Those Who Go by Night

by Andrew Gaddes

  Another squeeze. Another sickening exchange of looks, and then they were out the door, Isabella offering no parting words to either Thomas or Cecily.

  * * *

  As soon as the door closed, the Dominican straightened up to his full height and stretched languidly.

  “Oh dear, Thomas,” he scoffed as they walked away, “you acquitted yourself poorly there, very poorly indeed. You really must learn to play the game.”

  “The game? I was not aware this was a game, and I would remind you that you garnered no information at all that would be of use to us.”

  “Did I not? I think perhaps your intuition is in need of further sharpening. I do believe the good lady shall come to me soon enough, and I shall know what she knows. Yes, she will open up to me like a flower in bloom on a sunny day.”

  They took another few paces toward the stairs, the one fuming, the other smug and self-satisfied, Cecily following along with a slightly bemused look on her face.

  “Now that I have had time to ponder the matter, Thomas, I recall that I met your father. I was surprised to have heard him spoken of as a great knight. If that had once been so, I am afraid the man I saw was a mere shadow of his former self. Thin, drawn, haggard. Why, there was more of a corpse about him than a man.”

  The Dominican shook his head sadly.

  “Ah, but God’s punishment can be severe. ‘How are the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished!’ I trust you recall that verse from your scriptures, Thomas.”

  Thomas knew full well he was being goaded and did not for a moment buy the pretense of empathy. He too remembered his father’s appearance in those last few days. To him, his father had always been invincible. He could not marry the image of the man he knew to the skeletal creature that lay in its own filth on the straw of that cell. It was said that he had not been tortured, that the king would not condone it, that it was against the common law. But nobody who saw him could have doubted it.

  Justus was not yet done with his taunting. “He was in a most pitiable state. Or at least he might have seemed so had I not known of his heresies, of the terrible sins he had committed.”

  They had stopped short of the narrow staircase leading down to the Great Hall.

  “I had mentioned that I read your father’s deposition. The truth is that I actually transcribed much of it myself.”

  Thomas listened in silence, his gut clenching.

  “Oh, how he talked, Thomas. Once we had shown him the iron, of course. A taste was all it took. I must confess, I had expected more from him, but that is so often the case. Those who profess to be the strongest are found out to have soft insides, their pretense of bravery a mere facade, nothing more than braggadocio. His bowels turned to water almost at once. And once he had begun to confess his sins, the words came tumbling out in such a rush, I could barely keep up.”

  He chuckled, shaking his head in wonder.

  “Only imagine it, Thomas. There I was, scratching away with my quill like a madman, wearing the thing out, transcribing sheet after sheet of vellum, being most careful to capture every terrible word, every terrible deed confessed. And the list of heresies that came out of his mouth, Thomas. It was remarkable, truly remarkable. I felt ashamed just hearing of the things he had done. Ashamed and fascinated both. Why there were tales of three-faced gods being worshipped, desecration of the sacraments, denial of Christ, sodomy—both young girls and boys. There were other sins that I cannot even bring myself to repeat here. And naturally he wanted to confess all in great detail. He did not have long to live by then, you see.”

  Thomas’s face was dark with anger, and just as had happened in the garden, he felt a firm restraining hand on his arm; from the corner of his eye, he could see Cecily regarding him with an anxious expression.

  “You look as if you are upset, Thomas. Have I said something amiss? Why you almost look like you wish to strike me. Do you, Thomas? Do you wish to strike a servant of God, a representative of the Holy See, an emissary of the Archbishop of Canterbury? I am confident that the repercussions of such an act would be swift.”

  Justus thrust his face forward, nose to nose, close enough for Thomas to believe he could see the mad fanatical gleam lurking behind his eyes, and for a long moment neither of them said anything. Then the Dominican shrugged and smiled complacently. “No, I had thought not.”

  “There will be a special place in hell for you, Friar—of that I am sure,” said Thomas in a ground-down whisper.

  “For me?” exclaimed Justus, bemused. “Oh no, I do God’s work, Thomas. I am confident I shall find myself in paradise.”

