enough.”

Thomas nodded in sympathy at the angry edge in the crowner’s voice. “Too many suspects or not enough?”

“In this village, there were few who did not dislike Martin, including me. If someone had taken a cudgel to him at long last, I would not be surprised. What troubles me is the use of poison. Have you heard about that?”

Thomas nodded. “Sister Anne told me. You’d find that a more common method in places other than this fish-reeking coast.”

Ralf chuckled. “Still longing for the stench of London streets, monk? You may have the king’s court, if you want it though. I would not even give a clipped coin for that.”

Thomas shrugged. “All my thoughts of London have faded like a lady’s fine silks in the sun.” That was true enough, but the memory of his rank prison cell had not.

“An interesting image, monk! Many streets are indeed colorful with the effluence of both man and beast, but the sun does not fade the odor.” The crowner slapped Thomas on the shoulder.

“As for the court, I have no experience of it, being a simple monk. We rarely come so close to God’s anointed.” Folding his hands into his sleeves, Thomas looked at the man with affection. “It pleases me to see you laugh.”

They stood together in companionable silence, watching several gray and white mews fly overhead, engaged in raucous avian conversation.

“Back to murder,” Ralf said as they walked away from the inn. “Poison is the weapon of someone who cannot or will not face his enemy, man on man. That is my opinion. In court, there are enough cokenays dressed in multi-colored robes that would use it, but I know none such here. A woman might though. Have you heard any rumors?”

“None involving mortals. You accused Ivetta. Why?”

“I think she did it. She was alone with Martin the longest.” Ralf gestured back at the inn. “Just talked with our fine innkeeper who said his niece usually took up the meal but that night had a quarrel with him and set the tray down on a table while they argued. Thus the drink and food remained unattended. According to him, someone might have slipped poison into it on the way out of the inn.” He snorted. “That seems unlikely. Too much luck involved.”

“Unless someone did not care when he killed Martin and had the poison ready for just the right moment?”

“The king might have his food tasted for such a reason, but we deal more directly with disagreements on this seaweed covered coast you love so well. That idea would have merit someplace other than Tyndal village.”

Thomas laughed. The ongoing joke between them had become a comfortable thing.

“Martin has been a bully since boyhood,” Ralf continued in a more serious tone. “If he angered someone, he would have been stabbed or beaten bloody coming home drunk from the inn not long after any offense. Who in this village would lie in wait with a vial of poison? Perhaps tied up in the sleeve? I can name no such man.”

“A woman then, as you suggested.”

“Ivetta.”

“You haven’t arrested her.”

Ralf scowled. “I may think her most likely, but I cannot come up with a reason why she would have murdered him. That’s the trouble. She’s followed the man like a bitch in heat ever since he broke her maidenhead years ago in the field over there. If she never cared that he turned her into the village whore afterward instead of marrying her, why would she want to kill him so many years later? She may have had cause, but I have yet to discover a recent one.”

The two men stopped as they came to Tibia’s hut.

“You have not yet talked to Ivetta?” In the growing dark, Thomas could not see the crowner’s face, but the man’s long silence answered eloquently enough.

“Your prioress agreed it was best if she talked to her,” Ralf admitted at last. “Knowing how persuasive Prioress Eleanor can be, I might even hope that she could get the harlot to confess to murder. Or, if not that, persuade her to repent her sinful trade, although I cannot imagine Ivetta in a nun’s habit myself. Your prioress will also speak with the innkeeper’s niece to ask what she might have noticed.” The last was quickly mumbled as if in afterthought.

“As we both have learned, the leader of Tyndal can pry secrets from most men, let alone any woman. Your request for her help was a wise one.”

The crowner flushed. “It was her suggestion, monk. I am grateful.”

Thomas nodded. Having witnessed the harshness with which Ralf had treated Ivetta, he knew his prioress must have greater success gaining the prostitute’s confidence. Why would anyone, especially a frightened woman, confide in a man who gave every sign of wanting to hang someone, anyone, as soon as possible? As for Signy, he had heard rumors enough that the rough-mannered Ralf had offended her deeply not long ago.

Suddenly Ralf’s expression brightened. “As for help, Brother, why don’t you ask old Tibia if she noticed anything that night? I saw her in the inn sucking at a bowl of stew.”

“She suffers great pain, Crowner. I fear the only thing she can see is her path to heaven.”

“I had an aged aunt with eyesight better than any hawk. On her deathbed, she told her son, in front of his wife, to give up the mistress he thought he had well-hidden. Don’t let an old woman fool you into thinking she has one foot in God’s hand.”

“If she is alert enough to remember anything, I shall ask her,” Thomas agreed.

