The old woman shook her head. "It befuddles me how my daughter can still love that child after all the harm Dickie's done. Whenever I'd tell Juli that she had to let him go, that he was nothing but his father's seed and sure to wend his way to hell one day, she'd protest that Dickie could and would change his ways.
"That she might hold so tight to him after all that is an even bigger mystery to me," Etta continued harshly. "What I— and everyone else here— knew on the day that child was born, we all still know. Dickie was fated to come to the same evil end as his sire."
Taking another sip of ale, she looked at Faucon. "Do you know that three nights ago Dickie broke Aldo's house?"
"I do," he said, nodding.
She offered a nod in return. "As awful as housebreaking is, I was beyond grateful that the boy had finally done something so destructive. At last, I said to myself, Juli will see him for what he is. Now she'll be willing to apply the rod with vigor, not only because he deserved it, but to drive at least some of Raymond's influence from Dickie's soul.
"Then I prayed that my daughter would at last banish her son from our vill. For a brief moment I thought our Lord had heard me," Etta told Faucon. "I vow I'd never seen my daughter as angry as she was when she looked upon Aldo's ruined wall. She told our reeve to send for the sheriff. But then, when Waddard had no right to it, he interfered one more time. Once again he pleaded for mercy on Dickie's behalf, and once again Juli let her husband bend her to his will," she finished on a disgusted breath.
Etta was silent for a moment. "Would that my husband had never brought Waddard into our house. Waddard is the reason Raymond returned to haunt us. Even though my Dickie had broken Juli's betrothal to Raymond, and even though Raymond had left our village, we all knew that Juli dared never marry another man. Hadn't we all heard Raymond vow to kill her if she ever lay with another man, even if he had to come back from the dead to do it?
"But when we received word that Raymond was dead, Waddard insisted the threat was over. I knew better. So did Juliana. But Waddard begged and pleaded, vowing that he could protect her and that a dead Raymond could no longer hurt her. How he could promise this— and Juli believe him— is beyond me. Waddard had never been able to protect himself from a living Raymond. He would hardly be able to protect Juli or himself from a dead Raymond.
"None of this—" Etta told her Crowner, the lift of her hand indicating the house in which they sat, "—none of what Waddard's success at the wheel provides for us, is worth what he's cost me and my daughter."
Faucon watched the bitter old woman as she took another sip of ale. No wonder guilt ate at Aldo. He'd not only left a boy locked in the prison of his mother's selfish love, but let Dickie suffer unkindness at the hands of even his own grandmother.
"If only Aldo had succeeded in trapping that corpse," Etta muttered with a sigh. "Then we could have dismembered Raymond and returned him forever to the earth, to rot as he deserves. Had we done that, my Juliana might have had a chance to live a real life."
"Tell me this, goodwife," Faucon said, not caring to share with her his offer to hunt down Raymond. "What, if anything, did you see on the road last night?"
"Nothing save for Raymond," Etta replied. "Or rather I heard Raymond. He's usually loudest down here, near the church. I didn't bother peering through the shutters as he passed."
"But you have seen him. What does he look like?" Alf wanted to know as he brought the skewer and toasted bread back to the table. The already dark bread now looked blackened. Here and there the melted lard glistened in the firelight. Sliding a slice in Faucon's direction, he took one for himself, then offered the third to Etta.
That had her shaking her head and pushing the slice back toward the middle of the table. "Split it between you two," she told Alf, before continuing. "He looks like a man wearing a dark tunic and swathed in a ragged cloak with a hood over his head.
"Raymond was hanged," she informed her guests, "and it's the hangman's hood he wears, proof of his sin and shameful death."
Faucon broke a piece from his slice and put it in his mouth. Usually, eating bread this dark was like chewing unmilled grain. But Etta's bread was surprisingly light and more flavorful than he expected, made all the more tasty saturated with rich, salted lard and crisped by the fire.
"Your mother taught you well," he said to Alf.
His man smiled at that. "So she did, sir."
