Caught Red-Handed

by Denise Domning

  Although the corners of Aldo's mouth rose, a soul-deep sadness filled his eyes. "You found what I would never have seen, even if I'd found it. I will have much to account for on the day I meet our Lord, I think," he said, proving himself competent in the tongue of the nobles. "I, more than all the rest, should have realized. Why couldn't I see?"

  "You saw what you expected to see, just as the boys intended," Faucon replied.

  That had Brother Edmund eying them in surprise. "What did he expect to see?"

  "There was no corpse walking Mancetter's track nor was Dickie killed by his dead father," Faucon told him. "Raymond's appearance on their lane was in fact a mummery, a prank played by a group of village lads, Dickie among them. The boys took turns wearing these garments—" He raised the bundled clothing. "—as they pretended to be the dead man. It was Dickie's turn to play his dead sire last night."

  As Faucon said that, a strange thought hit him. If it had been another boy's turn, would he have died in Dickie's place? But another boy wouldn't have been in the smithy, meeting Tibby. Aldo was right. It had simply been the boy's time.

  Outrage, rather than the disappointment Faucon expected, flared red on Brother Edmund's pale face. "That is no prank," the monk cried. "To pretend to be such an evil creature is to invite Satan into your soul. Those boys deserve a heavy penance, not just to cleanse them of wrongdoing, but to protect them from the Devil's eye!"

  "I suspect the Devil is the least of those boys' worries at the moment," Alf murmured, then looked at Aldo. "I see three jugs over there. What do you say I help you drown your guilt with whatever they contain?"

  Aldo managed something that passed for a laugh. "What else have I to do tonight?"

  As the two former soldiers went to join Heyward and Tom, Brother Edmund looked at his employer. "What happened to the boy's mother? Did she at last rouse and go home?"

  "Of a sort," Faucon replied. "She tried to stop her neighbors as they were binding her son. When she failed, she ran from the church. I caught her and took her to her mother's home."

  "So, if Raymond didn't kill the boy, who did?" Edmund wanted to know.

  "The one who took the boy's shoes and garments from him after he was dead," Faucon replied, leaning down to tuck the bundle of Raymond's attire under the corner of the altar. Given what they represented, he wondered if they shouldn't be burned. As Brother Edmund had said, they were an invitation to evil.

  "Ah," Brother Edmund said in acknowledgment. Then the disappointment Faucon had expected a moment earlier now crept across the monk's face. "You realize that there's no longer a need for a vigil. That is, assuming it's true the boy had no contact with a walking corpse."

  "So I suspected," Faucon replied, nodding. "But there's no sense in spoiling the evening any more than it's already been spoiled by Raymond's abrupt and unexpected disappearance from Mancetter."

  The monk sighed. "Shame on me. As sinful as it is, I would have liked to have seen a corpse afoot. Not even Master Walter has witnessed that. For shame on me saying so. I know better than most that nothing good ever comes from such an encounter. Of those who survive an encounter, most usually perish soon after. Crops fail. Animals die."

  "If it helps, I'll admit to wishing the same," Faucon said, as his own disappointment rose. What should have been a thrilling hunt had in fact become far more painful than he could have imagined. He sighed and set aside that thought.

  "What say you? Now that your prayers are complete, there's a tray of foods from Father Godin on the dais, as well as what those men brought with them. Join us," Faucon invited his clerk.

  Edmund's shrug was a stiff lift of his shoulders. His mouth curved upward into that tight-lipped smile of his. "All I can do is echo what the reeve said. What else have I to do?" Then he grumbled, "Save pass the hours watching a corpse that will not walk."

  It didn't take long before Heyward had encouraged Alf and Aldo to share tales of their adventures in foreign lands with strange customs to pass the time. Unable to follow the conversation, and likely with no interest in the subject, Brother Edmund had piled a layer of hay between him and the cold tile floor, then curled onto it. His back was to the sanctuary and his cloak wrapped tightly around him. He'd pulled his cowl over his eyes.

