Lady in Red - A Medieval Romance (The Sword of Glastonbury Series Book 8)

by Shea,Lisa

  Jessame looked at the polished surface of the box, thinking of the small coin within. She wondered sadly if this one token had been all Sabina retained from her boyfriend after he abandoned her to the street.

  Her eyes roamed across the four items, and she wondered for the hundredth time who the murderer could be. In each case the girl had been hit twice on the back of the head with no sign of struggle. The women had been fully clothed and completely untouched other than the killing blows.

  Jessame shook her head. Why was the killer doing it? Was it a woman who was morally outraged by the occupation the girls had chosen? Was it a man who was unable to perform and felt humiliated? The sheriff seemed not to care at all what was happening. If anything he appeared grateful that the vigilante was helping him to rid the area of unwanted vermin.

  Jessame squared her shoulders and took in a deep breath. Well, the lazy officer of the peace would see what happened when this predator came to call on her.

  She moved to the table, sitting down on one of the stools and taking up the small wax tablet which lay there. Backed with wood, the tablet presented a smooth face of wax, about the size of her hand spread wide, which could be marked on with a stylus. She was keeping a list of each person in the surrounding area, with a rating from zero to ten of how likely they were to be the killer she sought. With the wax surface being malleable, she could easily make updates or changes as she gathered new information.

  She glanced down the names again, considering the numbers she had written by each. The three lads at the party had earned a three, she decided. It was highly unlikely, but they were young, and perhaps prone to fits of rage. Hosea, the laborer at the Midlands farm, had earned a five. He seemed fairly surly.

  Her eyes lingered on Berenger’s name. She knew she had to consider every possibility, be open to every idea, no matter how unlikely. Still, she found herself writing a zero beside his name, and she could not bring herself to change it. There was no room in her heart to even consider it, to think that her Berenger …

  There was a knock on her door, and her heart nearly pounded its way through her spine. She took in a long, deep, steadying breath. The hunt had begun. She glanced around at the various locations she had secreted knives – beneath her pillow, tucked under the small table, behind the tapestry of a trout leaping from the water. She was prepared.

  She put on a bright smile and moved to pull open the door.

  It was one of the young jack-a-napes from the party, barely fifteen if she was any judge. From the shaking of his hands and the terrified look in his eyes he had been put up to this by his two older buddies.

  She smiled tenderly at him. Poor lad, he probably had never even kissed a girl before.

  “Why, hello there, my dear sir,” she greeted him warmly. “Did you want to come in?”

  “Y-y-y-yes,” he managed to stammer. She stepped back out of the doorway. After a long moment he got his feet into motion and took several wobbling steps into the room, looking around at almost everything except her.

  She closed the door quietly, and he jumped as if someone had kicked him. She moved to stand with her back to the small table, her hand idly resting on it. It seemed ludicrous that this colt of a man was responsible for the killings, but she had promised Millie she would be cautious, and she would stick by that.

  “And what is your name, my pet?”

  “B-b-b-b-baldr … ummm … no …. Baldwin. Yes, my name is Baldwin.”

  “Well, then, Baldwin, let us start by getting to know each other. If that is all right with you?”

  Relief flushed over Baldwin’s face, and he nodded quickly, like a young puppy eager to please.

  Jessame handed Baldwin a stool, and the lanky lad climbed onto it, tucking his feet beneath him, clutching his hands in his lap.

  “So, Baldwin, tell me, what do you like to do in your free time?”

  “I like to fish,” answered Baldwin promptly with a smile.

  Jessame chuckled. Apparently the lad wasn’t concerned about hiding his true interests in life, just his given name.

  “I like to fish as well,” she offered. “What types of fish do you go for?”

  “I like trout, of course,” he enthused, his nervousness falling away from him, “but it is the perch that I adore. They are simply beautiful.”

  Jessame nodded with a smile. “Oh, I know. Those black and white stripes, and then the red-orange tinge on their fins! It is as if they were dipped in a fiery lava.”