Faucon looked at Etta. "How often do you see Raymond?"
"This past year he's reached the church door at least one time every two weeks. But there was a month when he came this far two times a week, for four or five weeks in a row. I vow to you. It's Juliana he follows. He trails her on the days my daughter goes to our church to make her confession."
That had Faucon eying the woman in surprise. "Every time he appears on your track it's on the same day your daughter visits your priest?"
She frowned at that. "Well, perhaps not every time, but more times than not it is the same night.
He swallowed his next bite of toast too quickly, cheating himself of savoring it, so he could speak. "Do you mean to say that Juliana goes to her confession after nightfall? But I thought none of you entered your church after dark."
"We don't," Etta told him firmly. "How can we with Raymond lurking at the church door, waiting to step inside? Nay, Juli prefers to make her confession later in the day. After that, she stops to visit with me on her way home. There are times when I have tasks I can't do alone, and she'll stay to help me with them. If Raymond is on the track before those chores are complete, Juli spends the night. This despite Waddard's protests that he and his children are now her family, and need her more than I do.
"As if she doesn't still need me, her own mother," Etta complained. "Hasn't she needed me more than ever this past year? Worry over Dickie has ground at my daughter until she's naught but bits and pieces. She's crumbling under the weight of caring for him, and all those other babies, while still working at the wheel to help Waddard put yet more silver in his coffers. And now with Waddard's hip, she must spend even more time at the wheel! I tell you, there are days when she's crying one instant and laughing like a madwoman in the next.
"But she's always better after a night here." Etta glanced from Alf to Faucon. "That's because I allow her to spew her rightful hatred of Raymond. Waddard won't allow her to speak his name in their home. He says it upsets the girls. How can he forbid Juli from bemoaning what's happening to her when Raymond's corpse is forever chasing after her, seeking her death?"
When the old woman continued, her voice was hard. "Waddard and Raymond are no different, not to my eyes. If Raymond seeks to destroy Juli, thus cheating me of her, Waddard seeks to cheat Juli of her mother's love. Separating us is why he moved me here to this widow's cottage. Well, they've both failed. It's sweet satisfaction that Raymond's evil visitations have meant my daughter and I see far more of each other these days."
"Then Juliana was with you last night?" Faucon asked.
"Did I not just tell you Raymond was on the roadway last night?" Etta retorted sarcastically with a disbelieving shake of her head. "Of course she was here."
"And you both slept through the whole night, despite Raymond's moans?" he asked.
"Aye, doing so right there, in yon bed where Juliana now lies."
"Were you asleep by the time Raymond made his way to the church?" Faucon asked, shuffling his pieces in his head as he spoke.
"Juli was," Etta said. "My poor, sweet girl was no less distraught last night than she had been two days ago. She was yet fretting terribly over the damage Dickie had done to Aldo's house and what it would cost her and Waddard. As she cried, she cursed Raymond, both the man and the corpse, for all the evil he'd brought to her life. Raymond hadn't yet reached the church when I gave her a cup of elderberry wine and put her to bed. It was the same thing I'd done for her when she was yet a little lass, and too frightened to sleep." Tears filled her eyes.
"Can you say about what time Raymond retur
ned past your window after he left the church? Was it closer to nightfall or midnight?" he asked, remembering Heyward's lesson.
Etta scrubbed away grief one more time, then her lips lifted in a hard, tight smile. "Neither. It was closer to overhearing Bett and Tibby argue."
Faucon's brows rose at that. "Why were they arguing?"
"Why else? Tibby's lack of a maidenhead and how Bett would never allow her daughter to wed with my grandson."
Etta shook her head in disgust. "That Bett! She's not just a whore, but a rude whore. Despite that she knew full well Juli was within sound of her bold voice, she sent her curses and complaints about Dickie flying at the top of her lungs. She was so loud she stirred me from my dozing. I was grateful that Juli didn't awaken to hear her."
"Where was Raymond while they were arguing?"
