Sword of shadows, p.17
Sword of Shadows, page 17
The blow rang in his head like a belfry, but he reacted quickly and came up with his fist to the man’s gut. Gloyn bent double, wheezing and coughing. Crispin wiped the sweat from his brow and blew out a breath. Definitely getting too old for this, he complained to his aching head and sore knuckles.
But Gloyn wasn’t done. He kicked out, hitting Crispin’s shin. It smarted enough that he hopped back, and the still out-of-breath Gloyn came at him, leaping with arms wide, ready to consume Crispin in a lethal embrace.
Ducking to the side, Crispin barely escaped, yet Gloyn came at him again with his fists raised. Crispin stretched an arm over his face to block the blow … but it never came. Gloyn seemed to freeze for a moment before he simply fell forward flat on his bloodied face.
Kat stood behind him, a rock in her hand. She tossed it aside and dusted her hands at a job well done.
‘If you two boys are finished …’
‘Kat …’
‘Truly, Crispin, I can’t sit here all day watching this spectacle.’ She turned to the disappointed men in the gathered crowd. ‘Well? Will no one drag him into the alehouse so that Master Guest may talk to him when he awakens?’
Two burly men stepped forward, each taking a foot, and dragged him down the lane and unhelpfully over the granite step.
Treeve turned to Kat. ‘Is this always the way with Master Guest?’
She sighed. ‘Always.’
Frowning, Crispin glared at her before shoving her aside and following the trail of Jory Gloyn’s bloody nose.
The tavern was dark and close. The rafters formed a tall point in rough-hewn logs, blackened by soot. There was a hole at the top of the roof where the fire – sitting in the center of the floor amid a ring of stones – puffed gray clouds of smoke heavenward. The place smelled of damp wool, smoke, sweat, and dung. A goat with long, curving horns and tied to a table leg chewed on some scraps of kitchen leavings and glanced lazily at Crispin.
They set Gloyn in a chair and someone tossed a bucket of water at his face. He slowly came out of it, wiping his cheeks, eyes focusing blearily at his fellows around him. When he fixed his gaze on Crispin, he seemed to fully awaken. ‘What?’ he bellowed, trying to rise.
Crispin shoved him back down and leaned over him. ‘Sit, damn you. I’m questioning you about two murders now, Gloyn.’
‘Two? I told you. I never heard of that other.’
‘You were angry that your wife carried on with Roger Bennet. Perhaps Dunning got in your way. You killed Bennet and then, days later, when you saw your chance, you dispatched Dunning.’
‘No, he didn’t.’
Crispin was going to kill her. He whirled and hovered darkly over her. ‘Be still, Mistress Pyke.’
‘Crispin, can you imagine this man stealthily dispatching Thomas Dunning, clambering over the rooftop of the chapel without a sound, then disappearing on the plains? This man?’
He turned again to Gloyn. He was a big man and moved like an ox. She was right. There was no possible way he could have performed the feats necessary to elude them by the chapel. Which touched a shiver down his back again that it might have been Kat all along. He cast that thought aside to menace Gloyn once more. Crispin noted that there were no scratches down his bare arms. ‘Exactly what were your whereabouts three days ago? Can anyone vouchsafe for your time in the village … or did you leave it?’
‘Aye,’ said a man in the back of the crowd. ‘He did leave the village.’
Men moved to reveal the short and wiry man standing by the doorway. He took in all the stares with a gloating raising of his chin. He pushed men aside to stand opposite Crispin. ‘He left.’
‘Did he? And who are you?’
‘I am the proprietor and brewster of this house. Austol Kellow, and a respected name it is and has been for generations.’
‘I have no doubt of that,’ said Crispin. ‘Then, Master Kellow, can you tell me when you saw Master Gloyn leave the village?’
‘Oh, he was all stealthy-like, thinking no one was paying him any heed. But I seen him. I was opening the door in the morn, letting out the steam from my brewing in the back.’ He thumbed behind him. ‘He was heading out down the back lane toward the main road. I seen you, clear as day, Gloyn.’
‘You’re a liar and everyone knows it!’
‘No one leaves the village. Not unless we go two by two. That’s the rule.’ The men around Kellow shushed him and Crispin studied all of their anxious demeanors. ‘You can’t call me a liar if I seen you,’ said Kellow.
