The Final Toll

by Denise Domning

  Faucon stared at her, struggling to find sense in what she'd done. "But how could you know that the birds you gave your father weren't more poisonous than the one that Milla ate?"

  That had her frowning at him as if his question were ridiculous. "Because I ate two of them first," she said, then shrugged at his shocked expression. "As if my life matters in any of this? If I die, nothing changes, not then and not now. My son yet inherits Offord, Helena still has her dowry, and Martha is just as bereft. Milla was right. I was only a little ill and I recovered quickly.

  "I brought Milla two quail, and she replaced them for two of my father's usual four. It worked," she said, almost smiling. "He was affected no more than I had been. I begged him to take to his bed and allow me to tend him. At first it seemed that he would refuse, but Eustace added his voice to mine, and I was allowed to stay. While my father remained quarrelsome and short, he let me care for him. I told him how wrong I had been to chide, and that I knew the bell was his alone to do with as he willed. Although he didn't offer forgiveness, he listened.

  "Now hopeful that he and I could regain what we'd lost, I waited a few weeks and again brought Milla two more quail."

  The corners of her mouth lifted. "This time it was everything I wanted. He heard me and forgave, then asked me to forgive him. I hadn't been so happy since leaving my father's house for my husband's. We remembered how much we loved each other. I stayed with him even after he rose from his bed. We laughed, told tales, and played games, and let Martha and Helena, and even Idonea, entertain us."

  Faucon shook his head at that. Lady Joia had been more successful than she knew. After their reconciliation, Sir Robert had ridden out to sell the bell. Eustace was wrong. His master had every intention of cheating Idonea of her dower. But then, Idonea's father had achieved everything he wanted from his daughter's marriage. Idonea would return to him with her dowry intact and a new title, making her far more valuable to her family.

  Joia's smile faded. "Even now, despite all that has happened, I'm grateful for what I did. I think I might have died alongside my father had he passed without forgiving me," she added, then sighed again. "But our new peace only made matters worse. The moment Sir Adam realized I had regained my father's heart and trust, my husband began accusing me of plotting against him with my sire and Idonea. Then he accused my father of the same. After that, every day was miserable. They sparred constantly, beating each other bloody."

  That caught Faucon's attention. "Do you mean on the practice field?"

  Startled, Joia again met his gaze. "Sword to sword? Never," she told him with a swift shake of her head. "They've never met on the practice field, at least that I know, choosing instead to fight their battles with words. They certainly haven't drawn weapons since my father wed Idonea. I think if they had, my husband would have found a way to kill my father."

  Her words shattered Faucon's carefully joined pieces, and everything he thought he knew crumbled. "Why didn't you destroy your quail after you no longer needed them?" he demanded.

  His forceful question drove her back on her bench. "I—I—" she stuttered, then tamed her tongue. "Because my father loved that dish, and quail are easy birds to keep, what with needing to be ever caged. I thought with enough time and proper food, the poison might clear from them. If it didn't, I'd still have their chicks to raise the next year."

  The depth of his own idiocy ate at Faucon. "Did Sir Adam leave for Bagot after your family came to live at Offord?"

  That startled Lady Joia. "He did. He rode home every day, departing after we broke our fast and returning before our midday meal," she said. "One of his horses had gone lame the previous month. He wasn't content to leave him in the hands of Luc and his groom."

  Faucon leaned back on the stool, disgusted with himself. Almost from the moment he'd met Sir Adam, he'd allowed his own judgment and dislike to blind him. "Nobby says you came to see Milla on the morning before Martha's celebration. He says you and Milla argued over the number and quality of the quail being served to your father. Is that true?" he asked the lady.

  "Argue with Milla?" Joia replied with a shake of her head. "Hardly so. I went to ask if she needed my help in preparing for Martha's celebration. She said she didn't. Then she told me Eustace's quail were undersized and she didn't think six would be enough meat for my father and daughter to share. She asked if she might give all six to my sire and instead make a special dish just for Martha, as a gift for my daughter's saint day."