Still grinning at the memory of his cousin’s discomfort, Ralf set off in the direction of the smithy.

***

Thomas peered through the thick darkness of old Tibia’s hut. His heart beat several times before he finally saw her in a corner, sitting on a stool. “It is Brother Thomas,” he said in a soft voice.

“My son!” Tibia’s voice was flat with pain. Her hand reached out toward him, fingers clawing as her breath came in gasps.

“I have the potion,” he replied, quickly pulling the stopper from the neck of the jar.

She grasped the small container and gulped the liquid like a starving babe at its mother’s breast.

When she was done, he helped her ease off the stool and lie on her matted straw.

“I remind God daily to take note of your kindness to this crone,” she whispered.

“God knows everything,” he replied. From the sweetish stench of old urine and the musty smell of decay, Thomas suspected the straw had not been changed for a very long time. Tomorrow he would come earlier and bring fresh straw for a clean bed.

“He needs reminding, Brother! I’d not have Him forget you.” Tibia’s laugh was sharp.

“Have you no family at all?” Thomas asked, looking with pity at the cruel poverty of the small space.

“Hell’s full of my kin.”

“None of your husband’s family…”

“Husband?” She snorted. “My son could’ve been the spawn of many, Brother. When my father and mother died, I lived by whoring. Young flesh draws a high price.” Her voice grew muffled as the mixture began to dull her senses and ease her pain.

Perhaps God did need reminding if a young girl was allowed to suffer the loss of her parents and then all virtue in order to survive, Thomas thought. A chill sadness took hold of him.

“Shocked, holy man? Or disgusted by my sins?”

“Only grieved that you should have so much sorrow.”

“Don’t be, Brother. It doesn’t matter that no one’s alive to call me kin, or would if I had any, but I’ve known some joy. When I quickened with my son, I stopped whoring.” Her eyes glittered in the small light. “Nay, I didn’t find virtue. I fell in love with the babe too quickly to rid myself of him, as I knew well enough how to do.”

Thomas smiled at the softness in her voice, then caught himself wondering if his own mother, a woman he never knew, had felt the same about him. He looked down at Tibia, but she had turned her face from him and did not see his especial sympathy.

“I sold herbs and potions to feed us both. Some say charms as well, but many point out the Devil in others so no one will see the Fiend in themselves.” She turned back with a toothless grin. “Look at me, Brother! Why would I dance naked for the imps at midnight? Satan himself would not couple with this body even if I offered my soul.”

The monk sat back in shock. Surely there were no limits on what the Evil One might do to gain a soul for Hell? “I have seen you consulting with Sister Anne about cures,” he said, quickly changing the subject.

“She is a good woman. Taught me much while I could still walk upright and visit the priory hospital.”

“Did your son not have a wife?”

There was no answer.

Thomas fell silent and listened to Tibia’s breathing deepen into sleep.

His heart now overflowed with compassion for this woman. On impulse he bent to kiss her rough cheek. No matter what his particular distress, he was surrounded by many who would care for him if he suffered the physical pain this woman did, and do so with tenderness. Her lifelong suffering and loneliness was greater than anything he could even imagine, and he quietly berated himself for his own selfish moaning.

As he slipped out the door and walked back to the priory, he remembered that he had not asked old Tibia about what she might have witnessed at the inn. He shrugged. Why trouble the poor woman right now when she endured so much agony. The questioning could surely wait.

Chapter Eighteen

“You’re standing in my light.” Will lowered his hammer as sweat made pale and twisted paths through the black ash on his face, arms, and chest. The air stank of hot metal and unwashed flesh.

Ralf did not move. “I offer you a bargain then. I will give you light if you will enlighten me.”

“Not changed at all, have you? Landless Norman spawn with naught to do but torment honest tradesmen. You always were a troublous cur. Only Tostig could stand you, but I’ve oft thought him a cokenay, since he doesn’t keep a woman and hasn’t shown much longing for the cloister.” The smith smirked and rubbed his hand under his nose. “Which of you holds the lance, I wonder?”

Ralf grasped his sword.

Will reached over for his tongs and picked up a white-hot coal.

“Drop it, Will!” a voice shouted. “’S Blood! The man will skewer you before you ever decided what to do with that.” Hob emerged from a hut near the smithy, wiping his hands on a ragged piece of cloth. A muscular beige dog, with blotches of pink scarring along one side, followed him but carefully kept his distance from the elder blacksmith.

Sparks scattered as Will tossed the coal back into the fire.

The dog yelped and ran back to the dark interior of the hut.