  Seated near Dickie, his back to the wall, Faucon took another sip of the plum wine. Brother Augustine wasn't the only man in this hundred who could craft a fine brew. That said, Faucon thought it unlikely that the monk's perry offered the same outcome that this wine would. Overindulging guaranteed a headache come the dawn.

  With that thought, he remembered that Will yet slept in the priest's house. Or so Faucon hoped. He glanced at the torches on the wall. They were beginning to sputter. It wouldn't be long before they burned out, and the one Gervis had left behind was used as a replacement. Against the possibility that he might need a torch to search for his brother, Faucon set aside his cup and came to his feet.

  Alf broke off in the middle of his description of a Saracen temple. "Sir?"

  "Stay," Faucon told his man, as he pulled his cloak around him. "I'm going to see that my brother is settled for the night. He sleeps in the priest's house."

  That had Alf, who understood what plagued Will, frowning in concern. "If you need me—"

  "I'll fetch you," Faucon finished with a grateful nod.

  As Faucon entered the sacristy, he glanced around him. It was truly no more than a lean-to, holding several chests and a medium-sized coffer. Neither the bar nor the outside door, nor the walls of the lean-to, for that matter, was strong enough to stop a determined invader. That Mancetter's folk hadn't broken into their church this way to reach Dickie said something about their respect for their Lord's house, if not their priest.

  Outside the door, the night was cold but not bitter. A dog barked. The eerie screech of a barn owl echoed in the distance. Nothing moaned or moved on the track.

  With the moon settling toward the western horizon, the sky overhead was alive with stars. It was by their light that Faucon found his way around the church in search of the priest's house. He couldn't have missed it, for it stood only a few short feet behind the east end of the church.

  It looked no different than the rest of the homes in this village, with a door at the middle of the front wall and a thatch roof. The smoke swirling up out of the roof was thick enough to block out the stars. Bright firelight outlined the closed shutter in the front wall.

  Although no man left a fire that strong untended, Faucon knocked with no confidence that he'd receive an answer. Much to his relief, a man called, "Come." Since the voice didn't belong to either Godin or Will, this must be Father Berold.

  He was surprised to find the door unbarred. This, when Raymond was said to have rattled this very latch. One more time, he made his way up the narrow passageway that separated these homes.

  The living area looked much the same as Etta's room, with a central hearth, benches and table at one side, foodstuffs at the other wall, as well as hanging from the rafters. But here, a prie-dieu had been pushed against the wall next to the opening to the passageway. There were two beds placed against the far wall.

  The one in the corner had woolen drapes hanging from poles attached to the ceiling. The draperies were presently open, revealing that the bed they were meant to surround was nothing but a narrow pallet on the floor. It was empty, the blanket that covered it neatly tucked around it.

  The other bed stood in the same place as Etta's. Like hers, it was just a hay-filled pallet, but this one was wide and long enough to accommodate more than two sleepers. Also like Etta's bed, this one had been laid atop a wooden frame that stood almost waist-high. Draperies also curtained this bed. Those on the long sides had been pulled shut, but the panel that would cover the foot was yet open, thus allowing the fire's heat to enter.

  Will sprawled across the crude mattress. He wore his underarmor but not his boots. Faucon smiled. Just as when they'd shared a bed, his brother had kicked the blanket away until he could expose h
is bare feet to the air.

  There was no sign of Godin or his wife but a man wrapped tightly in a thick blanket sat in the half-barrel chair placed close to the hearth. Father Berold, for it was surely he, wore his dark hair cropped close to his head. Heavily threaded with silver, his thick brows were straight lines over his sunken, pale eyes. His cheeks were gaunt and where shadows clung, Faucon saw death's inexorable approach.

  Of a sudden, the priest's right arm burst free of his wrap. It rose upward. His hand fluttered. The man brought it back beneath the blanket, then his head twitched to the side and his shoulders jerked. One foot danced.

  "You must be Sir Faucon," he said in English, his smile more grimace than grin.

  Or so Faucon thought he said. As Godin had warned, Father Berold's words were oddly slurred.

  The muscles at Berold's throat moved. Again he spoke. It took Faucon a moment to decipher the sounds as, "Brother Edmund says you are our new Coronarius and he serves you as clerk."