  Again, Faucon damned himself for an idiot. In the kitchen, Milla had offered him the truth he should have been seeking. But he, being already fixed in his judgment, had dismissed her for trying to manipulate him. Had he let her speak, clever Milla would have found a way to tell him about a knight who had discovered the truth of the quail being raised in his garden, who had found a way to see that Sir Robert ate enough poisoned birds to kill him. That left Faucon wondering whether Sir Adam had plied the cook with threats of hanging, or offered Milla the coins he had years before denied her. He suspected the latter.

  "You did not kill your father," Faucon told Lady Bagot.

  Joia drew a ragged, startled breath as she met his gaze, wide-eyed. "You believe me?"

  "I not only believe you, I know it was your husband who brought those poison quail to Milla and forced her to feed them to your father," Faucon said. "I don't believe he intended to place the blame on you. It was Lady Offord he was intent on destroying, needing the lady to hang so the bell would return to him. But when Luc revealed the presence of the quail at Bagot, he released Adam from having to protect himself. That's when your husband saw how much more he could achieve from your father's death."

  Edmund straightened on his bench. "Sir, you cannot recall the jury and now ask them to affirm against the knight," he commanded. "That can only serve to confuse them and further muddle the process."

  "I most certainly will not ask them to return, Brother Edmund," Faucon replied. "I've taken enough of a beating today. I have no wish to repeat the experience. However, I have every intention of making right what I set wrong."

  He offered the monk a quick smile, then shifting on his stool, he looked at Lady Bagot. "My lady, I give you my word. You will not hang for your father's death. Listen to me now.

  "Today, the men of the jury did not believe you capable of killing your father and instead argued in your defense. More than one spoke of your good character and your love for your sire. Between now and the day you're called to appear before the noble justices, I will assure each and every one of these men that they were correct in their judgment. I will inform them that I will call them to court when it is your time, to repeat what they said today. Brother Edmund and I will also stand with you to tell the tale of how Sir Adam misused the jurors. If our God is just, and I believe He is, then the barons and bishops who hear us will proclaim your innocence."

  He looked at his clerk. "What say you, Brother Edmund? Am I right to assure her of this?"

  The monk offered a firm and satisfied nod. "You are. Thus is justice assured when men seek to misuse the process."

  Joia glanced at the men across from her. Tears filled her eyes. "Thank you," she breathed.

  "I only hope you can one day forgive me for misjudging—" The rest of what Faucon intended to say dissolved on his tongue.

  Lady Joia and Milla weren't the only daughters of Eve he had weighed by their behavior rather than heeding their words. One more time, Faucon's pieces assembled, this time showing him one he'd dismissed as rotten meat. He looked beneath the edge of the table at Martha. The child yet sat at her mother's feet, her poppet held hard against her. Fear and upset filled her pretty face.

  Faucon slipped from the stool and crouched to bring them eye to eye. "Lady Martha, the other day you wanted to tell me about your grandsire. The time wasn't right then. It is now. Speak to me, remembering that what you say must be the truth," he warned her.

  "Grand-père made me swear not to tell anyone in my family," Martha said in quiet r
eply.

  Her mother made an aching sound. She shifted on the bench until she could see beneath the table's edge. "Martha?" she whispered.

  The child continued without looking at her mother. "Grand-père said when I gave him my oath it meant I couldn't break my word or I would burn forever. But you are not my family."

  "I am not," Faucon agreed.

  "I love Idonea," she told him, keeping her gaze locked on him as if she feared to look elsewhere. "But Grand-père said it didn't belong to Idonea anymore. He said he changed his mind and said it had always been mine," she told him. "But when the prior came, he said it was his. Papa called him a thief. If I keep it, will I be a thief?"

  "What do you have?" Joia asked her daughter, her words strained.

  Martha shook her head, refusing to look at her mother. "Grand-père said I could never give it to you, Maman, or Papa would take it from me."

