Lords of Conquest Boxed Set

by Patricia Ryan

  Will nodded. “Just yesterday. I’m there quite a bit. Sir Roger frequently calls upon my services.”

  “How did you come to meet him?”

  Will hesitated almost imperceptibly, as if weighing whether to answer the question, then cleared his throat. “‘Twas eight or nine years ago. I was traveling home through Cuxham, and I stopped by the manor house to ask for a bite of supper. Sir Roger seemed unusually glad to see me, when he discovered my profession. He told me he’d be happy to feed me if I’d set a villein’s broken legs afterward. I told him I’d do it right away—that such a job shouldn’t wait. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said, and he led me downstairs to the undercroft. He had a young man in irons—a young man who, it turned out, had tried to escape. I said, ‘But there’s nothing wrong with his legs.’ Sir Roger just laughed. Then he picked up a mallet and smashed both legs, one after the other.”

  Rainulf lowered his tankard slowly to the table. “Good God.”

  “Indeed. Sir Roger said, ‘Mind you do a good job on those legs. I want him back in the fields in time for the harvest.’ So I set the legs, and then I ate my fill of stag and turnips and went on my way.” He drained his tankard. “When I went back to take the boy’s splints off, Sir Roger had another job for me. I don’t remember what it was—probably someone had taken ill. And then there was another, and another... He sends for me when he needs me. I seem to be the only surgeon he trusts.”

  Rainulf shook his head. “I wouldn’t be too pleased about that, if I were you. He sounds like a monster.”

  Will laughed. “He’d love to hear you say so. He so desperately wants to strike terror in the breasts of all who know him. But the fact is, every man has his weakness, his secret fear—the thing that makes him vulnerable. In Sir Roger’s case, it’s Hell. He’s an evil and petty creature, and he knows it. He’s desperately afraid that he’ll die and roast for eternity in everlasting torment. So, despite his wicked nature—or because of it—he’s become something of a slave to the Church and her priests. It’s all a rather pathetic effort to save himself when the time comes. The only man in Cuxham who had his respect was that old rector, Father Osred, and he’s dead now.”

  “Aye, God rest his soul.” Rainulf crossed himself and said, in a deliberately offhand way, “Do you happen to know what became of his housekeeper?”

  “Housekeeper...” Will shrugged. “Didn’t even know he had one. Sorry.”

  Rainulf sighed dejectedly. “Girl by the name of Constance. She had the pox, too. I was just wondering—”

  “Constance, did you say?”

  “Aye.”

  “She’s dead.” Will drank his ale and held his hand up for another.

  Rainulf felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. He sat perfectly still, watching Will accept a new tankard and start in on it. “Are you sure?”

  Will nodded and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “I saw her name on the tombstone myself. They buried her right next to the priest. What’s wrong? You look pale.”

  Rainulf couldn’t stop shaking his head. “But I don’t understand. Her fever had subsided.”

  “Was it the first fever, or the second?”

  Rainulf just stared at him.

  “The first fever,” Will explained, “comes before the rash. If the victim survives it, he generally feels much better afterward. But then a secondary fever sets in after the pox arrive, and it’s just as deadly as the first. It must be this second fever that claimed the girl.”

  Nodding numbly, Rainulf rose from his bench. “I... have to go.”

  Will stood, too, his manner solemn. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you’d formed an attachment.”

  “I didn’t,” Rainulf said quickly.

  “Was she pretty?”

  “Nay.” Then he remembered her eyes, full of laughter and wonder, and her smile “Yes. Listen... I have to go.”

  Will grabbed for his arm, but he pulled away. “I have to go,” he insisted as he bolted out the door.

  * * *

  “Can’t you dig any faster?” growled Roger Foliot to the two villeins, visible only from the shoulders up as they steadily deepened the hole.

  Hugh Hest drew in a calming breath and let it out slowly. “Patience, Sir Roger,” soothed the reeve. “It won’t be much longer now.”

  “Little bitch...” the fat knight muttered. He ceased his relentless pacing and flicked his horsewhip against his leg, his porcine eyes fixed on the block of stone inscribed with a cross and a single word: Constance. “Little bitch.”

  His lapdog ran toward him, yipping and dancing about his heels. “Not you, Detinée,” he purred, gathering the ratlike creature in his arms. “Another little bitch.”

