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  “Besides,” he went on, “the poisoner must have been present in this room after the servants left. We agreed on that, did we not?”

  I nodded. “Wacian told me he left a jug of water there. The poisoner switched it for the flask of poison. Unless Wacian is lying . . .”

  “It is easier to imagine a rock flying. After he left there was nobody here except me and family, and I count as family.”

  “And Father Randolf, I think you said?”

  “He’s family, too—Richard’s nephew, his sister’s son.”

  That explained some of the arrogance, and also the count’s anger when I had suggested the priest as a killer.

  “A future bishop perhaps?”

  “No perhaps about it—one of his father’s brothers is a bishop. He has state on one side of his family and Church on the other. But the boy’s clever and straight as an arrow. He’ll be a lot better bishop than some of those greedy, power-hungry preachers around Becket.”

  The count, the countess, the baroness . . . “Lady Aveline?”

  Hugh shook his head. “She wasn’t present that night. Usually she is, sitting in the corner like a mouse. She’s just a servant, really, widow of a knight, which is why she is referred to as Lady Aveline. Childless, she gets to live in a castle and keep Matilda company until she can find a husband. Aveline can, I mean. I thought she had her eye on your patient, Sir Kendryck, but he’s chasing other game at the moment.”

  Megan? I couldn’t resist it: “Big game?”

  Hugh smiled and nodded. “A worthy wench.”

  Two wine goblets on a table . . . Had Lady Aveline had occasion to consult Sage Archibald professionally that fateful morning? But if the motive behind these killings was to kill the king, everything else faded into unimportance.

  Count, countess, sage, baroness, priest, marshal . . . just family and trusted retainers. Possibly the bottler. One of them had to be a murderer.

  “How deep is this rift between the king and the archbishop?”

  “You mean could it be deep enough to cause a man of God to commit murder?” Hugh shook his head. “I can’t believe matters would ever come to that. The countess could tell you. She’s more interested in such matters than I am, or even Richard. Randy would know, but he would give you all of the archbishop’s side of the matter and not a word of the king’s. Or ask Kendryck. He went to Northampton at the weekend, and there is a brain inside all that brawn. Adept,” he said with sudden anger in his tone, “is it possible to enchant a person into committing a crime and then forgetting about it?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I am only an adept, and do not know the limits of enchanters’ powers, especially dark powers like that. I did not order my squire to attack Kendryck. He did so because the knight tried to stop him from doing what the incantation required him to do. And he can’t remember what happened while he was in that trance.”

  For a moment we brooded in silence. Then the marshal smiled. “You’re out on your feet, lad. Go and get some sleep. Things are usually easier to see in daylight.”

  chapter 23

  hugh insisted on sending two men-at-arms with lanterns to see me safely back to the sanctum. It was a flattering gesture, but a worrisome one, a reminder that my public display of magic earlier in the evening must have attracted the enmity of the unknown killer. William was already flat out and snoring; his presence warmed the bed, but not as well as five horses had warmed the academy stable. Aware that the killer knew how to bypass the wards on the door, I closed the hatch and placed a stool on it.

  Without doubt it was the most comfortable bed I had ever lain in, but despite that, for almost the first time in my life, I did not sleep well. Long before dawn I started fully awake, recalling that the count had provided me with another motive for the murder of Sage Archibald. If his theory was right, then a common thread tying Rolf ’s death to Archibald’s—and possibly even to Colby’s—was a fear of being unmasked by magic. The killer himself was either an actual sage, or at least wise enough in the arcane arts to open a warded door and identify poisons. My task, therefore, must be to discover the incantation he feared. If necessary, I could add a third voice—the clerk Elmer probably had a smattering of dog Latin—and try the Malefice venite in Guy’s grimoire. But I had not yet discovered Archibald’s library. The killer might have removed it.

  Or not. I slid out of bed into the cold night air.

