by Amy Cross
***
Suddenly I open my eyes, and for a fraction of a second I'm blinded by the bright sun. Letting out a groan, I cover my face with my hands and roll onto my side, and then I stay completely still as I feel a slow, sickening sensation rising through my chest and into my head.
It takes a few minutes, but finally I open my eyes again. The day still seems horribly bright, but at least I can bear to look around. To my surprise, I find that somehow during the night I stumbled from the tavern and collapsed in the churchyard, surrounded by gravestones. The grass is damp beneath me as I sit up and lean against the stone wall. Nearby, one of many stones stands crooked in the ground, marking the grave of some long-dead fool who was deemed worthy of this hallowed spot.
Elizabeth should be here. I don't care what happened in the two years since I left the village. I refuse to believe that she turned to sin. She was a good person.
***
“A carpenter?” Joe says with a smile as he carries more boxes into the house. “You? No, I don't believe that for one second. Daniel Lester is no carpenter!”
“I needed a trade,” I explain as I follow him through. My head is still throbbing and I feel sick to my stomach, and I swear the world is somehow brighter today. “I needed to establish myself so I could have something to offer Elizabeth. I didn't dare come back sooner, I was ashamed. But now...”
My voice trails off and I stop for a moment in the doorway. Ahead, Joe is already setting the boxes down on a table at the far end of his workshop.
“What happened to her?” I ask finally, even though I fear I shall be pained by the answer. “I have heard claims, but... What happened to Elizabeth after I left? The last time I spoke to her, I told her I would return, and she swore she'd wait for me. Please, Joe, you're the only friend I have in this place now. I need you to tell me the truth.”
“The truth is a complicated thing,” he replies cautiously. “Daniel, there's nothing you can do for her now. Perhaps it would be best if you just leave and try not to -”
“I have to know!” I say firmly. “The priest tried to warn me away last night. Come on, Joe, we've known one another since we were children! You owe me the truth.”
He takes a moment to reorder some boxes on another bench. I watch, and after a few seconds it becomes plainly obvious that he's stalling. I can't help feeling that he'd prefer not to talk about Elizabeth, and I don't want to put him in an awkward position, but at the same time I have to find out what really happened. With my family having long since departed the mortal coil, Joe is the only friend I have left in this godforsaken village.
“I barely saw her after you left,” he says finally, not quite able to look at me as he takes some tools from one of the boxes. “Truth be told, I laid eyes on her barely half a dozen times.”
“In two whole years?” I ask, surprised by the news.
“She didn't come to the village very often. By all accounts, she stayed up at the house.”
“At Blackwych Grange?”
“Aye.” He pauses, and after a moment he manages to look me in the eye. “Obviously there was never any reason for me to go up there, so I only heard stories. As far as I know, apart from Father Carlisle, fewer and fewer people from the village went to the house. Blackwych Grange has always been kind of isolated out there, but never more so than in recent times. Even Sir John himself has become a rare sight.”
Again, her pauses for a few seconds.
“Occasionally I heard stories, though. Little things, true or not. Naturally people became curious about what was going on up there. About Elizabeth.”
“What did you hear?”
“It might not have been true, Daniel. For all I know, the rumors were just -”
“What did you hear?” I ask again, struggling to stay calm. “I need to know!”
“I have no doubt that Elizabeth was a good person back in the day,” he continues, “but people started to say that she'd changed, that she'd begun to do things and... Well, things that a normal, decent person would never do. The stories started not long after you left. It's said that her uncle received a friend for a visit, and Elizabeth threw herself at the man. She was a beautiful girl, there's no doubt about that, but sometimes beauty is the mask of the Devil. Elizabeth is said to have become consumed by a desire for physical pleasure. For flesh. To the extent that her uncle had to keep her restrained at the house.”
“No,” I reply, “that's just not possible. I know Elizabeth, she was a good person! She might have been frustrated by her uncle's conventions, but that doesn't mean she was wont to embrace carnality!”
“I'm just telling you what I heard,” he replies. “Either way, it must be at least a year since I last saw her in town, and even then she seemed... Different, somehow. Tired. Pained. Not quite herself.”
“You should have sent word. You should have let me know.”
“I had no means. You left no address, Daniel.”
Realizing that he's right, I turn and look out for a moment at the yard. Last night's beer is still making my head sing, but at least the world has stopped spinning. I deliberately chose to give no address to anyone here, including Elizabeth, because I worried I might be tracked down before I had established myself in Bristol. I thought I was doing the right thing, but now I wonder whether I inadvertently deprived Elizabeth of a chance to ask me for help.
“Eventually Father Carlisle started going up there every day,” Joe continues. “We all saw him setting off just before sunset each afternoon, and we all heard him coming back around midnight. People started talking, and it's said that he admitted once or twice that he was trying to drive the Devil out of poor Elizabeth. This went on for months, seemingly with no change, but to his credit Father Carlisle never gave up. Come rain or shine, up he went to the house.”