“Lout! Are you trying to burn the village down?” Hob grabbed a bucket and dashed water on some ominously glowing embers. When rising steam confirmed all danger of fire was over, he turned to Ralf. “Why bother us, Crowner? You have Martin’s murder to solve. Or is the killer too clever for your frail wits and your pride demands you punish someone to prove your manhood? There’s no other reason for you to be here.”

“You and Will were the last to see Martin the night of his death. Witnesses heard you quarrelling with him.” Ralf had eased his weapon back but kept his hand on the hilt. “I think you killed your boyhood friend.”

“Talk to the whore, Crowner. We left. She was alone with him.” Will snorted, his eyes still dancing with eagerness for a fight.

“Use what little wit you own,” Hob warned his brother. “He has no reason to accuse us. If you lose your temper, you’ll only give him cause to arrest you for that alone. Let me speak for both of us.”

“Maybe Ivetta tells a different tale.” Ralf addressed Hob but kept an eye on the brother.

“Tell me why we’d have wanted to kill him. Will and I often fought with Martin, as you would remember if you have even half a wit. It meant nothing. Ivetta had reason enough to hate him though.”

“Why would a harlot suddenly want to kill her longtime bawd?”

Will shrugged. “She was too well-used for Martin. He liked a tighter hole.”

Hob put a cautioning hand on his brother’s arm. “It wasn’t only that,” he said. “She boasted to us that he’d promised to marry her at last.”

Ralf frowned. “Another one of Martin’s jokes?”

Will spat just in front of the crowner’s feet. “She should’ve known that no man will buy where he can get it free. But Ivetta always was a bit slow. Much like you.”

“That night, he was going to tell her that he had no intention of taking her to any church door. Not only that, he’d no longer be her bawd,” Hob said, glaring at his brother. “He had hopes of a younger woman.”

“So he’d leave her to spread her legs in whatever dry ditch she could find,” Will added, licking his lips suggestively.

Hob threw his hands up in exasperation. “Don’t listen to him, Crowner. None of us would have left her to starve or beg on the king’s highway.”

“Would you have married her instead?” his brother asked.

Hob shook his head. “Martin mightn’t have married her either, but he never would’ve shoved her aside without…”

Will roared with laughter. “That’s not what he told me! He jested that she’d soon find only lepers and friars to pay her with whatever they could beg from honest folks.”

“You said she had reason to hate him, enough to kill.” Ralf directed this to the younger brother.

“I didn’t say she killed him, only that she had reason to hate him. We didn’t have cause, and she was with him last…”

“She only had grounds if he told her what you say he was planning. Did he tell her or did he not?” Ralf shouted.

“Why should I know?” Hob yelled back. “I wasn’t there.” He tossed his head at his brother. “And neither was he.”

“Martin was cruel in his jesting,” Ralf said, turning to Will. “You knew that best of all and often came to blows…”

Will’s face flushed with blood lust, and he clenched his fists.

Hob stepped in front of him. “Stand back or I’ll let him run you through, Will.”

With but a brief hesitation, his brother did.

Ralf also retreated a step. “Do you believe he meant to toss Ivetta aside or was that just another of his callous jokes? After all, she was bearing his child.”

Hob’s mouth dropped open. “May God have mercy on her, Crowner! We did not know…”

“Did Martin?”

“It wouldn’t have mattered what she claimed,” Will growled. “Enough men had mingled their seed in her. What reason had he to believe he was the father any more than…” He grinned. “Me, for instance, or one of the priory monks?”

“Was there another woman or was that false, said only to wound her more deeply?”

Will began to shift from foot to foot like some eager boy. “You’ll like this one, Crowner.”

“Shut up, Will!” Hob snapped.

Ralf looked from one to the other. “What do you mean?”

“He had another, for cert!” Will leered at the crowner. “Signy, the innkeeper’s niece.”

Ralf swallowed hard, his face turning pale.

Will the blacksmith bent over, holding his sides as he roared with laughter. “Can’t you share the jest, Crowner? Or does it trouble you that she found Martin more pleasing in bed than she did you!”

The crowner lunged.

Hob leapt between the two men and shoved his brother backward through the door of the hut. “Leave us in peace,” he shouted from inside, over the barks of the unseen dog. “My brother may be rude, but neither of us had aught to do with murder.”

Feeling his face seared by humiliation, Ralf shut his eyes.

Suddenly, he heard a hiss behind him.

Drawing his sword, he spun around.

A very pregnant cat sat nearby and glared. Her eyes glowed red in the light of the dying fire in the forge.

“Devil, thy true name is
Woman
,” the crowner grumbled, replaced his weapon, and strode out of the smithy.