The Final Toll

by Denise Domning

  "What did you do, Adam?" Luc demanded, as he circled the hearth and took a warrior's stance on the other side of the table from his brother. His voice was raised so that all were sure to hear.

  Startled from his prayers, Edmund came to his feet to look at the knights. The maids stopped their turning spindles and watched. At the bed, the curtains shifted.

  Adam stirred in Sir Robert's chair, slowly lifting his head. "Luc, what are you doing here?" he asked, sounding more like an awakening sleeper than the blindly raging knight of this morn.

  "Not four days ago you said to me that you prayed daily for Sir Robert's death. Now he's gone. What did you do?" Sir Luc accused.

  Faucon breathed out in glorious disbelief. For all her careful planning and cautious craft, Milla had made a crucial error. She had trusted a fool, and she wasn't the only one.

  "Luc!" Lady Bagot cried from inside the curtained bed. The draperies billowed and swung as she sought to open them.

  Her call brought life back to Sir Adam's blue eyes. He glanced at the bed, then back to his brother. "What are you talking about?" the older knight asked, his voice gaining power with every word.

  "You!" Again, Luc spoke at almost a shout. "You took quail from Eustace and fed them hemlock." As he made his charge, he glanced over his shoulder at the man he was truly addressing, the shire's new Crowner, the man he expected to now step forward and accuse his brother of murder.

  "What are you doing, Luc?" Joia shrieked as she thrust through the curtains, her hair loose around her.

  Tumbling from the bed, she collided with Edmund. The monk gave a wordless shriek of his own and pushed her away from him with the heels of his hands. She careened to the side, struggling to catch her footing in the shifting rushes.

  "Hemlock?" Sir Adam growled. As it had this morning, the mention of that poison fed his depleted spirit. "No man kills with poison! That is a woman's weapon!" he roared.

  "Luc!" Lady Bagot wailed this time as she raced toward the high table.

  The younger knight paid her no heed. "Only because that was how you crafted it to appear. But no woman killed Robert. You wanted him dead and so he is, made so by your hand," Luc accused at the top of his lungs, again glancing at his Crowner.

  When Faucon still said nothing, the younger Bagot knight turned to face him. "Sir Faucon, I accuse Adam of Bagot of murdering Robert of Offord."

  Adam threw back his head and roared. Fists clenched he thrust to his feet. "If hemlock killed Robert, it was by his wife's design. She has hemlock in her possession!" he roared.

  "Stop, both of you!" Joia screamed, her voice piercing as she came to a gasping halt at the end of the table next to where Edmund had laid out his tools. "No one killed my father. There is no poison. It was just his time!"

  Luc pivoted to face her. "But there is poison and it's at Bagot," he insisted, a note of panic in his voice. "Eustace says the healing monk with Sir Faucon recognized hemlock in the manner of Sir Robert's death. But Eustace's birds have no poison in them. Sir Faucon ate them to prove that to himself." He was cajoling now. "But there were quail in our garden, brought to Bagot by Eustace at Adam's request. Not four days ago didn't one of our hounds break into the garden and ravage those birds, only to die later?"

  Eyes wide and her face ashen, Lady Bagot stared in horror at her brother-by-marriage. Sir Adam's fists opened. He glanced from his brother to his wife, then his lips lifted. Vicious triumph and unexpected intelligence gleamed in his eyes.

  "I never asked for quail from Eustace. But such birds did arrive at Bagot," he said, then looked at his wife, his head tilted slightly. "It was you who said you wanted a flock so your father could have his favorite dish while he lived with us."

  Lady Bagot moaned. She dropped to sit on Edmund's bench. Although she made no sound, her shoulders began to heave as if she sobbed.

  Sir Adam turned toward Faucon. "If there were poisoned birds as my brother maintains, it was my wife who raised them and used them to kill her father."

  Luc howled at that. Faucon sent a prayer of thanksgiving heavenward for what was surely divine intervention.

  "Brother Edmund," he called to his clerk, who yet stood near the prie-dieu , "please note on your roll that I will be accusing Milla the Cook and Lady Joia of Bagot for the murder of Sir Robert of Offord when we call the jurors."

