It was only after he passed through the gate to the inner bailey that he noticed where his feet had taken him. He stopped and looked around. The keep was a towering shape on one side, the yard was deserted, and the guards atop the walls were motionless, most seated and doubtless dozing. One man on the north wall stood gazing down at him with casual interest. Tom turned and headed that way.
The guard greeted him with a smile when he topped the stairs to the wall-walk. “Can't sleep?” he asked.
"No,” Tom said, reminded of his conversation with the man outside the barbican gate ... Was it only yesterday? It seemed a lifetime ago. “Looks like I'm the only one."
"Indeed."
Tom looked past him to the keep. Its windows were shuttered despite the night's warmth. “Are you up here every night?"
"Most nights."
"Is it just you guards moving around at this hour?"
"Aye. And the occasional visitor to the garderobe.” He hiked a thumb toward the latrine, a small stone structure hanging out over the wall between them and the keep. It was a small turret, square and peak roofed. It even had a small arrow slit high up on its near side, just visible in the moonlight.
"You mean people from the keep?” Tom asked.
The guard nodded. “Some of the servants don't have chamber pots. They come out here in their long nightshirts.” He grinned mildly. “They look like ghosts floating along the wall."
Tom forced a smile. “I'm headed that way myself."
The guard stepped aside to let him pass.
Tom walked directly to the garderobe and pulled open the door. The moonlight slanting in through the arrow slit provided scant illumination, but it was enough for him to make out the interior. He surveyed the bare stone walls, the thick wooden rafters overhead, the wood seat framing the hole in the stone bench. He stepped forward and examined the seat with care. Then he looked through the hole, down at the river's moonlight-dappled surface and the narrow rocky shore between it and the wall.
And suddenly he knew.
There were noises outside, footsteps and hushed voices. He stepped back out and looked around.
The door to the keep was open. Between it and him, at a distance of about twenty paces, there stood a party of men in armor. They faced in all directions; one was watching him intently, with a hand resting on his sword hilt. Several of those behind the man were hauling on two ropes that hung down into the yard. As Tom watched, these men hoisted a long rowboat up over the side. They carried it over to the outside edge of the wall and proceeded to lower it down.
"What's going on here?” said a voice from behind him. The guard he'd spoken to a few moments ago came abreast of him, headed toward the activity.
"Keep to your post, Merritt,” the guard facing them said warningly. He looked ready to draw his sword in an instant—against a fellow guard.
"Dennis?” said the guard beside Tom. “What is this?"
"Keep to your post!"
The men on the ropes were working quickly. Two of them had already shimmied down the outside of the wall and were now untying the boat. Once freed, the ropes were promptly reeled in by the men up top, just as a second group exited the keep. They crossed to the guards and let them tie the ropes around them, then lower them down to the riverside, two by two.
The guard standing beside Tom grunted. “Coward,” he said in a shocked whisper.
Tom, too, had discerned the identity of the small, hooded figure now being lowered with extra care down the outside of the wall. “God, no,” he breathed. He broke into a run. “Stop! You can't!"
The guard standing between him and the young baron drew his sword in a flash. As Tom closed on him, he caught a frantic glimpse of the man's determined scowl, then one of his sword hilt as it came hurtling toward his face.
The world heaved.
Reeling points of light settled into a view of the starry night sky. Tom was lying on the wall-walk. His face was wet. When he touched it, his hand came back dark with blood.
"Edgar!” he croaked, trying to sit up. “Your father was murdered! One of the king's men killed him!"
He couldn't tell if he managed to shout the words or not. He might not have said them aloud at all. It was hard to think. There was something hovering over him, shapes blotting out parts of the sky—people. He felt hands on him, trying to lift him up or keep him down, he couldn't tell. Maybe both.
"Oh God,” he moaned, wanting to cry. Darkness swept in.
