Caught Red-Handed

by Denise Domning

  "Juliana," Faucon whispered to Alf and Aldo. "I think she walks in her sleep. I want to see what she does. Come," he said, drawing them back to the sacristy door.

  "God save me! Is she again walking in her sleep? It's been so long since she last did that I'd forgotten that about her," Aldo breathed.

  "She walks and moves while sleeping?" Alf whispered in sharp surprise. Both Faucon and Aldo hushed him.

  If Juliana heard them, she gave no sign of it. As if it were as light as day, Dickie's mother rounded the corner of the altar, then knelt beside her son, her back to them. Enough starlight reached that wall to show Faucon that she wore no cloak and her feet were bare. Setting whatever she carried beside Dickie, the woman leaned toward the corpse and began to loosen the knots that kept him bound. Once Juliana had freed Dickie of his bindings, she wrestled the hood from his head, then reached out to stroke her son's cheek.

  "What is this? Do you yet sleep?" she asked of her dead boy. "But it's time for you to rise."

  She paused, still and quiet, as if she listened to Dickie's reply. The possibility that she might actually be hearing something sent a shiver up Faucon's spine.

  "But of course you're cold as ice," she said in response to nothing. "You left without your clothing. And your shoes, you foolish lad! What sort of clodpate goes about without his shoes this time of year? See here, I have them for you." As she spoke, Juliana opened the sack and pulled out Dickie's tunic, then his shoes.

  Faucon bowed his head. There was no satisfaction in seeing proof of what his pieces had already told him.

  "Sir," Alf said, definitely sounding unnerved this time, "how can she have his shoes unless she was in the smithy before the girl?"

  "And so she was," Faucon replied sadly, "sent there in her sleep by her own mother's sarcastic comment."

  There, in the smithy, Juliana had come upon 'Raymond,' cloaked and hooded. Lost in her strange sleep, she'd done the one thing that she must have longed to do from the day Raymond had taken her. She'd used Aldo's hammer to put an end to the evil that had befouled her life.

  "Now we'll have to get you dressed. You're right, that will be quite a chore. You're no longer a little lad, are you?" she was telling the corpse.

  All three men stayed where they stood, watching as she dressed her son. When Juliana was done, she curled up next to Dickie and returned to wherever it was that her strange sleep took her.

  Rather than sleep, Faucon sat near Juliana for the rest of the night. It wasn't to keep watch over her. He had no doubt she'd remain where she was until she finally awakened. It was he who wouldn't be able to sleep.

  Instead, he spent the next few hours turning and rearranging those pieces of his, praying that there might be something he'd missed. Nothing changed, not the sequence of events nor the name he would have to announce to the jury. When he at last admitted defeat, he turned his gaze to the half-open door to watch as night slowly gave way to day.

  When the sky was tinted pink, he rose and went to kneel next to Juliana. He took her hand. As she'd done earlier, not so much as an eyelid flickered.

  Faucon shifted to hold her palm to the light. The dark stain of dried blood marked out the lines and creases of her palm. There could be no question from whence it had come, not when Waddard hired his brother to do his slaughtering so he and his wife could continue their work. So too, was the sleeve of her pale blue gown marked, the darker tint of blood hiding among the blotches left by the reddish clay she and Waddard shaped into vessels.

  With all doubt destroyed, he returned to where he sat, yet staring through the door at the bit of the world he could see beyond it. He wondered if Juliana would have any recollection of what she'd done even when confronted with the truth. She'd removed Raymond's cloak but not his hood. Was that because she'd come upon the sack in which Dickie carried his clothing, garments she must have recognized even in her sleep?

  Outside the church, Etta appeared in the track. The old woman trotted swiftly toward Waddard's home. No doubt she was in search of her missing daughter.

  Brother Edmund coughed himself awake. The monk rose and threw back his hood, then shifted swiftly toward Dickie's corpse. Edmund blinked in surprise as he saw the dressed corpse. He blinked again as he noticed Juliana curled next to her son.

  Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the monk came to stand next to his employer. "I thought you said you took his mother away from the church. When did she return to dress the body?"