  Drifting clouds shrouded the full moon, immersing the Cuxham churchyard in darkness. Hugh wished he had a lantern. He wished it weren’t so chilly. But most of all he wished he were anywhere—anywhere—than in this damn graveyard in the middle of the night, overseeing the exhumation of poor Constance’s body.

  He’d thought Roger Foliot’s fixation with the girl would die when she did, but he’d been wrong. During the past few weeks, he’d become obsessed with her to the point of derangement, culminating in this determination to unearth her corpse. What point he hoped to prove was quite beyond Hugh’s ken. He prayed that the nasty business would be done with quickly, so that he could get home to Ella and his warm bed.

  “Sir Roger,” said one of the villeins in a coarse English accent; Hugh recognized the voice of the larger of the two men, a slack-jawed giant named Frick. “This may be it.”

  Hugh and his master approached the edge of the open grave as the moon emerged from cloud cover, illuminating a patch of unbleached linen peeking out from the dirt.

  “Get out! Get out!” Sir Roger set Detinée down and whipped the two men frantically as they clambered out. The smaller one, Wiley, yanked the whip from his hand and raised it as if to strike him back. His hulking companion snatched it from him and tossed it aside, whispering a warning in English. Of the two men, Frick was by far the more obedient and hardworking. Little Wiley hadn’t ceased to cause trouble since his arrival in Cuxham the previous fall.

  Roger Foliot, usually alert to any form of impertinence, seemed barely aware of the incident, so preoccupied was he with the task of lowering his vast bulk into the grave. Once there, he unsheathed his sharp little eating knife and began hacking away at the partially buried shroud. Frick and Wiley exchanged a look and, crossing themselves, backed away from the appalling sight.

  “Aha!” Grabbing the linen in his meaty fists, Sir Roger ripped it open. “Look, Hugh! Look! I knew it! I knew it!”

  Steeling himself, Hugh leaned over to inspect the contents of the shroud.

  It was filled with straw.

  “What... ?”

  “I knew it!” Even in the shifting moonlight, Hugh could see Sir Roger’s face darken with fury, turning the color of an overripe plum. In a frenzy of rage, he stabbed at the straw-filled shroud, slicing it to ribbons. “You bitch! You little bitch! Make a fool out of me, will you?”

  “But how... ?”

  “She tricked me!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “She faked her death, the little strumpet! And I’ll wager she had help doing it.”

  Ella had told Hugh that she’d been the one to bury Constance. She hadn’t, of course; she’d buried a sack of straw instead. She’d lied to him, then, but he found he could summon no ire over it. It was a clever plan, and it had almost worked.

  “Who filled in this grave?” Sir Roger demanded, clutching two quivering fistfuls of straw.

  Hugh would be damned if he’d point the finger at his own wife. “I wouldn’t know, sir. Someone traveling through, perhaps? Or perhaps Constance herself.” Desperate to change the subject, he asked, “What made you suspect that this grave was empty?”

  “You remember. You were with me when I saw her in Bagley Wood, going into that church. You told me it wasn’t her.”

  “She had her head covered, and we saw
her from such a distance. And when we got there, she was gone.”

  “Sneaked out the back,” he growled. “Saw us and slipped away.”

  “And she... she was supposed to be—”

  “She was supposed to be dead!” He crushed the straw in his fists, then flung it aside. “She’s a crafty wench. But I’m craftier.”

  Looking up from the grave, he met Hugh’s gaze, his eyes shining like black beetles in the moonlight. “Get Pigot.”

  “Pigot! Sir Roger, no...

  “Get him!” he screamed, spittle flying from his mouth. “Pigot will find her. Doesn’t matter how far away she’s gotten. Scotland, Wales... He always finds them. He’ll bring her back, and then I’ll teach her a thing or two. I’ll make her suffer for humiliating me.”

  “Sir Roger—”

  “Get Pigot! Promise him double his usual fee. I’ll sell her to a brothel after I’m done with her, and make it back that way.” He held his hands toward Hugh. “Help me out.” Together, the three men succeeded in hauling the obese knight from the hole.

  “Sir Roger,” Hugh began, “if I may... I don’t think it’s such a wise idea, sending Pigot after Constance. That is, I don’t think any brothel will want her after... after he’s done with her.”