  “They love the shade,” advised Baldwin, leaning forward. “If you stay within the shadow of a tree, they will not even see you. They seem to adore worms.”

  “Oh definitely, and not just any old worm,” agreed Jessame, nodding. “It is those smaller, pink ones that they seem to delight in the best.”

  “Really? I will have to try that when I go out tomorrow afternoon – maybe I will catch one for Denise to fry up for me!”

  “Is Denise a friend of yours?”

  “She is my sweetheart,” he boasted proudly. “She is the best cook in the whole village, and a talented hand with herbs as well. Someday when I save up enough money, I will be able to ask her father for her hand. I hope it will be just another year or two!”

  Jessame smiled. “I am sure she is looking forward to that.”

  Baldwin nodded earnestly. “She says she is counting the days until she turns seventeen. She figures that is when I will be ready.”

  Jessame dropped her voice to a softer pitch. “You do not really want to be here, do you,” she offered kindly.

  Baldwin blushed and looked down. “Not that you are not beautiful,” he offered, “but my heart is set on Denise. It was just that Hervey and Alan …”

  Jessame chuckled softly. “Oh, I know, you do not have to tell me,” she soothed him. “It can be hard to resist a challenge when it is laid out before you.”

  Baldwin nodded morosely.

  “Well, how about this. Let us sit and talk for another ten minutes or so. Once enough time has passed, you head on out and tell your friends that the deed is done. If they press you for details, simply say that you are a man of honor and refuse to speak of such things.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Then be sure to tell Denise the truth, in case she hears of our meeting in a roundabout manner. You know how these stories can spread sometime. If she doubts you, just send her over to me, and I will set her straight. It will be our little secret.”

  Baldwin’s face lit up with relief. “You would do that for me?”

  Jessame smiled. “Absolutely! Young love should be treasured. You hold onto her.”

  Baldwin brought his hand to his heart. “I will. I promise I will.”

  The time flowed by easily as they shared tips on storing worms and baiting hooks. Jessame found it was closer to twenty minutes before she drew to her feet, and Baldwin was smiling widely as he came alongside her.

  Jessame moved to the door and opened it fully. She pitched her voice to carry loudly; she had no doubt that Baldwin’s friends were ensconced somewhere further down the dusty lane, waiting for their friend.

  “It was a pleasure having you for a visit, Baldwin. You were simply amazing. Be sure to come back any time you wish.”

  “Oh thank you, thank you,” effused the young lad, and he impulsively leant forward to give her a quick peck on the cheek. Then he was running, tearing down the moonlit road back toward the village.

  Jessame watched him go for a long moment, smiling at the impetuousness of youth. Then she stepped back and swung shut the door. She drew in a long breath, looking up at the blue-green tapestry of a leaping trout. Its texture was lovely, the white-with-black center pattern of spots tracing along its back like a constellation of stars.

  She missed her quiet fishing pond. She missed the peace of sitting on its grassy banks and losing herself to the cares of the world.

  Well, in a few days she’d be going home for a quick visit to check on her father. Perhaps she could get in an hour or two of fishing while
she was there.

  There was a rapping on her door and she turned in amusement. Was the lad back again, perhaps with his friends, to provide proof that the evening had really gone as he had said? These were hard boys, to require that type of confirmation! She pulled the door open with a laugh on her lips.

  Berenger stood there in the glow of the moonlight, his stance steady. But Jessame knew him well. She saw the tension in his face, uncertainty, and a mixture of emotions she could not quite read. She took a step out into the open area before her cottage, looking up at him while her mind sorted through the options.

  Was he really coming to ask for her services? It had never occurred to her that that might happen. Not her Berenger, not the best friend who had raced stallions over the back fields and who had lain at her side while deciphering constellations.

  She gave herself a firm shake. This man before her was not the companion of her youth; he was nearly twenty-eight, and she herself was now twenty-two. They were adults, and their world was far different.