  Instead, she handed her poppet to her Crowner. "I don't want to be a thief. Don't hurt her too much when you open her," she pleaded.

  Faucon came to his feet holding the plaything. He squeezed the poppet's torso, feeling for any hint of a hard edge. She was packed solid and there was nothing to suggest anything but wool under her fabric skin. Removing her gown and shift, he turned her until he found the seam that closed her. There were two layers of stitching, one atop the other. The first set was wide and uneven, and loose. The second line was tighter and closer.

  "Who sewed her shut?" he asked Martha.

  The child slid forward until she was directly below the edge of the table. "I did it the first time, but Grand- père said she needed more. He helped me the second time. He said he was proud of my sewing."

  Faucon reached for the small knife Edmund used to scrape ink from his sheepskin. The monk's hand shot out as if to prevent his employer from touching it. The movement was so swift and unthinking that Faucon took no insult.

  "Brother, may I borrow your knife?" he asked.

  Heated color filled the monk's face. Without comment, he handed the tool to his employer.

  Martha crawled out from under the table, then caught the hem of Faucon's tunic to pull herself to her feet. Her mother reached out an arm to her, but the child instead pressed herself against his leg. There was a rustling from the loft above them. Both Idonea and Helena had shifted to watch what happened below them.

  As Faucon cut away the stitching, the toy nearly exploded, so tightly was she packed. Bits of fleece rained from her. He dug into the shredded wool, sending even more cascading down upon the table. His finger touched a slender length of metal. Yanking, he wrenched the bell from the poppet. As what had muffled its cavity dropped away, the clapper shifted and the bell sang out a clear silvery note.

  "Papa!" Lady Joia cried, then buried her face in her hands.

  Faucon examined the bell. Just as Idonea had described, there was a pretty stone at the top of its long silver handle, which had been wrought to look like ivy curling around itself. A circle of crosses in the Irish fashion decorated the top of the bell where the handle met the cup. Beneath that was another decorative circle, this one made up of figures. Time and tarnish had worn off all but the outlines of their faces and garments. He tilted the bell again, liking the sound of it.

  "Sir," Edmund warned. "Prior Thierry is right. This is a holy object, not a plaything. Its voice is meant to call the angels."

  Properly chastised, Faucon set the bell down upon the table.

  "Am I no longer a thief?" Martha asked, still leaning against his leg.

  That stirred Joia from her grief. "You were never a thief, my little love. The bell was and is yours," she insisted, her voice broken. She reached to claim the bell on her daughter's behalf.

  "My lady!" Edmund chastised, slapping her hand away. "You of all people should not touch this bell after the game you played! If not for you and your ploy, your father would yet live."

  Joia snatched her hand to her chest. Faucon watched as grief and guilt tangled in her expression. She shifted on the bench, turning her back to them, seeking privacy in which to indulge her emotions.

  "Brother, was that fair?" Faucon asked gently.

  "The truth is not always fair, it is just the truth," the monk replied, then aimed his unforgiving gaze on Martha. "Nor should you touch it, my lady. Your grandsire was wrong to keep this bell from its true home. However, know this. If your lady mother speaks true, and your grandsire did promise it to you before he promised it to Lady Offord, then his second promise is false. It never belonged to Lady Offord, and is instead your rightful possession. But I advise you for the good of your soul to make a gift of it to our Church."

  "If it's mine, then I could choose to keep it?" Martha asked Edmund, her tone suggesting she sought clarification rather than ownership.

  Although Edmund's lips curled ever so slightly as he eyed the forward child, there was no impatience in his gaze nor in his voice as he spoke. "You could keep it, but if you do, know that you cannot keep it for long. The bell must one day return to its rightful home," he told her.

  Martha's lower lip extended a bit as she thought about that. "Does the bell miss its home?"

  Edmund blinked as if startled by the idea of a metal object, even a blessed one, feeling lost. "Our Lord misses His bell," he replied, crafting an answer that made better sense to him.

  "I will miss the bell if it goes home," Martha told him.

