The chaplain’s quarters were meager indeed, as austere as the chapel itself. There were few furnishings inside: a cot with a thin mattress, covered in blankets that were neatly tucked and stretched firm; a shelf and a humble wooden cross on the wall; a traveling trunk; a milking stool with a bible sat atop; and a small rush mat covering the floor by the side of the bed. The walls were whitewashed plaster and the floor flagged stone. It had to be a cold and uncomfortable room come winter.
There was only one thing here he saw that could be of interest. He eased open the lid of the trunk. There was not much to see in there either: spare bedding, changes of clothes, a book or two. He lowered the lid and looked about him. He had heard the distinct scraping of furniture over wood before he had run into Isabella. She could have been sitting on the stool, he supposed, and have risen when she heard him. No, that would not have made such a sound. He tried the trunk. It was heavier than he had expected, much heavier, and when he dragged it to the side, it made the same scraping sound he had heard.
Kneeling down Thomas could see that one of the stone flags had been disturbed. He traced the edges with his fingertip and reached into his boot for the small knife he carried there. It was not much more than a fletching knife, really, but the blade was tempered steel and slid nicely into the crack. With it he was able to raise the flag just enough to reach beneath with the tips of his fingers and lift it up.
A small compartment had been carved out beneath the stone. The sides and floor were perfectly square and level, betraying an obsessive mind. Inside was a knife, much larger and much uglier than his own. There were also two small sacks, one filled to bursting with coin, the other with jewelry—brooches, rings, buckles, and one very ugly necklace. Neither interested him so much as the leather pouch. He picked it up, unstrung the tie and unfolded the pouch on the floor. Secured to the leather by strips of thread were a dozen neatly arranged locks of hair. The last one caught Thomas’s eyes at once. Red. The same red as that of Margareta, the girl he had found in the woods. Next to it was a lock of almost golden hair. Another rare shade, and one he had only recently seen.
Twelve locks of hair. Twelve mementos for the sick man that left them here.
Thomas suddenly felt ill. He had been completely fooled, completely taken in. How could he have been so blind? He recalled the simpering face, the feigned humility, the pretense of horror and distress at the miller’s death. How Elyas must have laughed at them all, even the miller’s wife as he pretended to comfort her. Here was the monster of which Alice had spoken, hidden in plain sight exactly as she had said he would be.
Thomas’s stomach lurched, and he covered his mouth with the back of his hand until the feeling of nausea passed.
He closed the pouch and replaced it. Then he reached for the only other thing in the compartment—several sheaves of neatly folded parchment tied with a slender blue ribbon. He unfolded the papers, drew them closer to the light from the door, and began reading the words scrawled across the vellum in an almost childlike script. And everything became clear. Everything fell into place.
He replaced the stone flag and trunk as he had found them and walked out of the chapel, across the courtyard, and into the Great Hall. Cecily came running up to him in a flurry of green skirts held up in her hands to reveal the white stockings and velvet shoes beneath. He could tell from her face that she was frantic.
“Thomas, I am in trouble! We are all in trouble!” she said breathlessly.
Thomas gripped Cecily’s shoulders as she tried to catch her breath.
“Tell me. It cannot be more shocking than what I have to tell you.”
“Isabella has told the Dominican about Alice. Well, not about her, I think, but enough. He knows that Hunydd visits the forest at night, and I am sure he will have followed her. I sent her out again earlier. You were right—I should not have done so, and now I have put us all in danger.”
The words tumbled out in a rush, chasing one another so as to be almost insensible. Cecily grasped his hand. “Do you not understand, Thomas? I sent Hunydd to Alice, and I believe the Dominican will have followed. Isabella has told him all she knows—all she suspects. What if he has found Alice? What if Hunydd tells him?”
Thomas passed his hand across his brow. Things were coming together quickly. Strangely enough, even though disaster was in the air, he felt calm, perhaps even calmer now that the crisis had finally arrived.
Thomas briefly explained what he had uncovered in the chaplain’s cell, only leaving out the details about the letters now tucked into his breast pocket. Cecily did not need to know about those. In truth, he did not know himself what to do with them, but he could figure that mess out after they had dealt with this one.
