Caught Red-Handed

by Denise Domning

  That had him easing back to look at the boy anew. Of course, Dickie hadn't walked out into a cold night without clothing. Instead, he'd been wearing a cloak with a hood or a cap of some sort when he was attacked. That begged the question of why his murderer might have removed his clothing after his death.

  Bringing his finger back to Dickie's damaged skull, this time Faucon considered the depth of the break. The one who had wielded this weapon had done so with strokes meant to crush bone and kill. That suggested a strong man, one as powerful as the smith, who just happened to wish to rid himself and his village of a troublemaker.

  As dearly as Faucon wanted to force his pieces to tell him that Aldo had done this, they couldn't. Too much was yet missing. The better question was, could a corpse incapable of opening a simple knot be able to close its bony hand around the shaft of a hammer and wield it with enough power to break a bone?

  He drew his finger down the boy's face to his broken jaw. The crack in the bone was almost in line with the temple. With that, he sat back on his heel and considered Dickie's face. While a broken jaw was a horrible injury, one that offered many opportunities death, all of those avenues to the hereafter offered slow and torturous journeys. This attack had been swift and vicious. The point of such an assault was always immediate death.

  Nor could the blow to Dickie's jaw have been the first one to fall. Had it been, the boy would have thrashed and fought, making any precision in following blows impossible. That suggested that the blow that broke Dickie's jaw hadn't been intended and had been among the last to fall, which had him reconsidering the precision of those first blows, the ones to the boy's temple. The only thing that made sense was that the first blow had rendered the boy unconscious, if it hadn't killed him outright. Because if it hadn't, that meant Aldo was right and the boy had sat still in terror as he allowed his killer to murder him.

  Once again Faucon's pieces shifted and a pattern began to form. He was almost disappointed that when it did, it left Aldo out of its circles. As a former soldier, the reeve wouldn't have bothered with a hammer. Instead, he'd have put a blade in the boy's belly. Nor would he have left the body in his smithy to be discovered. Who did that, when the sensible thing was to move the body to some forlorn and hidden place to rot.

  No, this attack had been committed by someone driven by rage. Driven by it, yes, but not completely lost in it. Deep anger had kept the blows focused until the last swing of the weapon, which had gone astray and broken an already dead boy's jaw.

  One other thing was certain. If the walking corpse moved as slowly as Jilly suggested, then Raymond would never have managed to land a single blow. How could he have when all Dickie needed to do to save his life was walk faster and not fall?

  Releasing Dickie's hair, Faucon looked at the boy's hands. Both had come to rest, palm up. The left one was in Dickie's lap while the right had fallen to the ground next to his right thigh. The right hand, being on the opposite side of his body from the head wound, was almost clean of blood. Faucon picked away what gore there was and confirmed that there were no injuries.

  Dickie's left palm had caught a good amount of blood. Faucon cleared away what he could. Although he wouldn't be completely certain until the body was washed before burial, he saw nothing unusual in the boy's left palm.

  "Brother, I'm going to move the boy a little," Faucon warned his clerk.

  The monk nodded and shifted back to give his employer room to maneuver the corpse. Faucon checked the back of the boy's hands and his arms. There were no fresh wounds.

  When Faucon brought the corpse back into position once again, he looked at his clerk. "What say you, Brother Edmund? An unholy corpse is walking slowly toward you, and you're trapped against a wall with nowhere to run. Would you stand with your hands at your sides as the evil creature attacks you?" The question was more rhetorical than a search for an answer.

  Brother Edmund frowned. "Who can say for certain, sir, but I'm no warrior. I'd like as not drop to my knees, fold my hands in prayer, and beg our Lord and all His saints for an immediate intervention."

  The monk's logical and truthful response made Faucon smile. "I do believe that is what you'd do," he replied. "As for me, because I am a warrior, I'd be more likely to dodge and roll, seeking some way to escape the creature. But here's what neither of us would ever do. We wouldn't sit completely still and let the obscene thing have at us without defending ourselves in some way."

