by Alison Adare
Tom stood in a single graceful movement, crossed to the basin stand, and returned with a cup of water. “Here.”
Janet raised herself on her elbow, took the cup and drank. “Thanks.”
Tom sat on the edge of her bed. “You’ve been ill for four days, do you remember?”
The wolf … the darkness, the devil … the dragon … her mouth dried and she drank again, then shook her head. “Not really.”
“You’ve had a fever,” Tom went on. “Half of Brinday, as well. Running mad, screaming that they were on fire. Seeing things … all sorts of things.”
Seeing wolves in their bedrooms and dragons in the sky. “I remember thinking, there were … things. Dangerous things.”
“Half of Brinday,” Tom said again, and at her look, “Truth, Jack, that’s a cautious count. It was a nightmare. I thought I’d never find anyone in their right mind to help. And then we were all watching each other, wondering who would be next, with the mad tied to their beds, them that had beds, or bound hand and foot. I’ve seen pestilence run through an army camp like fire through straw but this was everywhere, all at once.”
She could imagine it, imagine all too well him running through the fort, desperately seeking someone in their right mind. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Jack, I’m just glad you’re well,” Tom said. “You kept screaming about the devil, and the dragon. And then you fell down in a fit. I was sure you were dying. I was sure everyone was dying, but only two did, down in the village, Alis and her son. Many are still sick, though not as bad as they were.” He paused. “And then … Davith.”
“Davith!” Janet sat up. “Davith’s dead?”
Tom shook his head. “Not dead. He … he killed his wife.”
Janet stared at him. “Christ’s cod!”
Tom winced, but forbore to comment. “Strangled her. They found her dead, him insensible beside her.”
“Then how do they know …?”
“She marked his face with her nails. He was raving with fever when he woke, making no sense at all according to Donnic. Now he says he has no memory of it.” Tom hesitated again. “Some are saying … it wasn’t a fever, it was possession.”
Oh, Saint Sebastian’s scrotum. What did the local people do to those possessed? A bonfire might be the best I can hope for. “I don’t feel possessed,” she managed to say.
“Not you — Davith.” He ran his hands through his hair, and then scrubbed his face with his palm. “I think it’s as much because they don’t want him to have to face a trial. Devils can be cast out. Donnic would make a good show of it.”
“But if he was driven mad by fever, surely he can’t be blamed?” Janet said. “Or is the law different here?”
“The law here is what I say it is,” Tom said a little grimly. “Donnic says they haven’t seen a justice of the peace in two years. But there was bad blood between Davith and his wife, Lady Modron says. He could be thought to have reason to do it, and the fever a convenient excuse. We’ve not exactly got a gaol here — he’s locked in the guest room with two of Glyn’s men able to keep their feet to guard the door.”
“Not Davith,” Janet said.
“Because he sings well?” Tom said. “Or your famous talent for seeing a man’s honesty in his eyes?”
Janet twitched at the blankets and when Tom took the hint and stood, flung them back and swung her feet to the floor. “I’ve watched him with the tenants. They don’t question him, don’t doubt his honesty. And they’d know, wouldn’t they?”
“A man can be honest in his work and dishonest in his marriage.”
“Maybe,” Janet said. She braced herself and stood, wobbling for a moment like an hours-old lamb. Tom reached out to steady her but she got her balance and his hand fell back to his side. “Put it to the jury, Tom. They’ll know how things were between them, if it seems likely he’d do such a thing. If they say yes, there’s time then to decide how to handle it.” She waved him away. “Now go on. If I fall on my face getting dressed, I’d rather you’re not here to laugh.”
She managed to keep her feet until he left, and then had to sit down on the bed again, sweating with effort. It took far longer than it should have to pull on her hose and lace the points with hands that trembled as if she had the ague. Well, I may well have. But it did not seem likely to her. She’d seen, as Tom had, sickness run through a camp of soldiers, striking down entire companies. At times she’d wondered if the army was losing more men to illness than on the battlefield. Bloody flux, pox, spots, ague, camp fever, congestion, the falling sickness, lockjaw, quinsy, putrid fever, winter fever, she’d seen them all. Some of them left sufferers raving and fevered, but she’d seen none that could bring so many to take such complete leave of their senses so quickly.
