Caught Red-Handed Page 3

  Then the man gulped in a shaken breath and raised his gaze to his Crowner. "It was his father! His father finally stole him from me!"

  "But you said you are the boy's father," Faucon protested, again speaking more harshly than he intended. This man's sentences were as confusing as the garbled utterances of his priest.

  This time when Waddard jerked in reaction, his ancient nag snorted and sidled. The beast collided with one side of the deep path then freed a more panicked snort. As it started to back up in the track, Father Godin turned to catch the horse by the bridle. Holding it where it stood, the priest patted Waddard's left leg and spoke to his parishioner, his words too quiet for Faucon to hear. Waddard nodded and again met his Crowner's gaze.

  "I am Dickie's father," he said on a watery sigh. "I have been his father since he was three and I threw my cloak over him on the day I wed his mother. He is my only son. Mary save me, I cannot believe he's gone! "But we all knew it would happen, didn't we, Father?" Waddard moaned, looking at his priest.

  Tears again trickled down his cheeks. A few caught in his sparse, graying beard and glistened in the sunlight. "Everyone knew what would happen when Raymond returned this year to fulfill his curse. He came to steal Dickie from me and that's what he has at last done."

  With that, Waddard turned his head to the side and sobbed in earnest. The priest again patted the man's leg, then the Northerner turned his pale gaze on Faucon. His Adam's apple moved as he struggled to spit out words.

  "Dickie wast," his voice strained with his effort, "morthered af hans— wast kilt by his own laten—"

  Father Godin drew a deep breath and tried again. "Dickie was kilt by his own dead fader. His fader walks."

  "What?!" Alf blurted out this time. Revulsion filled the soldier's face and voice. "Did I understand you rightly? The boy's dead father rose from the grave to kill his own son?"

  "Aye, dat is it," the priest replied, offering the soldier a decisive and grateful nod. This time his words were perfectly clear albeit heavily accented.

  "Now all my neighbors believe that Dickie will also walk," Waddard moaned. "They want to cut him up to prevent him from doing so, not caring that if they mutilate him this way, doing so for no proven reason, they may cheat him of his home in heaven."

  "Sir, what are they saying?" Edmund prompted.

  "Say no more for a moment, if you please," Faucon requested of the Englishmen, not wanting to miss a word while he translated for his clerk.

  To Edmund he said, "The priest is Father Godin, from a village called Mancetter. The mounted man is the stepfather of a boy who died last night. Both men say that the boy was killed by his dead father, who has been witnessed walking many times. Now the others in their village want to dismember the boy, believing foolishly that he will walk simply because his father does."

  "Hardly foolish," Brother Edmund replied, brows raised. "More likely a wise precaution."

  "What?!" Faucon cried, again shocked to his core. "Are you saying the boy's dead body will walk simply because his father is a walker?"

  "No, I'm saying that the boy may walk because he died after interacting with a walking corpse," Edmund corrected. "Sir, my question isn't yet answered. We must know how many in the village this monstrosity may have affected. Knowing the circumstances of the boy's death will help us determine that."

  "What do you mean ‘how many?'" Faucon replied, as confusion threatened to make his thoughts spin again. "Only the boy is dead."

  "Ah, but these foul creatures often bring the disease of the grave with them," his clerk replied. "Any living soul who is visited by a walker may become infected by this noxious ailment. Those who fall ill swiftly wither and die. Although it doesn't often happen, the newly-dead will sometimes pass that illness onto those who prepare their body for burial. So, how did the boy die? Was it illness or violence?"

  "Violence?!" Will protested, sounding as shocked and befuddled as Faucon felt. "What violence? The walking dead are naught but bones and mist that come to suck out a man's soul, which they then feed to their evil master. What violence can they do?"

  Faucon's clerk frowned at the knight. "Mist and bones? Why would you think that? Walkers are the corpses of those who once lived, and are thus made of rotting flesh and, yes, bone. But you're right to say they seek to steal men's souls. As for committing violence, a number of Master Walter's tales tell of folk who battled hand-to-hand with the dead, whether the soldiers in Harlequin's army or their own dead kin or neighbors that they discover walking.