  "You spoke with him?" Faucon asked, startled that this priest might be fluent in French.

  Father Berold nodded. The skin of his cheek moving oddly. "But I'm easier to comprehend in my native tongue. Godin said you speak it."

  "Ah," Faucon replied at that. "Have Godin and his wife departed?"

  This time the man's left hand exited from beneath his blanket. Although his fingers wriggled, he managed to bring them to his face as if to wipe away a tear. His next words were even more garbled, as much by his tongue as by his emotions. Faucon caught not wife, sister, and sad.

  That had Faucon glancing again at the smaller bed. His liking for Godin grew along with his respect. He regretted that he would never know their story.

  "Come, sit," Father Berold invited. He turned his head in the direction of the table. Faucon followed his look to a stool. Setting it near the fire, he sat facing the priest.

  "Dickie walks?" Berold asked.

  "I think not," Faucon told him, beginning to catch the nuances of the man's odd pronunciation. "Dickie wasn't killed by Raymond. Brother Edmund says that if the boy didn't interact with the dead man, he's not likely to rise."

  His head twitching, the priest frowned. "If not Raymond, then who?"

  "I'm not certain yet," Faucon replied on a sigh, praying that his pieces would rearrange themselves yet once again. "Did you know Dickie was playing the part of Raymond on your track?"

  What looked like surprise lifted the man's brows. "Holy Mother save him," he offered in swift prayer. Then he grimaced again. "But I must admit a clever trick. That boy! Too much wit. He was too big for this place."

  "Dickie recruited other village lads to help him. Tibby, as well," Faucon said. "Brother Edmund warns that they'll need God's protection to ward off the evil they've called to them. With Father Godin gone, will you be able to offer them that?"

  Again the man's brows lifted. "If their parents allow," he said. "Otherwise, they'll have to go— Atherstone."

  Then Father Berold frowned. "Tibby as well? Bett must be beside herself."

  "She is, fearing banishment," Faucon replied.

  "Let her know," the priest said, then paused as another twitch overtook him. "She can be here. With me. I will need her help." Then, his hands and feet dancing, Father Berold said, "What of Juliana? Godin says she's— again that strange sleep of hers."

  Faucon stared at the twitching man in surprise. "She's slept in this same way in the past?"

  The priest's head moved up and down as if he nodded, although the movement was close enough to a twitch that Faucon wasn't certain. Faucon waited as Father Berold marshaled his words. This time when the priest spoke, Faucon deciphered the man's remarks with ease.

  "More than once. After Raymond took her and they handfasted, she walked the lane. On and off. For about a year. Woe to anyone who woke her. A piercing scream."

  "So I've heard for myself," Faucon said with a smile. "I take it you were here, then, when Raymond first appeared after his death?"

  Again the afflicted man managed a nod. It ended in a leftward jerk of his head. "Saw him," he said, and tried to point to his eyes in demonstration.

  "You're certain he was dead?"

  That won Faucon a frown from the priest, one that suggested uncertainty. "Was barely dawn. Still half-light. I'd left the shivaree earlier than the others. Awoke to Juliana and Waddard screaming. I ran. Most others slept. I saw Raymond. He looked like a man alive. For certain he acted as if— as he tore at Old Dickie's house. Other doors began to open."

  Father Berold paused and gathered his breath. "That's when Raymond saw me."

  Berold drew his hand from beneath his blanket. His fingers strained, his hand flapped. As he regained control of his limb, the priest made the same hand gesture that Godin had used. "He disappeared before my eyes. I so vow by all— holy. Not alive. Couldn't be." This last was more a question than a statement.

  "I'm told he returned a few times after that before Dickie began his performance a year ago," Faucon said.

  Father Berold either shrugged or twitched. "So others claim. I never saw him again. But for the year after Raymond's attack on her home, Juliana again walked in her sleep. Not even holy water helped. Perhaps Raymond had bewitched her?"

  Again, the man offered that grimace. His feet tapped. There was definitely something wriggling in his cheek. Had it not been for Godin's warning, Faucon might well have run from this place, believing the man mad or possessed, or both.