Was there a devil in us all, after all? she wondered. Or some ill-humor in Brinday’s well, from which we all drink?
In the well? They’d eaten together at the feast, and the madness had struck just a few hours later — struck with the speed and force of a curse. And what role did Braelyn play in the kitchen that day?
She did not want to believe it: not of Braelyn, who’d tended her leg and likely saved her life; not of Emlyn’s mother. But the woman was a witch, and when you found a curse, a witch was where you looked for the cause.
First things first. Before anything else, Janet wanted to look Davith in the eye as she heard what he had to say for himself.
Slinging her sword-belt around her waist, just in case, Janet went in search of Father Donnic.
She found him in the church, kneeling before the altar. She waited politely until he rose with an effort and turned.
He looked as haggard as Tom had. More so, and no wonder. The people here might be Tom’s charge, but they’re Donnic’s friends, many of them. Davith included.
Donnic managed a smile at the sight of her. “I’m glad you’ve recovered, Steward Cooper.”
“So am I,” Janet said. “How many are still sick?”
“Just under a dozen.” He turned and cast a glance at the crucifix above the altar. “Two are very likely to die, Braelyn believes.”
Janet crossed herself. “May God bring them through. Does Braelyn know what the illness is?”
Donnic shook his head. “She says she has heard of it, though, from her own mother. A similar outbreak, many years ago. Carried in the rain, she says, as that was in a wet year such as this as well.”
Janet hesitated. “Then why now?” she said at last. “It’s been dry.”
“The good lord knows.”
“Have you spoken to Davith?”
He nodded, expression pained. “The poor man. He has no memory at all of what happened. I offered to hear his confession, but he said, how could he confess to something he doesn’t recall?”
“There’s no doubt he did it, though?”
“Doubt is always possible,” Donnic said. “But in this case … her nails were bloody, his face scratched. She had some of his hair clutched in her fist.” For an instant he hesitated, lips slightly parted as if he was about to say more, and then closed his mouth firmly and clasped his hands in front of him.
“I heard he and his wife … there were disagreements between them.”
“Oh, yes,” Donnic said promptly, surprising her at such a ready admission from Davith’s friend. “She has a hot temper and a harsh tongue, and Davith’s a head of stone. No recipe for domestic bliss. But if an unhappy household from time to time were a reason for murder, half the men and women in Brinday would hang. And Davith, now … not easily roused to anger and not hasty when he is. If he’d been found dead, I could easily believe Gwyn might have cracked his head with the cook-pot. But her …” He shook his head.
“I’d like to talk to him,” Janet said. “Will you come?”
“Yes, but I don’t know what you think he’ll be able to tell you. He remembers nothing, as I said.”
Janet turned toward the door, Donnic falling into step beside her. “I’d like to hea
r him say that. And there’s the small matter of getting the wool to market, and all the rest of Brinday’s business, that he’d be seeing to and that now I must.”
“More than that,” Donnic said as they climbed the steps to the great hall’s entrance, slowing his pace to accommodate Janet. “There’s a fair few men and women who won’t be able to do a full day’s work for weeks. Sir Thomas will have to decide how to divide the work that needs to be done among those left able to do it.” He gave Janet a sharp, sideways glance, and she grinned.
“You mean, I will have to ask Davith how to divide the work and then advise Sir Thomas in such a way that he agrees.”
“Is that what I mean, then?” Donnic said mildly.
They reached the door of the guest room, and the guards stood aside without being asked. It was still a faint surprise to Janet, to have the right to be obeyed second only to Tom himself. “Thank you,” she said, although it occurred to her that perhaps she should learn to be more haughty.
But then, Davith isn’t, she thought, opening the door. And Tom did himself more good with the tenants working and eating with them than —
Then she saw Davith, turning slowly around and around, his toes a good foot off the floor and a rope around his neck.