Cecily looked at him aghast but then, to her credit, took it in stride. “I shall have the guards seize him at once. He cannot be far.”
As Thomas turned to leave, she caught his arm. “Thomas, be careful. I do not like the look of the man the Dominican has with him. That Guy de Hokenham, I think he calls himself. There is something … not right about him. He looks dangerous.”
Thomas nodded and then he was running out the door, calling back over his shoulder for her to send for the constable.
Thomas was afraid, and fear gave energy to his actions. As he ran for his horse, his mind was already racing ahead. What if he were too late? And even if he were not, what could he hope to achieve? He doubted the night could end well.
* * *
Guy of Hokenham smiled. It was a wide smile, and even by the dirty light from the saucer lamp, Hunydd could see all his cracked and yellowed teeth.
“I cannot understand why all those fools moon about over your mistress. If they’d only open their eyes, they’d see there’s a far tastier morsel right under their noses.”
The tip of Guy’s tongue darted out over his lips. It reminded Hunydd of a snake she had once seen slithering through the grass.
“Yes,” he said, his eyes sliding over her from head to toe, “a much sweeter dish by far.”
Hunydd was sitting on a crude bench in the abandoned hut at the edge of the forest that she passed by each night on her way to visit Alice. She thought about making a dash for the door, but Guy would catch her easily, and then he would hurt her. He’d already hurt her. When he had snatched her outside the village, he’d been really rough. His hands had pinched and groped. And he had deliberately torn her dress. That made her mad. It was her best kirtle, the one she liked to wear when she visited Dame Alice. She didn’t even know what they had done with the pretty cloak her mistress had given her. Lady Cecily was sure to be angry with her for losing it. A tear trickled down Hunydd’s cheek.
Guy dragged a stool over and sat down in front of her, close enough for Hunydd to smell his fetid breath.
“You like that Lester, don’t you?”
Hunydd clutched the torn kirtle to her chest.
“Don’t go fooling yourself, girl. He’s not interested in some cottar’s daughter. He’ll be wanting to find himself a rich wife with a nice fat dowry, not a simple maid without a penny to her name.”
His tongue flicked out again, licking his already wet lips.
“Why’d you want a pretty boy like that anyway? What you need is a real man. Someone who’d appreciate you and treat you right.”
His voice was thick and raspy.
“That old friar is going to try you for a witch, you know.”
“A–A witch. Why would he say I am a witch?”
“Silly girl,” chuckled Guy, genuinely amused at her naivety. “Don’t you even know who it is you’ve been visiting with? And by the time he’s done with you, you’ll confess to whatever he wants. I’m no angel, but the friar, he likes to hurt people. I’ve seen it in his eyes.”
Guy leaned forward on his stool.
“Oh, he’ll start nice enough. He’ll ask you questions and be all friendly like. But then, even if you tell him what he wants to hear, he’ll get nasty. He’ll tie your hands together behind your back
and haul them up in the air above your head. I’ve seen them do it. It’ll hurt like a bastard and near pull your arms out of their sockets. And he’ll just leave you hanging like that for a while. Give you a little time to yourself to think on things.
“Then he’ll come back and strip you naked as the day you was born. And he’ll ask you more questions. And it won’t matter none to him what you say, he’ll take the lash to you anyway. He’ll lash you six times, and you’ll think he’s done. But then he’ll give you six more, and then six more, till your back’s all cut up and sliced.
“That’s about the time when you’ll tell him how you and that witch cavorted about naked with each other, how you pissed on the cross, and how you summoned demons so you could both lie with them. You might not think you’ll say those things, but you will. Just like Kyteler’s maid told that bishop in Ireland exactly what he wanted to hear. You’ll even tell him how you poisoned the old vicar and killed Roger Lacy, leaving him lying across the altar to show how much you hate God.”
“I won’t tell him that,” she half-shouted, half-sobbed. “I won’t, because I didn’t do any of that.”
Guy shrugged.
