Wergild

by Boris L Slocum

  “You’ve come a far piece then, ain’t you, ma’am?”

  A tear leapt into her eye. “I have. And I worry I’ll never find my way home.”

  “Many’s the wicked folk in this world, ma’am, but many’s the good. You’ll find a place here, as I have.”

  The boy’s words were another thing that didn’t sound quite right, emanating as they did from the mouth of one so fresh, but Isabel was too exhausted to ponder anything further. She soon found herself nodding in the chair. After how long she knew not, a gentle shaking roused her.

  “I’m off to find the reverend, miss. You best lock up after I go. These are rough and dangerous times. Oh … if I’m not here when he arrives, you’ll know Reverend Ainsley. He’s a great tall gopher with a gabby way about him.”

  She rose and by impulse gave the adorable lad a slight squeeze before letting him out and barring the door to their small lodging. The hammering of the blacksmith not twenty feet beyond the door bothered her not at all as she slipped into bed beside a fitful Tuppence and did her best to comfort the girl before herself falling off to sleep.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  A still muddled Deirdre already was awake when she heard the knock at the door. She’d had the most dreadful nightmare — it was something about the magistrate — and she reached the door and was preparing to open it before she realized she didn’t know where she was or how she’d gotten there. Her last memories were of the barrow and the boy and … then she saw the sleeping beauty on the bed not five feet away. The woman was just opening her eyes.

  There was another knock.

  “Who is it?” she whispered at the wooden portal. The nearby banging of a hammer on anvil made it difficult to hear the answer, so she asked again, louder.

  “Tuppence,” said an unfamiliar voice that only could have belonged to one being, “it’s your friend, Reverend Ainsley.” Deirdre contemplated going back to bed, but sighed and opened the door to a tall man clad from head to toe in the humble black frockcoat and dark britches and stockings of an Unreformed preacher. Albeit strangely handsome, the Fiend in his new form was so lean and spare that missing a scant few meals likely would have rendered him cadaverous.

  Of a sudden, Deirdre remembered the creature’s last meal and felt a queasiness and slight tremor sweep over her. To her surprise, though, she felt no more fear for her companion’s new incarnation than she had for his last. The memory of the evening before was … well, it would take some getting used to, but the magistrate had been a scoundrel and a miserable pestilence on the land. Her dark fury, which was back with a vengeance, would allow that man no pity … not much at least.

  She realized the newcomer was addressing the woman on the bed.

  “Lady Isabel,” the man said, leaning toward her with the sweetest smile. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Right Reverend Moorcroft Ainsley, at your service.” His slight forward lean turned into a somewhat inelegant bow. “Sir Alexis has relayed to me a missive on your troubles. And I do hope you will not hesitate to call on me for even the slightest service. I will endeavor mightily to see you done right by.” He gently kissed her offered hand.

  “Oh … reverend. I’m overwhelmed. I … I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

  Deirdre tried to keep from rolling her eyes. Instead she peeped out the door to where a hubbub alerted her to something outside the smithy that even the hammering of the anvil could not hide. “What’s the commotion … uh, reverend?” she asked the Fiend.

  The reverend gave a pious sigh. “You ladies ought to stay inside for the nonce. It seems there’s been a murder. The local magistrate was attacked by some sort of savage beast, and the locals and travelers both are in an uproar.”

  “Oh, my heavens,” said Isabel. “The boy said something about a monster.” She hesitated. “What was it?”

  The Fiend-in-holy-orders struck a scholarly pose and after some scant moments spoke. “Had I access to my library, of course, I could consult the appropriate bestiary. But from the description given by those who stumbled upon the locus in quo, I’d have to presume the creature in question to be some sort of lycanthrope. Though … it has been more than a century since such a being has been seen in these parts.”

  To Deirdre’s eyes, it seemed Isabel was taken completely aback. “A werewolf?” the Gheet woman whispered in a husky voice.

  The faux reverend replied with a solemn nod.

  “Might it have been a fiend, instead?” asked Deirdre in all innocence.

