Caught Red-Handed Page 6

  "You know who I am and the duties our king has laid upon me because you just heard me tell you what they are," Faucon replied coldly to the woman, then looked at Aldo. "What say you, reeve? Do you agree with her? Do you believe that I, the king's servant in this shire, lie in an attempt to play you and the rest of Mancetter false?"

  Panic dashed across the reeve's face. He looked at the woman. "Go home, Bett," he commanded too late.

  She stared at him, her mouth ajar. "I will not!"

  "You will. You and your careless tongue have no place here," Aldo almost snarled.

  When she didn't move, he gave her a sharp push. She stumbled back with a cry. "Go, or I promise you'll be the one I fine for bad behavior."

  Shock flattened Bett's expression. Her eyes began to glisten but she held her ground. "You would do that to me?! What of my Tibby? That boy was a rogue in life, just like his father. He'll be a rogue in death, I know it, aye. He'll come for her tonight. You cannot allow him to take Tibby from me."

  Aldo crossed his arms and put his shoulder to the woman. Freeing another sharp cry, Bett turned to the men behind him. "What's wrong with all of you? No knight, no matter who he claims to be, nor any abbot, nor bishop, nor even our king can force us to face evil! Nor can anyone promise to protect us against the same, not unless they do to that corpse what must be done!"

  Again Faucon bit back a smile as Bett unwittingly battered at her reeve for a second time. Once again, Faucon grabbed the advantage she offered. "Can the men of Mancetter not control their women?" he chided, his tongue honed to a cutting edge. "Reeve, best you make this one understand that I now control what happens to the boy's body. If she or anyone else attempts to desecrate his corpse, death will be the price. If she cannot understand that, then you had better see her confined for her safety."

  "Sir, the light is ebbing!" Edmund called from inside the church, his tone urgent. "You must come within this very moment."

  Faucon ignored his clerk. Even the smallest distraction might cost him the very thing he'd stolen from Aldo. Much to his surprise, Alf spoke in his stead.

  "Our Crowner cannot come, Brother Edmund. The villagers question Sir Faucon's right to claim the body. They worry that he intends to force them to face evil, and that he will not or cannot protect them against it."

  An instant later the monk pushed past Faucon. "May the Lord save us from all bucolic oafs," he growled irritably as he stopped at the edge of the porch. Then, shaking his finger at the commoners in the yard, Edmund chided, "Impertinent boors! Sir Faucon speaks for our king. He has claimed the boy's corpse as is his right. Defy him, and I promise you that when our justices once again visit your shire, every last soul in this village will be fined for disrespect and disobedience."

  Even in the gathering dimness Faucon could see the relief that flickered across Aldo's face. Not only did the reeve understand the tongue of his betters well indeed, he was thrilled with the monk's heavy-handed intervention. Never mind that Faucon was certain his well-educated clerk had no idea what he'd just done.

  Bett's challenge had left Aldo no way to submit to an unknown knight claiming unusual rights without demanding proof of those rights. But doing that meant doing exactly as Faucon had accused, calling his new Crowner a liar. To question a man's word was the one insult that always resulted in violence, and violence was the last thing Aldo wanted. Bless Brother Edmund. He represented a higher authority, one that no reasonable man questioned.

  Sure enough, the reeve turned to address those standing behind him. "The monk confirms that this knight speaks for our king. We have no choice. We must cede control of Dickie's corpse to them, at least for the now. But I cannot believe that any man— whether this knight or even our king— has the right to bar us from our church. I intend to spend the night here with them. That way, when Dickie rises as we all know he will do, I'll be on hand to help capture him. If any man wishes to join me, he should do so."

  "Nay! That's not enough," Bett cried, her tone suggesting she was accustomed to getting her way.

  Again she looked at the men standing behind Aldo. "What is wrong with all of you? We are more. Join me! They won't harm us, not when we're in the right and on holy ground. We need only to push past them and do what must be done to Dickie's body."

  "Bett, it's too late for that," one of her neighbors told her as the others took yet another backward step. "We elected Aldo to speak for us, and he has spoken. Now, go home where you belong."

