The Final Toll

by Denise Domning

  That teased a choked laugh from Faucon. He started down the porch stairs. "You have my permission to chide both husband and wife as sternly as you wish, as is your right, Brother," he called over his shoulder as he went. "Me, I intend to beg our Lord that the morrow brings the answers we crave so we might resolve both the matter of Sir Robert's death and the theft of the bell, and leave this place."

  Edmund came abreast of him. "Amen," the monk breathed.

  Faucon catapulted out of his dreams, his hand already reaching for his sword. It wasn't at his side. His eyes flew open and he peered into a claustrophobic dimness scented with rosemary, garlic, and rain. Alarm melted away. This was Offord's kitchen.

  From close by came a quiet but rhythmic whistling, louder on the exhale, wispy on the inhale.

  He smiled. This was Offord's kitchen and Brother Edmund was again snoring, having traded his earlier growling bear for this tiny squeaky bird.

  As he relaxed, Faucon caught the raucous call of another, more distant bird. But ravens were day hunters. How could it be past dawn and neither he nor Edmund had awakened? He rolled up to sitting then blinked.

  Lady Martha sat on the floor near his knees. Her lips were pursed as she whistled or rather, tried to whistle. She held her unfinished poppet in front of her, making the plaything dance to her breathy squeaking.

  Concern shot through him. He glanced at Edmund. They'd chosen to take their rest in front of Milla's worktable, stretched out foot-to-foot. Curled on his side, his clerk had his cowl pulled down until it almost covered his face. Faucon gave thanks. He wasn't awake enough to deal with Edmund's certain hysteria, should the monk awaken and discover a girl-child had invaded their makeshift bed chamber.

  "What are you doing here?" Faucon demanded quietly of the lass.

  "Good! You are finally awake," Martha said as she smiled up at him.

  Her voice set Edmund to muttering in his sleep. Faucon pressed a finger to his lips, warning the little lady to quiet.

  "Ssh," Martha agreed at a whispery hiss, mimicking his gesture.

  "How did you get in here? The door was barred," Faucon chided quietly, battling irritation. It didn't bode well that he must begin this day by complaining to his hostess over her wayward daughter.

  "Nobby let me in when I knocked. I told him it was time for you to rise. He went to fetch water for washing," Martha replied, matching his quiet tone. "Milla will be here soon," she continued, "even though Maman told her that we should all wait to break our fast until you rose. Milla doesn't care that you are our guest. She told Maman that the kitchen is her home and she meant to rouse you."

  Just then the kitchen door creaked open and the scent of rain flowed in with the wind. Faucon peered across the chamber. Rather than Milla, it was Nobby. The boy's fair hair was wet, his red tunic was dappled with moisture, and his well-worn leather shoes were thick with mud. The promise in yesterday's clouds had come to pass, and it had rained all night.

  Both Faucon and Lady Martha watched as the lad carried his sloshing bucket to the hearth. After filling a small pot with water, Nobby went to the hearth and removed the clay cover that had protected the wooden kitchen from wayward sparks during the night. Setting the water pot directly into the yet-smoldering ashes, he tugged on the metal arm from which hung the cauldron filled with potage, repositioning it over the center of the hearth.

  As the boy began to feed twiglets to yesterday's embers, Faucon rose to his knees. Martha was right. It was time to rise, if for no other reason than to return her to her mother.

  He found his tunic on the top of Milla's table, right where he'd left it and right next to his sword and belt. By the time Nobby had shifted from twigs to branches, Faucon had his boots on.

  Coming to his feet, he extended his hand to Sir Adam's indulged daughter. "Come with me, Lady Martha."

  The child scowled at him. "But you have not asked me about Grand-père. Milla told Maman that you asked her about what happened to him. Now you must ask me." Her voice grew louder with every word.

  Again Edmund muttered in his sleep. Faucon bent a chiding look on the little lady. "That is for me to decide, not you. For the now, you will return to the hall and your lady mother."

  Faucon grabbed her hand and lifted her to her feet. Startled, she dropped her poppet as she rose. Rather than release her hand so she could reclaim her toy, Faucon caught it up for her. Its creators had done an admirable job packing it, for the plaything was heavier than he expected, its fabric skin stretched taut and smooth.