  When the roosters began to call and the windows showed gray, William came scrambling down the ladder, half dressed, unshaven, and tousled. I was at the table, surrounded by books and lime wood tablets.

  “You never sleep?”

  “It’s a waste of time. I found Sage Archibald’s grimoires, see?”

  “You are too farting good to be true, Ironfoot! Where?”

  I discovered that I very much enjoyed baiting my reluctant assistant. “There had to be a hiding hole. It wouldn’t be under the floor, because you don’t store books in damp places. So I looked around, and wondered why the fireplace was so big.” The hearth itself was barely two feet wide, but the masonry extended at least six feet farther on one side than the other. “So I scanned for a warding, as I showed you. Try it—but don’t touch!”

  Growling obscenities under his breath, William passed an open hand over the face of the stonework in ever-widening circles. “No!”

  “Try that big square slab. Strewth, man, it even looks like a cupboard door!”

  This time the squire nodded. “It feels cool, maybe.”

  Progress at last! “It was easier for me,” I admitted. “The curse was very strong—far too strong, I’d say, when anyone might brush against it by accident. It was vicious! I’m not sure, but I think it would have burned its victims, or given them an agony in the bowels.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I exorcised it.”

  “A demon?” William demanded, alarmed.

  “No. ‘Exorcism’ comes from a Greek word meaning to call out an oath. I removed the spell, in other words. Then I replaced it with one of my own.” I was bragging, wallowing in my own cleverness in performing a difficult incantation, but I could justify some of my vaunting if it would just inspire William with an interest in enchantment. “Go ahead and try it. The password is William Legier.”

  He shot me a hard look. “Keeping it simple so the thick oaf won’t forget it?”

  “No, keeping it relevant so you won’t think I’m lying to you.”

  William spoke his name. Nothing happened.

  “You have to say that and then push.”

  That done, the slab yielded slightly, then swung forward to reveal the cavity behind.

  Pause, then: “Thank you for this lesson, master.”

  However the words were meant, and they sounded sincere, they made me feel like a loudmouth, arrogant braggart.

  “The lesson being,” I said, “that anything one sage can do, another can undo. And in one of these grimoires I’ve located an incantation I think can help us: Morðor wile ut.”

  “Morðor?”

  “Murder. Murder wants out.”

  William shrugged, and then smiled, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Will I get to thrash any more knights?”

  “You can thrash anyone you want as soon as we’ve caught the killer, if that’s the reward you want.”

  “One adept and seven squires will do nicely.” But he was still smiling. For the first time ever, we were sharing humor. The partnership was prospering.

  I sighed. “Meanwhile we have to go and watch a child’s body being fished out of the moat. Not something to look forward to. You’d better get dressed.”

  The prospect would have been even less inviting had we been required to help. As it was, adept and squire shivered on the catwalk, peering over the parapet in the cold, hard light of sunrise. The stockade was rotting in places, patched in others, and in still others both patched and rotting, which was not surprising if it was almost a hundred years old. It was built of hardwood of some
sort, but not oak, the most durable of timbers. I kept wondering if the catwalk itself was sound enough to support so many people.

  Father Randolf was present, too. Arrogant he might be, but he took his calling seriously, for he need not be involved until the thing in the rushes was confirmed as a human corpse.

  The marshal was in charge, and his knights were keeping other people away, although some villagers had gathered on the far bank to watch. Hugh could have had porters do the work, but he laid the disgusting job on a couple of nimble young squires. They were lowered on ropes by some of the larger knights, with Kendryck excused because of his injuries. The youths wailed dramatically as they sank to their waists in the icy, stinking water, staggering as they tried to find footing in the mud and reeds.

  “What is it?” the marshal shouted.

  “It’s sheepskin, sir,” one called.

  They must have been tempted to let it go at that and get pulled out sooner, but they didn’t.

  “There’s a bit of a leg sticking out at this end,” said the other. He turned his head away and retched.

