The Valcourt Heiress

by Catherine Coulter

  And you surely failed me as well.

  Burnell was tapping his fingertips on the table. “I saw that Sir Lyle was distraught when he heard you telling me of the attack on you and Merry. I saw his anger, his confusion.”

  “Aye, I saw it too when he first came with Aleric right after the attack.” Garron looked over at Sir Lyle. He was sitting at a newly made trestle table, hunkered down next to his three men, a roasted pheasant leg in his hand. He said, “I saw Sir Lyle speak to his man Solan, and the man disappeared. When I asked Sir Lyle about Solan, he told me Solan suffered from belly cramps. He looks fit enough now.” He paused a moment, chewed on a hunk of brown bread, tasty it was, slathered with rich butter. “Merry distrusts him.”

  Burnell said, “The priest’s bastard? She distrusts a knight?”

  “Aye, she does.”

  “She is making up tales, exaggerating. I mean, just look at all that red hair.”

  Garron called out, “Sir Lyle, attend me!”

  When Sir Lyle stood quietly beside him, Garron asked him, “Where did your man Solan go today?”

  “Solan? Do you not remember asking me that before, my lord? Do you not remember I told you that his belly pained him? I had warned him, but he wouldn’t stop eating the winterberries. I sent him to lie down under a tree. He is himself again. He, like I, like all my men, is much disturbed by the murder of the two prisoners. He does not know who it could be.” Garron watched Lyle look briefly toward Merry, who sat silently next to Elaine and her sons. There was no expression on his face, but his eyes—they were filled with suspicion and something else. What was it? He didn’t know. What was he thinking? Merry was nothing to him, nothing at all.

  Sir Lyle turned back to him. He was smacking his fist against his open palm, once, twice, three times. “And now the two assassins were garroted right here at Wareham—by all black hearts that roam the land, my lord, it is difficult to accept that there is a traitor here, within Wareham’s very walls, someone disloyal to you. If you wish, I will join Aleric and Pali and question all the new workers who came from Winthorpe back to Wareham with us. I am hopeful one of them is the traitor.”

  Garron nodded. He had to face the fact that there were a great many people now within Wareham’s walls he did not know. And the twenty men who’d come back with them? It made the most sense. “Question them, Sir Lyle.”

  “Aye, my lord. But I do not understand how the murderer got himself into the granary to kill the two men.”

  Garron said, “There are two keys. Aleric had one, I had the other. When we went to the granary, he could not find his key. He believes it was taken from his jerkin.”

  “He has no idea who would have taken it from him?”

  Garron shook his head. “He is speaking to Pali, Hobbs, and Gilpin. I am hoping that one of them saw something. He is furious, both with himself and with the traitor. I have also asked Tupper and Miggins to canvass all our people while you and Aleric are questioning all the new men.”

  “Aleric’s carelessness could lead to your death, my lord.”

  “Aye, that is so,” Burnell said. “We must find out the man’s identity, else I will return to my blessed king with a black wart on my conscience.”

  Garron said to Sir Lyle, “I wish you to speak to your men as well, see if they witnessed anyone going to the granary, if they have heard anything suspicious.”

  Sir Lyle gave him a short bow, turned on his booted heel, and strode back to his table. Garron saw that Merry was watching every step he took.

  Garron and Burnell drank in silence from the new mugs Merry had purchased in Winthorpe from a miserly old woman who, truth be told, had outmaneuvered her. The ale was rich and ripe, and Burnell continued to drink, staring down into his mug, that magnificent brain of his sifting facts, considering possibilities. He said to Garron, “I don’t like this at all. No man’s face comes to my mind.”

  He emptied his mug. Garron was surprised, for he knew Burnell rarely drank.