  "But if you return it, the angels will be so thankful that they will all sing Te Deum," the monk replied.

  Martha looked up at Faucon. "What is te deum?" she asked of the man who had previously defined a word for her.

  "He means the angels will be happy," Faucon told her.

  "So they shall be," Edmund assured the child. "After you return the bell, you must attend the ceremony that welcomes it home." His expression softened. He raised his gaze skyward as if he were seeking out those happy angels. "It is a magnificent spectacle. No less than a bishop will officiate. Dressed in his grandest vestments, he'll recite psalms, imploring divine assistance, then send up prayers to ward off the evils of the air, such as phantoms, storms, and lightning. After washing and drying the bell, he will anoint it, then fill its cavity with the smoke of incense and myrrh."

  With that, Brother Edmund brought his gaze back to the child he sought to persuade. "After that the bishop will read a passage from the Gospel, the one that tells a tale of Mary and Martha."

  Martha gasped in astonishment. "Martha is my name," she cried. "The bell will hear my name?"

  Edmund nodded. "The bell will hear your name, but only if you allow it to go home."

  Martha offered a single firm nod. "The bell wants to go home."

  "Then so it shall," the monk replied, almost smiling. He looked up at his employer.

  "Although this is not exactly the business of the Coronarius, because the ownership of the bell is disputed, I feel I must add its tale to our roll. It seems to me that it should be written somewhere. Will that suit you?"

  "As you see fit, Brother Edmund," Faucon said in surprise. Edmund had never before asked his permission about what he added or didn't add to their record.

  "Then this is what I shall note. I will say that the bell, which had been thought stolen, had instead been given by Sir Robert of Offord to his granddaughter Lady Martha of Bagot," Edmund said, speaking as much to himself as to his employer. "I will write that Lady Bagot once of Offord swears that two years ago Sir Robert promised the bell to his granddaughter as her dowry. I will add that Lady Martha affirms that Sir Robert repeated that same to her when he put the bell into her possession." He paused, his brow creased in thought. "However, I feel I must at the same time note that in the interim, Sir Robert had falsely promised the bell as dower to Lady Offord."

  "If you like, you may add that it's my opinion Sir Robert knew he had wrongly made the bell Lady Offord's dower, and swiftly regretted his decision," Faucon said.

  "That could help." Edmund again paused. His eyes narrowed as he tapped a finger to
his chin. "It cannot be important to include that the bell was sewn inside the lady's plaything. After that, I'll inscribe that Lady Martha expresses the desire to make a gift of the bell to Prior Thierry of the Priory of Saint Peter ad Vincula in Wootton Wawen, doing so in honor of Sir Robert."

  As he took up a new quill and reclaimed his knife from his employer, Edmund again hesitated. "Do you think that will be enough to protect the bell from Sir Adam? I feel certain the knight will try to claim it, perhaps even once again going to the priory to take it, as he has already once done. As he is Lady Martha's father, that is his right," he warned his employer.

  "But only if he is truly Lady Martha's father," Faucon replied.

  From the loft above, Idonea gave a startled gasp. He glanced up to see a wide-eyed Helena retreat from the loft's edge and out of his view. Although Lady Bagot didn't turn to look at them, her posture said she now listened closely.

  Faucon addressed her back. "My lady, you'll never have what you or your father wanted for Lady Martha from this bell. The only question that remains is whether you allow Sir Adam to steal all hope of any future for either you or your daughter."

  "If Sir Adam takes the bell," he continued, "I suspect he'll swiftly reduce it to the precious metal from which it's made."

  "But that would doom him to hell," Edmund interrupted in shock.

  Faucon slanted a look at him. "Where he already goes for murdering his father-by-marriage," he pointed out. "Such a man cares for nothing but the comfortable weight that silver will add to his purse, especially when no one save God is the wiser."

  Again, he shifted to speak to Lady Joia. The lady now had her head turned to the side as if she sought to see him. "But if you allow Brother Edmund to note the truth of Lady Martha's parentage, the bell will be forever safe from your husband."