Those Who Go by Night

by Andrew Gaddes

  He turned very deliberately to Cecily.

  “Dame Alice Kyteler is a monster, madam. She is a weirding woman, one of those hags who go by night and consort with demons and other foul creatures.” The Dominican seemed to grow in stature as he spoke, his voice rising to fill the hall, engendering all the assurance and power of a Biblical prophet. “She is a succubus who crawled up from hell itself to seduce and then poison her husbands. For years she has denied the true faith, corrupting those about her and forcing them to do her filthy bidding, condemning their souls to eternal damnation. So foul and wicked has she become, that she is no longer able to tread consecrated ground, and the very fruits of the earth despoil and perish in her presence.

  “That she has fled from justice only confirms her guilt beyond all doubt. But mark my words. She cannot”—he raised a bony finger and punched it angrily into the air—“she cannot escape God’s judgment.”

  He glared at Cecily for a long moment, and then around the hall, daring anyone to challenge him.

  “Deus Videt Omnia!” he declared loudly. “God sees everything!”

  Cecily opened her mouth to respond but snapped it shut when she saw the two fingers her father held up in warning. A wise decision, thought Thomas.

  “In any event,” the Dominican continued in a much calmer tone, “I fear we have wandered terribly from the matter at hand. I mention Alice Kyteler merely by way of example. There are many others.

  “And you appear to have completely misunderstood my mission, Lady Cecily. I am come merely to investigate those things that have transpired here. This is not an inquisition. There are certain formalities we like to pursue should it come to that: a second inquisitor, for example, formal hearings, arrests, and I daresay some suitably solid dungeon with all appropriate appurtenances to facilitate the interrogation of those accused. No, this is not an inquisition, my dear. Not yet.”

  He allowed the implicit threat in his words to settle over the hall like a cold shroud and then beckoned to a figure hovering a respectful distance behind him, as a dutiful servant might, at heel and near to hand, but not so close as to draw attention from his master. The young man, also dressed in the Dominican black, might have been a little past twenty, and he possessed a boyishly smooth face, a fair complexion, and tow-colored hair trimmed neatly in a tonsure. He took a pace forward and held out a scroll that Friar Justus promptly snatched from his hand.

  A pair of steely blue eyes flashed briefly in anger, only to be quickly veiled and lowered once more in submission.

  “I assure you that I am here with all due authority from the archbishop,” said the Dominican. “Perhaps you would like to review my mandate. I am sure that you will find everything in order.”

  De Bray gestured wearily to a priest standing behind him. “Give it to my chaplain, Father Elyas. He shall read it.”

  The chaplain had been standing so quietly that Thomas had not yet noticed him. He wore a nondescript, somewhat frayed, and worn black robe and had a bland, unremarkable face that might pass unnoticed as neither comely nor unattractive.

  The Dominican gave the chaplain a curious glance, his eyes lingering on the shabby robe and the slightly overly long black hair of his tonsure. “Father Elyas? I had understood Father Clement to be your personal chaplain, my lord.”

  “Clement passed away this last year. Elyas joined us from Oxford, where he was studying.”

  “An Oxford man, no less!” exclaimed Justus, handing the parchment to Elyas with a mock bow. “I am indeed humbled to find myself in such august and learned company.”

  Elyas offered no reaction to the unsubtle flattery and simply proceeded to scan the scroll with a bored expression.

  “I am saddened, my lord, to hear that you have lost yet another member of the clergy. That is most unfortunate. There appears to be some sort of epidemic hereabouts for us priests. Perhaps Father Elyas and I should be cautious of something in the air,” said Justus.

  The Dominican began a wheezing, hissing sound that might have been a laugh but sounded more like a ragged pair of worn-out bellows, and then stood smiling crookedly at any of those in attendance who dared to meet his eye, until Elyas finally rolled up the scroll and nodded to De Bray.

  “You see, all is in order,” he announced smugly. “I was sure it would be so. And as a precaution I had already taken the liberty of speaking with Sir Hugh Despenser. I am sure your chaplain saw his personal seal affixed to my papers alongside that of the archbishop.”