  Edmund freed a surprised breath at that. "Why would you think anyone might do that? None of Master Walter's tales suggest this is the common reaction. Even those who are at first frozen with fear upon encountering the reanimated dead recount that they eventually gather their wits enough to battle for their lives."

  "That's good to know," Faucon replied. "Yet, I look at Dickie's head and his hands and they tell me that the one thing he didn't do was defend himself. Instead, everything I see says he didn't know that anyone approached him, much less that the one coming toward him intended murder."

  "Huh," Edmund said, scowling a little. Then with a lift of his shoulders, he dispensed with this anomaly and returned to his own examination.

  Faucon slid off his heel to sit on the floor. With one arm resting atop his raised knee, he stared unseeing at Dickie as he shuffled the pieces he'd gathered thus far. No matter how or where he moved what little he knew, he could see only one possibility. Whoever— or whatever— had attacked Dickie had caught the boy by surprise and rendered him incapable of resisting before going on to do murder to him.

  Nothing in that scenario matched Aldo's fanciful tale regarding the boy's last moments. However, it did fit the reeve's confession that he'd heard nothing during the night. Aldo had heard nothing because Dickie had never cried out. He'd never had the chance to do so. But what had the boy been doing in the smithy at that hour?

  Behind Faucon the leather hinges on the sacristy door creaked again. He looked over his shoulder. Father Godin stood trapped in the narrow doorway, held in place by the large tray he carried. It was too wide for the opening. Or rather, it was too wide because of the way the priest held it. The Churchman was trying to turn it on his arm without the use of his other hand, in which he carried a heavy clay pitcher. At last, he gave up and backed out of the doorway, turned the tray and started forward again.

  Faucon could see this wasn't going to help. Coming to his feet, he moved to the door as Father Godin again tried entering the opening. This time the belly of the pitcher hit the frame, jolting the tray. The empty wooden cup at one side of the tray toppled, rolling into a round loaf of bread. A bowl slid into a thick slab of ham and a wedge of cheese, then tilted, spilling shelled nuts.

  Faucon extended his hand. "Let me take that pitcher, Father," he offered, speaking in his native tongue.

  "Many tanks," Father Godin replied in his strangely-accented English and began to extend his arm.

  An instant later the priest froze. Raising his head, he met Faucon's gaze. They watched each other for a long moment, then Godin sighed.

  "I knew I should have just let them do what they wanted to Dickie," the priest muttered in what was clearly his native tongue, the same French that Faucon spoke.

  "I doubt you could have," Faucon replied with a lift of his brows. "If I'm any judge, I think you no more capable of betraying your honor than I."

  "Much to my detriment, I fear," Godin agreed. Then still standing in the doorway, the tray braced on his arm, he stared into the darkened body of the church and said no more.

  "Who are you?" Faucon asked.

  Godin glanced from the monk at the back wall of the church to his Crowner. "I am Godin, presently serving Mancetter as its priest."

  "Who were you before you arrived in Mancetter?" Faucon tried again.

  "That is not mine to reveal," the priest who might not be a priest replied carefully, his voice lowered to keep his words between the two of them.

  "If not your secret, then your wife's?" Faucon asked.

  "Waddard," Godin
breathed as he shook his head.

  Then his eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. He raised the pitcher a little, holding it like a weapon. "I am sworn," he warned his Crowner.

  His message was clear. Godin would do whatever it took, including spend his life, to shield the woman he protected. Even armed only with a baked clay vessel, it was a far more worthy threat than anything Aldo had presented.

  That had Faucon considering what responsibility he, as Coronarius, might have in this situation. He swiftly decided he had none. His duty was to enrich the royal treasury and his king, not confront a well-born man, even one who might be posing as a priest to protect a runaway woman, not unless that man happened to commit a royal crime.

  "Why is your English so strange?" he asked.

  Godin sucked in a disbelieving breath. Relief dashed across his face. The pitcher wobbled in his grasp, sending golden liquid that looked like cider sloshing over its lip.

