The Final Toll

by Denise Domning

  Faucon, whose pricked pride had demanded he remain on his feet as he addressed this woman, changed his mind. Pulling out the chair at the table's center, he turned it toward her. "May I?" he asked before sitting.

  Although his request earned him another huff from Edmund, Lady Bagot managed a quick nod. Wiping at her cheeks, she watched as her new Crowner made himself comfortable in her father's chair. Faucon leaned toward her, his elbows braced on his thighs.

  "Are you saying that Sir Robert's recent marriage caused his death?"

  "Yes," she replied, then shook her head. "No. Well, mayhap," she added, this time sounding as young as Martha.

  Drawing a bracing breath, she tried again. "What I'm saying is that when my father remarried, my husband grew terrified for our son's inheritance, and his terror drove him mad. From the day poor Idonea arrived, Sir Adam was after my sire, belittling him, chiding him for being a fool and a cuckold."

  "And was your father a fool and a cuckold?" Faucon interrupted.

  A bit of the arrogant lady returned. Joia straightened and released a quick breath. "A fool, yes," she said harshly, her gaze shifting to her daughters and her youthful stepmother. The widow and her step-grandchildren chattered and giggled quietly as they worked, their heads bowed over a large patchwork poppet.

  Lady Bagot sighed. "A fool, mayhap, but not a cuckold. Idonea is sickly, indolent, and useless save that she can teach Martha to sew, but she's no lightskirt," she told her Crowner, still watching her stepmother.

  "So Lady Offord does not carry another man's child?" Faucon pressed, wanting Sir Adam's wife to speak the words herself.

  "Of course she doesn't," retorted the true lady of Offord. "Idonea carries no child at all. Even if my father had been capable of planting a seed in her womb, something I doubt, Idonea is too weak to carry a babe. Indeed, as sickly as she is, I wonder if she'll survive the winter."

  Lady Bagot's brow creased as she continued. "But no matter how many times I assured my husband there would never be a threat to our Robert, Sir Adam refused to hear me. He continued to hound my father until my sire finally snapped last night and vented his spleen on that unfortunate child.

  "Then," Joia caught a shaken breath. "Then my father joined my husband in his madness. He turned on Sir Luc, my brother-by-marriage, and beat a man he claimed to love like a son out of his hall— out of my mother's home, the place I love most in the world— for daring to protect another man's wife.

  "But not content to destroy but two lives, my father then proceeded to eat and drink too much even though he knew doing so might make him ill. And so it did." She started to say more but words failed her. Grief again touched her face.

  That she grieved for her sire despite the wrong Sir Robert had done to both his daughter and his grandson by remarrying soothed Faucon's injured pride. As he waited for Lady Bagot to collect herself, the crackle of newborn flames rose from the nearby hearth. He breathed in the welcome fragrance of burning wood. The girls laughed and Faucon watched as Martha held up her now one-eyed cloth babe. Both Idonea and Helena leaned back on their stools and clapped.

  Their amusement stirred Joia from her moment of private mourning. She wiped the tears from her face with the backs of her hands. Her mouth yet trembled. "Perhaps I have lost my mind as well," she offered in subtle apology.

  The lift of her chin indicated the children and their toy. "Idonea's arrival turned me into naught but a child's plaything just like that one, a toy torn between the two men who both deserved my loyalty. Each of them sought to force me to choose him over the other. Well, I didn't choose. I refused, and they made my life a misery for it."

  "Has your sire often suffered after overeating?" Faucon asked, guiding her back to where he wished her to go.

  "Not often," she said, fighting for composure. "Each time it happened I drove him to his bed. I forced him to stay there for a few days while I pressed a cleansing tonic past his stubborn lips. He was himself again within days."

  "Did what ate at him include the same weakness in his limbs?" Faucon wanted to know. "Did he ever lose the use of his legs during those previous spells as he did last night?"

  Joia shook her head. "Nothing was like last night," she told him, then again looked boldly up at her Crowner. Her expression was stricken.

  "God forgive me, but this is all my fault. Why didn't I realize that last night was something apart, something different from his other afflictions? Was he waiting for me to help him? Did he die thinking I could have done something for him and didn't?" she moaned softly.