"Moving up the track in the direction of Aldo's house. Where exactly I cannot say," Etta told him. "Let me tell you, it surprised me to hear Bett's door slam as their fight ended. As Bett walked away, she screamed that Tibby had best stay home or pay the price."
Faucon waited. When Etta added no more to what she'd said, he asked, "What was odd about that?"
Etta looked at him in surprise. "Well, Bett's the same as the rest of us, not wishing to meet Raymond on the track. It's because of Raymond that she usually leaves for Aldo's just before twilight, returning home on Aldo's arm long after that corpse has gone to wherever it goes to sleep."
Then the old woman's lip curled. "It's bad enough that Bett leaves her children alone when she goes to satisfy her lust. But to risk meeting Raymond and lose both life and soul, leaving them orphans with no hope of seeing her again in heaven?"
She spat out her disgust, then her expression softened. "It was a funny thing though. Bett's shouting hadn't disturbed Juliana, but when Bett slammed her door, my daughter came upright in the bed next to me. Although Juli was yet lost in her dreams, she asked me who had just come in, speaking to me as clear as day.
"I couldn't help myself," Etta said with a little laugh. "I told her that no one had come to visit us, that it was just Bett going to Aldo's to meet Raymond and so that corpse could finish her life. Then I drew her back down under the blanket. With my arms tight around my precious girl, I rocked us both to sleep."
"And after that you both slept without stirring all through the night?" Faucon wanted to know.
"We did." Etta assured him.
"Not even rising to use the latrine?" Faucon pressed.
That had the old woman blinking in confusion. "Why does that matter? But if you must know, I didn't rise or even stir until gray light. Juli could only have done the same for when I awoke she was yet in the same place she'd been when I joined her in the bed. How that pleased me. I think that was the first time she'd had a full and peaceful night's sleep in a long while.
"She still slept when I left her to feed the fire. Much to my surprise, I heard Bett scratching at her door, calling softly for Tibby to open it. It seems she, too, had slept most of the night, albeit in the wrong bed."
Then Etta sighed heavily. "That was the last bit of normal in my day. The sun had only just appeared above the horizon when Father Godin arrived from Waddard's house with the news that Dickie was dead and his corpse rested in our church."
Again, her lip curled. "That coward, Waddard. He didn't even have the courage to come with our priest and to tell her himself."
Faucon looked at Alf. "Finish your bread and ale. It's time we returned to the church. The vigil has begun and we must be ready against the possibility Dickie will rise."
"As you will, sir," Alf replied and hurried his last bites before gathering up their saddlebags.
"Thank you again, goodwife," Faucon told Etta as he came to his feet. "Both for this," he raised his last bite of toast in salute, "and for your help. If your daughter again seeks to run while yet trapped in her sleep, do you have some way to stop her?" he asked before putting that last piece into his mouth.
"Why would she run from me, her own mother?" Etta replied in surprise.
Faucon nodded at that. "Then I wish you and your daughter yet another quiet, restful night. However, should she escape you, you can come for me at the church. I'll help you search for her," he promised, then hurried back through the narrow passageway and out the door with Alf close behind him.
"That was abrupt," Alf said quietly as Etta barred her door behind them. "I take it she gave you whatever you sought?"
Faucon stepped down into the track. "She did," he nodded. Indeed, Etta had offered him many interesting pieces, but he'd found a place for only one thus far. Thankfully, it was the one he needed this very moment.
"Although I cannot yet prove it, I'm now certain that Raymond doesn't walk this track. Or rather, although Raymond's corpse may have once walked here, the one who has been walking the track for the past year is not Raymond," he amended.
In the dark Faucon more felt than saw Alf's confusion. "But how can you say that when so many have witnessed him? Milo, the man who stabled our horses, told me the same as Etta said, that the corpse appears often on the track. Who is it they see if not Raymond?"
"They saw Dickie," Faucon told him. "That boy has been playing the role of his father, doing so to strike back at those here who scorned and disliked him. And he hasn't been doing it without help."
