Ironfoot Page 19

  I had hardly dipped my pen in the ink before William entered, escorting a boy dressed in rags, well patched but very greasy.

  “This is Bearn, master. Best I could find.”

  “Nothing wrong with him as far as I can see. Sit down, both of you.”

  Bearn flopped down on the floor, crossing his spindly legs.

  “I meant on a stool.”

  The brat looked alarmed. “Not s’posed to sit on furniture, master.”

  “Bearn’s a blackguard, Adept.”

  I could see that. The lad’s face needed a good scrub, his hands might never be clean again, and his arms and legs were patterned with old burn marks. Kitchen drudges like him were cleaners of pans and turners of spits. The only good thing about a blackguard’s job was that he would eat well, even if only on scraps and leftovers.

  “Stay down there if you like. You heard about Colby?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Were you surprised?”

  Bearn shook his head, showing no emotion. Was he stupid or just ignorant? He was close to being a slave and might never be much more than that.

  “You were friends with Colby?”

  Shrug. “We played ball when he had nothin’ to do and I had nothin’ to do.”

  “Did Colby often have nothing to do?”

  “When his master sent him out to play.”

  “Have you ever been inside this room before, Bearn?”

  Nod. “Poultry man brought me when cook spilled hot fat on me.” He raised an arm to show a scar that made me cringe; even William winced. Bearn himself did not seem to think it was anything special.

  “What did the sage do about it? Did he give you something to drink to ease the pain?”

  Bearn worried over the question for a moment, scratching his scalp vigorously. “He said to spread white of an egg on it,” he concluded doubtfully. “But cook said ’twould be a waste of an egg and used goose grease, same as usual.”

  “Did the sage tell you to lie down there?” I indicated the bench under the window.

  The boy shook his head, obviously wondering why this odd man kept wanting him on furniture. What I was hoping to learn was whether there had been a sheepskin rug on that bench to make it more comfortable for patients being examined, although I doubted that Bearn’s testimony would be reliable. If pressured at all, he would start giving whatever answers he thought were wanted.

  “Did Colby sleep in here?”

  “Nay. Slept in the hall. Shared his blanket with me, ’times.”

  So Archibald had sent his helper away at nights and sometimes even during the day. His disrepute was confirmed again.

  “Did you ever see upstairs?”

  The boy glanced up at the loft and shook his head. “Ain’t tall enough.”

  “You mean when you stood on the window ledge?” I pointed.

  Nod.

  “But Colby could see in, couldn’t he?”

  Bearn grinned. “Watched humpy-bumpy!”

  Clearly he didn’t realize that voyeurism was wrong and could be dangerous—it might have been fatal for Colby. Meanwhile I had the problem of how to reward a boy who wore rags, lived on floors, and had probably never seen money in his life. Give him a good blanket of his own and it would be stolen from him before nightfall. Treat his head lice and he would just collect a new infestation.

  I reached in my pouch and found a farthing. “Thank you, Bearn. You can go now. Give this to the cook and tell her that the adept said you have been very helpful and are a good boy, and she is to give you lots of sweetmeats.”

  Bearn’s eyes lit up with wonder. He grabbed the coin. The door slammed, leaving a thoughtful silence.

  “You think Archibald killed Colby, master?”

  “It’s certainly possible. We saw mud on the windowsill.” So the boy had been a nosey-parker, but what had he learned that justified his death? That the sage played humpy-bumpy with the baroness? My eyes turned to that hard examination bench and I remembered that half-hatched idea that had troubled me earlier. It ought to have at least a rug on it, if not a fleece. But the fleece now reposing in the barrow outside my door was too big for it, so that idea didn’t work.

  Archibald had been Colby’s master and could have shot him off home in seconds, but that might not have seemed a safe enough solution if the boy had overheard a plot to kill the king.

  “Let’s get back to work on the Morðor wile ut,” I said.

  Life was not so simple, because the keep bell began summoning the castle residents to dinner.