  "Are you certain you wish to do that, sir?" Edmund asked, starting toward the table.

  "Of course he is, monk," Sir Adam almost shouted, then dropped back to sit in Sir Robert's chair. "He has no choice. My wife killed her father!"

  Gone was the defeated man. Instead, he spread his hands on the table in front of him, pressing his fingers against the wood in ownership. Every line of his body said he no longer cared that Offord's treasury was depleted or that the bell remained missing. Nor did it matter that his Crowner would appraise Offord's worth so the king could take his fee for murder from Lady Bagot's dowry.

  Why should he care? Not only would Sir Adam's son now inherit Offord and one day wed an heiress to restore its treasury, but after Joia of Offord was hanged for murder, Adam of Bagot would be free to replace her with another heiress, adding even more to what he had just gained.

  "Sir Faucon! But the jury cannot have come and gone as swiftly as this," Nell said in surprise as she opened her door. She shot a quick look at the sky to judge the time, which was nearing the hour of None. "I thought the last man only arrived at midday."

  Brother Edmund and Alf stood behind Faucon outside the bailiff's door. Two days ago, Brother Colin had bid them farewell and left Offord in Will's company. Will had gone both to protect the monk and retrieve a potion Colin wanted for him. Faucon's brother promised to return to Offord if he didn't find him already at Blacklea.

  "Come and gone already," Faucon said with a brief nod, stifling his sigh. Although a number among the hundred now greeted him by name, by the time they dispersed, he wondered if all of them weren't cursing him.

  "I also bring you word from your husband," he continued. "He asks me to tell you that what you both feared most has come to pass. He says he'll remain with the other men of the village as they discuss what happens next."

  Dismay filled Nell's face. "Well, if God wills it, then I must accept it," she quietly. "For today this is still my home. Come in."

  Only when she stepped back from the door did Faucon see Lady Joia. She sat at Nell's table just as Eustace had done three days ago. And just like the bailiff, her head was bowed as if she studied the table top. The lady's hair was braided but she wore no head covering.

  Seated across from her on the bench Faucon had shared with Colin were Idonea and Helena. Both girls had turned to watch the men enter. Worry and not a little fear touched their expressions.

  Sir Adam had banished all of them from Offord Hall in the name of Lady Joia's son only moments after Faucon made his charge of murder. Idonea's dowry chest, including the fine draperies from Sir Robert's bed, had swiftly followed them here; even Adam knew better than to try to claim what wasn't his. As for Lady Joia, she hadn't been allowed to gather any of her or her daughters' personal possessions, and her pleas to tend to her father's remains and visit with her son who would attend the funeral had been roundly refused.

  Faucon didn't find Martha until he reached the hearth. The child sat on the floor near her mother's feet. She had one hand curled into Joia's gown while she clutched her poppet close with the other arm. Martha turned her face to the side as he looked at her.

  Although Alf lingered near the doorway, Edmund followed him to the hearth. "If I'm to complete my record, I'll need to use the table there," he said, the movement of his head indicating the area in front of the younger ladies.

  "Lady Offord, perhaps you'll take Lady Helena and Lady Martha to the loft?" Faucon asked.

  Idonea drew a deep breath, as if she had to muster the strength to rise. "Come, Helena," she said quietly.

  Helena followed her step-grandmother to her feet, her gaze now focused on her folded han
ds. As Sir Adam's eldest made her way to the ladder, Idonea stopped at the end of the table and bent to address his younger daughter. "Come, Martha," the widow whispered.

  Martha whined wordlessly and pushed herself deeper beneath the table. When Idonea tried to pull her out, the little lady grunted and kicked at her. Her daughter's rude, disobedient behavior won no response from Lady Joia.

  The widow retreated, shaking her head. "We've tried to take her outside for air more than once," she said, still whispering, "but she won't leave her mother. Can she not stay where she is?"

  It had been foolish to think he could protect any of these children from what he must say to Lady Bagot, especially here in Eustace's home. "Leave her be," Faucon told Idonea.

  As Idonea followed Helena up into the loft, he looked at Nell. It should be Joia's choice to share what came next with those outside her family. "Will you give us a few moments?"