  Across the room, Martha slid off her stool and skipped toward her mother bearing her poppet. The plaything was half her size. Where its cloth torso was stuffed almost to bursting, its legs were less chubby. That left them flaccid enough that they flew with her as she skipped. "Maman! Look, I did the eye all by myself. Idonea and Helena only showed me where to put my needle."

  "Well now, let me see what you've done," Joia said, opening her arms in invitation. Her youngest daughter snuggled into her mother's embrace. Lady Joia pressed her lips to the top of the lass's head before she took the toy from her and made a show of examining it.

  "What of the events of yesterday?" Faucon asked. "Outside of what you've already said, and given what happened and the missing bell, does anything else about the day or anyone's actions now seem unusual or untoward?"

  Joia frowned at him, then looked at Martha. "Not at all. How could anything be amiss when we were celebrating your saint day with a little feast?"

  "I love celebrations," the child agreed with a winsome smile.

  Turning in her mother's embrace, Martha aimed her cheeky gaze at Faucon. "Even though it was my day, Milla made Grand-père's favorite dish. That's because Grand-père and I like the same thing," she told the king's servant. "The dish with the little birds is our most special favorite."

  She looked back at her mother. "And this year I was old enough to have my own portion. I didn't have to share a bite with anyone, did I, Maman?"

  "You did not," Joia agreed.

  "Are we still to have a posset tonight?" Martha then asked, her feet dancing as she wriggled in the circle of her dam's embrace.

  "We shall indeed," her mother replied, setting her youngest child away from her.

  "But when?" Martha whined.

  "When Milla is finished making it and no sooner," Joia replied swiftly, a note of correction in her voice. "You know as well as I, Milla always does as she promises. Be patient, my sweet," she added, holding out the poppet for Martha to take.

  Martha pushed the plaything back at her mother. "But Maman," she complained, "you didn't say what you think of her eye."

  "I think it is very well done," her mother replied, teasing a happy smile from her child. "Now hurry back and finish the other, for she won't be a proper poppet until she has two. After that, she must have a nose and a mouth."

  "And ears," her daughter added, touching a finger to her own ear as she took her cloth babe from her mother.

  "Ears as well," Joia agreed. "If you finish her face this night, on the morrow you may make her a shift and gown."

  Martha squealed in pleasure and whirled to look at the other girls. "Idonea, we can make clothing for her on the morrow."

  "Sister!" The man's shout came from the other side of the screen at the far end of the hall.

  Gasping, Lady Joia's face twisted in panic. She rose so quickly that Martha stumbled away from her, almost falling. Idonea freed a frightened cry. Her stool toppled as she came to her feet.

  Their reactions sent Faucon out of his chair, his hand on his sword. Stepping around the edge of the table, he tossed his cloak over his shoulders to free his arms, then placed himself between the women of Offord and whatever threat they believed advanced toward them.

  Behind him, Edmund's bench shifted loudly. Faucon glanced at the monk as Edmund halted at his left shoulder. His clerk held the small knife he used to trim quills in his fist. Faucon nodded. No matter how unnecessary, Edmund deserv
ed to know his courage was appreciated. Together, they would face this threat.

  As the becloaked man strode into the hall, he threw back his hood. If his call to Lady Bagot named him kin, his face named him Sir Adam's brother. The two men shared the same thick nose, rusty red hair, and blue eyes. Rather than a full beard, Sir Adam's brother, younger by half, had trimmed his golden-red facial hair into the carefully sculpted line that was the fashion just now. But it was his fresh bruises that told Faucon this was Sir Luc, Idonea's tormentor.

  Sir Luc faltered in his stride as he saw Faucon. "Who are you?" he asked, more confused than confrontational.

  "This is Sir Faucon de Ramis, newly-elected Coronarius to our king," Brother Edmund called out before Faucon could speak. "He is here because of Sir Robert of Offord's untimely death."

  "Sir Robert is dead?! That cannot be! My lady, what has happened?" Sir Luc cried, shifting to look at his hostess. It seemed the lack of subtlety afflicted more than one man from Bagot. That the knight sought to mislead, if not outright deceive, could be read plainly upon his face and heard in his voice.