  He still had not spoken, and she found herself wanting to hear the sound of his voice, even if the words would cause her pain. She forced herself to speak, but the most she could do was utter his name as a half plea.

  “Berenger?”

  He gave himself a small shake, then tossed his head over his shoulder, back toward the road into town, but his eyes never left hers.

  “Young Baldric …”

  She smiled. “Ah yes, the lad who called himself Baldwin. Not to worry. He was too small, so I threw him back in.”

  He cocked his eyebrow. “Too … small?”

  Jessame’s smile widened. “Barely out of infancy. You know, like fishing.”

  “Yes, yes, I know about fishing,” he replied tersely, “but you mean you and he did not …”

  “No, we did not,” agreed Jessame, her eyes twinkling. “We just talked.”

  Berenger took in a long breath, seemingly of relief, then let it out again slowly. “You talked? About what?”

  “Well, about how pretty perch are. The way their fins and tails look as if they were painted with raspberry juice.”

  Berenger slowly shook his head, a smile drawing across his face. “You are quite a marvel,” he said at last. “And you sent him home to tell a story to his friends?”

  Jessame shrugged. “It seemed the best solution. Or do you disapprove?”

  “No, no,” replied Berenger, letting out a low laugh. “I approve most heartily.”

  He drew in a long breath, then looked around him as if seeing the cottage and its surroundings for the first time. His eyes widened slightly in surprise.

  “This is actually quite nice,” he commented, half to himself.

  “You were expecting black cats and nights bane?” asked Jessame with a chuckle.

  Berenger smiled widely at that. “I apologize, my comment was uncalled for,” he agreed.

  “No, no, it is refreshing to hear an honest opinion,” she grinned. “The townsfolk tend to couch their comments in polite-speak, so they can skewer you with a smile. Well, all except Lady Cavendish, of course,” she amended. “That woman doesn’t mind who she offends.”

  “She seems fairly nice to me,” offered Berenger with a twinkle in his eye.

  Jessame gave him a soft push in the shoulder. “Well, certainly,” she prodded, “when she is trying to foist that simpering dolt of a sister onto you with all her might!”

  Berenger looked innocently into the air. “Why, darling Cassandra is quite lovely to look at. That golden honey hair -”

  Jealousy coursed through Jessame’s body like hot molten lava. “Honey?” she cried out in fury. “Why that mealy-mouthed vixen would stick you with her honeyed words, and then pluck you of every gold coin she could find!”

  “Peace!” cried Berenger, holding his hands up before him. “I did not come here to fight.”

  “So why did you come here, then?” Jessame asked, openly curious.

  Berenger gave a short bow. “You were my guest, and I felt it my duty to ensure you made it home safely. When I arrived and found you … entertaining a guest … I thought I might make sure the time passed peacefully for you.”

  Jessame’s eyes twinkled. “Peacefully …?”

  Berenger flushed, but he nodded. “I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

  Warmth flooded over Jessame, and her voice lost some of its banter. “I do thank you,” she offered sincerely.

  Berenger looked down for a long moment. “Well, clearly you are not in harm’s way, so my duty here is done.” He brought his eyes up to hold hers again. “I will wish you a good night then, my lady.”

  Jessame became lost in those eyes, in their depth, and in the security they promised. Then he had turned, was striding down the long dirt path through the fields and hills, and was gone from sight.

  Gone. Just like he had gone all those years ago.

  She still remembered the last time she had seen him. The day had been nearly perfect, with high, blue skies and a gentle breeze to counter the warm July sun. She had gone running to meet him on the path the moment he rounded the bend, as always, eager to try out the new lure she had created. But his eyes had not held the usual sparkle when she came up to him. They held an odd distance, as if a thick blanket had been draped between them.

  Throughout the day he was curt with her, barely speaking. And yet at the same time he was also strangely attentive, never leaving her side, spending every moment focused on her.