  The housewife cringed at that, then hurried around the table to put a hand on Lady Bagot's back. "I'm off to do my chores, my little love. I'll be back soon." Again Lady Joia neither moved nor spoke.

  Faucon looked at Alf. The soldier gave a responding lift of his brows. "Could you use a helping hand, goodwife?" he asked Nell in their native tongue.

  "Always, thank you," the housewife replied, sounding grateful for the company.

  Once the door closed behind them, Faucon drew a stool to the end of the table, knowing Edmund wouldn't tolerate sharing a bench with him and not wishing to sit with the gentlewoman. As he watched Edmund lay out his tools in his usual precise line above his parchment, Faucon struggled to find the right words only to decide there was no way to say what he must save plainly.

  "Lady Bagot, we asked the jury to affirm that you fed poison quail to Sir Robert of Offord, thereby causing his death, and that Milla the Cook did aid you in your plot," he said.

  That won a tiny flinch from Sir Adam's wife. "I didn't kill my father," she said softly. This had been her constant refrain from the moment her husband had revealed that she kept poisoned quail.

  "The process was tainted," Brother Edmund complained over her, his words instant and harsh. It wasn't the first time he'd said this. Eyes narrowed, a single spot of outrage staining each of his cheeks, the monk looked at his employer.

  "I warned you," he chided. "There can be no certainty of guilt when you lack both a hue and cry and a tangible weapon. As long as the lady continues to insist on her innocence, as she has done more than once these past days, all you have is supposition. Thus did the jurors show us when they first refused to affirm. Then, instead of dismissing them, you allowed them to be bludgeoned with threats into affirmation."

  Lady Joia had proved as well-known and well-liked as her father among those who lived near Offord and Bagot. Despite their Crowner's description of the crime, almost all the local men insisted that Joia of Offord would never have killed her father. As for those from a farther distance, none could believe either that birds could be poisonous or that anyone would raise poison birds to use as a weapon. Once Eustace testified that Lady Joia had tenderly nursed her father back to health the two times he'd ailed, not even men from farther afield would name her a murderess. That's when Sir Adam dismissed Offord's bailiff and threatened retribution against any other man who refused to accuse his wife of killing her father.

  After that, nothing Faucon said, nor Brother Edmund's promises of royal protection, changed matters. Having heard such threats from their sheriff in the past, the jurors voted as the knight required and swiftly departed.

  "Again, you're right to chastise me, Brother Edmund," Faucon replied, struggling to tame his own outrage over how Sir Adam had perverted what seemed to him an almost sacred process. "Know that I have learned my lesson. That said, how can I not declare that murder has been done when I am certain that it has? But also know that today's jury was but the first skirmish in a wider war," he then reminded Edmund. "It's on us to see that the knight is punished for his interference."

  Edmund sniffed. "As if fines and coins can set right what went wrong? I tell you now. Unless you directly command me, the only affirmation of murder I'll note is the one against the cook who fled, thus proving her guilt."

  Lady Bagot drew a quavering breath and lifted her head. Her eyes looked raw. "Milla is gone?" she whispered, her face paling until it seemed she might swoon.

  "Sir Luc as well," Faucon told her gently.

  He suspected Milla made her escape from Offord the moment Sir Luc left the kitchen for the hall. As for Adam, he'd banished his brother immediately after driving off his wife. Faucon wondered if the exiled Luc now rode with the woman he thought of as his mother.

  "They've left me?" she cried, sounding lost and as young as Martha. "Who will protect me now?"

  When she received no response, Joia continued, her voice barely louder than a whisper. "Sir, know that Luc did no wrong at all. It was Milla who helped me. But nothing we did harmed my father."

  "How can you say you did no wrong when you fed your father poisoned quail?" Faucon demanded.

  "Not to kill him," the lady almost pleaded. "Those birds were only meant to make my father ill. I just wanted the chance to show him that I still loved him, despite what I'd said to him and despite what he had done to me and to Martha," she finished at almost a whisper.

  Her trembling words won a startled gasp from Brother Edmund. "You truly did raise poisoned birds?!" the monk cried in shock. "What madness is this?"