  "Sir," Edmund continued, now shifting to address Faucon, "if the dead boy fought physically with the walker, he is far more likely to walk. You must determine the manner of his death."

  "You're serious?!" Faucon cried, his stomach twisting at the thought of grappling with a reanimated corpse. "These walkers have the strength to physically attack a living man?"

  "That is what the tales tell us," his clerk assured him.

  Swallowing his gorge, Faucon shifted back to the priest and potter. "Father, was it illness or violence that caused the boy's death?" he asked in English.

  Once again Father Godin strove to bring forth words. A moment later he shook his head in defeat and tapped Waddard's left leg. "Waddard, calm de selif, and spaak. Say ja how Dickie die."

  Wiping his nose on his sleeve, Waddard brought his watery gaze back to the warriors and monk in front of him. "He was sitting in the smithy when we found him, just after dawn this morning. He was already cold and stiff." His mouth opened as if he meant to say more. Instead, a heart-wrenching moan escaped him. He buried his face in his palms.

  Father Godin made an irritable sound and spoke over the grieving father. "Dickie's head is breaked."

  As he said this, he lifted a fist and tapped at the top of his head in demonstration. There was no need for his example. His words were clear enough this time.

  "Wait again," Faucon once more warned the priest so he could address Brother Edmund. "He says the dead man broke the boy's skull. Are the dead as strong as that? Can they kill in this manner?"

  Brother Edmund's brow creased in consideration, then he gave a slow shake of his head. "There's no specific mention of anyone being pummeled in Master Walter's tales. Instead, most usually the victim's arm is grasped by the dead who then seek to drag the living person away from all safety.

  "However, consider this, sir," the monk continued. "We only know what we do of the walking dead because those who tell these tales survived their encounters. But what of those who did not survive? If they died, could we not say that perhaps the dead in this instance did more than merely pull, that they might have killed using brute force?" Again, Edmund's tone was impossibly reasonable, when what he said was anything but.

  "Holy Mother of God," Will muttered again, once more crossing himself. This time Alf did the same.

  Faucon shook his head slowly, trying to take in the soul-searing notion of battling hand-to-hand with an animated and rotting corpse. Then, deep below his horror, the huntsman in him stirred. However perverse, however terrifying the urge, that part of him longed to track down this odious creature just to see it for himself.

  No, he wanted to do more than that. Mad it might be, but he wanted to try his strength against this abomination. He wanted to run it to ground, cut it into pieces, and put it back in its grave where it belonged.

  "Did anyone witness your son's dead father as he did this deed?" Faucon asked of Waddard, who was again scrubbing at his face with a sleeve.

  "Nay," Waddard said. "There was no one out and about at that time. Instead, Raymond lured Dickie away from the safety of our home long after all of Mancetter was at their nightly rest. Our reeve Aldo declared that it must have been Raymond who'd done murder. Everyone in the village agrees with him," Waddard continued. "Haven't we all witnessed Raymond walking past our doorways? Moreover, before he died, Raymond cursed my wife, vowing that if she dared to wed, he'd kill her and their son. And that he now has surely done.

  "Tell them, Father
Godin," the potter cried, looking down at his priest. "Tell them about how bold Raymond is, how he often visits you at our church."

  "Ja, I seen him," the priest confirmed, his pronunciation growing clearer with every word. "Each time I seen him I kneel and shout the holy words. He goes." As he said that Father Godin made a gesture with his fingers. The motion seemed to indicate that the walker evaporated rather than departed on foot.

  "But this last year, Dickie saw him most of all," Waddard added. "Save for the dead, who would have been out of doors last night, away from all safety on a moonless night?"

  "Dickie was," Faucon replied, cocking a brow.

  "Not by choice." Again, Waddard's eyes glistened. He blinked away his tears. "Dickie said that when his father calls— called to him, he could not resist. Even though he fought with all his will, he had no choice but to go where Raymond bade."

  "So this morning, when you found your son dead, no one raised the hue and cry?" Faucon pressed.