  Craving Lady Joia's reaction to her kinsman's ploy, Faucon glanced back at his reluctant hostess. Her panic was gone. Instead, anger now filled her face. She rounded the end of the table and stopped beside Faucon, her hands on her hips.

  "Don't you play the innocent with me, Luc," she scolded her brother-by-marriage, using his given name without his title. "You wouldn't dare enter this hall if you didn't know your brother has left Offord. If you know that much, you also know my sire is no more."

  "Play the innocent?" the knight cried, honest confusion in his voice. "But I thought—"

  "Say no more!" Lady Bagot protested over him, an almost frantic edge to her voice. "I won't hear it! Get you gone, just as my father commanded last night. Be gone from Offord before your brother returns and finishes what my sire started." This was as much a plea as a command.

  "Yes, go away," Idonea called. "You are not wanted here."

  Sir Luc afforded the widow but a glancing look, then put his shoulder to Faucon as he brought his attention back to his brother's wife. "But my lady, I mean only to offer you my protection," he more pleaded than said.

  "Sir Faucon, there has been too much violence and grief in my father's home these last days," Lady Bagot said to him, her face hollow. "I can bear no more. I beg you, escort my brother-by-marriage to Offord's gate. If you feel it necessary, you may continue at Sir Luc's side until he is mounted and rides across the village bounds." She spoke to her Crowner, but her words intended for the other knight in the hall.

  Faucon nodded his agreement. "I am at your command, my lady," he said and started toward Sir Adam's brother.

  "All I intend is your safety, Joia," Sir Luc called out, addressing his brother's wife with untoward intimacy, his arms spread wide. "Let me stay here until my brother returns."

  Habit brought Faucon to a halt just out of sword's reach of the knight. He studied his opponent. Under the man's well-worn brown cloak he was dressed in a fine blue wool tunic and red chausses. A heavily-embroidered fabric belt was knotted around his waist. That flimsy piece told the tale. Sir Luc might be a worthy adversary on the field, but not at this moment. The only weapon that belt could support was an eating knife.

  "Sir," Faucon said, extending his hand in greeting, "as you have heard, I am Sir Faucon de Ramis, this shire's newly elected Keeper of the Pleas. By royal decree it is no longer our sheriff who examines the bodies of the dead or identifies those who have done murder. Those duties in this shire are now mine."

  "Well met," Sir Luc offered in rote response, as he briefly closed his hand around Faucon's. His gaze never left his brother's wife. A pained frown creased his brow. "Truly, Joia, I meant no harm by coming."

  "Of course not," Faucon replied pleasantly, speaking for the lady. He rested his left hand on the hilt of his sword as he raised his right to indicate the screen and the door beyond it. "Come. I'll walk with you to Offord's gate."

  Sir Luc frowned, but he had the good grace to give way. Offering no further word to his kinswoman, he turned for the hall door. Faucon looked at Edmund. His clerk rolled his eyes and shook his head, then turned back toward his table.

  Smiling at that, Faucon drew his cloak back around him and followed Sir Adam's brother. As they went, they passed the servants, who were once again idle, enjoying the spectacle put on by their betters. The only sounds in the hall were the snap of burning wood and the crunch of dry rushes under the feet of the walking knights.

  Making his way around the screen ahead of his Crowner, Sir Luc shoved the hall door wide. The wind moaned past them as they exited. After Faucon pulled the door almost closed behind him, he joined Sir Luc on the edge of the porch. Night was overtaking Offord's bailey, ragged fingers of darkness climbing the walls and creeping out of the corners. To Faucon's surprise he saw Legate and Edmund's donkey at the far end of Offord's bailey, grazing alongside Offord's horses. They had been stripped of their gear. Given the misadventures of the last hour he was grateful that someone had tended to them.

  Sir Luc made a frustrated sound. "There's no need to follow any farther, sir. I accept that I am well and truly banished."

  "Ah, but I follow you for my own reasons, Sir Luc," Faucon replied evenly. "I have questions about last night that I pray you can answer for me. Perhaps we should speak privately, against the possibility your brother might return more quickly than expected? What say you? Shall we repair to the same place in the village where you spent last night?"