She flung herself forward, throwing her arms around Davith and trying to lift him. She didn’t have the strength, cursed the debilitation of fever and shouted for help. A flurry of footsteps and the guards raced in, and then stronger arms took over, raising Davith a little.
“Help me,” Janet said to Donnic, climbing onto the bed. He hurried to steady her as she stood, wavered a little, and then drew her sword and slashed through the rope above Davith’s head.
The guards lowered him to the floor and bent over him, one drawing a knife and cutting free the rope around his neck.
“Is he breathing?” Janet asked. “Donnic, is he breathing?”
Donnic asked, and the guard shook his head. Immediately Donnic went to his knees beside Davith — beside Davith’s body — and began the familiar cadences of the last rites.
To which, as a suicide, he is not entitled. Janet let her knees fold and sat down heavily on the bed, sword still in her hand. She didn’t care what Davith might strictly be entitled to. Davith had been Donnic’s friend. The rights and wrongs of the rest of it, Janet was happy to leave the Church and to God. “How did he get the rope?”
The guards of course did not understand her; Donnic did not pause his prayers to translate. Janet pointed at the end of the rope still hanging from the ceiling beam. “Where?”
They shook their heads, not knowing or not willing to tell.
Christ’s cod, what a mess. “Sir Thomas,” she said, pointing to the door, “and Glyn.” One of the guards nodded and left at the double.
Her hands had developed a tremor and it took her two tries to sheathe her sword and long minutes to clamber back off the bed. Donnic had murmured himself to silence and she crossed to him, touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Donnic. It must have been more than he could bear.”
“Yes,” Donnic said. He picked up the end of rope that had been around Davith’s neck and ran it through his fingers, lingering over the knot. “A hard thing. To know you’ve done something terrible, even if not by your own will.”
“Yes,” Janet said soberly, and when he looked up at her in surprise at her tone, “I was a soldier, Donnic. I know how it is, to do terrible things.”
“Still, Davith … I would never have thought it, him. He’s a man no storm can shake.”
“All men can be shaken by something,” Janet said, knowing it a useless platitude even as she did. She turned as Glyn came through the door. From the look of him, he’d been taken ill as well, for he was as pale as Janet felt. He stared at Davith’s body and then began to speak in a low, steady monotone. Janet didn’t need the few words she could recognize to know he was cursing — there was something universal in the tone and cadence of a soldier’s oaths.
She let him go on for a while, and then said to Donnic, “I want to know how Davith got that rope. Tell him that.”
The two men exchanged words, sharp on Glyn’s part, and as the master of guard took the rope from Donnic’s hands and examined it, Donnic said, “He would like to be knowing that as well.”
“Sir Thomas will be wanting a jury.”
On the heels of her words, Tom came in, following the guard she’d sent to fetch him. The man had obviously not been able to explain why Tom was needed. His face blanched with shock at the sight of the body on the floor. “Is he …?”
“Dead,” Janet confirmed. She pointed to the rope still tied around the beam.
Tom crossed himself. “God have mercy on him.”
God have mercy on me, taking the reins of Brinday at a time like this without even his advice. “Shall I make arrangements for a coroner’s court?”
“Yes.” Tom ran his fingers through his hair. “Father Donnic, will you be able to translate for me? I’m sorry to have to ask, but …”
Donnic nodded. “I’d not have anything misunderstood, not for Davith.”
“He may,” Janet said carefully, “still have had some trace of the fever.” All three men looked at her, Tom with dawning hope, Donnic with a frown and Glyn … Glyn with suspicion. “His mind might have been … unsettled. Who could tell, now?”
“Aye,” Tom said slowly. “Aye, it might have been.”
Glyn said something sharp to Donnic. Janet caught enough of it to tell he was arguing against her suggestion. Donnic shook his head, but said nothing.
“We’ll have him laid here until the court,” Janet said, and Tom shook his head.