* * * *
Lord Ian Huxley, commander of the siege army, had converted the Hawleyshire parish church into his headquarters. It had also served as a barracks these past five weeks, just like every other roofed structure in the village. But as Tom walked up the central aisle with Father Rowan and their soldier escort, he saw little sign that men had been sleeping here, only a few bedrolls sitting on the floor, an unpaired boot lying under one pew, and a few other discarded personal effects. By midday most of the soldiers had moved their belongings into the castle and the villagers had moved theirs back into their homes. It was an awkward morning after the surrender, with soldiers and villagers passing each other in the road. But the tension led to no violence. Lord Huxley had kept his word; the villagers were allowed back into their homes unmolested. They would not be punished for the role they'd played in the defense of Colstock Castle. Even the castle garrison was to be spared.
All surrenders were not so peaceful. When King Henry was a young man of seventeen, he personally directed the siege of Bedford Castle. Starved and exhausted after an arduous two months, Fawkes de Bréauté and his compatriots inside finally surrendered. The archbishop of Canterbury, who previously stood below the castle walls and excommunicated the inhabitants, recommunicated de Bréauté and his fellows. Then King Henry hanged them all.
Thinking of this, Tom could no longer blame young Baron Bradburn for fleeing during the night with his counselors and a few trusted bodyguards. He now understood how futile were his words for the baron last night. The boy probably would have run even harder if Tom had managed to show him the truth.
Politics be damned. Now there was only one reason for the truth to be known.
As he and Father Rowan followed their escort to the rear of the church, Father Rowan's head turned this way and that. Assessing the damage, Tom thought. The guard led them down a side corridor to a closed door. He knocked on it, then opened it at a word from inside.
A silver-haired man sat at a desk facing the door, flanked by two guards. To judge by his garb he could only be Lord Huxley.
The escort spoke from the doorway. “My lord, these men request an audience."
Tom didn't know if Lord Huxley had met Father Rowan before now, if arrangements had been made between them for possession of the church. But Lord Huxley barely glanced at Father Rowan. He was studying him instead. Tom suddenly remembered what he looked like. A glimpse in the mirror this morning showed him two black eyes and an ugly gash across the bridge of his nose. Lord Huxley must be wondering how a man even older than he was received such a wound.
Tom decided to take advantage of his interest. “It's important, milord,” he said evenly.
Lord Huxley studied him a moment more. Then he waved them in. The escort backed out, closing the door behind them.
Father Rowan started to reach for a scroll that was sitting precariously on the edge of the desk but stopped himself. Belatedly Tom realized this must be his rectory they were standing in.
"What is it?” Lord Huxley asked, returning his attention to the map and various parchments spread on the desk before him.
Tom said, “I need you to tell Father Rowan the truth about how the old baron died."
Lord Huxley looked up at him again. He glanced at Father Rowan, then back at Tom's battered face. “How do you mean?"
"My grandson was standing guard outside the baron's study the night he was killed. My grandson was killed too. He has been blamed for the baron's death. If the truth isn't known, he'll be buried in an unconsecrated
grave. His soul will never know peace."
Lord Huxley regarded him impassively.
"My grandson was a good man,” Tom continued. “A good Christian. He doesn't deserve such a fate."
Again Lord Huxley said nothing.
Tom's gaze didn't waver. “Shall I tell you how your man got inside the castle?"
From the corner of his eye Tom saw Father Rowan's head turn in surprise. Tom hadn't told him he'd solved the puzzle. Lord Huxley looked interested too. He sat back in his chair and made a slight gesture, beckoning him to proceed. Tom glanced at the guards standing to either side of him, wondering if they should be let in on the secret. But Lord Huxley made no move to dismiss them, so Tom spoke.
"The river is running low with the drought, low enough for someone to walk along the base of the wall to a spot below the garderobe in the inner bailey. I've heard that at some castles, there is an enclosed shaft under the garderobe, with a door at the base for cleaning it out. Here your man had no such concealment, but he still had a hole in the stone bench above him, one large enough to admit a man who is slight of build.