‘You’re still a liar, Kellow. And your ale tastes like piss.’
Kellow lunged for a stool and raised it over his head, stomping toward Gloyn. Two men rushed forward to hold him back.
‘You’re not allowed in here no more, Jory Gloyn,’ rasped Kellow as someone wrestled the stool from his grasp. ‘You find your ale elsewhere. Ha! And good luck to you!’
‘Peace, gentlemen,’ cautioned Crispin. If it were up to him, he’d let them at it. But he needed to know. ‘And did you see him return, Master Kellow?’
‘Oh, I seen him. It was late. And I saw blood on his hands.’
‘You never did!’ cried Gloyn. Crispin pushed him back down when he tried to rise.
‘I did! I saw blood. And so did my servant, Cador. Where is that knave?’
Someone called out for the boy, and a skinny slip of a boy that reminded Crispin of Jack Tucker from twenty years ago came from the back, face smudged with soot. ‘Oi?’ he asked as he was pushed forward. ‘What’s happening?’
Kellow stood behind the boy protectively, pressing his hands to his shoulders. ‘You tell him, boy. Tell the emete lord there what you saw with me three nights ago, when Jory Gloyn came stumbling home in the underbrush.’
‘Oh!’ he said, eyes suddenly wide. ‘He had blood on his hands. It was near Compline but I saw it clear as day. Blood.’
Kellow smiled and gave a final nod. ‘There! You see.’
Crispin turned again to Gloyn. ‘Your own village folk accuse you, Gloyn. What have you to say?’
‘They can all go to hell, the pompous arses.’
Crispin grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. ‘You’re coming with me, Gloyn, to face charges. The castle will hold you.’
Suddenly, the men closed ranks and blocked the door. ‘You’ll take him nowhere, sowsnek,’ said one of the villagers. The rest of the crowd murmured their agreement.
‘Will you bar the king’s justice from doing its task?’
‘The king is far from here in distant Westminster,’ said one of the men in a dun-colored tunic that hung below the man’s baggy-kneed hose. ‘We don’t have naught to do with him or him with us.’
‘Justice must be done.’
‘We’ll do our own justice, if need be, not that of sowsneks.’
‘I’m afraid I cannot allow that.’
‘And who’s to stop us?’
‘I shall have to return with the king’s men to seize him.’
They all looked around. Gloyn wrestled his arm away from Crispin’s grasp. ‘It weren’t no blood from Bennet.’
‘Tell us another,’ said Kellow.
‘It weren’t! It were … Ah, damn you to hell, Kellow! I … I was poaching.’
The men laughed, cutting the tension.
Crispin thrust his fists at his hip. ‘Poaching?’
‘Aye. I took a sheep from the castle. I cut it up in one of the hollows, wrapped the meat, and took it home. That’s what you saw, you son of a whore, Kellow.’
‘No one believes your lying mouth, Gloyn.’
‘Don’t believe me, eh? Come on to my cottage and I’ll show you, then.’
Crispin sensed a change in the man’s tone. And all at once he didn’t believe the man was lying. God’s blood. Is this all about poaching damned sheep?
‘Very well,’ Crispin said with a sigh. ‘Let us see this meat.’ He grabbed the man’s arm again and shoved him toward the door. The men let him pass and followed Crispin to see for themselves.
Soon, there followed an entourage like any feast day church procession. All that was missing was the priest with his censer. Some women from the village, carrying bound sheaves of wheat, soon joined them, whispering to the menfolk and asking them what was transpiring. They arrived at Gloyn’s cottage – another round hut, as were all the other houses in the village, with a pointed roof. Eseld Gloyn had come out of the doorway and stood on the porch, arms folded in front of her, glaring at the village as they approached, a child with a dirty face clinging to her skirts.
Everyone stopped at the doorstep.
‘Well?’ she challenged.
‘Madam,’ said Crispin, ‘if you please, I should like to see your pantry.’
‘My what? What for?’
‘Just show him!’ growled Gloyn. He pushed past his wife and she ran after him. Crispin followed but couldn’t very well stop the rest of the villagers from coming too, or at least as many as would fit.