  He gave it to Martha. She tucked it into the crook of her arm. Her eyes narrowed as she prepared to argue. Again, the kitchen door opened. This time Milla stepped inside.

  The cook's eyes widened as she saw the child by Faucon's side. She put her hands on her hips and glared at her master's grandchild. "Hey! Your lady mother commanded you to remain in the hall. Get you hence, knowing I will complain to Lady Bagot that I found you among strange men," she scolded harshly.

  "What?!" Edmund cried, coming upright with a start, fighting to push his cowl off his face. "What's happening?"

  At the hearth Nobby freed a laugh as amusement filled his pale, round face. "Didn't I warn you Milla would be angry if she found you in here?" he said in English to the little lady.

  Lady Martha stuck her tongue out at the lad, then looked up at her Crowner. "You may take me back to the hall, sir."

  "Indeed I shall," Faucon promised, his tone as harsh as Milla's. He started toward the door, his hand tight around hers.

  "Where are you going, sir?" Edmund called after him, sounding both dazed and frantic.

  "I'm returning this missing object," Faucon replied as he exited the kitchen. "I'll be right back."

  Outside, the day was dark and drear, made all the more miserable by a wind that turned gentle moisture into stinging rain and sent the clouds scudding across the sky. So dark a day explained how he had missed dawn's light, but not how he might have slept so late. With the next breath he realized it was Will's fault. He hadn't slept easily since his brother's arrival. With Will absent, he'd finally allowed himself to rest.

  A horse snorted from behind them. Faucon glanced over his shoulder, then turned, dragging Martha around with him. Alf was guiding his big piebald nag into the bailey. All Faucon could see of the second man on the horse was a well-worn shoe and a bit of bare leg. The soldier had draped his cloak over his passenger's head and body to protect him from the wet.

  "Alf! Is that Brother's Colin's shoe I see?" Faucon laughed.

  "It is, indeed," the lay brother answered for himself, dragging off the cloak. The pull of woolen fabric across his head set the monk's pure white hair to floating around his tonsured head. His round face wreathed as he smiled, dark eyes gleaming with pleasure beneath snowy brows. Caught between the monk and Alf was a large traveling basket. No doubt it was whatever herbs, tinctures, or tonics that basket contained that Alf's cloak had really been meant to protect.

  "It's good to see you again, Sir Crowner," the former apothecary called in greeting.

  "You as well, Brother," Faucon replied, then looked back at Alf. "I know I overslept, but it cannot already be midday."

  "You are correct, sir. It is not midday," his man-at-arms replied as he brought his mount to halt beside the porch so the monk would have an easier time dismounting. "God was good last night. Or perhaps it was just that our Lord knows how little I like squandering my prayers," he offered with a grin. "I met the brother on the road not too far outside Priors Holston. He was on his way to Alcester and agreed to spend the night with me at Blacklea rather than Saint Radegund's. We left at first light."

  Faucon led Martha up the steps, then released her hand when they reached the porch. "Stay right here, my lady," he warned her as he turned to aid the elderly monk.

  Colin handed him the basket. After setting it aside, Faucon caught the older man by the waist as the lay brother slipped off the broad-backed horse. The monk returned to earth with a grunt, and stumbled back a step when
Faucon released him. He smiled as his Crowner caught him by the shoulder to steady him.

  "Many thanks, sir," the healer said. "I fear the day comes when I must accept that I'm too old to sit astride for even so short a ride. Although four legs make shorter work of any distance, my hips complain far more than my feet ever do," he said as he straightened his habit and cloak around him.

  "Then I am all the more grateful that you agreed to make this ride on my behalf," Faucon told him.

  Only then did he remember Martha. He glanced around him. The girl was gone.

  "She disappeared inside the instant you turned your back," Alf said as he dismounted.

  "Why, that sly little imp!" Faucon snapped.

  "Do we need to fetch her back?" Brother Colin asked.

  "Absolutely not," Faucon retorted irritably, then looked at Alf. "Take your mount to where you see Legate grazing. After that, join us in there," he pointed to the kitchen shed.