"In the wood surrounding the hole there are fresh gouges where your assassin's grappling hook bit. I suspect there are more marks in the rafters above. Even a small man wouldn't have been able to climb up through the hole if a grapple was blocking part of it. So I expect he carried a second grapple and line, to toss up into the rafters and climb the rest of the way. I'm sure he carried a nightshirt, bundled up. He put it on once he squeezed through the hole. Then he walked along the wall to the keep, without raising the alarm. The guards mistook him for just another of the keep's residents out for a visit to the privy."
"Tom,” Father Rowan said gently, hesitantly. “It's not possible. How would this man have made it all the way up to the baron's chambers? How would he have gained entrance to the keep?"
"The door in the keep's east wall is left unlocked. Once inside, I can only guess the assassin met no one as he climbed up to the third floor. Or at least, no one whose suspicions he aroused. Like the guards on the wall, anyone he passed might have thought he was a servant or someone else who belonged there. Either way, he did reach the baron's study. He attacked my grandson with a dagger he carried under his nightshirt. Then he killed the baron with my grandson's sword. He put the weapons in their dead hands, then he fled."
"Fled where?” Father Rowan asked.
Tom looked at Lord Huxley as he replied. “The truth is, I'm not sure. He couldn't have returned to the garderobe and climbed down again because that would have meant leaving a grapple and line hanging in plain sight. Maybe he jumped off the wall, though I'm not sure the river is deep enough. More likely he hid among the villagers living in the castle. He could have walked out with the rest of us this morning."
Lord Huxley didn't say anything. Tom stood there, returning his gaze steadily.
Finally, slowly, Lord Huxley said, “You offer very little proof. Nicks in the seat of a latrine."
"I am—I was a wagon-crafter. I know wood and the marks tools make in it. I know, too, the significance of another mark, one I found on the doorframe of the baron's study. It was a smudge of dung, up high, too high to have scuffed off someone's boot. Your man must have picked it up as he squirmed through the privy hole."
"Hardly damning evidence."
"As it stands. But have a carpenter examine those nicks and I'll wager he says a grapple made them. Have a farmer look at the dung and I'll wager he says it's human, not animal. Ask the villagers if someone they didn't recognize laid out his bedroll near them the night the baron was killed."
Out of the corner of his eye, Tom noticed that Father Rowan wasn't looking at him anymore. He was looking at Lord Huxley. But Huxley was still staring at him.
Tom hardly dared to breathe. Would Lord Huxley admit the truth? Was there some political advantage in people believing the old baron was killed by one of his own men? Tom rather supposed there was. It might weaken support for the rebel barons’ cause. Then again, the rebel barons had almost no supporters left. And they were all contained, under siege in just two castles now, with no sign of help coming from France. Might it not serve Lord Huxley and King Henry just as well if people believed the two of them were clever enough to sneak an assassin into the rebel castles at their pleasure?
Then Lord Huxley's expression changed, and suddenly Tom saw he'd read his thoughts all wrong. He cared nothing for the matter. He'd let Tom explain how he worked it all out just on a whim, for a momentary diversion.
Turning his attention back to his paperwork, Lord Huxley spared Father Rowan a glance. “Give the boy a proper burial,” he said.
Copyright (c) 2007 Eric Rutter
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Fiction: A KILLING IN MIDTOWN by G. Miki Hayden
Nana, Miriam's young cowife, had gotten a job as a bathroom attendant at the Stilton Hotel in midtown Manhattan. Although Kofi expressed his disapproval, warning the women of the dangers that lay abroad for young girls—and, indeed, he did seem apprehensive—the two women were quite excited about Nana's new adventure. She was told where to buy a light gray uniform with a white lace collar, and Miriam, who hemmed the skirt, told her how beautiful she looked in the outfit, which she did. Not even a uniform designed to make the wearer look like one of an endless brigade of anonymous maids could hide Nana's glow. The girl would have to wear a bucket over her head to minimize even a portion of her sparkle, concluded Miriam, who felt very proud of her adventurous cowife.
The unfortunate part of the job was the hours—four in the afternoon until midnight—actually a very good shift, Zeline, Nana's new best friend and fellow ladies’ room attendant, said. Still, Miriam worried about the relatively recent immigrant from Ghana and insisted on going with their husband Kofi to the 125th Street subway station every night to wait for Nana to emerge.