  Burnell saw his surprise. “My head is harder than the writing calluses on my fingers, but you are right, my lord, I am succumbing to a weak man’s crutch. It is not assisting my thoughts to reveal themselves in a logical manner. I do hope Sir Lyle is not the villain. If he is, it is possible my dear king will have me beheaded for my blindness. I deserve any punishment he wishes to mete out.” He paused a moment. “Our executioner, Dalfo, can see great distances, his eyes sharp as a hawk on the wing, but up close, looking down at a man’s neck, he told me all is a blur, a good thing, withal, since a man’s neck has buckets of blood and gore in it. Still, he admitted there are drawbacks, since often it requires him to swing his axe several times to detach a man’s head from his neck. If it is to be my own neck on the block, I might grab the axe from him and cut off my own head.”

  Burnell shuddered. “I need more ale, to quiet my mind from these awful visions.” He poured from the ale flagon into his mug. He immediately set the mug away from him. “Nay, I must determine who is the traitor within Wareham’s walls. Hmmm. I believe my brain is too sodden to wring itself out. Tell me again what happened.”

  20

  Garron picked up his knife, tested the sharpness of its tip. He said, as he looked at the small drop of blood that appeared on his fingertip, “The attack came quickly. There was not that much time to plan it. The three men who attacked me and Merry weren’t efficient. Merry saved herself, as I told you.”

  “A fortunate accident for the girl, nothing more,” Burnell said. “Ah, Arthur’s silver coins, it teases my brain, it always comes back to the silver coins, and this Black Demon.”

  Burnell set down his mug, sighed, and sniffed at the newly cut wood that made up three more trestle tables and benches, raw and fresh in the air. It was a smell he remembered from childhood, a smell that brought to mind his mother, and her broom, and why was that? He drank again.

  Merry marched up to the trestle table where the two men sat. “Sir,” she said to Burnell, “you will have a real bed to sleep in tonight.”

  “That is good,” Burnell said, and gave her a brooding look.

  She looked down at the chancellor’s empty mug, at the near empty flagon beside that mug. “I will find you an infusion to chase the Devil from your head when you awaken tomorrow morning.”

  Burnell thought about that a moment, and nodded. “Mayhap it is not a bad thing you can read. Garron told me about his purchase of the Leech Book of Bald. I would like to see it,” and he poured the remainder of the ale from the flagon into his mug and drank deep. He looked up again at the young girl, standing not a foot from him, her hands on her hips, disapproval coming off her in waves. He said to Garron, never taking his eyes off her, “She offers me a healer’s potion, all kindness she is, but I wager she really believes we are both lackwits since we cannot determine who murdered your prisoners, and betrayed you to the Black Demon. Aye, she believes we are pitiful drunkards. This is not right, Garron. She is only a priest’s get, a holy brother who suffered a momentary loss of virtue and look what happened. No, this is not right. You will do something.”

  Garron wanted to laugh, but instead he looked at her over the rim of his mug. Burnell was right. She looked disapproving as an abbess, a look that didn’t suit her at all, and so he poured oil on the coals. He cocked an eyebrow, waving her away. “She is just a woman, sir, ignore her.”

  Just a woman? “The wine has drowned your memory, my lord. I brought down a man all by myself, not a bit of assistance from you. You said I was a warrior. You said I was a hero. Listen to me, the two of you should be planning how to discover the traitor who sits here in the great hall, eating our food and laughing at us behind his hand.”

  Garron knew she wanted to shout her distrust of Sir Lyle to Burnell, her thoughts were so clear on her face. He took another drink of his ale, watched her expressions change and shift. She obviously believed they had done nothing but drink. Beside him, Burnell belched behind his hand and weaved a bit.

  She wasn’t far wrong.<
br />
  Garron poured some more oil. “You make lists, you bargain—except for the ale—and you buy mugs, more than enough mugs for two towns because you fell for the wiles of the old woman who sold them to you.” He wished he had a lord’s chair so he could lounge back, and sneer, all arrogant, maybe swinging his leg, and goad her until she spit. He said, “Hold your tongue, wench, and fetch us another flagon of ale.”

  He watched her face turn nearly as red as those clever little hidden braids, from the neck of her pale gray gown to her hairline. It was an amazing sight. She was thumping with fury. She opened her mouth to spew forth insults, saw Burnell was frowning at her, and swallowed her words. She wasn’t a dolt. He watched her turn on her heel and stomp away. He was pleased at her restraint, and smiled after her.

