It could not fairly be called a grave. She had been tossed into a shallow pit crudely hacked out between the roots and then covered with a collection of earth, bracken, and brushwood in a meager attempt at concealment. Whoever did this had not expected to hide her for long, but nor had he expected someone to wander so far from the track. Had he cared to do so, he could have dragged her deeper into the forest, where it was darker and where the great oaks grew even thicker. Yet even here she would likely have lain for some time, alone and undiscovered.
Thomas dropped to his knees and began to ease aside the tangle of twigs and foliage. He wanted to drag them off her, to tear them away, but something told him to be gentle. Low to the ground, he could smell the strong odor of mildew, moss, and fern, all the scents of the forest. And now there was another scent, not strong as yet, but the beginnings of corruption.
They had no spade or mattock, so he scooped and scraped at the soil with his fingers, working around her steadily and with infinite care, her despoiled body slowly emerging from its pitiful grave to the light of a world that had failed her.
She was young, scarcely more than a girl to his eyes, dressed only in the remnants of a torn and muddied shift. Damp leaves clung to tresses of long red hair that was disheveled and clotted with soil. The blackened and purplish bruising on her neck stood out in rude contrast to the deathly pallor of her strangely unmarked face. The blue, bloodless lips would never speak again, but the glassy eyes that stared up at him were eloquent enough. This was not supposed to happen to me, they said. You were supposed to protect me.
The branches of the ancient tree stretched out protectively above, its leaves falling gently about her like silent tears, and the clouds covering the sun cast her once more in shadow, the heavens themselves having seen enough.
“Jesu miserere,” Thomas whispered.
Who could say how she had found her way to this pitiful pass? What horrors she had endured, only for her small body to be hastily cast aside in its shallow grave, with scarcely enough cover to keep off the forest animals.
Thomas was filled with shame and anger. There had been no prayers said over this poor soul. No priest to confess and anoint her. No family or friends to weep at her graveside. No garland to adorn her. No cross to comfort her and mark her resting place so that others might know where she lay.
Thomas choked back a sob. This was all too familiar to him. What had he done to see such a fate twice in one lifetime?
John had watched Thomas’s progress in silence, a stunned expression on his face, and now he brushed roughly past him and picked her up, cradling her head gently against his chest. No words were necessary between them. They could have gone for a handcart, but neither one of them would leave her a moment longer where she laid, lost and alone. Thomas would return later on his own to study the ground for any clues, though he had a sinking feeling there would be none.
It was John who carried her back to her home, stubbornly refusing any help, though his arms must have ached. He trudged through the mud of the fields and through the village, his face black with anger and grief, not stopping or speaking until he reached her family’s cottage, a shocked crowd by now following silently in his massive wake.
Thomas did not enter the small home. He was still a stranger to them, and so he stood respectfully outside, not yet having earned the right to be privy to their grief. From inside the cottage, he heard a sudden piercing cry of pure loss and despair. It could only be a mother’s cry. Tears wet many eyes around him, and dark mutterings filled the air. She had been one of their own.
* * *
A short time later, Thomas once more stood beside Brother Eustace in the priory’s mortuary chapel, the pair of them looking down at another dead body. Neither of them spoke. Neither wanted to peel back the sheet to see what lay underneath.
“She was a lovely girl, you know,” said Eustace sadly. “Margareta, full of life, happy, always with a ready smile on her lips. She used to ask me if she could help at the lazar house. We never allowed her to do so, of course. She would have been a fine woman, Thomas. A fine mother. I am sure she is now in a better place.”
He looked up and, for the first time, Thomas saw anger in the gentle man’s face.
“We must find whoever did this.”
Thomas nodded grimly. “The family knew she was sneaking out at night, Eustace. How could they not? They thought it was to see the blacksmith’s son. The two of them were soon to be wed, and her family had supposed the meetings to be innocent enough. Let the young be young. In a way they were pleased. They had made the match for her and wanted her to be happy with their choice.”
