Those Who Go by Night

by Andrew Gaddes

  “Excellent! We must find out the truth, Thomas, before this man creates a truth to suit his own purposes. And you might want to roust out the Bottesford constable. He is also the watch captain and may be of some help. He knows the villagers, and they respect him.” De Bray frowned uncertainly. “At least, after a fashion.”

  Thomas could hardly miss Cecily rolling her eyes. Her reaction did not exactly fill him with confidence at the constable’s abilities, and he felt a queasy sensation in his stomach. The look Cecily now gave Thomas made clear her doubts extended also to him.

  CHAPTER 5

  The strange coterie crossed the courtyard, Friar Justus striding out in front, his staff rapping angrily against the cobbles, robes billowing and flapping in the breeze, while those following after spread out on either side of him like the wings of a flock of migrating geese.

  Having recovered from the rigors of the audience, Prior Gilbert waddled along to the Dominican’s left, somehow managing to keep up a steady stream of jovial banter, punctuated only by the occasional gasping breath. He was at present pointing out all the sights: the church, the two mills on the river below, the meadow and apple orchard—even the famous local cluster of ancient oaks.

  Friar Justus paid scant attention to the Benedictine. As a man who had experienced firsthand the many splendors of Paris and Rome, who had beheld the mighty Coliseum, who had worshipped at the great cathedral of Notre Dame and cried at the beauty of the Rose Window, he was not inclined to be impressed by the rustic charms of Bottesford village.

  Justus suddenly realized with a start that the prior had ceased his gabbling and was looking up at him expectantly.

  “I was just asking whether you had met Bernard de Gui,” he explained in response to the Dominican’s questioning frown. “I know my abbot in Leicester is a great admirer of his. I cannot say that I have read his works myself, but I understand they are quite brilliant, and I have heard him described as one of the finest ecclesiastical scholars of our time. As soon as I heard of your visit, I set out to commission a copy of Practica Inquisitionis, and I expect it to arrive from Grantham any day now. I assure you, it shall find a place of honor in our library.”

  Prior Gilbert probably imagined that he was ingratiating himself to Justus by flattering one of the more famous members of his Order. He was not. De Gui had been nothing when Justus first met him, no more than an upstart lickspittle, and yet he had gone on to sit at the pope’s right hand, his star shining brighter with every passing day, while Justus had been left to rot in England, where it was always drizzling and always cloudy, as though God Himself had thrown a pall over the entire country.

  “So, have you met him? Have you met the great man himself?”

  “Many times,” Justus replied through gritted teeth.

  “How marvelous!” The prior clapped his hands gleefully, an ecstatic look on his pudgy face.

  Justus felt a headache coming on. He had believed with all his heart that the Templar trials would bring a new age of enlightenment to England. But that had been over a decade ago now, and the English church had lapsed once more into apathy. Lady Cecily had been right about one thing: the Holy Inquisition had no power and little respect in England.

  When he had heard of the events at Bottesford, Justus had sensed a real opportunity. Here at last was a chance to pursue his true calling, especially now that he had the attention of the king’s favorite, Hugh Despenser.

  The man had a fearsome reputation and had been accused of many evil things. Theft, murder, and rape—of both women and men; the list of accusations went on and on. Justus, however, could only speak as he found, and he had observed no such evil tendencies. On the contrary, Despenser had struck him as a God-fearing man who also happened to be extremely sympathetic to the Dominican’s cause, having for some time feared that his own enemies were practicing magic against him.

  It was Despenser’s support that had finally convinced the archbishop to grant the Dominican a warrant to investigate the sacrilege at Saint Mary’s. Even then, the order had been tepid, and Justus had been forced to broaden its mandate somewhat, using rich vermillion ink and a quill with a fine, thin nib. He had felt uneasy doing so but comforted himself that he acted with the best of intentions, and he was sure he had only made his papers reflect what had actually been intended.

  Prior Gilbert was huffing and puffing to keep up and was now describing the celebratory meal he had arranged to welcome his distinguished guest.