  "Aye, protest no more. Go home, else I'll fetch your son to come and get you," threatened another.

  Bett glared at them. "If my daughter dies tonight, it will be on your souls," she snarled. Then, spine lance-straight, she turned and made her way toward the churchyard fence, her hems twitching with rage.

  Behind Faucon, Will gave a quick laugh. "Now there's a woman I wouldn't mind having in my bed," he muttered.

  As Bett departed Edmund pivoted to face his employer. "Sir, come now," he urged. "We must examine the boy's body while yet a little light remains."

  Faucon shook his head in refusal. He wasn't leaving this porch until he'd questioned Aldo, the man in whose smithy the dead boy had been found. The time to do that was now, while the reeve's pride yet stung.

  The monk nigh on leapt to his side. "But you must come," Edmund insisted, resting his hand on Faucon's forearm. "Sir, we may be able to tell if the body will walk. There will be telltale marks."

  Startled beyond all thought or words, Faucon stared at his clerk's hand on his arm. Not once since they'd met almost two months ago had the monk intentionally touched him. Edmund's hand could have belonged to a saint. His fingers were long and thin, nails carefully pared, and there were no scars to mar his flesh. Then again, Edmund's profession offered its own sort of scarring. Years of scribbling ink onto parchment had permanently darkened the monk's fingers from knuckles to tips.

  "What sort of marks?" Will asked in honest curiosity when Faucon said nothing.

  Edmund glanced at the elder de Ramis brother. "They aren't described in any detail," he admitted, "but in most of the tales Master Walter collected, someone notices that those who perished after interacting with the living dead were left oddly marked."

  "Well, that isn't very helpful," Will offered with a quiet laugh.

  "Sir Faucon," Alf said, speaking over Will, "shall I ask Father Godin to find us torches or lamps? That way Brother Edmund can make his inspection at his leisure."

  "Lamps!" Edmund cried, his hand dropping from Faucon's arm as he turned toward the soldier. "But of course! That will do very well. I'll find the priest immediately. When I do, I'll also request he supply us with what we need for the night. We are staying the whole night here, are we not, sir?" he called over his shoulder as he pushed between Will and Alf to reenter the church. There was untoward excitement in his voice.

  "We are," Faucon called back, once again feeling the earth shifting beneath his feet. And thus did his confrontation with Aldo end, and his investigation of Dickie's death begin.

  "Just as I thought and as we most definitely must." The monk's voice receded as he moved deeper into the church.

  Then looking at his brother, Faucon said, "Will, go you with Brother Edmund and see that he gets what he needs from the priest. Perhaps Father Godin can suggest somewhere to house and feed our horses. We'll also need a meal tonight as well as something on the morrow to break our fast. Let him know that I will pay for what we require."

  As he said this, Faucon shot a sidelong glance at the reeve. Although it was clear Aldo listened, the reeve didn't raise his voice to offer assistance. That was unusual. Nearly every village headman Faucon had met since becoming Warwickshire Keeper of the Pleas had leapt at the chance to profit in even the smallest of ways from their Crowner's visit.

  "I suppose I have no choice if I wish to fill my belly tonight," his brother complained, although there was no bite to his words.

  As Will followed Edmund into the church, Faucon offered Alf a grateful tilt of his head to
acknowledge the commoner's welcome intervention. The soldier replied with a tiny shrug, accepting his employer's unspoken thanks. "I'll bring the horses into the yard for the moment, sir," he said.

  "Milo, go with that man," the reeve said as Alf descended the steps for the grassy yard. "The knight's horses need to be stabled and you have the space. They'll pay for fodder."

  At last, something normal on a day turned upside down by the unbelievably abnormal. Faucon released a slow breath along with more tension than he realized he carried. Aldo had just proved himself a reeve like any other, and like all the others, he'd collect his bit of profit from what his Crowner paid to this Rob, and any other villager.

  "So I shall, Aldo," replied a thin, balding man in cheerful agreement.