  "Why?" Waddard asked in surprise. "To chase a corpse that had already returned to its grave?"

  Faucon considered the two men for a moment, then looked at his clerk. "Tell me, Brother Edmund," he said in French. "Which seems more likely to you? That a dead man's corpse sought out his living son to kill him, or that a living man committed murder and now seeks to use a dead man to conceal his sin?"

  Edmund blinked in surprise at this. "Either are possible, but why do you ask me this, sir? I believe it's yours to determine."

  A slow smile bent Faucon's lips. And thus would begin the strangest hunt of his life. "So it is, and so I shall do."

  With that, he once more addressed the two men from Mancetter. "It's good that you came to the abbey seeking aid, but it's not the abbot you need. I am Sir Faucon de Ramis, your shire's newly-elected Keeper of the Pleas. As of Michaelmas past, and by the king's command, I, and not our sheriff, now investigate all unnatural deaths in this shire, and only I can call the jury of the hundred for an inquest. As part of my duties, I am also commanded to protect the remains of the murdered until I determine who or what committed the heinous act." Be that murderer alive or dead. "Lead me to Mancetter and I will prevent your neighbors from dismembering Dickie."

  As Waddard turned his slow-moving nag and started back up the hillside for the abbey— Father Godin following on foot, Edmund, Alf, and Will walking with the priest to prepare their waiting mounts for departure— Faucon went to speak to the Cistercians and their abbot. Abbot Henry yet stood where he'd stopped, his crucifix yet clutched in his hand. All eleven of his flock now knelt outside the track on the softer verge. Their chanting ceased as Faucon approached their father.

  "Sir Faucon? What do these men tell you?" the abbot asked, life returning to his face. He dropped his hand from his wooden cross.

  "Before I answer you, tell me this, if you will, my lord," Faucon replied. "Have you heard tales of the dead walking in these parts? And if you have, have you heard that these reanimated corpses use physical force to do murder?"

  The kneeling monks moaned and shifted at this.

  "May all the saints preserve us!" Abbot Henry cried in horror. "Is that what these two claim?"

  Then the Churchman bowed his head and drew a steadying breath. When he again looked at Faucon, all his fear was gone. Instead, his jaw was tight and his eyes had narrowed. He had the look of a warrior ready to draw his sword.

  "Pray, Sir Faucon," he commanded. "Pray with all your heart that these two are wrong. Such an occurrence would be a sure sign of the Devil's rising influence in our land."

  "My lord, I shall do better than pray," Faucon assured him. "I intend to discover the truth of this boy's death. If I find that there is a corpse which did rise to kill its living son, I vow to you I will hunt down this unnatural creature. Once I have it under my heel, I will dismember it."

  As Faucon made this promise, his squeamishness disappeared, consumed by an almost wild excitement over his forthcoming hunt. "When I have done that, perhaps you, and any other Churchmen you need, will help me to put those pieces back into his grave to make certain that he never again strays."

  "That I can do," the abbot replied with a nod. "Go you, and begin your hunt. In the meanwhile, I'll send word to Canterbury, or perhaps Hereford, since there's no bishop at Coventry just now. The Evil One must not be allowed to work his wiles unchecked here in Arden. Or anywhere else in our world," he added softly before continuing.

  "Now, as to your question of folk who may have seen the dead afoot here. There are many who claim they have, but I don't believe that all have seen what they claim. I think most simply repeat the tales crafted to frighten them and their children into staying within the safety of their village or town walls at night."

  That made sense to Faucon. This had surely been the purpose of his mother's stories of Harlequin. She'd used them like chains, seeking to imprison her young and too-boisterous sons on their pallets at night. It had worked, at least until the time came that her boys were fostered out of her home and care.

  "But there are others whose stories have the ring of truth to them," the abbot was saying. "I've heard enough folk speak of seeing the army of that ancient king marching on the Street that I must believe this is a regular occurrence. As for a dead man battling physically with the living—"

  Henry of Merevale shuddered and shook his head. "That is something I have never heard. Frankly, it's something I pray you prove to be untrue and that I never again hear."

