The Murderer's Tale (16 page)

Master Holt nodded agreement without looking away from Martyn. “That would have to be the way of it,” he agreed. “And then they lay here all the rest of the night until you and the other priest came to ready the chapel for Mass.”

Sire Benedict sighed, nodded. His face showed his sadness at what had happened here but no longer fear or shock; the first horror had worn off and practicalities were taking its place. “Let me put this away,” he said, indicating the gold box with the Host he still held. “It shouldn’t be here longer. Then if you’ll have him moved, I’ll see to him being prayed over. Lady Lovell has to be consulted as to the morning Mass. We can use the church, I suppose. The bishop has to be told as soon as may be.”

“I can send a messenger to him when I send to the crowner to come,” Master Holt said.

“Good, good. I’ll write the needed letter.” Sire Benedict’s distress was building again, though in a different direction. “This all has to be cleaned, of course. But it won’t be right until the bishop has given leave for its ritual cleansing, and who knows when that will be? This is all so bad, so very bad.”

Frevisse said quickly, “Father Henry can help with anything you ask.”

Sire Benedict slightly brightened. “Of course he can. A good man. Very solid. Oh! I’ve left him with Master Knyvet this while. Poor man!” Whether he meant Father Henry or Lionel was not clear. “And there are all those people outside.”

The noise of voices had risen again, maybe even grown, beyond the door. Frevisse could imagine everyone free to come was now crowded into the antechamber, the solar, or on the stairs, hoping for glimpse of something dreadful, of the murderer and the murdered.

“I’ll see to them,” Master Holt said grimly, “and find enough men to view the body while I send the rest away. My lady, you’ll come?” he added, making it question rather than order, sure enough that she would be willing to leave.

“No, I’ll stay. To pray for him while everything is being sorted out. By your leave, if I may.” She said it as politely as she might; she had no authority here to say what she would do or not do.

But Master Holt accepted without hesitation. “That would be most good of you.” He had enough to mind that he was willing to take her at the face value she put forward and leave it at that, freeing himself to all the other matters at hand. He made quick work of clearing the gawkers away. Sire Benedict left with his precious burden, and Frevisse was alone with Martyn’s body and the evidence of death in the chapel, now oddly barren under the extinguished altar light. Dawn had come on enough that there was light in plenty, but the sense of holiness was gone and the place was empty without it. Frevisse knelt again beside Martyn’s body and for the first time touched it, closing his eyes. The rest she would leave to others, but it would be well if they saw to it soon.

The body was such a useless thing once the soul was gone, but it should have care even then, in honor of when it had been a thing that mattered.

Again words from the Office of the Dead came to her.

Sana me, Domine, quoniam conturbata sunt ossa mea, Et anima mea conturbata est valde…
Heal me, Lord, for my bones are afraid, And my soul is greatly terrified…

They were words apt for Martyn, because in whatever way it had happened between him and Lionel, there must have been at least a moment between disbelief that it was happening at all and death itself for Martyn to be afraid— time for his body’s fear as the blow was struck and time for his soul’s fear when he realized he was dying. Not long, not with a wound like that across his throat, but time enough. Time for fear and hopefully time for what needed to pass through a man’s mind to help his soul toward salvation.

She was too deep into prayer to notice when others came into the chapel, until Master Holt said, “My lady.”

She looked up to find he had brought half a dozen men with him—a few squires and some of the household gentlemen—to see everything there was to see about the body and the place so they could be witnesses at the inquest the crowner would hold when he came. And Lionel’s cousin Giles was with them.

He had circled well aside from the others, to where he had a clearer view of the body and the blood. Frevisse took only a glimpse at him, but that was enough for her to want no more. If she had thought about it beforehand, she would not have expected any grief from him for Martyn’s death. His dislike of Martyn had been too marked. But that he should so clearly let his gloating show…

Avoiding looking at him again, she rose to her feet, for the first time thinking beyond the present fact of Martyn’s death to what it was going to mean to everyone of whose lives he had been part. Plainly Master Giles was ahead of her there, as well he might be, being Lionel’s heir, but she did not think she wanted to know his thoughts.