  The knight jerked as if struck. "How— how," he stuttered, then caught himself. His russet brows lowered. "God take Eustace!"

  That gave Faucon pause. Not only had Sir Robert's bailiff barred the dead man's daughter from her home, Eustace had also thwarted Sir Robert's command that Sir Luc be banned from Offord. He offered the knight a small smile.

  "The bailiff said nothing to me. I have no need for another to tell me what I can see for myself. You wear your best on a wet day and no horse awaits you here in the yard, yet you entered Offord Hall only moments after your brother and mine left for Wootton Wawen."

  Sir Luc's mouth opened, then closed. He settled for a wordless shrug.

  "So, will you answer my questions?" Faucon pressed.

  "If you agree to answer mine," Luc replied. He didn't wait for his Crowner to agree before continuing. "Did my brother truly ride out for Wootton Wawen?"

  Faucon nodded. "Your brother and mine," he repeated.

  Sir Luc's mouth stretched into a crooked smile. "Then Adam won't be returning until well after dark, if at all this night. That's a boon, for it means I have time to eat before I must leave," he said with a lift of his brows. "Eustace's wife doesn't much like my presence in her home. She punished both her husband and me by pronouncing that we were all fasting, it being the eve of the first night of Advent. So, sir, if you wish to speak with me, you'll have to follow me to the kitchen. Milla won't send me away," Luc added as he started down the porch stairs, "or so both I and my stomach hope."

  Faucon matched the taller man's stride as they made their way to the kitchen shed. Built of wattle-and-daub, the long rectangular building with its thatched roof was about half the size of the hall. The cooking fire hadn't been banked for the night, or so said the smoke that yet streamed from the roof vent. Faucon tested the wind and sighed in disappointment. The cook was no longer roasting nuts.

  Turning the simple wooden latch on the door, Sir Luc entered without announcement, leaving Faucon to follow. The floor beneath his boots was hardened earth and the walls around him naught but woven withe panels coated with a thin layer of plaster. That meant, unlike the hall, the kitchen had no need of an open door to keep the air clear. Instead, the wind prized through every wall to gather up the noxious smoke and carry it from the shed.

  By the uncertain light of the kitchen fire, Faucon saw rafters hung with great bunches of dried herbs and smoked meats. Hempen bags, no doubt filled with nuts or grains, and stopp
ered leather containers cluttered one wall. Near Faucon's left knee was a glistening wooden cask that suggested oil. Next to it was a large half-barrel lined with cloth to hold water and filled with writhing eels that swam in hapless circles.

  A heavy iron tripod had been built into the central open hearth. From its chain hung a cauldron, the char on its base suggesting constant use. Steam twisted and tangled over the lip of that big pot, filling the chamber with a scent that reminded Faucon of home. Offord, his nose told him, also broke its nightly fast with cabbage pottage, this one was made with a salty rich ham broth that had been seasoned heavily with garlic. The aroma went far to ease his reluctance at having to spend the night in this inhospitable place.

  The cook's worktable was at the far end of the chamber and stretched from wall to wall. Hanging from pegs driven into the wall above it were knives, rasps, spoons, large and small mallets, ladles, and sieves. A tall thin woman worked at the table, her back to the door. Her right arm moved as if she stirred something. Upon her head she wore a stained white kerchief, while the sleeves of her gown— the same shade of red as the attire of the other maids— were rolled up above her elbows.

  Crouched at her feet cleaning a dirty pot was a lad wearing yellow chausses and a sodden red tunic that was several sizes too large for him. The boy glanced up from his task. Under his thatch of fair hair, his brown eyes widened. Mouth agape, he dropped to sit flat on the ground and tugged on the hem of the woman's gown. When she looked down at him, he pointed to her visitors. She spun to face them, still holding her bowl and spoon.

  Fair hair straggled out from under her head-cloth. In her middle years she was yet a handsome woman, her features fine in a raw-boned face. One gently arching brow rose as she looked at Sir Luc. "Is it not enough that your brother is enraged with you? Now you dare to bring a stranger to Offord while Sir Adam is away from our walls?" she chided in the knight's native French, sounding more like a mother than a servant.