  To Brother Colin, he said, "I beg your pardon, Brother. I not only overslept, I didn't expect you this early. I've yet to prepare for the day. Do you mind attending me while I wash?"

  Faucon swiftly splashed the still-cold water on his face then scrubbed his skin dry with the bit of sacking Milla had provided. That the water wasn't warm was Edmund's fault. When the monk complained about washing in front of a woman, Milla had instantly demanded they remove themselves to the smithy. Unlike the cook, Offord's smith had been overjoyed to lend them his space, for it meant he could take his ease in the hall while he waited to break his fast.

  Although the smithy was but a three-sided shed, it was dry and warm, what with coals already glowing red in the fire box. Faucon washed first because Edmund and Colin wished to pray. Heads bowed, the two monks knelt near the smith's workbench as they chanted. Alf leaned against one wall, his arms crossed over his chest and his head bowed. Although his pose suggested that he prayed with them, Faucon knew better. They both had a soldier's ability to sleep on their feet.

  With his face washed, Faucon found his purse and took out the twig and bit of cloth he used to clean his teeth. Carving a new point on the end of the twig, he set to work. He had finished that chore by the time the brothers fell silent.

  Edmund came immediately to his feet, turning his back on the older monk who struggled to rise. He joined his employer beside the worktable and began to pull his arms out of his habit to strip to the waist. "Are you finished, sir?"

  "I am," Faucon replied, handing over the tiny pot of soap and sacking before going to aid Brother Colin back to his feet.

  "Many thanks again," the lay brother said. "So sir, if we have a moment, will you tell me why I am here?"

  "You didn't explain?" Faucon asked Alf in surprise.

  Alf gave a startled jerk, then raised his head. He blinked.

  "You didn't explain to Brother Colin why I needed him?" Faucon repeated.

  "He didn't ask," Alf replied with a shrug. "The moment I said it was you who called for him, the brother agreed to come. Thinking you knew best what to say, I left the explanation for our arrival here."

  That made Faucon grin. "I only hope the day never comes that you consider your trust in me misplaced, Brother Colin," he said to the monk. "As to why you're here, the night before last, Sir Robert of Offord died of some strange malady after a celebratory meal. This illness started in his toes and progressed steadily upward over the hours, numbing his limbs and making his muscles ache. Just before he died, he could not even move his tongue."

  Colin's eyes widened. "God have mercy on that poor knight's soul," he cried. "That was no illness! He was murdered, poisoned by hemlock."

  Hemlock?! Faucon had not yet been five when his mother had taken him to where the poisonous plants grew in their pasture. She, who had once sickened herself almost to death by making a whistle from a hemlock stem, made him study all the parts of that plant. Then his mother had used a stick to beat him so he would never forget that there was death where he found stems spotted with purple.

  "Have a care with your words, Brother Herbalist," Edmund chided his brother in Christ, his face dripping. "Only our Coronarius can pronounce a man murdered, and only when he addresses the inquest jury."

  Colin bowed his head and tucked his hands into his wide sleeves. "Of course you are right, Brother," he said meekly. "I misspoke. The symptoms Sir Faucon describes, including death, perfectly match the symptoms of ingesting a deadly dose of hemlock," he restated.

  "A deadly dose?" Alf asked, winning a frown from Brother Edmund, who tolerated the soldier as little as he tolerated the lay brother. "Is there a dose of hemlock that is other than a deadly?"

  "Of course," Brother Colin said. "Like many poisons, small doses offer help instead of hurt. I use hemlock for a number of ailments, such as congestion in the lungs or afflictions that cause the joints to swell."

  That set one of Faucon's pieces to spinning. He didn't much like that he found himself facing a trail he'd yesterday believed fabricated to mislead him. "Would there be any telltale marks on the man's body to confirm it was this poison that ended his life?" he asked the monk.

  Colin shook his head. "Hemlock leaves no such mark but the path to death is just as you related, with slow, steady paralysis. A man may also purge his stomach, or suffer from too much water in the mouth."

  "And no other poison or illness works in this way?" Faucon pressed.