  Then she whirled back and shouted, “Do you know, the jakes are newly limed? My father demanded I find him a recipe that would render the jakes sweet-smelling. Once I discovered the secret, my father was very pleased because he enjoyed sitting in the jakes when they didn’t knock him unconscious with the smell, stewing over some problem. He told me the knottiest problem unraveled when contemplating all its various aspects whilst he was hunkered down in the jakes. Mayhap the two of you could sit side by side and ponder together, for I have used the same recipe. Or mayhap not—you might fall over since you have drunk so much.” Merry strode away, like a young man, stiff in the shoulders.

  Sitting in the jakes pondering problems? He couldn’t imagine doing such a thing. Garron smiled. She had a fluent tongue. He saw his people leaving the great hall to go back to work, jostling each other, laughing, arguing, a wonderful sight. He wondered idly if it would rain.

  Burnell picked up a bit of bread and chewed it. “It is amazing. She is a priest’s byblow, she should be modest and grateful, yet she acts as if we were here at her behest. She is arrogant. She spoke of the jakes in the most insolent voice. I do believe she was attempting to insult me, although it doesn’t seem likely since I am the Chancellor of England. The ‘Chancellor of England’—the words themselves sound like music, like the majestic ringing of bells, do they not?”

  Garron nodded, grave as a bishop.

  “Only an idiot or a halfwit would speak to us as she just did. Sitting in the jakes! The priest pondered in the jakes? You want to smile, I can see it in your eyes, though they are a bit blurred to me just now. Why are you not furious with her? I marvel at her boldness and wonder how such a thing could happen since she is a bastard. Also, her gown is too short and her hair is too red, a willful red, and those little braids tucked inside—well. She needs discipline, Garron, she needs it badly. You will see to it.”

  Burnell wanted him to discipline her? How was he to do that?

  Burnell continued, “Aye, I am important. You are important, though less important than I am. I am the king’s representative, so close to the king I am nearly as fitted to him as his own clothes, nay, even closer, for I share his deepest secrets, stitch and form his many ideas. Ah, this is not right, Garron.”

  Garron nodded. “Aye, she needs discipline, she needs a lesson in humility. I wonder what I will do to her?” He stared a moment at his mug. Here he was drinking simply because Burnell was drinking. He was an ass. He had a traitor to discover. He looked toward Sir Lyle, who was in close conversation with Solan, the man with the belly pains. What were they talking about?

  Garron left Robert Burnell to brood over his ale, and strode out of the great hall. He poured several buckets of well water over his head to clear all that excellent ale out of his brain before he went to look for her. Tupper told him the mistress was in the weaving hut. Mistress? It was amazing. He was beginning to believe she was a witch.

  Miggins stood in the doorway of the weaving hut, her arms crossed over her scrawny chest. “Ye wish to see Merry, my lord?”

  He nodded. “You came out here quickly. To protect her from me, I wonder?”

  Miggins scratched her head. Garron wondered what lived amongst those scrawny braids. “There is no need, for Merry is a warrior.”

  Garron was beginning to think those words would haunt him to the grave. “Tupper said she was within.”

  “Aye, she is, trying to fix the spindle on one of the looms.” Miggins crossed her arms over her sunken bosom. “Ye’ll not hurt her, my lord.”

  “You believe me angry at your little pigeon, Miggins?”

  The old woman didn’t move. She tried to stare him down. She scratched her armpit, then yanked on her old gown. He looked past her to see Merry sitting on the straw floor, her face shiny with sweat because it was so hot in this small, airless room, trying to fix the spindle that looked ancient and far beyond repair to him.

  “My little Merry is near to screaming blasphemy to the heavens, or mayhap drinking more ale than she should”—she gave him the eye—“but then how could she when you and the chancellor swilled it all down your gullets, sots, the both of you, and here there is a traitor to find. Oh aye, I have eyes in my head, I see everything.” She pressed her fingers to her temples and stared at him. “I see a man whose loins are heavy with lust, a man who better not relieve his lust on the priest’s sweet bastard.”