  “Aye, he likes those knives of his.” Sir Roger lifted Detinée and made kissing noises at her, whereupon she bared her teeth and lunged for his bulbous nose. He chuckled indulgently and scratched her behind her ears. “I’ll order him not to ruin her face.”

  “He’s a madman,” Hugh objected. “You can tell him whatever you want, but he can’t be controlled. Remember Hildreth? Didn’t you tell him to spare her face when he found her? Yet look what he did to her! Poor girl drowned herself in the river rather than—”

  “Enough!” Sir Roger bellowed. The little dog flinched and let out an indignant yelp. “I’ve told you to fetch Pigot, and by God that’s what you’ll do! You’ll have him here by tomorrow afternoon or I’ll see your neck in a noose. And try to figure out where Constance might have gone. Your wife was a friend of hers, wasn’t she?”

  “My wife?”

  “Ella. She might know something about all this. She was probably the last one to see the bitch before she ran away. Send her to me. I want to question her.”

  “Nay! I... I’ll talk to her.”

  “And you’ll send for Pigot?”

  Hugh’s shoulders slumped. “I’ll send for Pigot. But for God’s sake, don’t call him that to his face this time. You know how it enrages him. Call him by his real name.”

  Sir Roger waved a plump hand in dismissal. “I’ll call him what I damn well please! ‘Twill remind him who’s in charge.”

  Hugh considered arguing the point, but decided against it. If Sir Roger chose to make a personal enemy of this lunatic, so be it.

  Sir Roger waved the two villeins over to the grave. They shambled toward him slowly, Wiley with an expression of disgust, Frick with one of wariness. “Fill this in so it looks exactly as it did.” To Hugh, he said, “Make sure they do a proper job of it. Detinée and I are going to bed.”

  * * *

  Late the next afternoon, Hugh, Sir Roger, Frick, Wiley, and Pigot stood hidden behind a copse of trees across the river from the churchyard, their eyes trained on a tall, fair-haired man standing beside the filled-in grave. He stood perfectly still, his expression solemn. Hugh, knowing the grave contained, not Constance, but a sackful of straw, felt a fair measure of unease watching this stranger mourn a woman who was, in fact, still alive somewhere.

  “Anyone know who that is?” asked Sir Roger, cradling Detinée in his massive arms.

  Pigot nodded, his penetrating gray eyes fixed on the stranger. “Everyone in Oxford knows him. His name is Rainulf Fairfax. He’s Magister Scholarum.”

  “Master of Schools,” Hugh translated, knowing Sir Roger’s Latin to be no better than it should be.

  “And,” Pigot added quietly, “he’s a former priest.”

  “Former priest?” Sir Roger exclaimed. “There is no such thing. Once a priest, always a priest. He took vows, for God’s sake!”

  “Well, it seems he’s found a way to get out of them,” Pigot said in a bored tone. “He’s the son of a powerful Norman baron, and a cousin of the queen. I’m sure that didn’t hurt.”

  Sir Roger frowned, his eyes on Rainulf Fairfax as he sank to one knee and executed the sign of the cross. “Hunh. She was popular with priests, that one.”

  Wiley snickered. Elbowing Frick, he muttered something in English. They both erupted in laughter.

  Across the river, the ex-priest lowered his head and began to pray.

  “He was obviously attached to this woman you’re sending me after.” Pigot frowned at the two villeins, whose conversation was becoming loud and animated. “Hush, you two. I can’t think.” Frick quieted; Wiley went on as before.

  “What do you suppose they were to each other?” Sir Roger asked.

  Hugh’s gaze returned to the man by the grave, who crossed himself again and reached out to touch the gravestone.

  “I think it’s safe to say they were close,” Pigot said.

  After some moments, Rainulf Fairfax rose and mounted his bay stallion. With one final melancholy glance at Constance’s grave, he rode north along the river, disappearing into the woods.

  “He seems to have been quite taken with her,” Pigot said. “What does she look like? Is she pretty?”

  Sir Roger nodded as he thoughtfully petted his dog. “Very. She’s got the whitest teeth you’ve ever seen.”

  Pigot gazed skyward, then closed his eyes briefly. “You might want to elaborate on that description if you expect me to locate her. What color hair does she have?”