  "Juliana came in the dark of night, bringing with her Dickie's clothing," he said tiredly, looking up at his clerk.

  "What?! She walked here alone in the dark just to bring clothing for her son? No woman does that," the monk retorted in disbelief.

  "This one did. More than that, she walked alone in the dark with the boy's clothing while still asleep," Faucon told him.

  Edmund looked askance at him. "That's not possible."

  "It's possible for Juliana," Faucon countered. "Father Berold told me last night that she once worked for hours at the potter's wheel, asleep all the while. He said not even prayers or holy water were enough to wake her." Faucon sighed. "She murdered Raymond while trapped in her dreams."

  Confusion flashed across his clerk's face. "But you said that the boy was pretending to be—" Edmund caught a sharp breath. His eyes widened. "Can this be true? His own mother?"

  "Tell me, Brother. What does the law say about one who does murder without any knowledge that she's doing murder?" Faucon wanted to know.

  Edmund's brows rose as he thought, then he shook his head. "Your question is akin to asking if she can be considered as deodand, at fault for the death, even though there is no possibility of the intent of causing death."

  Here, he paused. His brows lowered. "But that's not what you're really asking me, is it? Sir, it matters not what the law says or doesn't say, not to you. You are only responsible for presenting the name to the jury for their confirmation and assessing the estate of the wrongdoer. This woman will have the same opportunity as any other accused of murder. She can bring her witnesses to testify to her character and circumstances when she's called to face our king's justice. Her guilt or innocence is theirs to decide, not yours."

  "But I think when she learns what she's unwittingly done, she'll not survive," Faucon argued. "And if she dies before she can offer her tale, will I then bear the stain of her death on my soul?"

  His clerk watched him for a moment, then tucked his hands into his sleeves. "You seek to carry more than is rightly yours. If hers is the name you must speak, it is because our Lord has so ordained it. If you doubt that, well then, that's a matter to set before your confessor. For the now, you must play the role the Lord God has given you."

  Just then, the church door swung wide. Etta entered first, yet wearing her green gown. Her headcloth was tied haphazardly over her head. Her narrow face was pinched in worry.

  "Thank the Lord! There she is," the old woman cried in relief as she saw her daughter sleeping at the back wall.

  Jilly followed her grandmother into the church. The girl's fair hair went in all directions, yet tangled with sleep. Her blue gown hung slightly askew, as if pulled on in haste.

  Her presence had Faucon on his feet in an instant. He met the girl at the center of the nave. "Come with me," he said to her, catching her by the shoulder, drawing her back to the doorway where they could be private.

  As they stopped Jilly looked up at him, her face pale and her eyes wide. "Grandmama came crying that Mama walked away from her while yet sleeping," she said to him, her tone anxious and confused. "But how could Mama have done that? She was here and you vowed to watch her. She is still here."

  Faucon nodded. "I did as I vowed, and watched over your mother until she ran from the church. When I caught her, I saw that she was yet sleeping. Because your home was dark and your grandmother had met me in the track, I took your mother to her house."

  "Truly? She ran in her sleep? How is that possible?" the girl protested, not being old enough to h
ave witnessed what her mother had done long ago.

  "Jilly, your mother did more than just walk in her sleep," Faucon told her, then took her hand in his. "When the men of the jury arrive, I will have to tell them that Juliana of Mancetter killed her only son," he said gently. "I will also say that she did it while asleep with no knowledge of what she was doing. I cannot say what they will do after I say this to them. But if they do not refute me, they must confirm her name as Dickie's murderer.

  "It's not their belief that concerns me. It is how your mother will react when I make my charge," he told her.

  Jilly's chin began to quiver. The fear that filled her face said she had more than an inkling of what might happen when her mother was confronted with the truth. "What should I do?" she begged of her Crowner.

  "Would that I knew," Faucon replied, speaking the truth that had gnawed at him since Juliana's return to the church. "But here is what I do know. You are stronger than you believe. Each day will bring its troubles, but there's one thing of which I'm certain. Nothing will ever break you, Jilly."