Across the track, the shutter covering Bett's front window was outlined by a rectangle of escaping light. If fire was strong enough to do that, someone was yet up and about. Signaling for Alf to follow, he started to Bett's door. "I intend to enter even if she refuses to allow me within," he warned as he went.
"You will break the door?" his man asked in surprise.
"I doubt I'll have to do that," Faucon assured him. He guessed Bett would open the door for him for no other reason than she knew he'd been with Etta. Aldo's paramour would want the chance to discover whatever the old woman might have said about her.
"Goodwife, it's Sir Faucon de Ramis," he announced as he knocked. "I must speak with you about Dickie."
Just as he expected, the door opened a short moment later. Bett held a small clay bowl in her hand, a tallow lamp. Its flame danced wildly as air streamed from the outside in, drawn by her fire. She yet wore her close-fitting brown gown, but in the privacy of her own home she'd removed her head covering and loosened her black hair. It hung in waves to near her waist.
Faucon looked past her. Her house had the same design as Etta's, with a narrow passageway that cut it in twain. Now, between light from Bett's fire streaming through the leftward opening at the end of the passage and her lamp, he made sense of the layout. The house had two sides, one where the humans lived and the other given over to animals, at least during the depths of winter. Shutters covered long openings in both sides of the passageway. When they were raised, the heat of the stabled animals would join that of the fire, helping to warm the house during the coldest months.
"Huh, have you come to tell me that you were wrong to stop me from what I intended, that the boy tries to walk?" the pretty woman asked rudely.
"He hasn't yet, but if he does, he won't get far," Faucon replied, thinking it a shame that a woman with such a lovely face would be so ugly at her core. "He's bound and blinded, and being watched by six of your neighbors. You and your daughter need not worry."
"God be praised for small miracles," Bett retorted harshly.
Faucon placed his foot on her threshold. "I know it's late but as you heard me say at the church, I'm tasked with finding the one who killed Dickie."
"Raymond killed that rogue," Bett snapped back.
"So I've been told," Faucon agreed. "However, I'd like to speak to your daughter about the boy. I heard your charge on the track, that she and Dickie have been trysting. It seems they were seeking their pleasure on the same nights that you visited Aldo's bed," he added boldly.
Shock flattened Bett's expression. Then her eyes narrowed. She looked across the track at Etta's house. "That jealous old telltale. Whatever she
said, you can be sure it was a lie."
"Does Aldo also lie?" Faucon asked, now putting his hand on her door, pressing it back against the passageway wall.
Bett caught a swift breath at the news of her lover's betrayal. Faucon brought his other foot up to the threshold, thus preventing her from closing the door. Startled, she stepped back from him.
"Hey now. I didn't invite you to enter. You'll return outside this moment," she demanded, once again plying a forceful manner, seeking to intimidate a man into doing her will.
Faucon pressed his shoulder to her door, pinning it in place. "My man and I won't stay long. There are a few things I don't understand about Dickie's death, and I believe Tibby can help me make sense of them."
As if drawn to it by the sound of her name on a stranger's tongue, Bett's daughter stepped halfway out of the opening at the end of the passageway. Framed by light from the fire, he could see that grief yet stained the pretty girl's face. Eyes wide, Tibby stared at him as she nipped at her lower lip.
"Will you speak to me of Dickie and the trick the two of you have been playing on your neighbors this last year?" he asked the girl.
For an instant shock kept the girl frozen where she stood. Then panic flashed across Tibby's face. With a tiny squeak, she exploded into motion. Hems flying, she leapt across the passageway and into the stable. Thinking she meant to flee the house, Faucon shoved past Bett and followed.
"Nay! Stop you! You have no right," Bett shouted after him.
An instant later she cried, "Hey you, leave go of me," suggesting Alf now restrained her.
Faucon turned into the stable entrance and stopped short. A half-door, meant to prevent the animals from moving into living area, blocked his path. Beyond it, the stable was dark and cool. And still. The air was scented with hints of last year's manure and the sweet-sharp smell of rotted straw.
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