  Emerging from the sanctum, William and I were confronted by the smelly, weed-festooned, and utterly repulsive heap in the wheelbarrow. William cast a nervous glance at the man he had now taken to calling “master” even in private.

  “You really think this fleece will tell us who murdered the boy?”

  “No harm in asking it,” I said, while it occurred to me that it might also provide some mundane evidence that would be admissible in a trial.

  “You want me to stay and guard it in case someone tries to steal it?”

  “That’s a noble offer just before dinner, but I’d rather you went around by the gate. No one but the killer will want to go near the horrible thing, so warn the guards to arrest anyone trying to take a fleece out of the castle during dinner.” I knew it could never be that easy.

  William took off at a run. Of course he didn’t want to be late at the trough, but he was also becoming willing, even eager, to please. I decided it must be a pack hunting instinct surfacing, and went in search of dinner.

  Sun and wind were fast drying the ground. The way back to Helmdon ought to be in much better shape now, and I had five horses I had sworn to return there. Where did my loyalty lie? Tracking down a killer was the count’s job, not mine, but the chance that the killings might be related to a plot against the king made it everyman’s. And Rolf had been one of my tutors, making his death an obligation that wouldn’t go away.

  Hearing hooves and laughing voices, I turned a corner and tracked the sound to a line of horses being led in from the gate. All of them, men and beasts, had clearly been exercising hard, and the quadrupeds were now being taken for a rubdown. The one in front was Ruffian, and the man holding his reins was Alwin. Seeing me, Alwin changed direction to come over. He was grinning and so, I suspected, was Ruffian.

  “Greetings, Master,” I said. “And shame on you, you faithless brute!”

  Ruffian twitched an ear and curled a lip.

  “Oh, he’s a big softie,” Alwin said, patting the stallion’s neck. “But give him his head and he’ll outrun the Devil! We love each other dearly.” He was clearly enjoying his conquest.

  “Sir Hugh told me there wasn’t a horse in Christendom you couldn’t ride.”

  “Nay, I’ve met several. Must go before this fine fellow takes a chill. . . . Care to share some wine this evening and talk horses, Adept?”

  “Sorry. Too much work to do.” I hoped the way I shook my head conveyed more than my words.

  “Pity.” The master of horse understood the message. He smiled sadly and led Ruffian away to his rubdown and warm mash.

  “Adept Durwin, sir,” Wacian declared magisterially, “Her Ladyship instructed me to present her compliments and invite your presence in the parlor before the meal.”

  Was this good news or bad? Unable to decide, I thanked the bottler graciously, and stumped off to the dais to knock on the private door. The count’s voice bade me enter.

  Count Richard, Baroness Matilda, and . . . and her mother the countess, whom no one ever seemed to name, were seated around the fireplace, sipping wine. All three wore black. The only other person present was Lady Aveline, who stood demurely in a corner, clasping a book. There were no empty seats.

  I bowed to the nobility. “You sent for me, my lord?”

  “We did,” the count said. “You are full of wonders, Adept! Sir Hugh had to leave on an important mission, so could only briefly tell us how you recovered the body of that unf
ortunate child. We should like to hear more.”

  “I have almost nothing more to report, my lord. As I explained earlier, I am only an adept, and my assistant, while eager to learn, is a rank beginner. Your honored brother, were he—”

  “Quite. Do we know how the child died?”

  “Impossible to be sure, my lord. As Father Randolf said, it could not have been by his own hand, unless some evil person cruelly hid his body later to deprive it of proper burial. But the condition of the body was such that it was impossible to tell what was done to him.”

  The three women all crossed themselves, even Aveline, who should have been pretending not to be listening. The count frowned darkly. “These deaths are a blot upon my house and the murderer must be caught as soon as humanly possible. Is there anything I can do to speed your inquiries? Anything you need?”

  “Just some more time, my lord.”

  His Lordship’s frown became a grimace. “Which may be something I cannot grant. That magic you used to find the corpse—you said you hoped that it would lead you to the killer. Cannot you use it a second time?”