“He’s a likely looking lad,” said Eustace, still staring at the winding sheet. “It would have been a good match. I think he loved her too. Surely no suspicion attaches to him, Thomas?”
“No,” replied Thomas. “His whereabouts are fully accounted for. And I met the boy—he is no monster.”
Eustace reached down and reverently drew back the sheet. “Let us see if she can yet tell us anything before we send her to her final rest.”
CHAPTER 16
Friar Justus was already attending upon the lord of the manor when Thomas arrived in the Great Hall. Sir Mortimer de Bray sat slumped disconsolately in his chair by the fireplace. His health did not look to have improved in the last few days. If anything, he was worse, and Thomas had to wonder whether he would even make it through the audience.
The Dominican seemed oblivious to Sir Mortimer’s discomfort and was already busy hectoring those present in a loud, braying voice.
“Ah, I see your daughter shall be in attendance once more, my lord.” Justus looked pointedly at Lady Cecily standing protectively behind her father. “We shall no doubt benefit from her sage counsel. She is such a clever thing and quite the herbalist, I understand.”
He inclined his head and offered her a wheezy chuckle and one of his best crook-toothed smiles.
“Who could have suspected it of such a pretty creature? You must be so proud, my lord.”
De Bray was too exhausted, too impatient, or just too weak to respond to the Dominican’s none too subtle pandering. Nor did Cecily appear particularly impressed, and she chose to respond with a sweet smile and a little veiled condescension of her own: “I am pleased to be of assistance, Friar. And besides, I am anxious to hear the results of your investigation. I was confident from the outset that an experienced inquisitor such as yourself would have little difficulty finding someone, somewhere, willing to confess to something.”
“As it happens, I am sorry to say that I have uncovered evidence that rather confirms my worst fears.” The Dominican’s hangdog expression and sad shake of the head made his professed disappointment almost believable. Almost. “Father Oswin’s maid strongly believes her master to have been poisoned.”
He reached back to Friar Dominic, snatched a scroll from his outstretched hand, and proceeded to wave it about in the air. “Agnes recounts her observations in detail here in her testimony. There can be no doubt. She is quite specific. And the symptoms she recollects are entirely consistent with poisoning.”
“But that’s preposterous,” spluttered Cecily, her eyes wide with disbelief. “She has mentioned none of this before. Why has she waited until now to make such a ridiculous claim?”
“I cannot say. Perhaps nobody thought to ask. Perhaps people were as happy to believe Oswin died of a heart ailment. As you said, my lady, I am an experienced inquisitor. I bother to ask the questions that need to be asked. The questions others, for whatever reason, sometimes choose to avoid.”
Thomas could contain himself no longer. “I do not believe this testimony,” he announced loudly. “I suspect it far more likely you bullied the poor woman. I am sure you threatened her, and by the time you were done, she would have said anything you wanted.”
“Thomas! I am shocked!” Justus did not look shocked. He looked contemptuous. “Are you suggesting dear Agnes would perjure herself? What a thing to say. It s
eems you accept such blasphemous standards as a matter of course. That is very troubling.”
Justus beckoned once more to Dominic, upon which the silent brother handed him a second scroll.
“No matter. I also have here the testimony of Adam, a cottager who holds half a yardland hereabouts—a respected man of no little substance. On the night of Roger Lacy’s death, Adam recalled … now, what did he say?”
The Dominican made a show of unrolling the parchment and browsing through it, jabbing a finger at the text he wanted to read.
“Ah yes, here it is. And I quote: ‘As I left the tavern I saw that the moon was shot through with streaks of blood, and I heard a strange and most sinister chanting from the general direction of Saint Mary’s Church, and a flapping as of great leathern wings. A cold wind arose, chilling my body and soul, and carrying on it a foul sulfurous odor that assailed my nostrils and did cause my eyes to water. I saw a litter of black cats gathered about the graveyard, staring toward the church, mewling and hissing as if in chorus with some unseen cantor, and I was filled with mortal terror.’ ”
He rolled up the parchment and held it aloft. “There is more, my lord, much more. Adam goes on to tell of a terrible creature—nay, a demon—seemingly half man, half beast, with cloven feet, horns, and a crown of flies on its head, that emerged from the church and proceeded to dance obscenely on the graves, summoning forth the restless spirits of those buried therein.”