  The casual mention of the king’s favorite, Hugh Despenser, had the desired chilling effect on all those present. Thomas had never met the man but knew of his reputation. Despenser had been a landless knight before he married a wealthy heiress, a marriage that had elevated him to a position of power. Somehow, he had gained the king’s favor, and soon the two had become inseparable, leading to more than one scandalous rumor. As Despenser’s power grew, so did his arrogance and greed. There was said to be no depravity to which he would not stoop for advantage or wealth. So offensive had been his conduct that the king had been forced to exile him for a time him to avoid civil war. The rebellion came anyway, Despenser returned, and with the rebels now defeated, he had begun settling old scores in the most gruesome fashion. Nobody in their right mind would wish to draw his attention, let alone his ire.

  “Apparently the king is very concerned about recent attempts to use magic against his council, and I dare say it would only take a matter of days to obtain royal approval for my investigation. I was certain I would not need to go so far, however, given that I have the archbishop’s mandate, and when Lord Despenser has affixed his own seal thereto, which is as good as a royal order these days, or so I am told …”

  De Bray leaned forward, gripping the arms of his chair.

  “Your point is made, Friar. Begin your investigation, but there will be no violence done to my people, do you hear?”

  “Perish the thought,” responded the Dominican, with a shocked expression. “And perhaps this is all a misunderstanding. I suppose it is entirely possible that Roger Lacy was merely praying at Saint Mary’s when, rather like Father Oswin, his heart failed him, and he collapsed across the altar, remembering to assume the posture of a crucified martyr as he did so. But, nevertheless, one must investigate to be sure.”

  De Bray’s gaze wandered across the assemblage, finally settling on Thomas.

  “Yes, a crime has been committed and must be investigated. On that we can agree, and I have already asked Thomas Lester here to investigate on my behalf.”

  Another ripple went through the audience chamber, and all heads swiveled to Thomas at the same time. Still standing next to him, Hunydd gasped aloud and then quickly clapped a hand to her mouth. This was not at all what he had expected. Nor did he remember ever agreeing to investigate a murder that was being touted as some kind of insane pagan ritual. Thomas was about to disavow his involvement, when he happened to look into De Bray’s eyes and see something there, a helplessness, a pleading, that gave him pause and made him hold his tongue.

  “I really do not think that is necessary,” began the Dominican.

  “Damn it all! I am lord here. I am responsible for the king’s peace and exercise the power of the noose over my own people. I shall have whomever I want investigate wrongs on my land.”

  The sudden show of passion visibly drained the last of Sir Mortimer’s strength, and he collapsed back into his chair, doubling over, his entire body racked by a deep, phlegmy cough.

  Justus waited for the worst of the fit to subside before responding. “As you will, my lord. I should be glad of the young man’s assistance, of course. So long as he is not in my way.”

  Still coughing, De Bray waved a dismissing arm.

  “Then I think we are done here,” announced the Dominican, making clear to all assembled that it was his decision to end the audience and that he was doing so out of sympathy for the state of their lord.

  With that, he turned to leave, took two paces, and then hesita
ted.

  “Forgive me, my lady,” he said, addressing Cecily with another fawning smile. “I could not help but notice how you dress your hair. I must ask, is it customary for women of rank in these parts to leave their heads uncovered?”

  The strange remark took everyone by surprise, including Cecily. Her cheeks flushed crimson, and for a moment she was lost for words. “I am not yet married,” she finally managed to say.

  The Dominican’s eyebrows shot upward. “You surprise me, dear. Not married yet? A delightful creature such as yourself?” His eyes wandered slowly and deliberately over her figure, “And at your advanced age?”

  Thomas squinted at Cecily. He could not imagine she was yet past twenty.

  “Still, I would think some kind of a net,” the Dominican said, waving a languid hand, “or better yet a wimple. But who am I to say? The fashions of young ladies today—I can hardly keep up.”

  He hissed out another wheezing laugh.