They crossed through to a curtained alcove at the back of the hut. Jory cast the curtain aside and gestured to Crispin. ‘See the joints … there and there.’ It smelled strongly of blood with flies buzzing over his head, but even in the dim light he recognized two legs of mutton, hanging by the hocks from a low roof beam. They were obviously freshly done, but had hung for several days, a thin layer of white mold already on them. There were some small cylinders of cheese covered in cloths, and little else but some parsnips and onions in a basket. He withdrew and stood looking at Jory and then the rest of the village. ‘I am satisfied,’ he said to the guffaws of the men.
The crowd heaved Crispin suddenly out of the way and squeezed themselves into the narrow doorway to see the poached haunches for themselves. Men nodded their heads as they came out, allowing more in.
Jory Gloyn was a thief. He might have wanted to kill Bennet, but the blood from the corpse had not been smeared all over him. No, the killer had not touched the dead man except to strike him a mortal blow and shove him into the hole. Could Gloyn have done the deed and then poached a sheep to hide his guilt? Crispin doubted it. It sounded like more than the man was capable of conspiring.
In the end it didn’t seem worth fighting a whole village for.
He’d leave it to these villagers to deal with his poaching. Could be he’d hang anyway. He was ready to leave when shouting rang out, and suddenly all the men crammed into the little cottage began yelling as well.
‘You stole it!’ cried Eseld, and then a slap.
‘Get off me!’ That was Kat!
Crispin leapt into the crowd of men, trying to get to the women in the courtyard. The men blocked his way, shouting, encouraging the two women to fight.
Crispin struggled against the tide of men like a fish swimming upstream. He pushed and boxed his way through and made it outside.
Kat was fully engaged with Eseld, hands around the Cornish woman’s neck, while Eseld struggled on the ground.
The others seemed content to watch, but Crispin wasn’t having it. He reached down and grabbed Kat by an earlobe. She released her captive immediately.
When she got to her feet, he let her go. She tried to swing at him but he captured her arms.
‘She stole it from me!’ cried Eseld, pointing a shaking finger at Kat.
‘It’s mine. It was given to me.’
Crispin pulled Kat back out of the way. ‘What in God’s name are you fighting over?’
‘That!’ said Eseld, pointing to Kat’s chest.
Crispin looked. The horse brooch from Roger’s dead hand … the brooch that had been in his pouch. He slapped a hand to the pouch and wasn’t surprised not to find it there. ‘You stole it from me.’
‘It was mine.’
‘What do you mean it was yours?’
Kat suddenly kept her mouth tightly shut.
Crispin grabbed her arm and squeezed. ‘Kat. What. Do. You. Mean?’
She sighed and threw her head back. Her dress was torn, revealing a bit of her chemise, smudged with dirt. ‘That brooch. Well … Roger … gave it … to me.’
EIGHTEEN
Jack fell to the floor, and looked up. Inside the dim cottage were two upright looms, both with the beginnings of a patterned cloth slowly being woven. The myriad long strands of warp strung up along the top bar were filled with the weft of the horizontal colored yarn. But the shuttles hung to the ground by their weft threads. The furniture was strewn about, and crockery sherds littered the floor.
Both women were rolling around, with clawed fingers in each other’s hair.
Jack jumped up and reached down, grabbing for them. But a set of teeth chomped down on his arm.
‘Ow! God’s teeth and bones! Get up, you harpies.’ He dove in a second time and pushed them apart, one with his foot, the other with his elbow. ‘Halt your struggles at once!’
They pushed at him but, with finally the right leverage, he managed to keep them apart. ‘Stop it!’
With heaving breaths, they stood back. Their dresses were torn, their hair disheveled. Jack gave each one a nasty eye. ‘Look at the two of you. And do you think our Lord would gaze kindly upon the both of you? He’d turn His back, He would.’ When he was certain they’d stay apart he looked down at his arm. At least the skin wasn’t broken, but there were definitely teeth marks. He rubbed it and shook his sleeve back down.
‘You should be ashamed of yourselves. Now what is all this?’
‘It was her!’ said Mabyn. ‘It was all her fault.’
‘It was not! It was you,’ screamed Gwendolyn. She jerked toward Mabyn but Jack stuck his hand into her shoulder and shoved her back.
