Chapter 18
"That's it," said the fat priest, pointing to the other side of the churchyard from where they stood. "That's where we buried him."
"That's where we buried him," repeated the innkeeper, a red-faced fellow in a greasy apron.
Luke didn't look where they pointed. He looked at Faithe, alert and still, staring at the place where her husband had been laid to rest. Finally, she crossed the churchyard, weaving between the weathered headstones until she stood next to the newest-looking one—a crude wooden slab on which had been carved one word: Caedmon. The grave was isolated from the others at the very edge of the patch of consecrated ground, and the earth over it had not yet had time to settle; it rose in an oblong mound and sprouted a melancholy assortment of weeds and grasses.
Luke glanced uneasily at his brother, who'd insisted on accompanying them to Cottwyk. The journey had clearly taken a toll on Alex; he hadn't ridden that far since before he was wounded. He leaned heavily against a tree trunk, his expression taut.
"You shouldn't have come," Luke told him—in French, so the handful of Saxons standing behind them couldn't eavesdrop on their conversation. Lately, however, he'd taken to speaking English even with Alex, to encourage him to become more fluent in it.
"After three months of lazing about on that pallet, I needed a bit of exercise." The note of strain in Alex's voice belied his lighthearted tone; he was in pain.
"You didn't come for the exercise," Luke accused without wresting his gaze from Faithe, kneeling at the side of Caedmon's grave. "You came because you were worried about me."
Alex grinned humorlessly. "The last time we were here, you caused a bit of a stir, as I recall."
Luke grunted. A bit of a stir, indeed.
"When we rode away from here that morning," Alex said, "'twas one step ahead of these good citizens standing behind us right now. They were waving pickaxes and reaping hooks and looking for a Norman to hang—after some rather inventive punishments, no doubt."
"They wouldn't mind hanging one still, I don't imagine." Luke and Alex had been received with civility by the citizenry of Cottwyk only because they were accompanied by a beautiful young Saxon noblewoman, who also happened to be the widow of the mysterious "Caedmon" who occupied the lonely grave at the outskirts of the churchyard. Luke had a vivid mental picture of these same men standing in the mist over the whore's burnt remains that morning, brandishing their crude weapons and promising retribution. He hadn't remembered that clearly until now. This visit to Cottwyk was bound to drag long dormant memories to the surface, just as his visit to Foxhyrst had; he'd best steel himself for them.
"Aye, they'd be ripe for a hanging," Alex agreed. "Which is precisely why I chose today for my reintroduction to the saddle." Alex moved his sword aside to rub his hip.
"Sit down." Luke pointed to a stump; Alex sat.
Faithe crossed herself and set about plucking the weeds from the ill-tended grave.
"No one will recognize us," Luke said, unused to offering reassurance to Alex; usually it was the other way around.
"Nay, no one saw us."
Rather, everyone who'd seen them was dead. Luke had killed Caedmon, then the wench had tried to escape him, only to be felled by lightning.
"We're in no danger here," Luke said as he watched Faithe tidy up the grave of the man he'd slain.
"None." But Alex's hand stole to the hilt of his sword and remained there.
When the grave was finally stripped of weeds, Faithe painstakingly patted down the earth. Luke's heart twisted in his chest as he watched her.
She rose and returned to them, brushing the dirt from her hands and kirtle. "Those weeds will be back within days," she said. "I don't know why I bothered."
But Luke did. She couldn't bear to think of the man she'd shared her life with for eight years spending eternity in such a piteous resting place. Retrieving his purse, he shook out a handful of silver and gave it to the priest, Father Tedmund. "I want that wooden marker replaced with a proper headstone," he said in English. "A big one, with carvings. An important man is buried there."
Father Tedmund eyed the coins with an expression of awe. "I'll order it on the morrow, milord!"
"And see that the grave is properly tended," Luke instructed. "Have someone keep the weeds off it and put flowers there on holy days."
"'Twill be done as you bid, milord."
Faithe reached out and took Luke's hand. When he looked down, she gave him a watery little smile and glanced away.