  Their next problem was to fasten ropes to the slimy package without totally submerging themselves. Fortunately the bundle itself was bound up with ropes, so they could attach the hoists to those. Even when they had done that, their ordeal wasn’t over, for the gruesome load rained water down on them as it was being raised. By the time it reached the top of the stockade, a stretcher was waiting for it. The priest tried to say a prayer right then, but Hugh made him wait until the shivering squires had been hauled up, thanked, and sent off to clean up. Only then did everyone bare their heads in reverence.

  As the shrouded stretcher was being lowered down to the bailey, still dribbling water and worms, William said, “Now what happens, master?”

  “They’ll take it to the infirmary, I expect. Then we’ll see who it is.”

  He shuddered. “You don’t need me there, do you?”

  “Not in there,” I said, “but I want you outside it with a wheel-barrow. You can bring a porter to push that if you want. A pitchfork might be a good idea, too.” Leaving my appalled assistant to work it out for himself, I followed the cortège.

  The stretcher was laid on the infirmary floor. Hugh dismissed everyone except the priest and me, but I had already guessed that I would be given the horrible job of opening the parcel. The stench of moat and decay was overpowering. Refusing to use my belt knife, the one I used at table, I hunted through the stores until I found another.

  “Tanned sheepskin with the hair outside,” I said, “bound with ordinary hemp cord.” Which I then cut. “Any chance of identifying where either of those came from, sir?”

  “None,” Hugh said. “We have a thousand fleeces in the castle and a hundred miles of rope.” Both he and Randolf were standing several paces back, near the open door where the air was fresher.

  I knelt, awkward as always. “This is a rug of six or eight fleeces sewn together; it’s far too big for one.” I cut the ropes and pushed the wrapping open with the knife. “You do have pike in the moat.”

  It was obvious that something had been scavenging the corpse, for there was little flesh left on the head and legs. The arms and much of the thorax were better preserved, having been harder to reach. Bloated by gases, the torso had swelled inside its wrapping, keeping out the larger flesh eaters, yet it was still infested with some sort of worm or maggot. I struggled to focus on each separate detail, because to look at the overall object and see a body was unbearable.

  “The gristle on this leg bone isn’t set yet, so just a youth. Even a couple of twelve-year-old molars are not fully through yet. Fairly tall for his age, I would think. Traces of hair, light brown. Did Colby . . .” A spasm of nausea made me turn away.

  “I think it’s Colby,” Hugh said. “You agree, Father?”

  “I didn’t know the boy well enough to be sure. He obviously didn’t bundle himself up like that, so we can rule out self-slaughter. Can you tell us how he died, Durwin?”

  “No, Father. He could have been strangled or poisoned or stabbed and there wouldn’t be any evidence left.”

  “I will arrange for Christian burial. Did he have any family in the area, Hugh?”

  “I have no idea. We can ask Wacian to make inquiries.”

  The priest said, “Cover him with the shroud, Adept, and I will send the gravediggers to collect him.”

  Priest and marshal made a fast exit.

  Still on my knees, I peered more closely at the corpse, but I could find no puncture wounds, no marks on the neck tissue. There was just too little evidence and there were too many ways for a strong adult to kill a child. Wiping my hands as best I could on bandage rags, I rose and went to investigate raised voices outside. I found the marshal, the priest, William, and a porter, with both a wheelbarrow and a pitchfork. William had mysteriously recovered the sword that Sir Kendryck had thrown into the moat. Randolf was making the noise.

  He spun around to accost me. “Explain this sacrilege! The boy says you told him to fetch this obscene object.” He meant either the fork or the barrow. Didn’t matter which.

  “I did, Father. I mean no disrespect to the departed. The fork is to grip the fleece, not to move the body. I want the fleece pulled out from under him and taken back to the sanctum. He would be left on the stretcher.”

  “What sort of morbid purpose can possibly justify such a gruesome interest?” The priest was scarlet with rage.