  “I have some sherry wine brought all the way from Spain. We brew a decent ale, if I do say so myself, but there is nothing quite like a drop of sherry wine to please the palate after a hard day’s devotions.” The prior chuckled down into his chins. “I believe it will go nicely with the roasted pheasant. We shall have a nice ragout of fresh vegetables harvested from the fields hereabout. I assure you that you will never have tasted finer, crisper leeks or more delectable mushrooms. And fruit, perfectly ripened and picked from our own orchard. I even have some walnuts from the manor garden. Lady Cecily knows they are a terrible weakness of mine and she is always kind enough to send me a few.” He patted his voluminous belly.

  How very Benedictine of him, Justus mused dolefully. That order had sunk so low, its adherents wallowing in gluttony and vice. You could tell a Benedictine monk these days as much from the girth of his waist rope as his traditional black habit. In this regard, Prior Gilbert might be a sad sack of a man, but he was an exemplary representative of his Order. Greed, avarice, fornication—it seemed that no sin of the flesh was beyond its members’ grasp. Justus had heard sordid tales of frequent, almost bacchanalian dalliances between monks and nuns, and he suspected that half the monks were secretly sodomites, and a good many of the convents, houses of pleasure. He had to wonder, what was the price of a good sister these days, and were they more or less expensive once they had completed their novitiate? These were excellent questions. He would have to ask the fat prior before he left.

  He turned his attention to the young friar plodding mutely alongside him. Justus’s superiors in London had been very keen for Dominic to accompany him, insistent in fact. Likely they had identified him as a promising candidate for advancement, someone who might benefit from learning at the feet of a great scholar; and so far, Dominic had not disappointed, attending diligently to his master’s every command and absorbing each gem of knowledge Justus bestowed on him with a refreshing quietude of a like rarely to be found among his peers.

  Their more roguish companion called himself Guy de Hokenham, but Justus had never believed him and imagined that he had gone by several other names in the course of what must have been a less than honorable life. Whatever his name, it could not be denied that Guy was a bad man. Justus had found him wallowing in a London dungeon, awaiting the noose for rape and murder. Or was it murder and ravishment of the corpse? He could never quite remember. In either event, Justus had procured Guy’s freedom for a surprisingly small amount of money. A good investment, as it happened. Guy might be a bit of a rogue, but he had proven useful and possessed certain qualities that recommended him. He was obedient, loyal, and had no qualms whatsoever about performing the somewhat seedier tasks that Justus from time to time sent his way.

  At just that moment, Guy hawked up loudly and spat a meaty gob of phlegm at a dog that had been unfortunate enough to cross their path, catching it plumb on the snout. The poor creature yelped and skittered away, causing Guy to laugh out loud and look about him to make sure everyone appreciated the jape. Friar Dominic’s lip curled up in revulsion, and even Justus felt his stomach churn a little in disgust. Guy didn’t seem particularly bothered that nobody else was amused, and continued to tramp along with his long-legged, easy gait, still laughing at the hapless hound.

  “This Thomas Lester,” said Justus, turning to address Prior Gilbert and catching the poor man mid-sentence so that he almost choked on his words. “What know you of him?”

  “Nothing at all, I am afraid. Although, now that I think of it, the
steward did mention that a young man arrived on horse this afternoon with a letter of introduction from the Bishop of Lincoln.”

  “A letter from Henry Burghersh? How very interesting.” The Dominican chewed on that morsel a moment or two. “And the woman—the one who found Father Oswin’s body. You say she was the vicar’s maidservant?”

  “Yes. Agnes had served him as such for some years, I believe.”

  “Then we shall begin with her on the morrow.” Justus looked up at the sky, now dulling red as the sun sank fast toward the horizon. It galled him to waste even what little was left of the day, but there was nothing to be done about it. “Something bothers me about Oswin’s death, Gilbert. It niggles at me. It … disturbs me greatly. Does it not seem to you a little too coincidental that the vicar should die so soon before the blasphemy at your little church? After all, what better way for a wolf to expose the flock to its predations than to first be rid of the shepherd?”