‘None of that. Angels bless us. Behave like God’s own, would you!’ He wiped a hand over his sweaty brow. ‘Now. One at a time. Mabyn. You tell me the grievance.’
She pointed a finger at Gwendolyn’s face. ‘She stole my Roger.’
‘No!’ cried Gwendolyn. ‘You stole my Roger.’
‘Now, now. By the looks of things, Roger was nobody’s … and everybody’s. He made promises to at least four women.’
Gwendolyn shook her head. ‘That’s not true.’
‘I’m afraid it is, lass. And you well know it.’ He took a breath. ‘And … how long did you know it?’
She raised her sorrowful face.
‘And don’t try to tell me it was at his death,’ said Jack, ‘because everyone in the village seemed to know right well what Roger was about.’
She wiped a hand over her eyes, flicking it hard, as if angry at her own messy tears. ‘I knew. But I didn’t know it was me own sister.’
‘Holy saints preserve us. The two of you … and Roger …’ Well, there wasn’t a thing new to him under the sun since he became Master Crispin’s servant. Every foul thing, every detestable human sin came to light under his master’s tight scrutiny. ‘Two sisters fighting over a dead man. You two should be praying for forgiveness, not fighting.’
At last, the two of them seemed to sag. Gwendolyn found an overturned stool, righted it, and sat. ‘He’s right. He’s dead. What’s the use in fighting?’
‘Because you are a miserable whore,’ hissed Mabyn.
Gwendolyn sprang to her feet. ‘And what does that make you?’
They seemed ready to charge each other again when Jack crouched with arms out between them. ‘Leave it. The both of you are equally guilty. I’ll wager you each knew the other was sporting with your man. So admit it and ask God for His mercy.’
They both shut their lips and turned their heads away.
‘Oh, it’s that way, is it?’ Jack stuck his fists at his hips. ‘I’ve never seen two women as sinful as the two of you. Won’t even make the effort to be sorrowful. You’re family. You need each other. And Roger is beyond your reaches now. You should be praying for him.’ He’ll need it, he ruminated.
Gwendolyn gave in first. She sat again and dropped her face in her hands. ‘What’s the use, Mabyn?’ she sobbed.
Mabyn deflated. She stared at the floor and leaned against a loom. ‘I knew he was trouble,’ she said softly. ‘I heard talk of him. I didn’t want to believe it.’
‘He was a terrible man,’ said Gwendolyn with a wet snort. ‘Look what he’s brought two sisters to.’
‘Aye.’ She shuffled toward her sister and carefully put her arms around her.
Jack tensed, expecting at any moment he’d have to hurl himself on the two of them again. He waited … but nothing came of it. Only more sobbing on Gwendolyn’s part as Mabyn rested her head on her sister’s.
‘Were either of you angry enough to do him harm?’
They looked up at Jack, frowns on their faces.
‘Can anyone in the village vouchsafe for your whereabouts three days ago?’
Mabyn looked at her sister. ‘Anyone in the village. We were here and at the well.’
‘What about today? Do either of you know a Thomas Dunning?’
‘The other knight at the castle?’ said Gwendolyn. She shrugged. ‘Told me to clear off a time or two. What of him?’
‘He’s dead. Murdered. Were you in the village all day? Can anyone say with certainty that you were?’
She slowly rose. ‘Aye. Anyone. Ask them.’
‘You can be sure that I shall.’
He gave them a stern look before he turned to leave.
‘Why would anyone kill Thomas Dunning?’ asked Mabyn.
Jack paused at the door and looked back. ‘I do not know, demoiselle. It is less clear to me why he met such a sudden fate.’
He left after that and stood on the road, looking up toward the rest of the village. Why was Dunning slain? Did it have to do with Bennet’s death or did it have no connection at all? I wonder if Master Crispin is thinking the same thing, he pondered.
Grabbing the horse’s lead, he walked with him back down the lane toward the center of the village. The horse snuffled Jack’s shoulder, blowing on his hair. He ducked out of its way and, instead, reached up to hug the beast’s huge head and stroke its cheek. ‘What do you think, Seb, old thing?’ he asked the horse. ‘Was it one of them villagers … or them in the castle?’
Some women were still at the well, and when he asked, it wasn’t surprising that several of the women vowed that they saw both sisters in the village all day.