“And then what happened?” I ask. “I'm told she only died a few days ago.”
He nods.
“So the priest's efforts were unsuccessful?” I continue, struggling to hold back tears. “How exactly did she die?”
“There are stories, but -”
“Tell me!”
He hesitates. “Some say she gouged out her own eyes. Others say she suffered a fit of shakes that tore her body apart. Others mention madness, or say that her heart gave out. Nobody knows for sure, and I doubt Sir John will ever give a full account. Even today, that man still prides himself on the honor of his family. I'm sure Elizabeth became a great embarrassment by the end. Most likely, he simply wants to forget that she ever existed, and focus on his own sickly son.”
“And leave Elizabeth buried in that patch of dirt behind the house,” I mutter darkly. “It's not right. She should at least be allowed to rest in the churchyard.”
“Does it matter?” he asks. “You've never been a very pious man, Daniel, and Elizabeth was the same.”
“It's still wrong. Even if I can't save her, I can at least make sure that she's treated properly in death. Those hypocrites will not be allowed to toss her aside like this.”
“Just go back to Bristol,” Joe replies. “Don't make trouble. Elizabeth's dead and nothing you do will matter to her anymore. She'd want you to get on with your life, instead of letting anger consume your soul.” He hesitates again. “Even if, by the end, she'd become a creature of sin.”
I turn to him.
“You believe the stories about her?” I ask.
Immediately, I see the answer in his eyes.
“Something happened to her up at that house,” he says finally. “Don't let love blind you, Daniel. The Elizabeth who died a few days ago was not the Elizabeth you left behind two years ago. I can't pretend to know why, but I'm quite certain that she was much changed by her time at Blackwych Grange. No good will come of seeking revenge, either. Please, Daniel, just let it go!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Never before in my life have I found succor in prayer, but somehow this time is different.
Father Carlisle reads from the Bible during the
service. I'm on the very back row, although there are only a handful of other people here this afternoon. I came because I had nowhere else to go, and because I wanted to hear words that might give me courage. Courage to ignore my instincts, and to fight the dark urges that even now are rumbling in the chasm of my soul, threatening to spill up and over.
Courage to fight for Elizabeth's soul.
Courage to seek justice against one of the most powerful men in the county.
As the priest's words fill the church, all I can think about is the fact that Sir John Marringham needs to die. And if his death must be at my hand, then so be it. I had hoped that this house of God might change my mind, that I might see some other option, but if anything my resolve is only strengthened. I must go tonight and kill the bastard.
***
“Mr. Lester! Mr. Lester, would you mind waiting a moment?”
Even before I turn to look at him, I know full well that Father Carlisle has followed me out of the building. The other congregants are already dispersing, heading back to their homes and places of work, but the priest has for some reason chosen to follow me. Before he can say another word, I mumble something about needing to get on, and I start walking away. I no longer need guidance.
“I was pleasantly surprised to see you in church today,” he continues, clearly not getting the message at all. “Let me guess... Did you feel the need to hear one final sermon before leaving the village forever?”
“Hardly,” I mutter under my breath.
“But you are leaving, aren't you?” he asks eagerly. “Perhaps you'd drunk too much beer last night and you don't remember, but you agreed with me that leaving the village would be a very good idea. In fact, you -”
“I said no such thing.”
“Are you sure? I distinctly remember that I -”
“I'm sure,” I say firmly. “I'll leave when I've done everything here.”
“You have tasks at hand?”
“I do not wish to explain myself to you.”
“But perhaps I can absolve you of your sins?” he asks, sounding a little out of breath now as he struggles to keep up. “Absolution can be of great comfort, especially if one is highly conflicted. I might even be able to help you think more clearly.”
Reaching the gate, I pull it open and then turn to him. For a moment, as I stare at his puffy red face, I can't help feeling pity for this pathetic little man. He seems driven to help others, yet he has none of the necessary social airs and graces, nor does he inspire much confidence. But still he tries.
“I am worried, Mr. Lester,” he continues, clearly picking his words with extra care, “that your anger might cause you to do something... unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate?”
“And regrettable.”
I can't help sighing. “Father -”
“Revenge is a terrible thing,” he continues, stepping closer and placing a hand on my arm. His concern is evident, if a little thickly laid. In fact, it is almost as if he is panicking. “Do not do what you are thinking of doing, Mr. Lester. There are some acts that are so unspeakable, so horrific, that they lead a man's soul far away from God.”
“I don't know what you -”
“Let her rest in peace,” he adds, interrupting me again. He squeezes my arm even tighter. “For the love of all that is holy, Mr. Lester, do not commit some awful act in the name of love. Do you think your dear Elizabeth, the Elizabeth that you knew before all of this horrible business, would want to see you go against her uncle?”
“That depends,” I reply, figuring that this might be my best chance to learn the truth. “What exactly did her uncle do to her?”