  Steadying his hand, Godin brought the pitcher back beneath the tray to brace it. "Your man was correct earlier today," he told Faucon. "This is how the language of the commoners is spoken in the far north." His tone was still cautious, as if he yet probed for a hidden trap. "I'm far more fluent in this version of the tongue now than when I first arrived in Mancetter."

  "Hard to believe," Faucon said with a quick laugh. "My brother went to find you a few moments ago. Did you see him?"

  "I did," the gentleman-priest replied with a nod. "Sir William said his head ached beyond bearing and begged for a pallet or a place where he could sleep. He took some potion, then my—" Godin hesitated "—wife and I aided him in removing his armor. He now sleeps in Father Berold's bed."

  Faucon grimaced. Shame on him. He'd been so distracted by thoughts of walking corpses that he hadn't recognized the meaning of Will's hand at his temple. Then he frowned. "How did Will understand you? He speaks no English."

  Godin gave a tiny shrug. "What pained him cut so deeply that he didn't notice anything save that his needs were being addressed."

  That had Faucon breathing in relief that his brother had chosen to take his potion rather than to run wild. Extending his hand, he said, "Hand me the pitcher. You bring the tray. Perhaps you'll help me disarm as you did my brother, and speak with me as you do. I need to know everything you can tell me about Dickie, about his death, and what you believe happened to him. And I would listen to anything and everything you can tell me about his father, both before and after Raymond's death."

  After shedding his cloak, gloves, sword, and belt, Faucon crawled out of his chain mail tunic with Godin's assistance. Then, while he removed his mail leggings and returned his boots to his feet, he watched a priest expertly fold and roll his metal tunic. Taking it from the man, Faucon set his armor atop his cloak, next to his sword, where they would wait for Alf's return with their saddle bags.

  Groaning in noisy relief, Faucon stretched. Beneath his padded woolen underarmor, every unscratched itch that had plagued him over the course of his day again cried out for relief. More than anything he wanted to strip down to his braies. But there would be no fire for them tonight, not inside a church. It was wiser, if less comfortable, to avoid getting chilled in the first place.

  He looked beyond the altar to the back wall of the church where Brother Edmund continued his inspection of Dickie's body. "Father Godin has brought meat and cheese. Will you pause to join us, Brother Edmund?" he invited.

  That brought Godin around in a hurry. The priest looked over the altar at the monk, then glanced toward the sacristy door. Faucon shook his head at the man, moving his hand at the same time to tell Godin that he should stay where he stood.

  "I'll happily eat my fill, but only after I've finished my inspection and said my prayers," his clerk replied just as Faucon expected, doing so without looking away from the corpse. Then, yet keeping his back to the altar and speaking to Dickie's chest, Faucon's clerk reported, "Thus far I've seen nothing unusual, or at least not so unusual that it stands out to me."

  "Glad tidings, I think," Faucon replied, then sat on the edge of the dais between his pile of clothing and the tray.

  Godin remained on his feet, his eyes narrowed. Confusion marked the man's expression. Faucon shrugged. "I knew he would refuse. But not to invite him is an insult I won't do him," he explained quietly.

  At that the priest lowered himself to sit on the dais, settling hesitantly at the opposite side of the tray. As Faucon cut a bite of the ham, Godin filled the cup from the pitcher and offered it to Faucon. Cup in hand, Faucon tasted the meat. It was smoky but too salty, more akin to the ham folk used to flavor their morning pottage. Then he took a sip of cider and was disappointed a second time. It was cold and sweeter than he liked.

  Sighing, he looked at Godin. "Many thanks for aiding my brother but I must warn you. Although it's likely he'll only sleep, there are times when his pain grows so great it drives him to do strange things. Should you discover him missing or see him run from your home, I pray you come fetch me. And warn Father Berold not to disturb him while he sleeps. Will can strike out if startled awake."

  "There's little chance of that," Godin assured his Crowner. "Berold offered your brother the bed and took the chair instead."

  Faucon eyed the man in surprise. "So did Raymond drive Mancetter's priest mad as Waddard claims?"