  “We can try,” I said. “Sometimes . . . more often than not, incantations, especially the long, complicated ones, fail to repeat, as if the spirits invoked feel they had answered one appeal and do not want to be bothered with more. But we can try. And there are others that might help.”

  Lord Richard lowered his voice, although everyone in the room would still hear him. “Do you suspect anyone in particular?”

  Eek! The only indisputable fact was that the poison that killed Sage Rolf must have been put beside his bed in this very room by one of a tiny group of people, most of them his family. The only safe answer was, “Not yet, my lord. I hope to learn more this afternoon.”

  The count grunted angrily, and stood up, causing his companions to rise also. “Let us go and make an appearance.” He offered his arm to his wife. Baroness Matilda rose, turned toward the door, and waited expectantly.

  God’s eyeballs! I was expected to squire a baroness into dinner? I moved to her side and offered my arm. Instead of laying fingers on it, she ignored it and followed her parents, without a glance at me. So I was allowed to escort her, but touching was forbidden. It was a deliberate snub, although probably the audience in the hall would not notice.

  What could I say? That she reminded me of Edla, my puppy love, a villein’s daughter, now baby-maker for a plowman? The same perfectly chiseled bone structure, a complexion as smooth and pale as ivory. . . . Something about the baroness’s face had changed, though, and it took me a moment to realize that she had darkened her eyelashes. Like my own, her lashes were normally so pale as to be invisible. The change had turned the extreme pallor of her pearly irises from an oddness to something rare and precious.

  To my alarm, she went to the stool next-but-one to her mother, leaving a gap. Remembering what Wacian had said about the implications of leaving a gap, I accepted that I must sit between the baroness and her mother. My appetite promptly died of fright.

  We all sat down, the priest said grace, and the food began arriving, almost hot.

  The adept’s promotion had been noticed by the common folk. William’s eyes were bulging. Kendryck’s grin would have swallowed Jonah, whale and all.

  What did the ruling class discuss at dinner? One certainly did not ask one’s patient how her false pregnancy was progressing. Judging by the way she was heaping her plate with boiled mutton and slices of venison, she was not yet troubled by nausea.

  Her mother must take precedence, of course, and it would be up to her to choose the topics.

  The countess was being more fastidious in her choice of food, picking out easily chewed items. Her teeth must bother her, because a sunken cheek showed she had lost many of them on the side I could see. I moved a basket of pickled eggs closer to her.

  She nodded her thanks and, as if she were reading my thoughts, murmured, “Do you have a remedy for toothache, Adept?”

  “Not with me, of course, my lady. But I have some meadowsweet, which many people find reduces the discomfort until the tooth puller can be summoned. Do you wish me to send my helper for it?”

  “That is most kind of you. Not now, but I will send a boy after dinner. There is a barber in Northampton who is very skilled at extractions.”

  Relieved that I would not be ordered to perform that service, and before I could think of a suitable follow-up, I was addressed by my other neighbor.

  “I have never met an adept before.”

  “And I have never sat next to a baroness, my lady. That is a much greater honor.”

  She glanced at me coquettishly. “You sang most wonderfully in the church this morning. You have one of the finest male voices I have ever heard.”

  “Your ladyship is most kind, but such a talent is a gift from God, nothing I can take pride in. Indeed, such a gift can be a burden, for it imposes the duty to develop it, which can require much work.”

  She sighed. “Like beauty?”

  What was the correct response to that? Who was she calling beautiful? I was hopeless at such courtly banter.

  “Beauty that is fated to bring joy to one man and great pain to all the rest? But no one could know more about that than yourself, my lady.”

  She approved my mot with a nod, and promptly slashed her verbal blade at me again. “Beauty can attract a lot of unwelcome attention, can’t it?”

  She was trying to make me blush and likely succeeding. I wished she would turn to her other neighbor, Aveline, and leave me alone.

  “You must know infinitely more about that than I do,” I said.

  “Modesty carried to such extremes is rank falsehood. Are you going to catch the killer, Durwin?”