  I kept my voice as respectful as I could. This was my business, not Randolf ’s. “It is a long shot, but I believe the fleece might lead us to the murderer.”

  “After you have practiced some black art on it, I suppose?”

  “I have an incantation that might provide some information.”

  “Satanism! This is too close to necromancy. I forbid you to do any such thing.”

  “With respect, Father, the body is your concern. The wrapping is a secular matter and I am charged by His Lordship to track down this monster who has murdered three people.” I looked to Sir Hugh, hoping for support.

  Hugh was stone-faced, not taking sides. The listening porter was goggle-eyed with horror, either because of this talk of murder or at my defiance of the priest. William was enjoying the spectacle, eager to see how I would fare.

  Randolf made an obvious effort to control his temper. “And I say you are committing mortal sin. You will report this insubordination at your next confession. Hugh, my son, you will forbid such desecration?”

  The marshal had not reached his present eminence by avoiding issues. He sighed. “Adept, there must be no desecration. You will not disturb the body of this unfortunate youth in any way. Father, the fleece is a valuable property in its own right; it should be salvaged and returned to its rightful owner, but the common folk fear to touch anything so closely associated with death. You are protected by your calling, and I consider it both brave and public-spirited of the adept to offer to exorcise it, once the gravediggers have removed the corpse.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said humbly.

  Randolf spun on his heel and stalked away.

  The marshal looked at me, I looked at the marshal. Neither of us put the thought into words, but we were both wondering: why so much anger?

  “Sir Hugh, I am commanded to sing at Sage Rolf ’s funeral. Can you spare a reliable person to see that the barrow and its contents are taken to the sanctum and remain otherwise untouched?”

  The big man nodded, understanding exactly what had not been said. “I’ll send Sir Kendryck. You’ve damaged him so much that he’s no good for anything else. You’d better wait here to instruct Kendryck in what is needed.”

  “You are kind, sir. William will be coming to the funeral also, of course.”

  The moment the marshal was out of earshot, William said, “Enlighten me, master, as to why a priest should be so frothed up over a sheepskin rug.”

  “I don’t know, Squire. I was hoping you could tell me. I wonder if he’s aware of the incantat
ion Morðor wile ut? Meanwhile, I need you to hightail back to the sanctum. I left the grimoires in full view on the table, and I don’t want them to disappear during our absence.”

  chapter 24

  the village church was a tiny building attached to the east side of its great tower, somewhat like a foot on a leg. It had been built to hold the population of a village, not a village plus the garrison of a castle as well. Although few would have remembered Rolf, for he had been gone from Barton for many years, everyone who could walk turned out to pay respects to their lord’s brother. Those who could not pack inside just crowded around outside. Father Randolf had the door and shutters left open so they might hear.

  Even so, he kept the proceedings short, for he was a man more of righteousness than comfort, and the cold gloom of the Saxon church set a matching mood. Yet its ancient stones were kind to music. Forewarned by the mass and a hymn from the congregation, I limped forward when summoned, eager to hear my own voice resonate in such a space.

  The priest gave me a note on a pitch pipe, although I did not ask for one. Hoping to be worthy of the man who had taught me, I sang a troubadour ballad of farewell, “Sparrow Passing By.” It had been one of the dead man’s favorites and I tried to render it with all the craft that Rolf himself had put into it when he sang it. The church cooperated fully, and I finished with tears in my eyes. As I returned to my seat I noticed quite a few sleeves being used for wiping.

  “Master,” William said on the way out, “that was very fine. I am sure that Sage Rolf himself would have applauded.”

  That was the first compliment I had ever received from him. I said, “Thank you, William, I appreciate that.”

  At the church door, Rolf ’s brother the count said the same with much blinking. I reluctantly decided that this was not an appropriate moment to raise the matter of sponsorship for my continued education, and made a note to confess the sin of pride at my next confession.