“Lady Lovell has asked you come to her, if it please you,” Master Holt said. “There’s nothing more for you to do here.”

He held out a hand to help her rise and Frevisse took it. There was nothing else to be done here that could not be done as well or better by others, nor had she any particular desire to stay. “Where is she?”

“In her parlor. The other nun is with her.”

“And Father Henry?”

“I think he’s still with Master Knyvet.”

“In Sire Benedict’s room?”

“He’s been moved to somewhere more secure. For now,” Master Holt said in a limiting voice, answering her and telling her she had asked enough.

She accepted that. He had more to deal with than a nun’s questions, and she could guess the rest without him saying it: Lionel was locked away and would be kept locked away until matters were a little more in hand and he could be turned over to the sheriff.

Frevisse slightly bowed her head to him in thanks and left.

The antechamber was empty except for two uneasy men there as some sort of guard against the idly curious coming back.

“Is it bad in there, my lady?” one of them asked her, with a jerk of his head toward the chapel door.

Frevisse nearly said tartly that that depended on how bad you found death and blood, but she caught the thought back before it became words. The man was no more than as curious as she would have been. “It’s bad,” she said quietly and went on, down the stairs to the parlor.

Chapter 12

At the foot of the stairs from the chapel, the door to the Knyvets’ chamber stood partly open. Frevisse had glimpse of a scattering of clothes over the open edge of a traveling trunk that showed there had been haste in dressing, and somewhere inside, out of sight, a woman was crying. While she tried to guess whether it was Edeyn or not, she turned aside to the parlor door where one of Lady Lovell’s women hurriedly opened it and made gesture for her to enter.

Her question about Edeyn was answered as she did, for Lady Lovell and Dame Claire were standing at the room’s center and Edeyn was with them, the white dog Fidelitas in her arms and her voice rising, “… couldn’t have, never would have! Not to Martyn. Not to
anyone.”

“We know he didn’t,” Dame Claire said, meaning to soothe. “The demon when it took him—”

“It doesn’t take him that way! It
never
has!”

“This time it did,” Lady Lovell said, all the brightness that had seemed essentially part of her gone from face and voice. There was no place for brightness in what had happened; but the strength that had underlain it was to the fore now, and the kindness. But it was a kindness of the sort that would not yield the reality of fact, even to ease pain as great as Edeyn’s. “Look you, Edeyn, Dame Frevisse is come. Let her tell us what she saw.”

Edeyn’s expression as she swung around on Frevisse was a mixture of challenge and despair, and both were in her voice as she demanded, “What more is there beyond what Dame Claire already told us? What else is there to know if you don’t believe me?”

Calm with the assurance of authority, Lady Lovell answered evenly, “I prefer a belief built on facts, not feelings. We’ve heard Dame Claire. Now I want to hear Dame Frevisse. Later I’ll hear Sire Benedict and the other priest, and Master Holt when he’s seen to all that needs seeing to.”

“But you won’t hear me!” Edeyn cried.

“I’ve heard you. And I’ll hear more if you have more to tell, the way I’ll hear everyone who has anything to say to the purpose about it before I’m done.” Because in her husband’s absence the matter was hers to deal with until the crowner, the royal officer summoned in any matter of unnatural death, could come. She was bound by law to do it, and the more that she could tell him, the less trouble he would have in reaching a decision over the cause of death and what should be done because of it.

And the sooner that was done, Frevisse thought, and everything understood, the sooner Edeyn could begin to accept it. In the meanwhile facts faced now would be kinder to her than her raw emotions.

The same thought was maybe in Lady Lovell’s mind as she laid a hand on Edeyn’s arm and said in gentle command, “Edeyn, just listen.”

Edeyn held momentarily rigid in face and body, near to refusing anything asked of her with an anger and a grief and a strength of stubbornness Frevisse had not suspected in her.

But defiance was too unfamiliar to her, obedience too usual, and with an angry gasp that was halfway to tears, she gave way, sank down on the cushioned bench, and pressed her face against Fidelitas’ neck like a small child forced to endure something she would rather escape.

Lady Lovell turned her gaze to Frevisse and said with the simple expectation of being obeyed, “My lady, tell us what you saw.”