  Mancetter's second priest shook his head at that. "It's not madness that afflicts Berold, but some ailment that causes his arms and legs to twitch and fly this way and that. It also affects his speech, making him hard to understand. Although his wits don't seem to be compromised, his memory has steadily worsened during my time here."

  "And Raymond brought this affliction on the priest through his visits?"

  "Not according to Father Berold," Godin said with another shake of his head. "He said he suffered the same as a child but was healed by our Lord's grace. Then, one day without warning, his limbs again began to move. I pray nightly that he will once again be granted our Lord's touch to either still his limbs or bring him eternal peace."

  That had Faucon frowning. "Then why do the townsmen say that Raymond drove him mad?"

  Something that might have been amusement flickered through the man's gray eyes at that. "They say it because Father Berold's affliction came on so suddenly and is so strange. It fits well with Raymond's growing legend, and suits their need to frighten each other with the tales they tell. You should know that the truth has little sway here in Mancetter. When I finally understood that— that these folk far prefer their tales over the truth— I stopped insisting that Raymond had never once waited for me right here." He patted the dais on which they sat.

  "What?" Faucon asked in a muted pretense of shock. "You did not kneel in prayer before the walking corpse, then watch the obscene thing dissolve before your eyes because of the power of your holy words?"

  It was definitely amusement that flared in the man's eyes this time as his Crowner repeated back to him what he had earlier claimed. Godin picked a few of the spilled nut meats off the tray, then rolled them in his closed hand. "I fear not. Indeed, to the best of my knowledge, Raymond has never once been inside these walls."

  "And this is because of his hands," Faucon informed the man.

  "His hands?" Godin repeated in confusion.

  "Waddard told me you have seen the corpse's hands. That's how you knew you needed no more than a bit of rope tied in a simple knot to lock yon door." The lift of Faucon's head indicated the door at the opposite end of the church. "You knew Raymond's bony fingers would be incapable of opening that knot."

  "Did I now?" The priest tossed the nuts into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and said no more.

  Faucon grinned. "I take it, then, that you haven't seen the corpse's hands? A pity. I'd hoped you would confirm that the corpse was incapable of untying a knot. Surely, if Raymond cannot manipulate a rope, he would also lack the ability to swing a weapon with enough force to break a boy's skull."

  Godin gave an amused huff at that. "If the first
thing is impossible for the dead man, so would the other be."

  "I'm told that it was you who bore Dickie's body from the smithy to the church this morning." Faucon kept his gaze on the man's face as he continued. "How was it you knew where to find him and that he was dead?"

  Leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees, Godin focused his gaze on his folded hands between his thighs. He released a slow breath. The silence stretched.

  "Brother Edmund would warn you that, as I am the Coronarius for this shire, our king requires you to answer my questions," Faucon told him.

  The priest glanced at him but still hesitated.

  "The only thing I hunt is the truth regarding Dickie's death," Faucon added, offering the man a quirk of his brows and a small bend of his lips.

  Mancetter's acting priest shook his head. "Sir, I'll do my best to answer you, but be aware that just as the king's writ binds you to your duties, so does our Lord and our Church's law bind my tongue. As you've already noted, it's not in me to do wrong even when it serves me.

  "I was awakened this morn at dawn by one who warned me that Dickie had escaped his home after the sun had set yesterday and never returned. This one informed me that he was in none of his usual hiding places."

  "Which were?"

  Drawing a slow breath, the priest said, "A shed on Bett's property and the far barn in Waddard's toft."

  Faucon's brows rose. Such places might serve well for a tryst. "Were you also looking for the girl Tibby?"

  The priest said nothing. Faucon breathed out in frustration at Godin's careful and too-abbreviated reply, even as his respect for the man beside him grew. "How did you know to go to the forge?" he asked, still seeking the key to unlocking the priest's lips.

  Godin sighed slowly. "Here is what you need to know, for I believe it has much to do with what happened to the boy, albeit indirectly. Last month, Waddard begged Aldo to take Dickie on as his apprentice. The boy had failed to master Waddard's wheel, whether due to lack of interest or pure stubbornness, there's no saying. Nor had Dickie ever once given his all to those chores shared by our community."