De Bray looked as if he were about to be sick and hardly reacted at all to these surprising revelations.
Thomas snorted indignantly. “And Adam also chose not to speak of this terrible vision until now?”
“So now Adam is a liar and perjurer as well? How easy it is for you to slander someone, Thomas. How readily you sully their reputation and accuse them of such a terrible sin. The man did not speak because he was scared and because he feared that nobody would believe him. I cannot say that I am surprised given the recalcitrance I myself have encountered here. He was even reluctant to speak with me at first, and it required all my skill to reassure him and elicit the tale.”
Thomas pointedly ignored the Dominican and addressed himself to the lord of the manor. “There was no poisoning, my lord. There were no demons. What we have here is murder, plain and simple. The time has come for this farce to end. Tell the Dominican this is a secular matter, and send him back to London so we can be rid of these distractions and concentrate on finding our man.”
De Bray turned tiredly to Thomas. “Is it true? The miller was found out to be a murderer and hanged himself, leaving the evidence of his crime at his feet?”
“I believe it more likely he was himself a victim of the murderer. Brother Eustace and I both examined the body, and we agree. His wounds reveal that Tom Attwood was garroted, just as Lacy was, and then strung up to cover the crime. The money was left there to cast suspicion on him. The murderer was trying to hide his tracks, my lord.”
“I fail to see the significance of this supposed finding,” scoffed the Dominican. “If the miller hanged himself and was willing thereby to condemn his soul to hellfire, that is yet another sign that something is rotten in your lands, my lord. And in the alternative, if Lester here is correct and the miller was murdered, then that is even worse. The killer leaves twenty pieces of silver strewn around the hanged man’s feet, mocking the death of the Betrayer, Judas Iscariot, a clearly blasphemous message intended to ridicule the Church and declare his derision even for God.”
Thomas did not feel like pointing out there were not twenty coins, and for that matter, nor were they all silver. He doubted whether the friar would care.
“And what then of the young girl, Margareta?” he asked instead. “How does her death constitute blasphemy? How is it related to the others?”
Let the fanatical bastard make something out of that!
The Dominican mulled the matter over for a while, leaning on his staff. “Ordinarily I might have agreed with you. One local wench more or less would be of little interest to the Holy Inquisition. But given her youth, and in light of what we have already seen here, I think it not beyond question that she was sacrificed to some unholy end.” He shook his head sadly. “A virgin sacrifice. Such offerings are common among invokers of demons and necromancers. Another sure sign that we are indeed plagued by some sort of devilry.”
“A virgin sacrifice?” exclaimed Thomas. “My God, man! Is there no end to your dissembling? The girl’s death was a crime of lust, pure and simple.”
“And how do you know this, Thomas?” responded Justus. “What proofs do you bring us today? What testimony? What witnesses?”
“I have nothing firm as of yet, but my intuition tells me—”
The Dominican hooted loudly.
“Oh, your intuition. Say no more. I am quite convinced. I only come here with years of experience in the investigation of heresy and with signed testimonies.” He brandished the parchments angrily at Thomas. “But I should yield at once to your intuition then. Pardon me for my foolishness. I can see that whereas I have spent the last few days investigating, interviewing witnesses, scrupulously compiling evidence of a most heinous and damning nature, you have been far more productively engaged in honing your intuition. And your intuition has allowed you to divine that all of my work”—he waggled the parchments back and forth again—“all of this is worthless. And what has your intuition yielded us exactly? Where is your killer then?” He looked about him searchingly, to the left and the right. “Did you perhaps leave him outside?”
Thomas spoke though gritted teeth: “There is a vile assassin here, someone who kills without remorse. I do not yet know who he is or why he does these things, but I will. I do know that Roger Lacy was not killed for the coin he carried, and that the miller was a scapegoat, murdered by the same man. I believe Lady Isabella may be able to shed some light on the subject, as Lacy died shortly after visiting her.”