  “But now that I think about it, I seem to recall that your mother was Irish, was she not?” He did not wait for an answer. “Yes, I am sure of it. And perhaps this is how young women attire themselves in Ireland. As you said, the Irish do have some strange customs.”

  Cecily appeared even more startled by the reference to her heritage. “I–I really cannot say,” she responded, looking away. “I know very little of Ireland.”

  The Dominican smiled complacently. “Ah well, that may be for the best. In my own experience, it is a land full of superstition, bogs, and turf huts.” He glanced ruefully to the doors, thrown wide open to let in the weak afternoon light. “And I do believe it may be even more damp there than here in England.”

  Without another word, and with a brief reverence toward the lord of the manor, Friar Justus walked sedately out of the hall, parting the gathered petitioners around him like the Red Sea, the only sounds piercing the silence he left behind being the steady clunking of his staff against the timbered floor and the slapping of Prior Gilbert’s sandals as he bustled after him.

  * * *

  De Bray heaved himself up and limped toward the antechamber, gesturing irritably that Thomas should follow. Once inside he collapsed into the large chair behind his oak desk and breathed out a great sigh of relief, as if the short walk had been a monumental task.

  Thomas had heard Sir Mortimer de Bray described as a gruff soldier who had obtained his wealth fighting on the borders of Scotland and Wales. The man huddled before him bore little resemblance to the ferocious border reaver of legend. What must once have been a ruddy, fleshy face was now gaunt and sallow, the pallid skin stretched tightly over hollow cheeks. Deep grooves etched into the corners of his mouth lent him a look of permanent grief, and his eyes were a dull gray, sunken deep in bruised sockets, the embers of life flickering behind them closer to ash than flame. He had the appearance of a decrepit old man, a sense of weariness and constraint clutched as tightly about him as his blanket. If ever Thomas had seen a man resigned to death, this was he.

  Cecily took a position at her father’s side. A brief flicker of concern flashed across her face when she looked down at him, and then she raised her chin and turned her attention to Thomas.

  “Who is this, Father?” she asked, her eyes following Thomas as he seated himself.

  “I’m sorry, my dear—I thought you had heard. Thomas will be helping us with this matter at Saint Mary’s. I am hoping he will stay awhile.” De Bray offered Thomas a tired smile. “I shall be giving him some land near Redmile.”

  This was news to Thomas, but Cecily did not give him an opportunity to question the gift.

  “How much land?” she asked tersely.

  “I don’t know—a few acres. Does it matter?”

  Apparently it did matter to Cecily.

  “I was thinking of the old Bekley cottage,” added De Bray. “There hasn’t been a tenant there for the best part of a year.”

  “A few acres!” Cecily spluttered. “That cottage has nearer one hundred. And I don’t even know this man,” she added, barely sparing Thomas a glance.

  “I am quite decided, dear,” her father interrupted with an upraised hand to make clear his decision was final. “I have already directed the steward to draw up the papers. We could use a man like Thomas around here.”

  Cecily looked Thomas up and down disdainfully. “A man like him?” she scoffed, making clear that she was no more impressed with him now than when she had first seen him in the garden. Thomas did his best to sit up straight and tugged self-consciously at his tunic, wishing he had worn something just a little less shabby.

  De Bray ignored her comments. “Thomas, you heard that Dominican hound?”

  “I did, my lord. I heard what he said.”

  “And you will investigate the death of this Roger Lacy on my behalf?”

  Thomas hesitated. He had not come here expecting to go head-to-head with a Dominican inquisitor and had no desire to be drawn into such a conflict. In fact, it was exactly the kind of thing he desperately wanted to avoid. On the other hand, he had promised the bishop he would at least see the lay of the land, and one hundred acres of Midland soil was quite an inducement.

  “Is this not a matter for the sheriff, my lord?”

  “Who is to say?” replied De Bray. “There is room for disagreement. The sheriff may want the murderer before the royal courts once he is found, and the archbishop claims it is an ecclesiastical matter. Yet these are still my lands. Henry believes you can help me. He speaks very highly of you, Thomas. Very highly indeed.”