  “I hope so, my lady, given time.”

  “But you may not have time. We are expecting a very important visitor, have you not heard?”

  “You think that he is the intended victim?”

  “Of course! We do not normally go around slaughtering people in Barton Castle. Sage Archibald was predicting disaster for my father’s house. Slug that he was, he was also a fine prognosticator, and would surely have unraveled the entire plot before the king arrived, so he had to be slain. Then my uncle, an even cleverer sage, arrives in his place!”

  On that reading, a mere unripe adept would be no threat, so I was safe.

  “And the boy, Colby?”

  Matilda hesitated, a slice of venison poised just before her lips. Her eyes narrowed. “If he was the boy I think he was, then he was a notorious little busybody, prying into everything.” She put the meat in her mouth and licked her fingers. “But he was probably irrelevant. I expect he caught his master with one too many married women and Archibald himself got rid of him. Wouldn’t put it past him.”

  I would. Why would Archibald murder his apprentice when he could just kick his butt out the castle gate?

  “Then whom do you suspect of causing his death, Baroness?”

  She leaned closer, so I had to bend my head for her whisper. William and half the squires were watching all this with open glee.

  “That creepy Saxon stable hand, Alwin. I do not know what it is about him, but he sets my teeth on edge!”

  What bothered her, no doubt—and she might not even be aware of it—would be that the master of horse was immune to her smiles and glances. I decided the stakes were too high to worry about politeness.

  “But he did not have the opportunity to plant the poison beside your uncle’s bed.”

  Matilda smirked around a mouthful of pheasant. “Is that what you were told?”

  I, who was enjoying the pheasant, a treat I had never tasted before, very nearly choked on it. Alwin had left the bunkhouse at lights out, when all humble folk were supposed to be in bed. And the next morning, before Rolf was even cold, Sir Hugh had known enough about Ruffian to ask who had ridden him on the trip from Helmdon. Alwin had gone to the party? Hugh had been lying.

  “If what I heard was in error, my lady, pray en
lighten me with the truth.”

  She gestured vaguely with a pheasant leg. “He came in to report to Sir Hugh and stayed a little while to chat with my uncle. They knew each other well, of course, from the old days.”

  “Adept Durwin!” said a chilly voice.

  My head whipped around like a weathercock. “My lady?”

  The countess’s smile could have skinned a wild boar. Aging women did not appreciate being neglected in favor of their ravishingly lovely daughters.

  “My husband has explained to you the need for an urgent solution to our mystery?”

  “Indeed he has, my lady. He fears that these terrible crimes may be only the prelude to an unthinkable atrocity.”

  “Then you appreciate the burden you bear.”

  “I wish I felt worthy of it. But I cannot understand why anyone would want to do such a thing. Has everyone forgotten the Anarchy, the time of troubles?”

  “Are you not aware of what is happening in Northampton even now?”

  “I have heard that the king is in conference there with his nobles.”

  “And with his bishops. You do know about the new Archbishop of Canterbury? Thomas Becket, barely two years in the see of Canterbury, and he spits in his king’s face!”

  Sir Hugh had told me that the countess could explain the political situation to me. It seemed she would now do so whether I wanted to hear it or not.

  “Helmdon is a very isolated place, my lady. I should be most grateful if you could repair my ignorance about the dispute between His Grace and the archbishop.”

  “Oh, it is quite simple. His Grace should never have appointed such a man. Becket was just a clerk, and then a diplomat—an able diplomat, which means he was good at lying—but never a priest. For five hundred years the monks of Canterbury have elected the archbishop, but this time they bowed to the king’s bullying and accepted the layman he foisted on them. Becket was no more a priest than Elmer or Galan along there, but they ordained him faster than a deathbed confession. Was he grateful? Not at all. He took the bit between his teeth and defied his sovereign.”

  Perhaps he was trying to prove to the Church that he was not just a royal lackey, but worthy to be their leader in England? New brooms notoriously sweep clean.