  “It’s dark,” said Sir Roger. “And very long—down to her knees. And, let’s see... she’s quite slender. Very little up here.” He cupped a hand over his chest, and Detinée snapped at it. “But quite a charming shape, nonetheless.”

  Wiley nudged Frick, and the two men snorted with laughter.

  “If you want to keep your tongues,” Pigot warned softly, “you’ll hold them.” He gave the satchel draped over his shoulder a meaningful pat. Frick paled, but the implied threat was clearly lost on Wiley, who sneered and mumbled something under his breath. Never having met Pigot before, he would have no inkling of the vast collection of knives housed in that satchel—nor of their owner’s enthusiasm for wielding them. He would have no idea that Pigot was quite thoroughly and completely mad. It was what made him so unpredictable... and so very good at what he did, which was finding people who’d gone to great lengths to hide themselves, people who had no reason to think they’d ever be found.

  Pigot could do this because of his gift, a gift peculiar to a certain variety of madman. It was the gift of adopting whatever persona most suited the particular search on which he was embarked. He could appear entirely harmless, even charming, when he chose. He could play the bored nobleman, the mendicant friar, the jolly butcher... whatever enabled him to get close to his prey. And then, like a snake, he would attack—swiftly and mercilessly and utterly without conscience. Like Sir Roger, he derived pleasure from dispensing pain, but unlike the petty knight, he had refined this cruelty into a kind of hellish art form. In truth, he seemed to regard the mutilated women he returned to Cuxham as something akin to creative accomplishments.

  “You might do well to keep track of this magister who used to be a priest,” Sir Roger said, seemingly oblivious to Pigot’s growing impatience with his men, “in case she seeks him out.”

  Pigot stared him down, his eyes like chips of ice. “The thought had occurred to me.”

  Wiley said something that prompted his friend to whisper, “Shh!”

  Turning to face the two men, Pigot reached into his satchel. “You,” he said to Frick.

  “Me?”

  Pigot withdrew a small, curved knife, which glinted in the late afternoon sun. The big man backed away, his eyes wide. “Wait, I—”

  “Hold
him down,” Pigot ordered Frick, pointing toward the smaller man.

  The two villeins looked at each other, Wiley shaking his head, Frick wearing a dumbfounded expression. “Sir Roger?” the big man said. “What... what should I—?”

  “Christ,” Hugh muttered. “Sir Roger, don’t let him—”

  “Now!” Pigot commanded, advancing on the two men.

  “Uh, Pigot,” Sir Roger began, “must you really—”

  “Don’t call me that!” Pigot roared, whirling on the obese knight, the knife upraised.

  Sir Roger, clutching the little dog, stumbled backward. “Do it!” he ordered Frick, who hung his head, then nodded grimly.

  Wiley tried to run, but Frick overtook him easily. “I’m sorry. Truly I am.” Seizing his friend’s arms, he muscled him to the ground and held him down for Pigot. “Be quick about it, all right?”

  “No!” the little man screamed as Pigot straddled his thrashing legs and pried his mouth open. “No!”

  “Sir Roger!” pleaded Hugh. “For God’s sake!” But the knight only shrugged helplessly and squeezed Detinée against his chest.

  Wiley’s screams tore through the woods. Pigot, his back to Hugh, made an abrupt movement. Frick turned his head, his face contorted in anguish, as the screaming was replaced by an eerie, guttural moan.

  Pigot rose and crossed to Sir Roger, holding something outstretched in his bloody hand. “Here.”

  The astonished knight accepted the offering, which Detinée sniffed at eagerly. With a cry of disgust, he flung it away. The little dog leapt from his arms in zealous pursuit of the morsel. “No, Detinée!” Sir Roger shrieked as the dog pounced on Wiley’s tongue and swallowed it whole.

  Pigot retrieved a scrap of linen from his satchel, cleaned the blade carefully, and put it away. Then he washed his hands in the river. Rejoining Sir Roger and Hugh, he glanced toward Frick, cradling Wiley in his arms and stuffing a rag in his mouth. “He didn’t need that tongue. They’re a nuisance in a villein.” He held his hand out to Roger Foliot. “Half now, correct?”

  “Half? Ah. The payment.” With a trembling hand, Sir Roger withdrew a sack of silver from beneath his mantle and handed it to Pigot. “A pound sterling.” Pigot poured the coins into his palm and counted them.