  De Bray tapped a letter lying on the desk with his fingers, and Cecily’s eyes lingered on the paper, no doubt planning to read it as soon as the opportunity arose.

  “And after today’s audience, I fear things may become complicated. We may well have need of you and your particular experience. I sense Friar Justus is a dangerous man, and I need someone I can trust. A man of my own.”

  “What about one of your guards or the village constable?”

  “No,” he replied, poking a finger stiffly at Thomas, “I need you.”

  Thomas had to wonder what the bishop had written that could render him valuable enough to merit a hundred acres of prime land. And of what De Bray was really afraid.

  “I fear the bishop may have overstated my qualities …”

  Cecily’s patience with the conversation had finally been exhausted.

  “Really! This is becoming absurd!” she declared. “If you are to hold land at our leisure—a most generous tranche of land, I might add—then you must expect to do dutiful service, as do all our tenants. My father, apparently soon to be your lord, has given you a command. It is not yours to question him!”

  And just like that, what was left of Thomas’s recently acquired admiration for Cecily fell, shattered and broken. She spoke with the air of one born to wealth, and Thomas wondered if what he had taken for boldness might in fact have been nothing more than a noxious brew of arrogance, pride, and vanity.

  After a long moment, he spoke in a deliberate voice. “No man is my master, Lady Cecily.”

  De Bray sighed with exasperation.

  “You misunderstood me, Cecily. Thomas is a freeman. I am gifting him the land outright. He will be our neighbor, not our tenant.”

  “You are gifting him the land?” she asked, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Nearly one hundred of our best acres. Surely you jest?”

  De Bray smiled benignly. “Thomas, you will have to excuse my daughter. She has my best interests at heart, but I am afraid she has inherited her mother’s Irish temper.” He patted her hand. “I confess I have indulged her, perhaps because she reminds me so of her mother. She was a wonderful woman, my Mairead. A man could never wish for a better match. I believe that is why I have held off from forcing Cecily into a marriage. No man has ever been good enough for her, and she will not be persuaded, nor less yet commanded. But it is high time she was wed. The Dominican was right about that. Yes, let her pester someone other than me for a change. Though I a
m sure she will find fault with whomever I choose for her, and she will doubtless peck away at the poor fellow as she does at me, like a clucking hen, at least until her belly swells and she has a few young ones at heel to keep her mind occupied.”

  Though she bore it in silence, in his peripheral vision Thomas could clearly see Cecily bridle at being spoken of in such an uncouth manner. He might have been more sympathetic had she herself not been quite so rude.

  De Bray coughed into his hand. It was the racking, wretched cough of an unhealthy man, and he doubled over, hacking away again, his whole body shaking from the fit, before slowly recovering. He dabbed at his mouth with a linen wipe, stuffing it discreetly into his sleeve. Not quickly enough, however, for Thomas to miss the spots of blood on the white cloth.

  “Forgive me, Thomas. This last year has not been kind to me. All my sins are coming home to roost, I am afraid.”

  Cecily immediately began fussing over her father, offering him water, plucking at his blanket, his condescension toward her completely forgotten.

  “Enough, enough!” said De Bray sharply, tugging the blanket away from her. “I understand you have reservations, Thomas. Henry has explained your … background to me.” He tapped the letter again. “But you of all people know what these heretic hunters can be like.” De Bray bit down, embarrassed. “Please, Thomas. We need your help.”

  De Bray was a proud man, and the plea took a lot out of him. Cecily’s lips parted in astonishment. Thomas had the sense that, if she had disliked him already, she detested him now. He had to admit he felt a little less than heroic himself, having brought a proud man in declining health to the verge of pleading. Thomas Lester, emissary of the Bishop of Lincoln, and heroic humbler of sick old men.

  Thomas knew he should steer clear of the rocks, but not for the first time, the siren song was drawing him in. He nodded once, and the old man heaved out a relieved sigh.