  These words were all he had to give her. There were the ones he'd needed to hear but hadn't, when he found himself at a similar crossroad in time.

  She stared up at him for a moment, then drew a steadying breath. When she left him, Faucon stayed in the doorway, watching her cross the nave, then kneel beside her waking mother. He prayed he might have made her path a little easier.

  "Sister Cellaress, the sun sets. Why are we continuing on? We must turn back," Lady Marianne tells me, her tone concerned.

  The girl sits atop the little donkey I brought to carry our baskets. I both asked for the beast and put the child atop it to please my heart. Our holy Mother also rode such a beast and the little lady is the image of our Virgin.

  The child believes she rides to guard the baskets and the precious wax we purchased but an hour ago. In all truth, short of the animal falling, there’s little chance of spillage, not when we travel the Street. The ancient roadway is raised, smooth and straight as an arrow.

  "There’s no need to be anxious, Lady Marianne," I say to her, seeking to assure. "We are always safe in our Lord’s hands. Our destination is only a little farther."

  I smile as I say this, while deep within me concern stirs. This was not the day I’d promised Him for my final sacrifice. Today is Dies Mala, an Egyptian day, one that showers misfortune upon the unwary. I remind myself that I am neither unwary nor did I have a choice. My holy task has already waited too long.

  The day Lady Marianne and I made our brief visit to the village baker, who had no wax after all, I fell in the uneven roadway, reopening some of my wounds. When Mother saw the blood that stained my habit upon our return, she confined me to the infirmary. There I remained, trapped and anxious until midday today, a full five days later, and three days past my promised arrival at His gates. Although I prayed, so He might know I had not forsaken Him nor the task He entrusted to me, I’ve felt His presence waning with each passing hour.

  Then I remind myself that no matter what I sense, it was clearly His hand that arranged for our presence on the road right now. Not only did Mother agree to me leaving the abbey with the child when half the day was already gone, but she allowed me to go without Simon. But then, the hamlet I named sits less than a mile from our walls.

  "Please, Sister Cellaress, let us turn back," the little lady almost pleads this time.

  "Have faith, my child," I tell her. "Sing with me. Let us sing praises to our Lord as we travel."

  Although concern continues to mar the perfection of her face, I lift my voice into the glorious words of Veni Creator Spiritus. She joins me after a moment.

  The sun hung low in the western sky as Merevale’s priest intoned the last blessing and made the final sign of the cross over Dickie’s body. Standing with Faucon across the open grave from him, Brother Edmund nodded his approval. "That was perfectly done, Father."

  "We could not have done it without your assistance, Brother," Abbot Henry replied for the priest. When he'd heard the true tale of Raymond's visitations, and that Mancetter now lacked a competent priest, he'd insisted on bringing his convent's priest to officiate at Dickie's burial. "Your suggestions for prayers were a Godsend. I'm certain we've warded off all the evil that might have sought out the dead boy. More than that, I believe the boy will rest easily, without suffering any of the anger or confusion that could cause him to stir the way his father once did."

  Here, the Cistercian abbot offered a grateful nod to his Benedictine cousin. "How fortunate we are to have one who understands the walking dead well enough to advise us."

  "Boys," Aldo said at the same time.

  The lads who'd joined Dickie in his mummery stepped forward, shovels in hand. Although burying their dead friend had been included in their penances, it was also a labor of love. All of them were red-eyed as they worked. They, along with Aldo, and Jilly and her sisters, were the only folk from Mancetter to attend Dickie's internment.

  Two days had passed since the men of Helmingford Hundred gathered to confirm Juliana's name as murderess, four days since Juliana had learned what she'd done in her sleep. Since that moment she'd not spoken or moved voluntarily, and Etta refused to leave her daughter's side.

  As for Waddard, he'd closed himself into his workshop, where he sought to do the work of two despite his hip. Faucon's appraisal of their assets had shown the family could ill afford the royal fine, should Juliana be adjudged guilty by the justiciars. The potter took consolation in the fact that there was little chance of the Eyre arriving in Warwickshire this year, or even the next. All that had left Jilly as the sole parent to her siblings.