I wait for a reply, but I swear all the color seems to have drained from his face, and his grip on my arm has suddenly become much less certain.
“Why will nobody tell me?” I continue. “Do I have to find someone and wring the truth from their scrawny neck? Because as God is my witness, I shall do whatever it takes.”
“Please, Mr. Lester... Leave now. Do not spend another night here. Leave and never think of this place again. No good can possibly come of this venture.”
“Why won't you tell me what happened to Elizabeth?”
“Because...” He hesitates, before taking a step back. It's almost as if he fears me, although I have given him no cause to think of me as anything other than an honorable man. “Sir John Marringham is not a bad man,” he continues, his voice wavering slightly. “He did his best for Elizabeth at all times.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
“Go!” he hisses. “For the love of God, just leave!”
Staring at him, I see that he's on the verge of tears. He might be a man of the cloth, but right now his reaction is that of a coward, and of a man who has something to hide. I'm tempted to beat the information out of him, but I cannot bring myself to lay my hands upon a priest. He is extremely lucky that I am able to restrain myself.
“I'm going to learn the truth about Elizabeth's death,” I say finally, “and then I am going to ensure that those responsible are punished.”
“The Lord is -”
“I don't care what the Lord wants,” I continue, interrupting him. “I shall ensure that justice is done in this world. The Lord can take care of souls in the next.”
With that, I turn and walk away, and I feel quite certain that I left the man quaking. But why was he so scared? Glancing over my shoulder, I see that he hasn't moved at all, as if pure fear has frozen him to the spot. Although I have no further time to waste on this fool, I can't shake the feeling that he seems unusually terrified by my determination to avenge Elizabeth's death. I am beginning to fear that whatever happened to her, it must have been something truly awful.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Not drinking tonight?” the barman asks lazily as I make my way to the door. “You know the cure for drinking too much beer? More beer!”
“I shall be back late,” I mutter. “Leave the place unlocked.”
“I hope you're not going to waste your life for that slut.”
Stopping, I pause for a moment, trying to determine whether I truly heard those words. Finally I turn and see the stone-faced bastard still in place next to his taps.
“Elizabeth Marringham was the village whore,” he continues. “You know that, don't you? She never left her uncle's house, not this past year or so, but anyone who happened to go up there, anyone whose favor was being courted by Sir John...” He pauses, and slowly a broad grin crosses his face. “Well, let's just say there were a lot of rumors. The stupid girl was -”
“One more word,” I say firmly, taking a step toward him, “and I shall wipe that smile off your face, along with your jawbone.”
He chuckles. “You wouldn't dare.”
“Wouldn't I? If I'm to face the noose after dealing with Sir John, why shouldn't I deal with you as well? They can only hang me once.”
He hesitates, and I can see that I've finally managed to make him see sense.
“Just a friendly warning, is all,” he mutters, turning away and resuming his work, polishing the nearest tap. “It's not like you can do anything for her now, anyway. For better or for worse, she's in her grave.”
Realizing that there's no point wasting any further time on this weasel, I make my way out of the tavern and then down the side street, moving quickly through the shadows. I have no time to lose, and I know I must simply go to Blackwych Grange and force the truth from Sir John's lips. Only then shall I know what's best done with the man, but I am fully prepared to kill him. I even have the knife, pilfered from the tavern's kitchen, and I reach into my pocket to double-check that -
Suddenly I feel a sharp, piercing pain in my back, just above the waist, and I fall forward until I bump against the wall. Turning, I can already tell that there's a blade embedded in my body, and a coward quickly reaches around to grab the knife so that he might use it again.
Throwing myself at him, I knock the bastard back and send him clattering
to the ground. I land next to him and slam my fist into his throat, buying myself enough time to pull the knife from my back and turn it until I have the blade pressed against my assailant's neck.
“Who sent you?” I hiss, fighting against the pain.
He tries to fight back, but even a fool recognizes when he's half an inch from getting his throat sliced open. He's wearing a dark hood, with just two eye-holes cut into the cloth, like some kind of pathetic, amateur assassin.
“Never mind,” I continue breathlessly. “Was this supposed to seem like a simple case of robbery? Is that how you planned to cover your tracks?”
He gasps as I press the knife harder against his throat.
“So Sir John has stooped to this, has he?” I mutter, wincing slightly as I feel another wave of pain running up my back. “Hiring a common idiot from the village to get rid of me? I'm flattered, but perhaps he should have paid a little extra and obtained a more experienced assassin. With that clumsy move, you must be barely out of school britches. In fact, why not -”
Before I can finish, he lets out a cry and tries to push me back. He almost succeeds, too, but I quickly manage to drive the knife into his shoulder, soliciting a gasp of pain and sending him crumpling back down. Twisting the knife, I feel the blade grinding against bone, and then with my other hand I grab the bottom of the hood and pull it free. Somehow, thanks to some deeply-buried instinct, I know whose face I'm going to see even before the hood is out of the way.