  As Milo broke from his neighbors to jog after Alf, Faucon automatically glanced in the direction of where they'd left their horses. Instead, his gaze caught on Waddard limping toward the church. The potter had a crutch under one arm, with his free hand on the shoulder of his eldest girl walking at his side. When Waddard saw Alf and Milo coming toward him, he stopped. His daughter glanced up at him. A moment later, they left the track for the old woman's house, ducking their heads as they passed the cowards clutched at its corner.

  Despite the gathering gloom, the grandam hadn't yet closed her door. That said she also watched what went forward in the churchyard, albeit from inside her home. Waddard stepped through the doorway without knocking. As his girl followed, she pulled the door closed behind her.

  For the briefest of instants, the urge to rush into the church and speak with Juliana hit Faucon. He released it just as quickly. There was no guarantee the grieving mother would speak with him or was even capable of speaking. However, the reeve was incapable of not talking to his Crowner. Aldo's sense of importance depended on the words that fell from his lips.

  "I'm told that the dead boy was found in your smithy," Faucon said to Mancetter's headman.

  "He was," the smith replied, both his expression and tone flat.

  "Then at first light on the morrow, I'll come to your workshop. I'd see where he was found and have you describe what you saw when you came upon him. After that, I'll want to speak with any and all in Mancetter who saw Dickie yesterday, especially last night, even if it was but a glimpse," Faucon said.

  "To what point?" Aldo asked in surprise.

  "As your new Keeper of the Pleas it's my duty to discern who committed a murder— or a burglary or rape— so I know whose estate to appraise for our king," Faucon informed him.

  "Well, if that's all you need, you may tell our king that he'll be sorely disappointed by this murder. The one who committed this royal crime has no estate. Dickie's dead father Raymond killed his son," the reeve told his Crowner, crossing his arms before him as he said this. Once again, the reeve was raising a shield to his Crowner.

  That had Faucon tilting his head, his brows raised, as he considered the man. "Waddard told me the boy's dead father walks, but that no one witnessed Dickie's death. In light of that, how can you be certain of anything? What convinces you it was the walker, and no other who committed this heinous deed?" he asked, using his words like a mace against the reeve's paltry defense.

  Night had closed its fist around them. If it was too dark for Faucon to read the smith's face, he marked Aldo's tense shoulders and the jut of the reeve's chin. The man gave a dismissive huff.

  "Who can expect witnesses when the death occurred out of doors in the deepest dark of a cold night? Perhaps on your manor folk are still out and about at that late hour, sir. But here in this vill, every decent soul is where they belong, at home, asleep close to the hearth."

  His gaze yet fixed on the reeve, Faucon sheathed his sword. "What of those in Mancetter who aren't decent souls? Where were they last even?"

  "What say you?" the big man asked in sharp surprise, pricked by his Crowner's subtle insult.

  "I'm simply pointing out that not everyone in Mancetter was asleep close to their fire," Faucon replied, keeping his tone light. "For certain Dickie wasn't. Rather, he was in your smithy where he died. By your definition that makes the boy an indecent soul. Indeed, the dead boy's mother suggested that the village still believes much the same about her son, before she ran to the church. All of those in the track who called for the boy's body to be desecrated without any proof of evil did so as well. It seems to me everyone in Mancetter considers Dickie an indecent soul. Who else in Mancetter might be his equal?"

  The image of that group of youths who had followed Bett's daughter rose with his words. "Tibby perhaps, if what her mother says of her is true? That would be two indecent souls who might well have been outside last night. Were there any other of your folk, decent or indecent, who might have joined them?"

  Aldo's arms opened under Faucon's battering. He shook his head in protest. "You misunderstand me, sir. I meant that it makes no difference who might or might not have been outside last night. No one witnessed Dickie's death. But even if there had been a witness, that one would tell you the same thing I have. It was Raymond and no other who did this deed. All of us know that," he insisted.

  "What say you?" Faucon directed this question to the five men yet standing behind their reeve. "Was it the dead Raymond who killed his son?"

  The old man in the ragged cloak replied first. "I say it could only have been Raymond," he said, confirming his reeve's allegation. "I know for certain that Raymond was on the road last even. I heard him with my own ears."

  "But you did not see him with your own eyes?" Faucon shot back.