  “Have your jest. You too will be judged, all the more so for denigrating the memory of a good man.”

  “A good man you say? I am afraid your memory of your father is distorted. Perhaps that is to be expected of a dutiful son. And I assure you that I take this all very seriously. I never jest. And sooner or later, I shall have my way here.”

  “Shall you?”

  “Oh yes. And why? Because God is on my side, Thomas, and as the Good Book says: ‘If God is for us, who is against us?’ You would do well to remember that verse as well, Thomas. You will find it in Paul’s letters to the Romans.”

  Having said his piece, Justus stalked off, taking his staff from where he had left it leaning against the wall by the stairwell.

  Thomas waited until he was sure the Dominican had left and then grasped Cecily’s elbow, drawing her back from the stairs.

  “Are you mad, woman? Your aunt tucked away in the woods while an inquisitor sniffs around? Have you any idea what would happen were he to find her?”

  Cecily looked down at his hand, shocked at the familiarity. “I do not care to be spoken to in such a manner. And in any case, it is not as if I knew he was coming. And even if I had, what would you have me do? Abandon my kin to a mad Irish bishop? It is no more dangerous for her here, and far less so than it was in Ireland.”

  Thomas drew her farther aside into a small alcove lit by the dusky light from an arrow slit window.

  “But what of the dangers? Do you not think of the danger to which you expose yourself? To which you expose Hunydd?”

  “Hunydd is helping us of her own free will.”

  “Her own free will? She is carrying messages to please her mistress. And she may not fully understand the peril. She is a simple maid and will have no protection should your web of deceit unravel. Hers is exactly the kind of artless soul that the Inquisition preys upon. Nor can you seriously expect to rely on her discretion.”

  “I think you underestimate her. How very like a man to assume that every woman must be a gossiping fishwife. Hunydd understands more than you know. She is perfectly capable of being discreet and is fiercely loyal to me. I trust her above all others.”

  “You are abusing her loyalty, Cecily.”

  She held his eyes stubbornly for a moment and then looked away.

  “I think you are mistaken. But I understand your concerns, and I shall consider them. Perhaps I am exposing her selfishly. I would not wish her to come to any harm on my account.”

  She touched his arm lightly with her fingers. Just the slightest touch, almost no weight to it, and yet a shock surged through his body as though he had been struck by lightning.

  “Thomas, can I count on your discretion?”

  “Of course,” he growled.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I am very grateful. I know you are doing what you can.”

  They were already speaking in low tones so as not to be overheard, but she now lowered her voice even further, barely above a whisper.

  “I am glad we have a moment alone.”

  She leaned in close, her hand still resting on his arm. Had anyone passed by, which seemed unlikely unless Isabella were to emerge from her room, they might have been suspected of a tryst. Thomas supposed there were worse things of which to be accused.

  “There is a madness in England these days, Thomas. Friar Justus is merely a symptom of a greater sickness.
I know you too can feel it. Good people live in fear, especially us womenfolk. Our lot is poor even at the best of times.” She smiled wryly. “But those of us who are wealthy must now fear the king stealing our lands and marrying us off to whomever offers him coin to fill his war chest. That terrible man, Despenser, got his wife that way, and his wealth with her. Did you know Eleanor de Clare was forced by her grandfather to marry Despenser to settle a debt of two thousand marks? Sold for money, like a piece of land or a prized beast. And when her brother died, Despenser inherited everything through her. And thus a landless knight became one of the most powerful men in the kingdom through no merit of his own and through ownership of the lands that rightly belong to his wife. Do you think that fair?”

  Thomas did not. It was not. But it was both custom and the law of the land.

  “He has used his favor with the king to steal yet more properties from her family. He preys upon us women especially. I have heard he cheated Elizabeth de Clare, his own sister-in-law, out of Gower and Usk. He imprisoned Lady Baret and tortured her, you know, breaking both her arms and legs until the poor woman went completely mad. And it is well known the king imprisoned Alice de Lacy, the richest woman in England, and forced her to yield a great portion of her lands to Despenser. Can anyone doubt that she is still within their power? Can you imagine what she must have endured? What she must still be enduring?

