Rhiannon (3 page)

And right then is when the church bell down in Woethersly broke the dawn quiet.

Rhia jumped to her feet with her hands to her mouth. “Gramp, did you count three rings?” she demanded, her heart beating as though it would escape her chest. “ 'Twas
three,
I'm right sure of it, and that means a murder most foul has been done down in Woethersly!”

Again Vicar Pecksley rang the great bell in the steeple below.
Bong! Bong! Bong!

“It
is
a murder, then!” Rhia whispered. Murder was far more interesting than four rings for a wedding or a dozen for some old person's death. Murder was something that set all kinds of pictures to spinning in your mind . . .

“Crrrrrr-
awk
!” Gramp gave out, ignoring both the bell and Rhia's reaction to it. He'd turned clear round on his rock to glare at the opening from the woods.

Rhia came to instant attention. Two threats perceived by Gramp at one time, one watery and the other coming right up their trail! This was
exceptional
strange to the point of being never heard of at all. And indeed, she now saw with her own two eyes that the high weeds down the trail a little ways were moving as though in a good wind.

Why, the murderer himself might be the hoodlum a-stirring up those weeds as he progressed to the top of the bluff. Rhia might be plain-out
killed
by him when he arrived! And if she ran and hid, that would leave the way open for him to reach her mother and her granna, which would be even worse, or nearly as bad!

So she cowered inside the shadow of Gramp's spread wings and got her legs ready in case a treacherous, murdering outlaw was indeed coming up the path, as she'd resolved to see which way he turned and to follow him close in order to stab him in his back.

Of course, she hadn't taken the time to consider that she had no knife.

Luckily for Rhia, the thrashing weeds revealed no murderer whatsoever, but instead the tall shape of Woethersly's good overseer, Reeve Almund Clap. As he climbed the last stretch of the trail, he was occupied with wiping sweat from his streaming brow with one sleeve of his wool jerkin and so did not notice Rhia nor Gramp. Rhia was glad of that, as she could shoulder her seed pouch and hightail for home without the delay of giving him courteous greeting. She must tell Mam with all possible haste!

Gramp launched himself with a grunty heft of his old wings and flew in such close circles above her that Rhia could scarce keep her footing as she ran the homeward path.

“No need for such protection, Gramp, as it's only our reeve!” she finally called up to him. “Mam will go giddy when I inform her that he's on his way, just
see
if she doesn't.”

Rhia sped around the edge of the new-plotted vegetable rows, then dodged through the crooked orchard trees and picked up speed past the line of honeyed hives, though she heard a sharp, concerned buzzing in her wake. Bees will always be curious about what goes on, of course, and to ignore their concerns invites all sorts of trouble to a place.

So Rhia slowed and turned long enough to call, “Don't fret, bees, as it's only our reeve come up the trail on some limp excuse to see Mam!”

Sassy talk, and only part true as there
had
been a murder, after all. The reeve would doubtless have thought it his official duty to hike the long path to inform them of it as soon as his other duties permitted him leave.

Still, it must be said, some of the time he
did
come up on limp excuses.

At any rate, the bees were satisfied, that's the thing, and their sharp drone eased back to a mild enough murmur. And so Rhia could run straightaway again until she neared the first of the invalid cottages, the one wherein Ona and her twins rested uneasy in their pain. There Rhia slid to a respectful walk and crept quietly to the window, expecting Mam to be inside.

Ona tossed fitfully upon her pallet, moaning softly, and the little twins lay asleep on a straw-stuffed pad laid near the firepit, their arms around each other.

The fire had been stoked and the water jug filled, but no sign of Mam.

She could certainly be found in one of the other cottages, then, and so Rhia ran to take a quick look in each. The Man Who Sleeps was deathly still upon his raised pallet, just as he had been since they'd got him. But no Mam was present to dab his brow or force simplity some gruel down into him as she did each morn and evening. In the third cot, Dull Sal lay sleeping upon her side with her golden hair about her face. She sucked hard upon her thumb, as was her wont. Sally had kicked her blanket off in the night, but Mam was nowhere nearby to throw it back over Sal's long legs. Rhia crept in and quickly did that herself, then hurried to check the fourth cottage.