Justus retorted loudly, raising his voice to a half-hissing shout. “Again you offer up no killer, Thomas. Only empty theories, devoid of evidence and full of conjecture, whereas I have made real progress.” Waggle, waggle went the parchments above his head. “These murders are all but a symptom of a greater evil that needs to be unearthed and torn out by the roots. I tell you, this place stinks of heresy and corruption.”
Sir Mortimer had largely been forgotten in the midst of the argument. He now heaved himself up so that he sat straighter in his chair.
“I have heard you both and will now tell you of my decision.”
They both turned to him.
“There have been at least two murders here. Leave aside Lacy for the moment. The girl was murdered in my woods. If Tom Attwood was murdered, as we all now believe to be the case, the deed was done at my mill, not in a church. These are clearly secular matters subject to my own jurisdiction and that of the county sheriff. They suggest to me that Roger Lacy died at the hands of the same man, garroted in the same manner as Attwood, whether he died in church or no. It is my judgment that this is a secular matter now. I see no reason for you to prolong your visit, Friar.”
Thomas breathed a sigh of relief, and Cecily’s eyes glittered in triumph.
“You have heard my father,” she said. “It is time for you to leave, Friar.”
The Dominican’s head snapped to her, a furious look on his face, soon to be supplanted by a sly one.
“By all means, my lord,” he said to De Bray. “Petition the sheriff at once.”
De Bray narrowed his eyes suspiciously, surprised at the concession.
“Now that would be the sheriff of Lincoln, would it not?”
“It would,” Cecily replied on her father’s behalf.
“Yes, I thought as much, given that all hereabouts owe their allegiance to Lady Alice de Lacy. If I recall correctly, the Countess of Lincoln is presently at the pleasure of the king’s royal chamberlain, Lord Despenser.”
Everyone knew that Despenser had imprisoned Lady Alice at the king’s direction and tha
t she was now little more than his puppet. Her tale was tragic enough.
“I shall write to Sir Hugh at once. We have become close, you know. Quite good friends, as it happens.” The Dominican wheezed away. “And I shall naturally inform him of my findings here. I am certain he will speak to the sheriff on our behalf. In fact, I am confident he will come here personally to ensure that proper justice is done. Yes, I rather think he will climb atop the fastest horse he can find and be here with his men in a matter of days.”
De Bray stared in horror. The prospect of that monstrous man visiting his lands, bringing with him his own brand of terror and justice, was undoubtedly appalling to him.
“Or shall I rather have Dominic here write that you have given the Church’s emissary freedom to undertake the task that both the Archbishop of Canterbury and the King of England have entrusted to him?”
De Bray tugged at his beard. Cecily looked at him anxiously and was about to speak when he nodded his acquiescence to the friar, turned his head in shame toward the fire, and began coughing into his hand—a long, whooping cough that seemed to come from deep in his lungs and left him curled over, his hand trembling.
Once the fit had passed, Justus addressed him again.
“Thank you for your consideration, my lord. I was sure I could depend on your continued support. And now I really must insist on speaking with your wife, whether she is ill or no. On that Thomas and I can at least agree, and I am more than willing to conduct the interview in Lady Isabella’s personal chambers if that would be more convenient for her.”
Thomas was not about to let the Dominican speak with Isabella alone, and had plenty of his own questions for the lady. “And I shall accompany you,” he declared in a resolute manner intended to leave no room for discussion.
The Dominican’s eyebrows rose, even more so when Cecily also chose to speak up: “I too should like to hear what Isabella has to say.”
Justus looked from one to the other and then shrugged, as if he couldn’t care less. “By all means, my lady. The more, the merrier. Indeed, does anybody else here wish to attend?” he asked mockingly, pausing to look around, first at Dominic and then at his thug, Guy de Hokenham, who as usual was lurking in the doorway and who now grinned back at his master, thoroughly enjoying the jest. “No? Then let us retire to the lady’s chamber. I am sure we three shall just about be able to squeeze inside.”
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