  “Nor is this the first time she has been imprisoned. The Earl of Surrey also abducted her seven years ago in an effort to steal her lands. What has she ever done other than become a wealthy woman who owned land coveted by another? And yet she has become little more than a plaything tossed from man to man. I shall not let that be my fate!”

  Thomas saw that look of determination in her eyes, a look that was now becoming familiar to him.

  “There is worse yet. I have heard an even more shocking tale. It is said that not only did Despenser encourage the king to confiscate the queen’s properties, but that he also”—she paused here—“that he also ravished her and that the king has done nothing about it, frankly preferring Despenser’s company to her own.”

  Thomas had heard the rumor. It was also said that in return Despenser encouraged the king to enjoy the company of his own wife. Thomas found it hard to credit such scurrilous stories and suspected them to be manufactured and circulated by the king’s enemies. He did not believe the king would accept such an affront to the mother of his heir. It was true, however, that almost no woman in England was safe from Despenser, high- or lowborn, and that there was no crime to which he would not stoop to satisfy his greed and lust. Rape, robbery, theft, piracy, and murder—he had been accused of them all from time to time, and likely with good reason.

  Cecily had more to say. “The king turns a blind eye to Despenser’s deeds and leaves him completely unchecked. Did you know his arrogance and power have grown to such an extent that he was heard to say he only regretted that he could not command the wind itself?”

  Thomas did not need to be persuaded. Despenser was an evil man and would bring despair to the kingdom; of that he had no doubt.

  Cecily lowered her voice even further, whispering now.

  “I have also heard of miracles being observed at the Earl of Lancaster’s tomb and at the gallows in Bristol. I am sure you have heard of them as well. Wonderful things. Lepers healed. Lame men who begin to walk again. Blind men made to see. Angels. Sure signs that God sides with the rebels and wants this king gone.”

  Thomas rolled his eyes.

  “You do not believe in these miracles?”

  “Who am I to say? I think, however, that sometimes people see what they want to see, and they hear what they want to hear, all so they can believe what they want to believe.”

  She glared at him angrily, disappointed that he did not display greater faith in what she considered to be clearly favorable portends.

  “Then you should consider that we are at war, and Edward is not a capable military leader. He has proven so time and again in Scotland, where he was beaten by Bruce, and in France also, where you yourself said his forces were unprepared and easily scattered. He will bring us to ruin. The true military men who can defend our interests are entirely on the wrong side of this conflict. Mortimer, for one, proved himself a great leader in Ireland. He defeated the Scots there.”

  “And yet for all that, the king defeated the rebel army at Boroughbridge,” Thomas reminded her.

  “Only because he tricked Lancaster.”

  “Is not trickery itself a skill? What discerns trickery from tactics or strategy?”

  Thomas was about to add something very clever from Livy’s writings about how Hannibal had tricked the Romans at the battle of Trasimene and then again at the battle of Cannae. It crossed his mind that he might also mention the sly ruse employed by Epaminondas to defeat the Spartans. Then he remembered how the Bishop of Lincoln had mocked him, predicting that he and Cecily would engage in jousting displays of erudition, and he chose not to mention any of it.

  Cecily pursed her lips in annoyance at his obstinacy. He couldn’t help but notice she looked decidedly attractive that way.

  She looked toward Isabella’s chamber and then the other way to the stairs, making sure they were still alone.

  “There are those of us who would yet aid the rebels and see an end to Edward and his favorites. We suffered a defeat at Boroughbridge, but the rebellion is alive and well, especially now Mortimer is free again. And I think the king misjudges his queen. I do not think Isabella is one to sit idly by and allow herself to be abused so.”

  Cecily licked her lips, deciding how much to reveal. Thomas watched her pink tongue and the lips it touched. He was watching them still when she spoke again.

  “There is a man—John of Nottingham—who is willing to help.”

  “He will help how?” asked Thomas.

  “He knows things. He has … certain skills. Unusual skills.”

  Thomas’s mouth sagged open. and he stared at her in dismay.