  When dusk shaded the evening sky, and he said he had to go, she thought little of it. He would be back in the morning. Life would go on with moonlit evenings of stargazing, sun-drenched afternoons of fishing, and contented, long talks about beauty, life, and dreams.

  He had strode down the path like he always did. She stood watching him go, a smile in her heart. She waited for him to turn at the crest of the hill. He would wave his final goodbye before he continued home.

  But he never turned.

  It was such a small thing, a silly thing to upset her, and she knew it, and yet it ate away at her all night. And then he did not show up the next day, nor the next, and then news came that he was gone, gone from their village, gone from England, gone from her life.

  He was gone.

  Chapter 3

  Jessame waved her thanks to Mary, then turned, walking from the dark coziness of the small structure which served as both home and seamstress shop. She blinked against the bright sunshine of the early afternoon. An itching came at her chest, and she wrapped her new red scarf gently around her neck and throat to hide the ever-growing rash which had engulfed her since the previous night. If she’d had realized she was going to turn into a raspberry herself she might have been less enthusiastic about accepting that second plate from Roger. Still, the berries had done their job to distract Berenger, to keep her alias safe for the time being.

  She counted her blessings that Berenger had been fooled so easily. She found it immensely difficult to remember to use an accent with him, found instead that she fell automatically into their old style of comfortable conversation. She was thankful that he did not seem to find that out of the ordinary. He undoubtedly felt that, like all prostitutes, she was well versed in the art of casual talk.

  A pair of young girls sitting by the green giggled and pointed as she passed, and she gave them a warm smile in return. No sense scolding them for what their parents had been telling them. She strolled easily across the expanse of grass, drawing in the comforting smell of fresh air and sunshine. The village green really was lovely. She missed its simple beauty, missed the comfort of the stone church, the welcome of the tavern, the sound of children laughing in the summer’s warmth. It seemed as if little had changed in the past six years, since she had drawn her borders at the edges of her father’s lands.

  And yet so much had.

  She shook loose the thought, concentrating on the structure she approached. The large, timber-and-stucco building holding Roger’s shop fronted the other side of
the green. The perfectly aligned timbers shone in the sunlight, the white stucco creating a beautiful counterpoint. She walked up to the entry door, admiring the fine carving Roger had created along its perimeter - a spiraling pattern which brought to mind the gentle whirlpools created by a drifting stream. She pushed the door open, giving her eyes a moment to adjust before she moved further in to the carefully organized room.

  A rich voice came from the back of the shop. “Ah, Besame, just the one!” Roger waved her over to his workbench with a welcoming smile. The thick oak table was well worn with years of use. As she approached, he held out a length of elm. “See, here is a piece of the wood I had been talking about. I had given up hope, but you have opened my eyes to fresh possibilities!” He indicated the intricate bug tracks peppering its face. “What if I embedded this as an inlay around the edges of an oak table? That would give Mr. Cavendish the memory he desires, and the pairing of wood would be quite spectacular.”

  “I think you have indeed hit upon a perfect solution,” Jessame agreed. “There is a reason people come from all around to request your products.”

  Roger’s face beamed with pride. “You deserve the credit,” he demurred. “If you had not shown me -”

  There was a noise at the front of the shop, and both glanced around in surprise to see Berenger standing there. The man had to have feet of silk to move so silently.

  Berenger’s face held a half smile. “Shown you …?”

  Roger blushed the deep color of a show rose and he grabbed at a wooden cross lying on the corner of his table. “Shown me ideas for the cross I was carving for you,” he offered quickly. “You had asked for one to be ready for the mass on Sunday, and here is what I have come up with. It is nearly finished. What do you think?”

  Berenger moved forward into the room, and Jessame watched his grace, remembering the long walks they had gone on, the long discussions they had shared.

  Why had he left her? Had he ever thought about her during any of those long, lonely nights?

  He took the cross from Roger and held it up to the light. It was indeed a thing of beauty, elm inlaid with rosewood, the wood almost glowing with the polishing effort.