  "Strange to watch her like that. She seems so awake. Once she worked at the wheel. Hours. Waddard called me to witness. He feared the devil used her. I spoke the words to drive out evil and applied holy water."

  He tried to shake his head but his shoulders twitched instead. "She kept working. Even spoke to us. But her eyes were—"

  Again he paused, this time to swallow. "Wrong."

  Faucon nodded in agreement. "That's what I saw just a short while ago when she ran from the church. I took her to her mother's home. Tell me this, if you can. How is it neither Juliana nor Waddard knew that Dickie was coming and going from their home during the night?"

  "So many reasons. Too busy with their trade. Juliana too obsessed with Dickie to see him as he was. Waddard too determined to protect— Dickie from Raymond's legacy," Father Berold said then paused for a long breath. "But Jilly knew. It was she who came this morn, pounding on the door, calling for Father Godin."

  Faucon sighed. Of course it was Jilly, the girl who had no fear of Raymond. His questions answered, he started to rise, then glanced at his sleeping brother. But to startle Will was to risk Will running from him.

  "Does my brother's presence inconvenience you?" he asked the priest.

  "Not at all," the twitching man replied.

  Father Berold's face was still for an instant. This time the curve of his lips was natural, and filled with compassion. "I recognize a fellow sufferer. I have added him to my prayers."

  Faucon eyed the priest for a long moment. Of such mettle were saints forged. "For that you have my eternal gratitude, Father."

  Seated with his back to the wall and his legs outstretched, Faucon snapped out of his doze into full awareness. His right hand moved instinctively for the sword he wasn't wearing. He caught back his arm. The torches had died earlier, and the steady flow of air through the sanctuary had blown out the candle. He stared into the impenetrable darkness that again held the church in thrall, listening for what had startled him.

  Hay rustled. That was Alf, rising to sitting. Another rustle marked Aldo as he also stirred from his sleep. Heyward snored to his right. There was no sound from either Tom or Brother Edmund.

  Then Faucon caught it. It wasn't quite a rustle, nor exactly the scurrying of a rat. Although the sound lasted but a short instant, that was long enough for him to place it near Dickie.

  A silent moment passed, then another. Just as Faucon began to relax, it came again. This time there was no question that it came from Dickie.

  He shot to his feet. In a heartbeat,
Alf and Aldo were with him. They arranged themselves in the dark around the hooded and bound boy.

  "He moves?" Aldo whispered.

  "So it seems," Faucon replied in the same low voice. Then he wondered why they were whispering. If Dickie sought to rise, they needed to awaken the others. Then his lips tightened over what must follow. Cutting the boy in pieces was no small task. More importantly, it was no task for a sword. What did it say that the men who had come keep watch had brought wine and food, but no axe or a saw?

  There was another soft, rasping scratch. Faucon blinked. Had Dickie's head just dropped closer to his knees? Without thinking, he extended a hand, meaning to test the boy for a reaction.

  Just before his fingers reached Dickie's bare shoulder, he froze. What if this was how the dead began to move? What if Dickie already carried that sickness?

  Again, the boy slid, this time shifting to the side a little. Daring much, Faucon placed his forefinger on the top of Dickie's head and gave the corpse a gentle push. That was all it took to send the corpse slipping down to the floor. He came to rest on his side, Dickie's hooded head yet propped against the wall. And there he stayed.

  Faucon freed a quiet bark of amusement. "He doesn't move, he only softens," he whispered to the others, relieved that he didn't need to raise his voice. "Brother Edmund was right. He won't walk because he never had any contact with a reanimated corpse. But he will be ready for washing and winding on the morrow."

  Aldo sighed, his breath clouding in the chill air of the church. "I wonder if any man in Mancetter will have an ounce of pride remaining when all of this is said and done. To think we were haunted and hoodwinked by our own children."

  Behind them, the nave door of the church creaked. All three men pivoted. The door scraped softly over the tiles until it stopped, only half-open. Silver starlight spilled in through the gap, outlining the darkened form of the one who entered. It was no man nor hooded walking corpse, just a slight woman. She cradled something in her arms. Skirt swinging, she started toward them.