  He lifted Miggins under her armpits and set her away from him. She weighed nothing at all. He hated it. “Go eat some more dinner,” he told her, “and stop looking at my loins,” and he walked into the room, past three women sewing, none of them looking at him.

  Merry was on her hands and knees fiddling with a wooden bar that obviously should attach to something, what that was, he had no idea. He laid his hand lightly on her shoulder.

  “Come,” he said.

  She jerked up, hit her head on the wooden bar, and yelped. She sat on her bottom and frowned up at him. “What, you have come to tell me the earth will end in two hours and you wish me to fetch you more ale so you may be unconscious when the final hour strikes?”

  He eyed her. “You said quite a lot there, most of it insulting. If doomsday arrives, you may be certain my sword and I will attack it and drive it into the sea. Now, keep your mouth shut and come with me.”

  “You are so sodden with ale you fell on your face in the mud, didn’t you? Just look at you—what have you done?”

  “There isn’t any mud yet, but by the looks of the clouds, it might begin at any moment. I poured water over my head.”

  “Good. You need sharp wits to deal with me,” and the witch gave him a full-bodied sneer.

  “Have Miggins fetch Borran, he should be the one to fix the loom.”

  “Borran asked me to look at it. He claims he is flummoxed.” She got slowly to her feet, dusted her hands on her skirts, placed her hands on her hips, and gave him another sneer. “Are you really so insulted, my lord?”

  “Nay, but the chancellor is. He believes you need discipline and I am to see to it.”

  “Discipline? What does that mean? I did not insult the chancellor—” She frowned. “Mayhap I could have selected more mealymouthed words. Shall I apologize to him? Mayhap he won’t remember since he is so drunk. It is disgraceful.”

  “The chancellor was right. He many times is. You are sorely in need of discipline,” and he nodded to the other women, all of them busily sewing, weaving, and listening. “Come,” he said, and held out his hand to her.

  21

  Discipline,” he repeated, savoring the word, not looking down at her as he strode through the inner bailey, pulling her behind him. “It has an interesting sound to it, does it not?”

  “It is a man’s word that holds only threat.” She took a double step to keep up with him. “At least you do not sound like a drunkard any longer. What is so important that you must speak to me this very moment?”

  He stopped suddenly as one of the three dogs dashed into his path. She nearly ran into him. “Do you know, I was thinking about all the noise in the inner bailey. Everyone will work until it is too dark to see, or it rains. Listen to the hammering, the sawing, all the cursing, the arguing, all the insults that turn the air blue
.”

  “There is also laughter and two men are singing at the tops of their lungs. I must give them better rhymes to go with their tunes. Mayhap I can sing a duet with them. It is going to rain, very soon now.”

  “Do not forget the families to arrive within the sennight, with children. All must be put in the great hall, I suppose. Speak to Bullic, tell him we will have at least two score more mouths to feed.”

  “I did. He said he will be ready. Aleric assigned a detail of men to hunt each morning. When do you think the king’s men will return from Radstock and Furly?”

  “In three days, if all goes well. I pray the keeps were not attacked. They would not have stood a chance, for their defenses are meager in comparison to Wareham’s, and just look at what happened here.” The three dogs were barking madly and he turned to see Ivo throwing them each a bone. “The great hall smells good.”

  She nodded. “I had rosemary and lavender strewn on the fresh rushes. A great deal of lavender, actually, to soak up all the foul smells that have seeped into the stone floor over the years. As for the sweet-smelling jakes, since you drank so much ale, you will probably visit them soon, you and the Chancellor of England. Mayhap between your two brains, you can determine that Sir Lyle is the traitor. I cannot believe you actually assigned him and his mangy men to question the men we brought from Winthorpe.”

  He smiled at the meaty sneer in her voice.

  She grabbed his sleeve. “Listen to me, Garron—the man who attacked you didn’t have a chance against you. You are a warrior, you are brave and strong. You do not hesitate. But Sir Lyle of Clive, I simply know it to my bones, he is a very bad man.”