Nana, irrepressible, would chatter about the interesting new job all the way home, talk about the expensive dresses the banquet guests wore, chuckle over little jokes told in the ladies’ room that (as a professional) she hadn't been able to laugh over at the time, and report Zeline's advice as to how to make money.
"Zeline said to place a one dollar bill plus four quarters in the tip dish at the beginning of the night,” Nana explained. That way a guest might be encouraged to put down a bill herself, thinking a dollar was the proper amount, or, in case not, she might at least leave a bill and take some change.
"Then I can slip a few bills into my pocket, and later, at my break, into my purse,” Nana elaborated. “Because we're really supposed to share our tips at the end of the night, although Zeline says that's not exactly fair, that everyone takes some dollars from the top. And Anna said we shouldn't have to split with Georgette the housekeeper, and management should also pay us by the hour.” This was the first Miriam had heard the name Anna spoken, and she was fascinated with the thought of all these friendly women taking a moment here and there to share their knowledge with her Nana. That was nice. Moreover, Miriam was delighted by the idea that Nana might make even more money than she had been, as she seemed to be quite loaded with cash these days, a boon to them all.
Nana appeared very happy and even went for a manicure so that her nails would look appropriate to her position. “I hand them towels,” she told Miriam—Kofi had long since stopped listening—"so my nails should look nice.” She displayed her lovely, plump, dark brown fingers capped by a subdued pink polish for Miriam to admire. Miriam smiled.
Then, one night, Nana didn't come off the subway at her accustomed time. Kofi and Miriam waited in the cold, but the girl wasn't on the next train or the next. The couple walked down into the subway and stood outside the gates for an hour. Soon Miriam insisted they go to the other side and take the train downtown to the hotel.
Kofi balked. He had never taken the subway before, though Miriam had. So she repeated her request in such a way that he could not deny her. Who could refuse Miriam when she had her mind set on something?
&
nbsp; Miriam had grilled Nana at the very first as to how to get to the hotel—she had wanted all the details of the job. Now her initial curiosity came in handy. She knew exactly how to travel to the Stilton. After a long wait for such a late-hour train—it was two A.M. by now—the couple easily found their way to Nana's workplace.
Kofi might be a reluctant speaker, but in her youth in Ghana, Miriam had worked for a family of white authorities and had found them jolly, so she was not shy. She went straight to the desk and explained her interest in her “daughter's” whereabouts.
The desk clerk understood and delivered a grimace. A police investigation was going on. A sudden rush of distress flooded through Miriam, body and soul. That could mean anything ... “Yes? Yes?” she faltered.
Nana was being questioned by the officers.
Miriam was at once relieved—or at least somewhat. Nana was alive and Miriam knew the girl had done nothing wrong. Still, Miriam only had a vague sense of whether Nana was in this country legally. But the girl was all right. That was the main thing—even if they all had to return to Ghana tomorrow.
The clerk pointed the way to the workers’ area of the hotel. He appeared to empathize with Miriam's concern.
Nana was in tears when they came upon her. She didn't ask why Miriam and Kofi were here, but only embraced Miriam and cried even harder. “Anna is dead,” she finally announced when she'd calmed herself a little bit. “I'm the one who found her in the locker room. She was all crumpled up in the back, blood on her head."
Finally, the police let Nana go. They didn't suspect her of anything and didn't even warn the girl not to leave town. Miriam, who regularly watched a number of police shows on television, wondered why they forgot that particular line. The girl had a passport. But maybe the police realized she had strong ties to the community. Miriam liked that phrase especially.
The family took the subway home, Nana holding Miriam's hand for comfort all the way.
* * * *
The next day Nana was lackluster, yet nonetheless ate a hearty morning meal of grits and yams. Kofi awoke late when only the smallest yam remained. But then, he didn't know the size of the other couple Nana had herself unthinkingly devoured, so all was well.
AHMM, January-February 2008 Page 5