  Reverend Ainsley missed not a beat, but again took chin in hand. “It seems unlikely,” he replied after a moment’s learned contemplation. “The common fiend seldom ventures far from its barrow. Though I suppose it’s a potentiality that can’t be disregarded in its entirety.”

  For the first time, Deirdre realized the reverend spoke perfect Midland common with just a hint of a lisp, the kind of affectation the lesser Surrey gentry sported to sound more citified. The Fiend had pulled out all the stops in contriving its newest persona.

  “Is it safe to travel?” Isabel asked. There was sincere worry in her voice. “Is it even safe to stay here?”

  “Lady Isabel,” the preacher responded with great reassurance, “such creatures do not make themselves known during the hours of daylight. But I would ask you to stay here with sweet Tuppence with the doors barred while I settle the crowd that has gathered without. In frightening times, the common folk need a steady shepherd to guide the way. I shall return in no time.”

  At about that moment, there was another knock on the door, and a man’s heavy voice tinged with worry called out. “Reverend Ainsley, you’re needed outside.”

  The beanpole smiled, bowed, and excused himself. Deirdre barred the door behind him, after which she sat on the bed next to Isabel. The Gheet woman bit at her thumb. The worry on her face was etched deep.

  Deirdre was perplexed. How had Reverent Ainsley already made himself so known among the locals they would seek out his help? And then she remembered he was a fiend. There was no duplicity or subterfuge beyond him — or so she’d come to learn.

  Her thoughts next flew to the ghastly vista from the night before. What had driven the Fiend to — she had to steady her stomach. What had prompted him so thoroughly to eviscerate the local magistrate? Did this count as one of her seven murders? Or was the scoundrel just freelancing? Doing a bit of moonlighting when he was supposed to be fetching up her vengeance? She found herself scowling and knitting her brow at the thought. Then again, maybe the Fiend was just feeling peckish, and the magistrate had been in the wrong place when the dinner bell had rung.

  She realized Isabel was looking at her.

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” the woman said. “I … I understand why you took such a fright.”

  “What? From the werewolves?” asked Deirdre.

  “I wasn’t sure such things existed.”

  “No, miss. They do. There are all manner of unexpected things out there.”

  “Tuppence, thank you for bringing me to the reverend. He seems a wonderful man.” There was a hint of uncertainty in Isabel’s voice, as if she were more asking a question than making a statement. “And I never got a chance to thank … you know what, I didn’t get the boy’s name.”

  Deirdre wasn’t sure what to say. “He … um … well, you know those barrow boys, nothing to hold them in one place long.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” The young woman tilted her head. “Is that singing?”

  Deirdre went to the tiny window on the east of their room and peaked out. She immediately went to the door and opened it. The dulcet sound of hymns flooded the room. Even the anvil had stopped. Peering out the open portal, Deirdre saw the Fiend standing on an impromptu podium in the inn yard. He was leading a large assembly in a rousing rendition of “And He Walked Among Us.” It was Deirdre’s mother’s favorite carol. Oddly, rather than raining tears, the young Surrey girl’s eyes again rolled in her head.

  Isabel soon was in the door beside
her. “Oh, wonderful,” she whispered. “Such a lovely man.”

  “There’s no one like him,” Deirdre agreed.

  The hymns and a short sermon afterward (something about forgiving one’s neighbors) lasted until the second bell, after which the congregation — which by then numbered several hundred worried locals and Gheet travelers — thanked and congratulated the lean minister. For his part, the Fiend-of-the-cloth invited all to a prayer breakfast he’d arranged at the inn.

  As the crowd filed toward the inn’s main doors, the Reverend Ainsley approached Isabel and Deirdre. It should have been no surprise to the Surrey girl that the Fiend knew scripture and hymnal so well. He had an enormous library in his tiny cottage, a collection of tomes of which she would have taken advantage were it not for the rage that consumed her.

  Still, she would have expected him to whip the crowd into a frothing and angry frenzy. Instead, those still in the courtyard stood in silent contemplation or moved about as if the Blessed Sister herself had just kissed their foreheads. She pursed her lips as the pseudo-padre spoke.