“Maybe you did and maybe you didn’t. It don’t matter none. He’ll whip the story out of you either way. Then he’ll take you down, and you’ll think he’s done with you, and you’ll be so happy you’ll cry. But he isn’t done with you. No, not nearly. Next, he’ll straddle you over a wooden plank with bags of flour tied to your ankles and your hands still bound behind your back, and he’ll leave you like that. After a while, it’ll hurt so much you’ll think you’re going to split in two. You’ll be screaming for him to come back, and when he does, he’ll make you tell him everything all over again. And you will. Only you won’t be able to remember all the lies you told him last time, so you’ll make up some new ones. You’ll tell him about even more wicked things you did, because you think that’s what he wants to hear. And you’ll tell him how you repent of all you’ve done and beg for forgiveness.
“But he’s still not done. You’ll think it can’t hurt any worse, but you’d be wrong. Because next, he’ll heat up some irons in the fire till they glow a nice cherry-red, and he’ll place them on your back, on your legs, on your stomach. Aye, he’ll even put them on your tits. And he’s got other toys he’ll want to use on you as well. I’ve seen them in his baggage. And they’ll hurt even more than what he’s already done.
“By now all you’ll want is for it to end. You’ll say anything he tells you to, and put your mark on anything he gives you.
“And then they’ll tie you to a stake and you’ll burn. But before you do, the old friar will be sure to tell you how he’s saved your soul. And tell you how you ought to be grateful to him.
“You might not believe what I’m telling you, girl, but that’s exactly what happened to Kyteler’s maid. The one she left behind to die in her place. She’ll leave you behind too; you see if she don’t.”
Hunydd was staring at him, her eyes round and wet. She knew what he was saying was a lie. It had to be. But all of a sudden she was terrified, and she felt very alone.
“Of course, it doesn’t have to be like that for you. If you were to be nice to me, I could speak to the friar. We’re close, you see, him and me. He needs me. If I were to ask him, he’d go easy on you. I could tell him as how you’d cooperate. And you could tell him about all the wicked things that Irish woman and your mistress have got up to in the forest. You might have to lay it on a little thick, but it’s your mistress he really wants, and better her than you, I say. Maybe we could give him another name or two, just to be safe. Someone you’re none too fond of, or some daft old bat from the village nobody would miss much.
“Who knows, with me speaking up for you, he might let you go. He might even give you a reward.”
Guy leaned even closer and winked. “And all you got to do is be nice to me. Just do what I tell you. So, what do you say, my pretty, are you going to play nice?”
And that’s when Hunydd spat full in his face.
For a moment he was too stunned to move. Then he grabbed Hunydd’s arm and pulled her roughly to her feet. She tried to pull away from him, but his hand gripped her wrist tightly, crushing and painful.
“Let me go,” she squealed, pushing at him with one hand and holding up her kirtle with the other.
“I’m going to forget you did that, seeing as how you’ve had a rough night. But you won’t be doing it again.”
He pinned her arms to her side and pulled her close so she could hardly move at all.
“There’s no need for this to be unpleasant. If you do right by me, I’ll make sure you like it. And once you’ve seen what I have to offer, you’ll come around to my way of thinking soon enough. You’ll forget all about your pretty boy.”
She squealed through pursed lips as his tongue slithered out over her mouth and then licked her slowly from jaw to ear, leaving a sticky mess of saliva wherever it touched.
Guy laughed out loud. “That’s the spirit, little one. I think we’ve had enough petting now, though. You’ll bend to me girl, one way or another. I’ll break your will, or I’ll break you in half.”
* * *
Thomas had just hobbled his horse near the old assart where he, John, and Will had held their strange midnight vigil, and was about to launch into the trees to find the track that would take him to Alice’s cottage when he heard a muffled cry of anguish and fear from inside the hut. He did not stop to think, but ran toward it and burst through the door, hard enough that it bounced off the wall and slammed shut behind him.
Hunydd was on the floor, her kirtle torn halfway down her back. She scuttled into a corner, where she huddled like a beaten animal, clutching her ragged clothes about her.