  "Not from inside my house, sir. Nor was I eager to open my shutters as he passed by my window," the oldster told his Crowner, then glanced at the others. "We all heard him, did we not?"

  "My wife did," replied the heavy-set man with a shrug. "For myself, I heard nothing, having already found my bed when Raymond made his journey toward our church."

  "I was abed as well," agreed another. "Although this morn my son told me he'd heard Raymond's moans as he passed by our door."

  "My daughter says she saw him through our shutters," the fourth and youngest man among them offered earnestly.

  That had the oldster shaking his head. "Tom, she's hardly a witness, being but a little lass."

  "True enough," this Tom agreed with a rueful shrug. "But she took such a fright after seeing Raymond that she could not be comforted. She cried for much of the rest of the night, ruining our sleep."

  "No one at my house saw or heard anything. We all blessedly slept in peace until dawn broke," offered the last man, crossing himself in gratitude.

  "What of you, reeve?" Faucon asked Aldo. "Is your smithy near your house?"

  The smith nodded hesitantly, still stinging from Faucon's assault. "It is. It stands behind my house in my toft."

  "Ah, so you must have heard Raymond and Dickie as they passed by your home on their way to the smithy. What of the boy? Did you hear him cry out or call for help while he fought for his life? Were there any signs around your home that told you how this walker of yours might have forced his living son into the place where he was killed? Could you tell if the corpse used its hand against the lad, or did he take up one of your tools as his weapon? Was there anything to suggest Dickie might have battled for his life?"

  These questions spilled from Faucon's lips almost without thought. But then these questions— and the others of their ilk— now framed his every day. The answers they provoked were as spoor in a forest, revealing the tracks and signs that led him to the truth.

  Even in the dimness, Faucon could see Aldo gape. "I— I," he started, then cleared his throat. "I didn't see or hear Raymond last night," he admitted grudgingly, then hurried on. "But that's because the boy was bewitched by his father. In that will-less state, he went where commanded without protest. Indeed, when I found Dickie this morn, he sat with his back pressed against my anvil. Sir, I vow it looked as if he'd stumbled and fallen to sit upon the ground. Then while yet trapped on his seat, he'd inched his way backwa
rd, seeking to escape something that came slowly at him. Slowly is how Raymond walks," he informed his Crowner.

  "Rather than escape his father, Dickie's back met with my anvil. When he could move no farther, that is where he died, in that spot and at his father's hands." Then the reeve added, "God save me, but it chilled me to look upon his face.

  "But that's it!" Aldo cried, his arms spreading wide in support of his exclamation. "It's the horror I saw in Dickie's expression that tells me Raymond and no other did this deed! It says that the lad was terrified before he died."

  The reeve turned to look at the men behind him. "What say you all? Did you see what I did? A boy who looked as if terror had stolen both the breath from his lungs and the life from his body?" His tone suggested he expected their support.

  "I never saw him, Aldo. Father Godin took him into the church and locked the door before I even knew he was dead," the heavy-set man replied. The others nodded their agreement to that.

  "Well, terrified is how he looked to me," Aldo repeated irritably when they refused to give him what he wanted for a second time.

  "Sir," the reeve said, again addressing his new Crowner, "no living soul is capable of terrifying another into accepting death. More to the point, there's no one here in Mancetter who would have murdered Dickie."

  The heavy-set man gave a quiet laugh. "I thought about it," he muttered. That won him a sharp glance from his reeve and a rumble of amusement from his neighbors.

  "Didn't we all, Watt?" agreed the oldster, his tone wry.

  "But none of us did it," the smith warned, again looking over his shoulder at them before he returned his attention to Faucon.

  "Sir, it would be a lie if anyone in Mancetter said they had a groat of patience left for that boy. Me especially, after what he did to my home a few days ago. But none of us would ever have murdered him. Despite what you heard Juliana say, we've done everything possible to help her control her son. We cannot be faulted because our efforts came to naught. How could we counter Raymond, who walked our lane—" the lift of Aldo's hand was meant to indicate the track behind him, "—calling Dickie's name as he came? That sir, is what finally drove the boy to meet the obscene creature that had once been his father. And when he did, it cost him his life." Far too much sincerity radiated from the big man.