Luke addressed himself to all the men. "We have some questions about the man in that grave."
"There was another fellow askin' about 'im," said a big man in a leather apron, whom Luke took to be the village smithy. "A ways back. Older gentleman. He even dug up the grave."
Faithe nodded. "Orrik."
"Aye, that was his name. We told him everything we know."
"Well, now you're going to tell us," Luke said. "When did Caedmon first arrive here?"
"'Twas at the end of Christmastide," Father Tedmund said. "I found him on the morning of Twelfth Day, sleeping in the back of the church."
"Did he tell you anything about himself? Where he came from? How he happened to be in Cottwyk?"
All the men shook their heads. "He didn't talk much about himself," the priest said. "But I gather he'd been wandering around for some time, and just happened upon Cottwyk. We... put up with him, and he stayed."
"Where did he live?" Luke asked.
The men exchanged looks; several glanced anxiously at Faithe. Father Tedmund cleared his throat. "Some nights he slept in the church."
"And the other nights?"
The priest's corpulent face turned pink. "Perhaps milady would like to take her ease in Byrtwold's inn while we talk." He fixed Luke with a meaningful look.
"I'd rather stay out here," Faithe said.
"Er..." Byrtwold, the innkeeper, fingered his ruddy jowls. "My wife brews the finest ale in this part of Cambridgeshire, milady. And you must be tired after your long ride."
"I'm not tired," she said. "I'm staying here."
"They won't speak candidly with you here," Luke told her in French.
"I'll tell them they may speak frankly."
"Aye, but they won't. They'll want to protect your feelings. We won't learn anything."
Alex hauled himself up from his stump. "Come to the inn with me, Faithe. I'm tired, even if you're not, and thirsty as well. I don't want to sit there all alone."
She hesitated, frowning.
"Luke is right," Alex told her. "They won't talk about... certain things with you here."
"Fine," she said with a decided lack of grace. "But you must remember everything they say, Luke, and tell me later."
"Of course."
Alex escorted her across the road to the humble inn on the other side. Luke turned back to the men. "I take it Caedmon stayed with a woman."
"Helig," the smithy said, "the whore what was struck by lightning. But only sometimes, when she didn't have no other customers."
"She felt sorry for 'im," Byrtwold explained. "Used to let him sleep by the fire."
Luke rubbed his jaw. "What did he do with his days?"
"Roamed here and there," said Father Tedmund. "Did odd jobs sometimes for meals when he was... himself. Other times, he'd beg for whatever could be spared. And when he was at his worst, someone would always give him something to eat, or buy him a pint."
"We never guessed he was a man of consequence," a gaunt fellow in the back put in.
"Never," the priest concurred.
"What do you mean," Luke asked him, "'when he was himself?"
Father Tedmund looked very ill at ease. "How well did you know this man?"
"Not at all," Luke answered. "He was my wife's first husband."
The priest nodded. "Good. 'Twould be harder if you'd been a mate of his, to tell you how he was."
"How he was?" Luke said.
The smithy crossed his arms. "He were mad, that one."
"Not all the time," someone corrected. "They came and went, those spells of his."
"Aye, but toward the end, he was mad as a ferret."
"'Twas those headaches of his that did it to him," Byrtwold said.
The priest nodded. "Aye, he'd get the most hellish pains. He'd grab his head and start screaming and rocking back and forth. Especially when there was any kind of loud noise or a lot of activity."
"He did it during the plow race the day after Epiphany, and then again on Shrove Tuesday, when we was all out playing games on the green."
"Aye, he set up such a fierce howlin' we had to drag him away."
An unwanted memory ambushed Luke. He saw his sister, Alienor—once such a quiet, gentle creature—tearing out her hair and shrieking, "There's something in there! I can feel it!" And, according to the Moslem physician who'd treated her, there was, indeed, a lump growing in her brain. She became wild, striking out at her sire, her siblings, the servants. In the end, they'd had to tie her down.
"He'd talk nonsense, that Caedmon," the innkeeper said. "Prattle on and on about angels and devils and whatnot. We got to where we didn't pay him no mind."