Guy whirled around, hunched over and snarling like a wolf defending its kill. When he saw Thomas was alone, he uncoiled his body and drew himself up to his full lanky height.
“Where’s the big man, then?”
When Thomas did not answer, Guy flashed a broad, crack-toothed grin. He was calm, unconcerned, his thumb idly rubbing the hilt of his knife.
“All alone tonight, eh? Best be on your way, cully. I’ve cut down men twice your size.”
Thomas did not doubt it. The man was not large, but wiry, all sinew and muscle. He was likely quick and knew how to kill. Killing for most men did not come naturally. To this one it did. It did not matter how big you were, a knife across a tendon would cripple you, and a sharp blade to a vital point would end you. Being larger just meant you fell heavier in the end.
Guy slipped the knife halfway from its sheath, letting the blade rasp against the leather. “You’d be wise to bugger off now while you still can. This here’s none of your business. Playing the hero will only get you dead.”
Thomas was breathing heavily. He glanced at Hunydd, saw the frightened expression on her face, and set his feet.
Guy’s laugh was full of scorn. “Think you can match with me, boy? That’s funny.”
He drew his knife slowly, menacingly. It was a wicked blade, a huntsman’s knife. Guy tested the edge with his thumb and looked up at Thomas from the narrowed slits of his eyes.
“This here’s the knife I use for nights like this. On other nights I have a nice thin rodello. Sticker, I call it. That one’s good for when you come up behind a fellow. Nice and clean. Just a quick thrust to the heart or liver.”
He jabbed forward, pantomiming a back stab.
“It’s over real quick. No mess, no fuss. No cleaning up afterward. This one, though,” he said, holding his knife up to the light, “this one I call Slasher. It makes a real mess when it cuts. The blade slices through a man’s skin and muscle like it isn’t even there. I keep the edge real sharp, too sharp to shave with. Just a touch and you’ll bleed like a butchered swine.”
Thomas edged to the side, trying to draw Guy farther away from Hunydd.
“Sticker. Slasher,” he mocked. “Those are names a child would come up with. What d
o you call yourself? Gabbler?”
“Oh, so you’re a funny man, Lester. You won’t be so funny when you’re bleeding all over the floor. Maybe I’ll give you a nice smile, though, all the way from one ear to the other.”
Guy dropped low into a knife fighter’s stance. “Last chance, boy.”
Hunydd’s eyes widened, and she flung herself at him.
“No, don’t hurt him,” she shrieked, clutching at the hand that held the knife. “Please!”
Guy was fast. He spun around, backhanded her, and shoved her hard against the wall, where she crumpled to the ground in a heap.
Thomas could feel the old anger welling up inside him. He’d kept a lid on it for a long time. No longer.
Had Guy not been the victor of so many back-alley brawls and knife fights, he might have been a little less confident. He might then have wondered why Thomas was unafraid. He might have noticed that he stood perfectly balanced, his muscles relaxed, his feet spread to bear his weight evenly so that he could easily spring in any direction. And he might even have realized he was not facing a drunken lout this time, or some unsuspecting victim, but a trained fighter.
Thomas was no farmer. Truly he was poor at it. Things did not seem to want to grow for him. Bishop Henry had once jokingly told him that he had what some folk called a brown thumb. No, Thomas was no farmer; he was and always had been a soldier. At times he had fooled himself into believing he could be something else and that perhaps the darkness would not follow him if he were a man of peace, surrounded by nature, making things grow. Or even a man of business, growing a nice healthy profit. But now that he stood facing Guy, all the things he thought to have forgotten came back to him.
As it happens, the fight did not last long at all. Guy came on in a rush. He knew that speed was the key to victory. The first cut was often the decisive one. He lunged and slashed, sweeping the knife from left to right, using short, wicked strokes as experienced knife fighters do. Just one cut, that was all he needed. Blue light flashed along the blade as it sliced and danced back and forth. Thomas backed away slowly, ducking from side to side, letting Guy advance toward him, and then, seeing his moment, with instinct more than thought, he sprang, caught Guy’s wrist, and wrenched it forward.
Those Who Go by Night Page 23