  Gilbert chose not to respond to this inherently sound logic, which was perfectly acceptable to Justus. He preferred the man be silent, and he was already quite decided on the matter.

  The sacrilege at Saint Mary’s was a good start, but more would be needed were he to petition for an inquisition. Proof that a member of the clergy had been poisoned, along with a few sundry other misdeeds, might suffice. And once an inquisition was begun, the heresies would then sprout forth like so many ugly weeds. Such had been the case during the Templar trials once the king had at last acceded to the use of more stringent interrogation techniques. Unexpectedly, Justus had discovered that he was rather skilled at that particular craft. Truth be said, he had rarely found anything in life he enjoyed quite as much as the challenge of winkling out a confession from a recalcitrant sinner.

  Friar Justus breathed in deeply and smiled at the recollection of happier days and the prospect of more to come. His headache was completely gone, and he was beginning to feel a bit peckish. Perhaps he might enjoy the Benedictine’s feast after all.

  CHAPTER 6

  Lady Isabella de Bray watched the Dominican from the shadowed window of her parlor, her fingers twisting thoughtfully at a loose lock of golden hair. He looked angry and more than a little mean. A part of her, a fairly large part she had to admit, hoped the audience had been particularly unpleasant and that he had berated her husband cruelly. She allowed herself to imagine the scene awhile as the friar strode off into the distance, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

  Now a young man was crossing the courtyard—a very handsome young man. Isabella did not know him and was just wondering to herself who he was and what business he could possibly have with her husband when he suddenly stopped, turned, and looked right up at her. She gasped, spun away from the window, and pressed herself flat against the paneled wall.

  Her window provided a wonderful view of the courtyard and of the little road that wound its way up to the manor, and she had seen some very interesting things from there of late. All Cecily’s sneaking about, for one: her strange little comings and goings at all hours of the day and night. Yes, Isabella very much liked to watch, but she did not like to be seen. No, not at all.

  She remained as she was for some time, not daring to move, her chest heaving against the fabric of her dress, until she finally plucked up enough courage to poke her head around for another quick peek. He was gone and she breathed out a sigh of relief. Perhaps he had not seen her after all.

  Still more than a little shaken by her experience, Isabella retreated to her desk, on which was propped a large oval mirror. The mirror was her most cherished possession, a gift from her grandmother, and the one thing she had insisted on bringing with her from her home when she had been married. Most mirrors were just polished pieces of metal, but this was not. It was real glass set in a beautiful walnut frame, and the reflection it provided, though not perfect, was clearer than most, especially when the sun was up and light streamed in through the parlor window.

  Isabella smiled at herself. The young woman in the mirror smiled back.

  She had always known that she was pretty. Pride is a sin, or so the priests said, but that she was pretty was simply the truth, and what harm could there be in thinking it? Besides, everybody else agreed. Hardly a day would go by without someone complimenting her on her flawless complexion, her large gray eyes, or her thick tresses of golden hair. And she saw how men’s eyes would follow when she entered a room, and how they would linger, only to be snatched away guiltily if she turned to face them. She knew what they all wanted from her.

  “Men are like that,” she said to nobody in particular.

  Her reflection nodded its agreement.

  When she had been just a little girl, scarcely eight years old, Isabella had once slipped away from her maid to listen to a wandering preacher in the market square. He had been one of those doom-speakers, and she remembered him as a frightening man with wild eyes, a ragged gray robe, and a face smeared with ash. The doom-speakers always drew a large crowd, and she had wormed her way to the front, where her maid would not see her.

  The preacher had told them that the day was coming when they would all be judged for their sins. She didn’t remember everything he said, but there was something about fire falling from the sky, the dead coming back to life, and a woman from Babylon who would apparently get up to all sorts of wicked things with man and beast alike. He had talked about her a lot.