Mam was not there, and Gimp Jim himself was indeed absent, along with his walking stick. Frowning, Rhiannon turned from the window to scan the nearby grounds, expecting to find Jim hobbling about, mayhaps feeding the ducks where they oft paddled in the brook that ran alongside his cottage.

No Jim, though, which was odd, seeing as how his one-legged state kept him close at all times. But Rhia'd spent enough time searching for lost folk. Soon enough the reeve himself would arrive and spoil her surprise! She ran to tell Granna, at least, of the reeve's approach, splashing across the mossy brook where it curved twice through their toft, then jumping the broken grindstone that formed their stoop, then finally bursting through the front door, all breathless.

“Granna?” she panted. “Reeve Clap comes up our path this very minute!”

The smoky gloom inside the cot made her blind after the bright sun, but Rhia could make out Granna as she sat on her stool, discerning from the morning fire what she could about the coming day. Rhia hurried around the edge of the firepit to stand close behind and join her in her watch. Though she seemed to completely lack Granna's gift of special sight, she figured there was always hope.

“I've already seen our reeve, Rhiannon.” Granna chuckled and nodded toward a point in the fire. “There, where the blue flames be. Can you na see a yellow-haired man with green bracca pulled high over his Saxon grasshopper legs?”

As she squinted into the flames, Rhia snuffled a bit at Granna's joke. To Granna, Saxons were too long, too loose-strung, and some laughable in their easy gawkiness, unlike the Welsh, who, bird-made or natural, tend to be close to the ground and quick in step. Though none, neither Saxon nor Welsh, were near as ridiculous in Granna's eyes as the Normans, rulers of all these days. Why, they'd not so much as learned the English speech, but still spoke the chicken cackle of their loved Francia!

Granna spit whenever they were so much as mentioned.

Rhia gave up trying to form the blue flames into Reeve Clap. “Should I go find Mam, d'ye suspect?” She shifted her weight from foot to foot, fidgety and impatient.

“Find Mam?” her mother asked, for there she suddenly stood inside the doorway, shaking dew from the greens she'd just been gathering. Her bright hair brought a soft glow to the cottage, as from candleflame.

“Aigneis, are ye about?” Reeve Clap called from a little distance outside.

Mam whirled toward the sound, one hand upon her throat.

“Sounds quite chipper, don't he, Aigy, for someone who's just climbed two miles straight up a rock trail?” Granna murmured. “What is it about the very saying of your name would so refresh him, d'ye think?”

Granna winked at Rhia, and Rhia bit her lips. Granna, with fewer scruples, cackled.

“The reeve elected by the good people of Woethersly to take charge of all the lord's farm dealings has more to do than take a pleasure hike up our bluff and stand grinning like a dunce, I'd venture,” Granna called out so the reeve would hear. “Quit dillydallying and state yer business here with us this morning, Almund, will you? We've heard the murder bell. What's afoot below?”

Mam came unfrozen, ducked her head, and, blushing all the harder, came inside to sort her greens, giving Reeve Clap invitation to follow over her threshold.

“G'morn to ye, Moira,” Reeve Clap said, squinting toward Granna across the smoky gloom as he ducked through the doorway. “G'morn as well to you, Rhiannon.”

Rhiannon stood up straighter, pushed her black hair behind her ears, and nodded polite greeting, but Granna, not so patient nor formal, either, asked again, bluntly, “So, who's got hisself kilt today, then, Almund?”

Almund Clap crouched near the chicken pen, elbows on his knees. He seemed far too big for their cot, like some albatross squeezing small into a bluebird's nest.

“Well, Moira, it's no one local. I made an early patrol on one of Lord Claredemont's horses this morn, as on a murky night much can go awry. And sure enough, I came upon a stranger who'd breathed his last. He lay near the west ford of the river, not so far from the foot of your bluff. Even now my men are combing your bluffy woods for clues.”

Rhia looked at Mam, who'd gone pale as milk. The deed was done so close!