  "As I said, the symptoms are distinctive," the healer replied, confidence radiating from him. "Should we find the remains of the concoction the knight ingested, we'd swiftly know beyond a doubt, for hemlock has a nasty odor—" Colin broke off. His brow furrowed as he thought for a moment.

  "My pardon. Brother Edmund is correct," he said. "I should not have suggested murder. Hemlock has a strong, mousy smell and taste. That would make it difficult for any man to secretly poison another. No one would willingly drink so vile a brew, at least not without asking what was in it. That begs the question. Did your knight take the poison himself, intending to end his life?"

  Edmund gasped and swiftly crossed himself. "Again Brother, you overstep!" he cried, this time in horror. "Sir Robert is your better and you are no priest. You have no right to accuse him of a mortal sin."

  "I do not accuse, Brother," Colin replied, once again retreating into the humility expected of a lay brother. "I have simply lived too long, cared for too many, and seen too much to ignore what a man might do should his life's burdens grow too heavy. If our new Crowner is to discern what happened, I think he must consider all possibilities."

  Again, Faucon's pieces shifted, and again he didn't much like the trail the new pattern revealed. Milla had said Sir Robert's purse was empty. Could the knight have chosen to exit life rather than face penury and ruin?

  Everything in him rejected this. Suicide doomed a man's body to burial in unhallowed ground and his soul to eternal damnation. What trained knight would choose such a fate when, if he truly wished to court death, he need only make his way onto some battlefield and let God choose the moment of his passing?

  That made Faucon sigh. Or was it only that he didn't wish to imagine Sir Robert could commit such an act? With that, his own life burdens came to rest all the more heavily upon him. He should never have come to Offord. Rather than hunting for the one who took Sir Robert's bell, as he should have been doing, he instead faced a trail that might lead to the destruction of a man's legacy.

  Setting aside his regrets, Faucon looked at Edmund. "Brother, you know very well that I must consider all possibilities. But take heart. I see no proof that Sir Robert has committed such a heinous act," he said.

  "God be praised for that," his clerk said on a relieved breath, then returned to his washing.

  Just then, Nobby came around the corner of the smithy. He looked at Alf. "Speak for me if you please. Say to your master that Lady Bagot invites him and all his party to break your fast in the hall."

  "His master hears you," Faucon replied in the lad's tongue, speaking for himself, "and thanks Lady
Bagot for her kind invitation, Nobby."

  That won a surprised grin from the scullery lad. "My pardon, sir. I didn't think you would understand. Best that all of you come now. The potage is always good cold, but much better when it's warm," he advised his new Crowner.

  Like the hungry lad he was, Nobby hurried ahead of them into the hall. By the time Faucon entered, the boy was seated at the lower end of one of the servants' tables. Faucon envied the lad. Would that he were as eager to find his place. All that awaited him here was another attempt by Lady Bagot to matchmake.

  This morning, Idonea sat in the chair at the center of the high table, as was her right as Sir Robert's widow, at least until she was removed from Offord by Sir Robert's heir. Lady Bagot was at Idonea's right while Lady Helena was to her left. Lady Martha should have been at her elder sister's left, instead the place was empty. Faucon suspected that meant the child was paying for her earlier misdeed.

  It was Idonea's duty to greet her guests and invite them to the meal. Instead, Lady Bagot came to her feet. Although it was clear she grieved, the exhausted shadows were gone from her pretty face. "Good morrow to you and yours, Sir Faucon," she called, then pointed to the head of one of the lower tables.

  "Your man may sit there, on the bench with Eustace." As was true at many houses, Offord's bailiff had the right to dine at his employer's expense. As the position of bailiff was one of the highest ranking among those who served, Eustace sat at the head of his table, right in front of the household salt cellar. At Offord the salt was contained in a good-sized lidded wooden box.

  "Brothers," Lady Joia said, nodding toward the monks, "if you please, you may join me on this side of the table. Sir Faucon, if you would sit next to Lady Helena?"

  Faucon had expected nothing less. He stepped aside, allowing both Edmund and Colin to precede him, then waited at the edge of the high table as they took their places. Edmund went no farther than the end of the bench he'd used yesterday, which put him as far from Lady Bagot as possible. Brother Colin had no such hesitation. He easily slid onto the bench next to Sir Adam's wife.