  “Ladies, I believe it’s safe to leave your room now. The high spirits of the most apprehensive souls have been soothed, and I’ve taken up a small collection to feed all comers at a prayer breakfast within.” He held out an arm to each of the young women, which Deirdre took grudgingly, and escorted them both into the dining hall.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The inn’s common room was much larger than those to which Deirdre was accustomed. No fewer than two hundred folks, rich and poor, Gheet and Surrey, were crowded into the chamber, and as the reverend led the two women through the portal, there was a commotion just behind them.

  “What’s this!” bellowed an enormous man with a face not unlike that of a bull. “I’ve me lunch and me deputies t’feed! There’s evil afoot! Step back, in the name of the law!”

  It took only a glance for Deirdre to recognize another Gheet scoundrel — there were oh, so many — and this one was one of the filthiest. Ansel Poutine was the county sheriff and a bane to every hardworking Surrey farmer. A dozen or more times she’d seen the lout at township meetings threatening the victims of felonies and praising their tormentors. A trembling beset her at the sight of the swine, but as disgusting as he was, she knew of no crime the bastard had committed beyond frolicking with the worst of the worst.

  She turned and tried her best to ignore the man, but after the preacher found Deirdre and Isabel seats at the room’s central table, the skinny fool went and assuaged and pacified the enormous, thick-shanked oaf of a sheriff and offered sheriff and deputies a seat near them at the table.

  It was only then that the preacher, to the adoring smiles of all save the sheriff, gave the benediction, a rousing homily on the need to pardon a neighbor’s trespasses. Thereafter all assembled jumped into their breakfast feet first. In truth, the food was delightful, but the young woman despised the company. Isabel was on her left and chatted amiably with several of the faithful, the preacher ate like a bird and exchanged sweet glances and pastoral waves with many throughout the room, and the sheriff and his men ate like hungry wolverines, belching, swearing, and grunting all the while.

  Several times, the officer glanced at her as if he might know her face, but though Deirdre had the telltale locks and ruddy and freckled complexion of a Surrey, she was clad now as a Gheet lady. The man said nothing, despite the suspicious glances, and continued to stuff his face at an alarming rate.

  So swiftly did food vanish from the table that one would have imagined a sideshow conjurer was plying his trade, but then something odd happened. From where he sat at the end of the table, Reverend Ainsley reached with his fork and hooked the final thick slab of bacon from the tray before him. The motion took place a scant moment before the sheriff, who was immediately on the pastor’s left, lunged for the same item. Both men, their forks deep within the juicy slab of meat, began a steady and tense tug for the portion. All the while, the churchman’s face held a stern but beneficent mien, while the sheriff’s mug grew angrier and hotter.

  Finally, the Gheet lawman reached out with his nearer hand and gave the good reverend an openhanded clout behind his head, adding a gruff, “leave off, ya’ scrawny turnip. A fightin’ man needs ’is meat.”

  The Right Reverend Ainsley gave a rather shocked look, before straightening his clerical collar and resuming his pious posture. He said not a word, and Deirdre again wondered what the Fiend was about. He was being far too nice to everyone, far too nice by half, especially to this lumbering jackass who now wolfed the porcine prize over which the two had tilted.

  Deirdre kept her counsel and watched those about her. In no time at all, guests appeared to have taken their fill, but before the first could depart, the pastor rose to his full height, hands folded behind him with great dignity. Clearing his voice, he spoke with a nasal eloquence, his lisp now even more pronounced.

  “Grandees and gentlefolk, thank you for coming. These are hard times … hard, hard times. And though I do not subscribe to imbibement of spiritous liqueurs and wines, it was the great poet and philosopher Sachet who once said….” The black-clad felon went on that way for some minutes, the assembled apparently leaning on his every word, before he observed that a bit of wine and a skosh of dancing would do no real harm (especially in the morning hours). And he invited those assembled to the same courtyard where hymns previously had been sung so that all might partake in a few drinks and a reel of music and dance or two, “all the better to carry our spirits through these harsh days and to strengthen our resolve to pardon our brothers.”