  “Good God, woman, you cannot seriously be suggesting employing the services of a sorcerer.”

  “I only say we are considering it, Thomas. We. I am not alone. There are not so many of us now, perhaps, but we are growing in number every day. And among us are powerful people, Thomas. I cannot say who, unless of course you were to join us.”

  “Join you? I am here because the Bishop of Lincoln abhors exactly the sort of thing you are apparently now considering.”

  “And what would you have us do? Sit on our hands as the king and his hound plunder the countryside? My father believes in you, Thomas. I know he has his weaknesses, especially now, but he recognizes quality in others. Your own father was a great man regardless of the lies the Dominican tells about him. Could you be less than him? You are a knight’s son, Thomas. I do not think you can abjure what is happening in England any more than I.”

  “I know, I know,” he laughed, deciding to repeat Bishop Henry’s witty jape. “ ‘One’s arse gets sore straddling the fence for too long.’ ”

  Cecily frowned up at him, a look of absolute confusion on her face. It seemed she did not appreciate the jest.

  Bloody Bishop Henry.

  “I understand your frustration, Cecily. But to turn—” He paused, realizing suddenly that they had begun speaking louder, and he pulled her deeper into the shadows. “But to turn to a magician,” he said in a whisper. “This is true madness.”

  It was then that she chose to reach up on her tiptoes and kiss him fully on the mouth. It was a good kiss. Her lips were warm and soft. As surprised as he was, he returned their pressure, and for a blissful moment he forgot all his worries. Heretics. Rebels. Fanatical friars. Bishops. Kings. For a moment none of them mattered. All that mattered is that he was there with Cecily and she was kissing him, and he her. And he could feel her in his arms and smell a dizzying scent of nutmeg and cloves. And then it was over.

  “Think about what I have said, Thomas,” she said, slightly breathless. “My
father was right, we need a man like you. I need a man like you.”

  Her hand lingered on his arm for another wonderful moment, and then she walked away, tossing a coy glance at him over her shoulder, leaving him stunned and breathless, his heart racing and his mind whirling about in a maelstrom of emotions.

  CHAPTER 18

  Thomas’s thoughts were still scattered as he rode away from the manor. Far from having reached any useful conclusions, things only seemed to be getting more and more complicated: a brutal murderer on the loose; a mad Dominican friar set on finding and expunging heresy, whether it was there or not; a convicted witch hiding out in the woods; her niece, a rebel sympathizer, about to employ the services of a magician to kill the king’s favorite or maybe even the king himself. Could things really be any worse?

  Thomas heaved a disappointed sigh. Secrets were strung all over the manor and village like the gossamer strands of some great spider’s web, and he was no closer to a resolution of the task at hand than when he had begun. The audience with Lady Isabella had been an unmitigated disaster. She had proven completely unhelpful, avoiding all his questions, and he had been unable to press her thanks to the Dominican. Why would she not speak to him? What was it she knew or thought she knew? Was it even possible she was in some way involved? Thomas could not believe—did not wish to believe—that could be the case, but he was certain she was hiding something important under her veil of vapidity.

  Time was running out. He must speak with her again, but alone, when the friar would be unable to shield her. And if Lady Isabella had nothing to add, he was going to need some help, and he had an idea of where he might get it.

  Thomas felt the breeze whipping about his face as he spurred his horse to a gallop.

  And what was he supposed to make of Cecily’s kiss? Did it mean what he thought it meant, or was that just wishful thinking on his part? Was it possible she was merely playing him, using him in her little campaign the way she planned to use John of Nottingham?

  His first impression of Cecily had been poor, but perhaps he had misjudged her, as she had him. She also happened to be beautiful. That helped. Could there really be anything between them? He was the son of a knight but depended on the bishop for a living. Of course, he was now the proud owner of an additional one hundred acres of prime Lincoln soil, a strange and unexpected gift. His eyes popped wide as he suddenly remembered Bishop Henry’s sly words about Cecily and the secret missive from him that De Bray held so close. Could De Bray have been plotting with Bishop Henry all along? Had the two of them planned to throw Thomas and Cecily together from the start?