"Kept on about the demon inside his skull," said Father Tedmund.
"Demon?" Luke said.
"Aye, a demon trying to get out. He'd hit his head with his fists, slam it against walls."
"Sometimes he'd hit us."
"Aye, well, he was mad. He couldn't help it. And I think he was sorry, after. He'd get real quiet and stay that way for days."
Thinking back to Alienor, Luke strained to remember details from those final, nightmarish months, details he'd spent years trying to forget. "Did Caedmon ever have seizures?"
"Like fits?" the smith asked; Luke nodded. All the men murmured affirmatively. "Happened from time to time. He never remembered them once they was over."
"Did he complain of double vision?" Luke pressed.
"Aye, he'd get dizzy and see two or three of a thing."
"Perhaps there was a demon inside him," the fat priest allowed. "But in between the bad times, he could be... almost normal. And you could tell he was a good man—or had been, before the madness struck. I suppose that's why we took him in the way we did, and tolerated his spells."
"You liked him," Luke said quietly.
Father Tedmund pondered that a moment. "We liked the man he'd once been, when we caught glimpses of him, and we felt sorry for what he'd become."
"And he never spoke about his past?" Luke asked.
The men all shook their heads, except for Byrtwold, who said, "Once he did. He was in his cups, he was. He'd spent all afternoon in my inn, drinkin' and mutterin' to himself. When I told him 'twas time for him to leave, he set up quite the hue and cry. Punched me in the face he did. Bloodied my nose. But then he sees that blood and he starts blubberin' like a baby. Starts goin' on about how he can't go home no more. He can never go home, on account of he don't want his wife seein' what's become of him."
Luke took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I see."
"I felt right sorry for him, I did," the innkeeper said. "He didn't ask to go mad. God works in mysterious ways, and the Devil, too."
"'Tweren't his fault," someone else agreed.
"He hated what he was. You could see it in his eyes."
Christ. "Thank you," Luke said. "You've been helpful."
* * *
"Ill?" Faithe whispered. "How ill?"
"Very ill, from what they told me." Luke glanced uneasily at Alex, sitting beside him, and reached across the table in the dim little inn to take Faithe's hand. "It sounds as if he may have had the same malady of the brain that killed my sister, Alienor."
Alex grew alert.
Luke wondered how to tell her the rest. "He was... he'd become—"
Alex kicked him under the table. When Luke looked in his direction, he surreptitiously shook his head. Although he'd been but ten years old when their sister had been taken, he remembered the nightmare all too vividly, Luke knew. He and Alienor had been very close, and her death, preceded by months of escalating insanity, had affected him deeply at the time.
Apparently Alex didn't want Luke to tell Faithe of Caedmon's dementia. Was he right? Would the news devastate her, as Alex feared? She was a grown woman, not a child, and strong. Still, what woman would want to find out that her husband had become a raving madman toward the end of his life? How could he tell her that Caedmon had spent the winter begging for scraps between fits of violent lunacy, getting by on the Christian charity of the good people of Cottwyk? Instead, he cleared his throat and said, "He got headaches."
"Aye." She nodded distractedly. "Aye. He'd been getting them before he left for Hastings. Awful headaches."
"That's right," Luke said. "He must have been sick already."
"What else?" Faithe asked. "It must have been more than just headaches."
Luke bought a moment by taking a sip of his ale. "Seizures," he said. "He had seizures. And sometimes he'd see double."
Faithe looked mystified. "Why didn't he come home, so I could take care of him? Why did he stay here? I don't understand."
Alex spoke up, quietly. "Perhaps he didn't want to burden you with his illness."
A perceptive observation on his brother's part, but then Alex had always been gifted with the ability to look through a person and see the workings within.
"Do you think that was it?" she asked Luke.
"I'm certain that was it," he said, squeezing her hand. "He told the inkeeper as much. He was trying to spare you."
"I wish he hadn't." She stared at something on the table that he couldn't see, her eyes glimmering in the darkness. "I wish he'd come home."
"From what I can tell, the people here were good to him," Luke assured her gently. "They fed him and took care of him. They liked him."