  The rush of the assembled to the door could not quite be described as a stampede, but Deirdre soon lost track of the good reverend and soon after that realized Isabel was not to be seen amid the press. She shuffled about for some time, had a short glass of ale, and then wandered into the back of the inn. She’d had no time to interrogate the Fiend since the previous day and wanted to know what he was doing. Passing out the back door, she caught the odor of what could only be the privy closets and turned to leave when she heard a faint splashing in the rear of the property. Something drew her in that direction.

  Two dozen paces down a narrow gravel path brought her to the end of a stone building. Rounding that corner, she beheld a sight that caused her to leap once in the air and expel a short and startled shriek.

  “Oh, hello, Tuppence,” said the reverend as if he didn’t have a huge man around the legs plunging him head first into the filthy water of the inn’s privy. The man, who it took Deirdre only a moment to realize was the county sheriff, struggled and flailed about pathetically, gasping and choking in the soiled pot as he tried to free himself from the Fiend’s iron grip. The Fiend smiled amiably. “I’m in the middle of something right now,” he said in a tone a normal person might use to comment on the weather. “It’ll be a bit of time. Why don’t you….”

  Deirdre, who’d stood shocked and staring, unable to utter a word, finally let out a quiet hiss. “That is not one of my murders!” She thrust a finger in the direction of the dying Gheet for emphasis.

  “Tuppence?” The Fiend seemed surprised.

  “You said seven murders,” she said with greater vehemence but in a lower whisper. “This one does not count. I want vengeance not you running around butcheri ….”

  “Tuppence?” she heard Isabel call out from the inn door through which Deirdre moments before had passed. “Oh! There you are.” The Gheet woman began walking down the path at an energetic gait. “I couldn’t find you or the reverend and was beginning to worry.”

  Deirdre began to stutter a response before hearing the Fiend’s whispered instructions.

  “The two of you meet me at the Congregational Church in New Market. I’ll be along later.”

  Deirdre felt a panic coming on, but she dove into action instead. Striding forward, she met Isabel five paces from the corner behind which the Fiend just had sunk his enormous fangs into the soft upper thighs of the sheriff, whose thrashing by then
had all but ceased. Deirdre grabbed Isabel’s hand without stopping, very nearly pulling the woman from her feet, and led her back toward the inn door.

  It took Isabel several steps to find her balance. “Have you seen Reverend Ainsley?”

  “Uh …,” Deirdre began, “he’s, um … he’s seeing to a dying parishioner right now and says we should go on to New Market without him. He’ll catch up later.”

  The Gheet woman slowed as they passed through the door. “Is that safe?”

  “It’ll be fine,” said Deirdre, urging the woman on. “It’s a short walk, and the roads are busy and well-guarded this time of day.” Deirdre’s panic was beginning to abate, and something wicked grabbed her tongue. “Besides, the sheriff is nearby.”

  “Oh, of course,” Isabel sighed. “You know, I think Reverend Ainsley is a wonderful man, always on duty, always thinking of others. This world needs more men like him.”

  “He is a man of great energy,” Deirdre couldn’t help but agree.

  Sloth

  “It is a well-known fact that those who are industrious simply have less time to do evil than do the lazy. Thus, is the sad irony of sloth, which really isn't much of a sin.”

  —Saint Elsbeth Duck, Abbess of Cubble

  It was late morning when the two travelers, woman and girl, arrived at the Congregational Church in New Market. The day was balmy and kind, and the walk had been remarkably invigorating. Stopping only to refresh themselves from the town fountain, the two spent a short time on the steps of the church chatting amiably about sundry things. Somehow, through it all, Deirdre nearly forgot about the unpleasantness at the inn.

  It was less than a quarter bell before Reverend Ainsley joined them on the steps. He arrived in the same high spirits that seemed to be his normal. He was sweetly humming canticles as he approached, and paused with the young ladies for a time, chatting about the virtues of the Walking God and various interpretations of scripture that the morning’s walk had taught him.