  Faucon watched as the girl herded her sisters out of the churchyard. They passed Alf and Will who stood with their horses and Edmund's donkey. Like Faucon, Will was also fully armed.

  As Brother Edmund turned to make his way to the track, Abbot Henry hurried to catch Faucon. The Churchman rested his hand on his shoulder. "You are questioning yourself again," he said quietly. "I can see it in your face, my son."

  "Why would I not?" Faucon replied, his voice equally as low. "The truth I found offered no one justice. But have no fear." He did his best to smile at the abbot. "I've taken your words to heart. I am certain that all is exactly as our Lord wishes it to be. Now, will you allow us to escort you and your priest back to Merevale?" he added.

  The Churchman shook his head. "Father Guillame and I feel we must stay the night here with Father Berold. We hope he'll accept our offer to come to Merevale as a pensioner. I and my brothers are better suited to care for him, while his removal from Mancetter will free the Norman brothers to offer his benefice to another."

  The abbot paused to shake his head. "Given what's happened here, and the departure of Father Godin, these folk need a competent priest more than ever." To Abbot Henry's credit, he hadn't pressed Faucon for Godin's story when told of the Northerner's unexpected departure.

  "You and yours must now be on your way," the Cistercian continued, casting his gaze heavenward. "By the sun, I think there's just enough left of this day for you to reach Nuneaton before full dark, if you ride swiftly."

  As the abbot said this, Aldo left the lads to their labors to join Faucon and the Churchman. "Many thanks, my lord abbot. Your intentions for Father Berold are a great kindness, both for him and for us."

  The reeve offered the Churchman a humble nod, then also bent his neck to Faucon. When he again met his Crowner's eye, he offered Faucon a small smile.

  "Sir, I pray I need never again call for you to come to us. That said, all of Mancetter is fortunate that you were at the abbey when our need arose. Because of you, we are at last free of Raymond. Regardless of what it cost us all, that's a blessing beyond any value."

  Faucon struggled for something to say but found nothing. He settled for a nod and a smile, then followed Edmund to the track. Within moments, the four of them had ridden beyond Mancetter's southern bound, splashed through the River Anker, and found Wa
tling Street.

  Heyward had said the Street would be hard to miss. The old man was right. Raised more than a foot above the ground, the grassy surface was unbelievably even, without holes or obvious ruts. Wider than two wagons abreast, it cut across the landscape without the slightest curve for as far as he could see. Taking advantage of the width, Will and Edmund brought their mounts alongside Faucon. In deference to his betters, Alf continued to ride just behind them.

  "So this is where Harlequin's army rides," Will said, looking about him as if he expected to see the army of the dead appear at any moment. For once there was no snide edge to his tone. But then Will had spent the last four days tending to Father Berold's needs, doing so by his own choice. This was so unlike the man his brother had become that Faucon worried at first. However, as each day passed Will seemed calmer, more settled in himself.

  "Walter Map is clear, Sir William," Brother Edmund said, speaking across his employer to Faucon's brother. "It's Herla who rides here, not Harlequin. While their tales are similar, they are not the same man. Harlequin and his army collect those among the newly-dead who have blackened their souls during life. These corpses are made to suffer terrible and diverse torments for the whole while they walk with his army. However, once they've paid for their wrongs, they win their freedom. It seems no one is immune to Harlequin's call. Those who have witnessed his army say they see not only lewd women and common thieves among his horde, but also knights, lords, priests, and even bishops!

  "That is not so with Herla," the monk continued. "He was once an ancient king in our land, a Briton. It's said this king was traveling toward his home when at a crossroads he met a faun, a Pan—"

  "A little man, but still a king in his own right, although his realm was underground," Alf corrected from behind them.

  Edmund ignored the commoner "The faun approached Herla, who stopped to speak to the strange creature. This Pan knew who the king was. He predicted that Herla would soon wed with the daughter of a king. Then he told the great warrior that when the wedding took place, he would attend the celebration.