Faithe started to say something, but choked on the words, her face crumpling. She closed a hand over her mouth as tears welled in her eyes.
"Oh, Faithe." Rising, he circled the table and sat next to her, gathering her in his arms and pressing her face to his chest. "Sweet Faithe," he whispered, stroking her hair as she cried silently, gratified that she could expose her vulnerable side, even as his heart ached for her. "My love. My sweet love. It's all right. Everything will be all right. Let's go home."
She looked up. He blotted her wet face with the sleeve of his tunic.
"We can't go home yet," she said hoarsely.
"Faithe—"
"We haven't been... to that place. We haven't seen where it happened."
"You're in no state to go there."
"I'm fine." She raised her chin gamely, sniffing away the last of her tears. "I'm going."
"Nay," he said firmly. "I'm putting a stop to this. This has gone far enough. We're going home."
She closed her hand over her chatelaine's keys, again seeking strength from them. "You two are welcome to return to Hauekleah. I'll join you when I've finished here."
Alex grinned and downed his ale. "She sounds very determined, brother. I can't think of any way to make her leave with you."
Neither could Luke, short of tying her up and throwing her over his saddle, and he suspected that would be a mistake. "All right," he conceded grudgingly. "We'll take you where you want to go."
She stood, followed by Luke and Alex. "Did you ask them how to get there?"
"Aye," he lied as he ducked through the doorway. "It's to the north, through the woods."
* * *
"This is it?" Faithe asked dubiously when they rode into the clearing and she saw the humble little cottage.
"This is it." It's not much of a whorehouse, Luke had said the first time he'd seen it. He'd barely been able to make it out against the shadowy woods that ringed it. At least it's shelter, Alex had said. 'Twill rain soon, and I'd rather be in there than out here when it does. Shivering from the effects of the herbs, Luke had told himself to ride it out, that a good, hard tupping was all he needed to set him right.
>
How wrong he'd been. And how it chilled him to recall these long-forgotten details. How much more would he recall before this day was over?
The wattle-and-daub hovel looked even more dismal in the light of day than it had that ill-fated night four months ago. The thatch was decayed, the deerskin over the door partly rotted, and there were gaps in the crumbling clay walls big enough to shove a fist through. Chickens scratched in the hard-packed earth surrounding the cottage; there must have been over a hundred. Luke didn't remember the chickens—or the crude poultry house at the edge of the woods—but then his memory of this place and what had transpired here was blurred and patchy.
"How can you be so sure this is the right place?" Faithe asked. "Perhaps their directions were poor. This doesn't look like... one of those places."
Alex grinned at her. "And what would you know of such places, Faithe? This is it." He dismounted, and Luke and Faithe followed suit.
The deerskin moved; the dirt-smeared face of a child peeked through, and then the skin abruptly fell back into place.
Luke, Faithe, and Alex blinked at each other. From within the cottage came a shrill cry of "Mummy! Mummy!"
The deerskin parted again, and this time there appeared the large, befreckled face of a woman. A froth of coppery hair blossomed from beneath the rag tied around her head. Luke felt a jolt of recognition, but shook it off. This wasn't the whore who'd been struck by lightning. That woman was dead. This was someone else, another redheaded woman.
She blinked back at her three visitors, and then opened the skin wider. Her belly was swollen with child, and an infant slept openmouthed against her hip, cocooned in a sling tied over her shoulder. Several children's faces popped out around her. One tried to squeeze around her bulky form, but she yanked him back by his tangled hair, producing a yowl of pain.
Luke knew that this was no whore.
"What you be wantin'?" the woman asked, eyeing them distrustfully. No doubt she rarely had callers, and she would assume they were all Normans, which would make her even warier.
Luke began to speak, but Faithe touched his arm and stepped forward. "I'm Faithe of Hauekleah," she said. Surprise—that Faithe was a Saxon, no doubt—widened the woman's eyes fleetingly. "These men," Faithe continued, "are my husband, Luke of Hauekleah, and my brother by marriage, Alexandre de Périgueux."
Secret Thunder Page 26