“He'd deep cuts to his stomach, so it was a murder, for sure,” Almund murmured, frowning as he remembered it. “As for suspects, well, there were several vessels in port last night, traders and fishers, also brigands. I especially noted the slapdash boat of a certain band of freebooters moored at our docks. That pirate crew have all seven of them spent fair amounts of time cooling their heels in local gaols, so my first thought was that they were likely the ones who'd done it. As soon as I'd found men to tend to the body, I galloped to quiz that bunch ere they could sail with the morning tide.”

Rhia saw Mam press her lips together at the grim nature of these events.

“As I approached the docks, the torchlight revealed the spindly-legged leader of that brigand pack throwing a bucket of waste over the side of his vessel,” Almund continued. “ ‘Ho, Captain,' I called to him. ‘You docked under cover of darkness, not in daylight as those who arrive here to trade. So now I'd know what you were up to in the night!' There was a terrible stench in the air. I covered my nose with my sleeve, and the horse I sat tossed his mane, begging to flee the aroma. But the captain merely showed green teeth and roared a laugh. ‘It's rotted goat meat ye smell, Reeve.' He pointed to a sooty mess upon the beach. ‘There lies the waste of its carcass, where we cooked it first thing when we arrived. My crew all et bad goat meat in the night, turned sour from when we poached it last week from far shores. We've heaved ever since and lost our sea legs. Can you not hear the groans from down below deck?' ”

“
Could
you indeed hear them . . . heaving?” Rhiannon couldn't resist asking.

Almund nodded, scratching his head. “Yes, I
could
. And further, I don't think it likely those poor ne'er-do-wells prowled the night in such condition, let alone had the strength for this sort of bloody murder. Still, I ordered their ship kept in port for now, in case I'm proved wrong when we know more facts. They're to stay shipboard upon it and not to mingle among the folk of the town.”

Mam asked quietly, “Will those ruffians truly stay upon their boat when your vigilance is elsewhere, Almund? Or will they . . . skulk about?”

The reeve looked at her. “The captain seemed willing enough to do as told, Aigy. He's escaped the hangman's noose often enough that he knows his reputation alone might hang him if he's seen about on shore with a murder just done. His words to me were, ‘We'll stay tight upon this craft as living crew, or skeleton crew, if ye get my drift.' Then he leaned over the ship's rail and retched quite heartily. At that, I gladly turned my mount. ‘Captain, you're too stringy tough to die,' I called over my shoulder as I rode on. ‘And don't neglect to clean up that mess upon our beach, or I'll send our bailiff out to meet you. And I'll be sure to put in a word to Bertha, who cooks for prisoners in our gaol, just to let her know you enjoy a fine helping of well-aged goat!' ”

Granna and Rhia laughed at that, though Mam, the worrier of the three, did not.

“We've raised the hue and cry throughout the manor and will beat the fields all day,” Reeve Clap now told them. “My men have talked to those in the forest cottages that lie along the trail to town, but no one seems to have heard or seen a thing. I myself went to Hilda Mopp's house, as her son Arnold is a sulky sort of lad and has had some brushes with the law. Nothing approaching
this
sort of heinous crime, but a hare poached now and then, a cabbage pilfered, each leading to a whipping or other discouragement. Dame Mopp was quick with their alibi. She told that they both had been abed early, it being fogged, though she declared Arnold slept with a heavy club aside himself, always protective of his mother. She claims they saw no stranger pass their way in the night, nor during the previous day, for that matter. Arnold was not at home, but when I come across the boy, I'll see if his story is a match for his mother's.”

“And so your interviews have yielded up no felon, and you will beat the fields all this day,” Granna mused, chewing hard upon the stem of her pipe. “And I'm certain our vicar will decide there must needs be a laying of hands upon the corpse for the morrow.”

Almund nodded wearily. “Vicar Pecksley has declared that the body will indeed be displayed on the wide table before the butcher shop tomorrow noon, and all in the manor will be required to take part in a laying of hands on it, including yourselves up here upon the bluff. Unless the crime's positively solved by then, of course, in which case only the captured murderer will lay his hands upon the corpse as proof positive of his guilt. It seems unlikely we'll have our man by then, so assume it's on if you've not heard otherwise by tomorrow dawn from me or one of my men.”