  “And the four horsemen!” she declared happily to her twin in the mirror, proud of herself for remembering. “He said there would be four horsemen: War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death. And Death would ride a white horse. I remember that still. The preacher said he would ride a white horse!”

  It wasn’t the preacher’s stories about the end of the world that had interested her the most, however. It was his tales of weirding women—women who practiced the old faerie magic, cast spells, and used mirrors to commune with demons. Isabella had listened breathlessly and afterward ran all the way home without stopping. She had sat staring at her mirror for hours, peering deep into the glass, looking over every bit of its shiny surface, wondering if anything was inside.

  She was still sitting in front of the mirror, nose pressed to the glass, when they had finally found her. Her mother was furious and had the steward thrash the maid with a leather strop.

  “It must have hurt terribly. She couldn’t sit down for days, the poor thing,” Isabella said to the glass.

  Isabella’s reflection jutted out its lower lip and answered with a sad face.

  She hadn’t seen any demon hiding in her mirror that day. It was all so terribly disappointing. But then, perhaps the preacher had never meant to say that real demons lived in mirrors. Perhaps he had just meant vanity, the demon of pride. Yes, she was quite pleased at having thought of such a thing. It was so very clever of her. Every bit as clever as anything she had ever heard Cecily say.

  Isabella didn’t like her stepdaughter. Not one little bit. She didn’t trust her. Nor was she particularly fond of her husband. She still remembered her disappointment when she had met him on their wedding day. She had been told he was a famous warrior and had imagined he might be strong and handsome. He wasn’t. Instead he was old. And fat. And ugly. And he had never shown her any real affection. Well, at least not after those first few weeks, when he had claimed his marital privileges in such a coarse manner, grunting, pawing, and thrusting at her with that flabby body of his. He hadn’t visited her chambers as much since then, and hardly ever after her son was born, which was just as well because she found him to be utterly repulsive. He was even more ugly now, if such a thing were possible, and most of the time he smelled of piss and stale sweat, like an old horse blanket.

  “He’s disgusting!”

  Her reflection grimaced sourly and stuck out its tongue.

  Of course, now that he was sick, her husband wasn’t quite so fat anymore, and these days he bore another smell. The scent of death, she thought.

  At that moment, the door behind her crea
ked open on its leather hinges and then clicked shut, the iron bolt rasping against metal as it was slid into place. Isabella could sense the man’s approach, and the mirror darkened as he loomed over her. Then she could see his hands on her shoulders, the long white fingers with their perfectly groomed nails pressing into her flesh.

  “Still talking to yourself, my lady?”

  He began massaging her shoulders—intimately, as a lover might. But this man was no lover of hers.

  “You really are quite mad, aren’t you? If you had not been so pretty, I dare say that your family would have locked you away years ago. Or perhaps they might have left you in a ditch at the side of the North Road, and you would be either dead by now or a toothless harlot turning tricks for halfpennies in a brothel somewhere.

  “Where I grew up, they used to believe madness was sent by the Devil, and that those possessed of it needed to be beaten, starved, or even drowned so as to drive the demons from their bodies. That would not have been the fate of a fine lady like you, however. No, such a cure would be reserved for the rustics. People like me. You would have been shut away in a tower, and never heard from again, a secret family shame that nobody would speak of. And perhaps one day, when people had forgotten about you entirely, you might have been disposed of in some discrete fashion, like a babe born with a withered arm or a clubfoot.”

  It was almost dusk, and Isabella’s reflection had become shadowy and vague.

  “I wonder whether your son will share your peculiarities. I think he might.”

  “Don’t say that!” She twisted about and looked up at him over her shoulder, her pretty face contorted with rage. “Don’t say it!”

  “They do say it passes down to the children.”

  “Don’t you say it!” she hissed.

  He chuckled. It was a dry sort of laugh, bereft of merriment, full of scorn. Isabella felt tears stinging her eyes and bit her lip, angry with herself for letting him goad her. She knew he enjoyed it, and she had sworn she wouldn’t give him the pleasure.