  "To Martha?" Faucon asked over him. "What had your father done to Martha?"

  At that, the shadow of the bold lady he'd first met reappeared in Joia's pretty face. "He showed our bell to the prior," she said. "He did it even though I warned him Prior Thierry would take it from him. He did it knowing he'd already promised the bell to Martha as her dowry."

  That had Faucon frowning. "When did he make that promise?"

  "Two years ago." Then, as if the effort of holding onto her previous self cost her too dearly, her arrogance drained from her. She again bowed her head. "He made his promise on the night that Adam demanded my father give him the bell to hold at Bagot. There, with both Luc and me to witness, my father told my husband that rather than cede his treasure to Adam, he would make it Martha's dowry."

  Faucon stared at her in startled disbelief. "And your husband agreed to this?"

  That the lady offered him a nod left Faucon as shocked as Sir Robert must have been when Sir Adam had agreed two years ago. Where Sir Robert had expected his offer to set his son-by-marriage's knees to knocking, he instead learned that Joia's husband hadn't known, and may not even now know, that Martha wasn't his child.

  "I was overjoyed," Lady Bagot told him. "My father had just given both my daughters full futures. Although I assured my sire his word was enough for me, Sir Adam wasn't content with that. He wanted my father to hire a clerk to draft a will that included the disposition of the bell. For months he nagged, but my father always had an excuse for why it wasn't done. When my husband could no longer bear the delay, he hired the clerk himself. That's when my father went to the priory."

  She glanced at him. "When my father told me what he'd done, I was beside myself. I reminded him of his promise to Martha. Do you know what he did then?

  "He laughed at me," she cried, her voice tight. "He said his offer had been all in jest. He said that I, of all people, should have known that, as many times as we'd played the game where he pretended to make the bell mine, then took back his word. He said the bell was his treasure, his to do with as he pleased and it no longer pleased him to give it to Martha.

  "I was hurt and angry beyond all thought. How could a man I trusted above all others, a man I honored and loved, break my heart and destroy my daughter's future? I called him an oath breaker and a dishonorable knight. He named me greedy and faithless, and said he'd destroy the bell before I or any of my children ever benefitted from it." Pain radiated from her. Her voice was low and hoarse.

  "He said," she caught a gasping breath, "that I w
as no longer a daughter to him."

  "Is that when your sire started seeking a new wife to get an heir of his own?" Faucon asked.

  Joia nodded. "And in doing so, he drove my husband mad, and in his madness Sir Adam showed me how much I needed my father and his protection. I came back to Offord time and again, seeking my sire's forgiveness, but he wouldn't hear my pleas. Instead, he married Idonea and everything became impossibly worse. I just wanted to show him I was still the daughter he loved and that I still loved him—" her voice died away into a sigh.

  Pausing, she raised her head and looked toward the cottage door, lost for the moment in the past. When she stirred from her memories, her face was twisted in grief. "That's when Milla said she knew a way to make my father ill using his quail. She said he'd never know and he wouldn't be harmed. She assured me his illness would last only a short while. All I had to do was feed hemlock seed to quail."

  "But hemlock?!" Faucon protested. "To think you could control that poison is folly!"

  "No, it was desperation," she replied, asking him to understand the incomprehensible. "Do you think I didn't ask Milla how she was certain my father wouldn't be harmed? She told me that once long ago, before I came to Bagot, she'd unknowingly baked a poison bird into one of the pies she'd made for the household. She and a few others ate from that pie. She said they all felt terrible for less than a day, then swiftly returned to health.

  "Suspecting the bird was the cause of their illness, she asked the man who'd netted them if she was right. He said she was, telling her that quail sometimes ate hemlock seed and could make folk sick. But he assured her he'd never heard tell of anyone dying from eating them.

  "How could I not believe Milla, especially when we ate quail pie so often during my time at Bagot? No one had ever once so much as grown ill. By then, I'd already brought Eustace's chicks to Bagot to raise on my father's behalf, still seeking to win back his heart. There was hemlock aplenty in our hedgerows and pastures. I collected the seed and greens and fed them to the birds," she finished with a tiny shrug.