“Not so near my lady’s chambers,” he said. “She’s a fine lady, the daughter of the old lord here. She’s … bound to be sensitive.”
Unlike us tradesman’s daughters, and the peasant girls who’ll have the job of laying out the body, tough as old boot-leather, all of us.
“The church,” Donnic said. “There’s no harm in it, until the court finds cause.”
Tom nodded. “The church, then. Ask Glyn to have some men carry him there. His wife as well. The women are not to lay them out until the jurors have seen him, mind.”
Donnic nodded. “I’ll see they don’t.”
“Do you know if Emlyn is well or not?” Janet asked.
Donnic looked surprised. “Emlyn?”
“Braelyn’s daughter. I’ll need someone to translate for me as I draw up a list of men well enough to be the jury.”
“Oh, Emlyn varch Edwal, yes, she’s well,” Donnic said. “She’ll be with her mam, down in the village.” As Janet quailed a little at the thought of walking down there on her trembling legs, he went on, “I’ll ask Glyn to send a man for her.”
“Thank you,” Janet said fervently. “I’ll be —” The nearest place she could sit down was the great hall. “In the hall.” On her way out the door, she took Tom’s arm and drew him with her. “For the court, wear the finest of the clothes they’ve made for you. The tenants will want —”
“To see I take it seriously,” Tom said, nodding. “I will. And Jack — I’ll see to what’s needed, today. I’ll see how my lady is, then do that.”
Janet paused. “She was taken ill as well?”
“Not as bad as many,” Tom said. “But she was in great pain, though she bore it bravely, and is still weak.”
Didn’t run screaming through the fort like I did, Janet translated that to mean. “My best wishes to her, then. I’ll send to you when I have a jury — it would be as well to have this settled as quickly as possible.” Not least because the bodies will soon begin to ripen.
Tom nodded, and then as she turned to go, said, “Jack. Do you really think he was … that he did it in a delirium?”
“It’s for the jury to say,” Janet said. “That’s not a question I can answer.”
It was just one of the questions she couldn’t answer, as she made her way into the great hall and sank down into her chair.
>
How did Davith come by that length of rope? Was this some rare sickness, or a curse? And if a curse, who laid it on us?
She put her elbows on the table and rested her face on her hands. Why did Glyn argue when I suggested Davith was still fevered, when anyone would be glad to think their friend had not damned themselves?
And if Glyn speaks no word of my language …
How did he know what I said?
Chapter 13
Emlyn arrived breathless from the village and Janet explained what was needed: twelve men in good standing who were well enough to serve as a jury. Emlyn nodded, eyes wide. “Davith’s dead?”
“Yes. Do you know why we have to have a court?”
“No.”
“To find out how he died,” Janet explained. “It’s Crown law, unless someone’s sick or old.”
“Did they have a court when my Da died?”
“Probably,” Janet said. They would have, even as a formality. “Now, I have to make a list of names. I need you to help me — to ask people who’s sick in their household, to tell me what they say.”
“Yes,” Emlyn said. “I can do that!”
She could do more, Janet found out. She’d been fetching and carrying for her mother over the past few days and she already knew the names of many of the sick and many of the well. Janet sent her down to the kitchen for a meal and then sent her running all over the fort finding out the rest of the names. Janet herself sat at the table in the great hall with quill and parchment. She could have sat in the small room off the hall that Davith had used, but she was not ready for that, and neither, she suspected, was anyone else.
By the afternoon, she had her list of names. There was probably some proper and legal way to choose twelve from them, but Janet didn’t know what it might be. There being only two dozen, she went through and marked every second name, and then sent Emlyn out again to tell those men to be at the great hall first thing next morning.
Exhausted even by sitting in a chair, she dozed, head nodding, until Tom and Glyn came in for the evening meal. They looked as fatigued as she felt. Tom told her that he and Glyn’s men had turned their hands to everything from feeding the pigs to hauling water. Janet was too tired to do more than nod, and tell them in turn that the coroner’s court would be ready the following morning.