  With that, the abbot turned to face his flock. "Brothers, up with you all. Save your fears and your prayers for later, when we can kneel together in our own chapel. Our day is far from finished. Those of you who have work to complete before our repast, best get to it. Brother Augustine, take whomever you need to help you in the kitchen."

  The tall monk nodded. "Father, I believe I may need a few additional fish for the stew," he said, then shot a look in Faucon's direction as if to remind the abbot of his earlier invitation to their guests.

  "A good idea," Abbot Henry replied. "Return to the kitchen ahead of me. I'll be along with what you need in a bit."

  As the monks dispersed, Faucon offered the abbot a warm smile. "I would thank you again for your offer of hospitality, my lord. Given what lies ahead, I cannot say if we'll be able to accept. Please do not delay your meal for us."

  "And given what's occurred, I cannot say I expected anything else," the abbot replied with a friendly nod. "However, my offer stands. Mancetter isn't far, only a short walk by foot, or at least by my feet. I've visited the place several times to meet the wool buyer who purchases our fleece. What with your party all riding, you'll make short work of the distance.

  "Know that should you decide to return for the night, you are welcome at any hour. Just knock on our gate. I'll promote Brother Samuel to porter for the night. We've no gatehouse but he never minds sleeping on the ground under the stars. Just be sure to knock loudly." Once again Henry of Merevale winked. "Brother Samuel sleeps soundly no matter where he lays his head."

  With that Faucon's unsettled thoughts finally came to rest. He laughed. "Then I hope it is I and not the walking dead who disturbs the monk's rest later this evening, my lord abbot."

  "As do we all," the Churchman assured him with yet another shudder. "I've changed my mind, Sir Faucon. I'm very grateful that I called for you to come. Had I not, I would be going to Mancetter in your stead, and after listening to you, I think I am wholly unprepared for such a task, while you are not.

  "Now be off with you. But as you go, give me your vow that you'll return here to me before you depart our vale. Regardless of what occurs, you must share what you discover, in case there is anything I must convey to those who better understand these matters."

  "I so vow," Faucon replied. "If you will, my lord, pray for us. Bid our Lord and all His saints to guide me and mine in this hunt."

  "So I and all my brothers will do," the Churchman replied.

  Faucon expected the abbot to present his ring for the rit
ual kiss. Instead, Henry of Merevale offered his hand the way that knights did. Surprised and pleased, Faucon closed his fingers around the Churchman's palm.

  "May our Lord bless and keep you," the abbot said, then freed his hand to make the sign of the cross. "And God speed," he added, before starting back toward the fish ponds.

  Faucon trailed Brother Augustine and two other monks up the track. At the crest of the hill, the abbey's wooden exterior wall rose up before him. Father Godin and Waddard— the commoner yet astride his nag while the priest once again held the horse's bridle— waited near the only opening in that protective wall. The two commoners watched without comment as Faucon strode past them to enter the courtyard through the narrow arched gateway.

  Once inside the wall, Faucon again glanced around him in approval. Unlike other holy houses that were busily rebuilding in stone and slate, Merevale made do with humble wooden structures and thatched roofs. The small church, a large kitchen, and single long house raised on a stone foundation that served the monks as their chapter house, frater, dorter, abbot's office, and cellar, were most likely the same buildings the brothers had raised upon the founding of their home. Again, the unpretentious simplicity spoke to him.

  There were other structures in the compound, but these were the sort found on any self-sustaining farmstead— a threshing barn, two hay sheds, and a very large sheep-fold. Lining the fold were a number of lean-tos, no doubt where the brothers stored their shearing tools along with shorn fleece. Beyond the sheep-fold was Brother Augustine's pear orchard and a small paddock where Faucon and his party had left their mounts to graze.

  All three men were already mounted. Alf and Will turned their horses in Faucon's direction, Will leading Legate, while Brother Edmund did his best to goad his donkey into movement. Even from where Faucon stood it was clear the stubborn little beast was equally determined to resist, having decided to stay the night with the monks.