Frevisse bent her head in acceptance of the request and acknowledgment of Lady Lovell’s right to ask it, then steadily, with as little emotion as possible, told what she had seen in the chapel, from encountering Father Henry in the doorway and his first words through to leaving Martyn’s body to Master Holt. Though she kept her gaze on Lady Lovell while she talked, she was aware of Edeyn while she did, aware that she sat without movement or sound, her arms tight around Fidelitas, her face hidden. Nor did she look up when Frevisse had finished.

Lady Lovell said sadly, “That’s as Dame Claire told it, and I expect no different from Sire Benedict and your priest will say. The dagger beside Lionel’s hand, was it surely Martyn’s dagger?”

“I don’t know for certain, only that it was there and Martyn’s sheath was empty,” Frevisse answered.

“Someone will be able to identify it, surely and for certain, but there’s no great doubt, is there? Edeyn, do you see how it must have been?”

Her face still hidden against Fidelitas, Edeyn nodded.

“And I can tell you for certain it
is
Martyn’s dagger,” Giles said from the doorway. The door had not been quite closed, and he had stood there long enough to hear what the nun had had to say before he nudged it wider to see there were only women there. The woman who was probably supposed to have seen it shut and kept that way was turned away from it, listening as hard as the rest of them to every detail the nun had to tell.

So much for any claim that women were more tender than men.

He had chosen his moment to speak and enjoyed the startled turn of heads and even more the way Edeyn looked up, gasped with relief, and put the bitch aside to rise and come to him, wanting his arms for comfort. He took her willingly, held her close, and said over her head to the others, “There’s no doubt it’s Martyn’s dagger. I saw it myself just now.”

“And Lionel’s dagger?” Lady Lovell asked. “It wasn’t drawn at all?”

“Lionel never went armed when he knew one of his attacks was coming,” Giles said. “He knew it wasn’t safe.”

Edeyn drew a little away from him. “But it wasn’t because anyone was afraid he’d use it, only that if he fell on it, he’d likely be hurt. He has to be kept from falling against things, on things, when the fit takes him. He never hurts anyone.”

“Edeyn,” Giles said, still holding her close, “this time he did. Martyn is dead.”

He felt her flinch from that and tightened his hold on her, saying with a tenderness he almost felt, “Gently, dear heart, gently. Remember the baby. That’s who you have to care about now. And yourself. Martyn is dead. Lionel killed him. That’s something we have to live with from now forward.”

Edeyn made a small twisting movement, as if to pull free, but he kept her close to him and whispered, “The baby, Edeyn. Think of our child.”

She subsided, leaning her head against his shoulder before asking in a hushed voice, “What will happen to him?”

Meaning it less for her than for Lady Lovell, Giles said, “You have to understand that it wasn’t simply murder. Lionel was out of his right wits when he killed Martyn, and so things are better than they might be.”

“Better!” Edeyn said resentfully, refusing the thought.

“If it had been plain murder, everything Lionel owns would be forfeit to the king. But he wasn’t sane and so everything will be kept in ward against the chance he comes into his right mind again.”

He glanced at Lady Lovell to see how much of that she had understood, but Edeyn cut off any answer the woman might have made with, “But he
is
in his right mind again! Always when the attack ends, he’s himself again!” She twisted around in his arms to make her plea to Lady Lovell. “Is that what the law says? That if he recovers from madness, then he’s free?”

“But he isn’t recovered!” Giles said sharply, jerking her back to face him. He had not expected her to understand it easily, but her blind focus on Lionel was beginning to anger him. “He’ll never be recovered. His demon can come on him again anytime. He’ll never be free of it, and so long as he isn’t, he’s dangerous!”

“He’s not!”

“Edeyn,” Lady Lovell said with something more than gentleness, demanding to be listened to, “your husband has the right of it.”

Giles kept the surge of triumph from his face. If the woman had that much of the law in her head, then he was well on toward the next step of what he meant to make out of Martyn’s death. Gentle again, he said, “Edeyn, love, you have to understand what’s possible and what isn’t.” He looked pleadingly toward Lady Lovell. “Help me make her see.”