A Killing Season (10 page)

Was Baron Herbert so rigid in his expectations that he refused to grant them a chance to prove themselves? Had he learned something troubling about them, of which even his wife had no knowledge? Or had something else happened in Outremer to make him this unbending in his contempt? Hugh might know, but Eleanor doubted it. He had seemed as perplexed as she about what was happening here.

There was only one thing she might say, based on conclusions made after seeing her own brother so changed on his return, as well as other crusaders who had come to Tyndal Priory for healing. Her words might bring little comfort, but they could result in patience.

“From all you have said,” the prioress said, “your husband has changed greatly during those many years of your separation. I have witnessed the same in my brother, although I saw him little enough after our mother’s death. Greeting him when he returned from Outremer, I felt as if I were seeing his face in a mist. The image was recognizable, yet not as clear as it had been. Although I delight in my beloved brother, he has become a stranger in small ways. In the midst of conversation, for instance, he may fall silent and walk away as if he forgets that I am in his company.”

Margaret tilted her head, listened, but said nothing.

“War is a man’s lot. They grow up with it, learn the skills to survive, and then do battle. I overheard my father once say to a friend, that no one could understand what war was like except another man who had also fought.”

“We suffer as well.”

“My aunt agrees and once told me that women often do experience the havoc of war, but our pain is different and should remain unspoken. When husbands return from battle, changed beyond recognition, we must greet them with patience and charity. It becomes our duty to teach men the strength of the meek and pray they hear what God has taught us. If they do not, a wife is left with only the comfort God may grant, and she must pray for eventual peace in her husband’s soul.”

The lady looked away. “I do not have that fortitude you tell me the meek should own.”

“I think you do,” Eleanor said, reaching out to lightly touch the wife’s wrist. “You have shown just such courage during the long years of your lord’s absence.”

Suddenly the door to the chamber crashed open.

Both women jumped to their feet.

A servant rushed in and gestured wildly, his mouth opening and closing without sound.

“Speak!” Margaret ordered.

“My lady, I have sorrowful news. Your son, Umfrey, has been found dead in the chapel!”

The baron’s wife screamed.

Chapter Twenty

Raoul shook with terror.

From the hall, he had heard the servants chattering in high pitched horror over Umfrey’s death. They might fear wraithlike imps and stinking demons, but he could feel a very tangible noose cutting into his neck.

Foul sweat dripped from his body. Baron Herbert’s heir he might now be, but any rational sheriff would place him even higher in rank amongst those most likely to have committed murder. Did he not have good reason to kill his elder brother?

As the offspring of Baron Herbert, he would receive more courtesy than many others in similar circumstances, yet he doubted King Edward would allow him leniency. Cleaning up the lax judicial system inherited from his dead father meant too much to the new monarch. He had been ruthless in his handling of corrupt sheriffs. Raoul could imagine what he would do with a son who committed fratricide.

“I must flee now,” he whispered to unsympathetic stone walls and tightened his arms around his chest to quiet his trembling. Any way to escape seemed impossible.

All reason fled. Tears stung his eyes. A pitiful whimper escaped his lips.

“How dare you whine like a castrated sheep! Either you still pretend you are a man or you had best borrow one of your mother’s robes and learn to mince about like the woman you’ve become.”

Raoul looked around, half expecting to see his father standing in front of him and mocking his fear. But the words had burst from his own mouth, even if he had borrowed the tone from his sire.

He cleared his throat. “Weapon. Disguise? Food and drink. A horse? Place to hide. Where to flee?” Recitation of the simple list calmed him and he began to plan how to avoid capture.

A weapon was required. He always carried a knife, but a sword might be well-advised. Even if he had little practice using it, others might treat him with caution if they saw it by his side. They would not know how much skill he actually possessed.

There was yet another advantage to the martial display. Should he wish to join a traveling party on the road, he would be welcomed as an additional defender against lawless men. Many soldiers also left England to sell their fighting skills as mercenaries. If he hinted that was his purpose, he would not have to elaborate further on the purpose of his journey.

He fell to his knees and reached under his bed. There he had hidden the sword he stole from his eldest brother’s room after the man died of fever. “Thought to sell it someday,” he muttered, pulling the weapon out. “Now it may be worth more in the salvation of my neck.”

He checked the rough sacking in which he had rolled the sword. With luck, no one would suspect what lay inside if he carried it like a tool or a bundle of sticks. Once outside the castle, the weapon would be an advantage, but no common man owned such a thing. If anyone saw the sword within the fortress walls, they would either stop him for questions or remember seeing him leave when an organized search began for Umfrey’s killer.

Standing, he reached over and lifted the lid of his storage chest and picked up a robe. He shook it out.

Well-worn and of rough material, it also had a hood large enough to cast his face in shadow. It had served him well enough as a disguise when he wished to seduce some servant girl without revealing his kinship with the baron. If the women mistook him for a common laborer in the dark, others might conclude the same when he mingled with the crowd in the pale winter light of the bailey. A purposeful stride should suggest he was engaged in honorable labor, one man of low rank indistinguishable from so many others.

He snorted as he dropped the robe over his head. Remaining anonymous should be an easy task. When in his life had anyone ever noticed him except when they looked for an object to mock or scold?

He went to the door and quietly opened it, then looked about with caution.

The hall was empty.

He slipped out and hurried down the corridor to the stairs. With luck he could filch bread from the kitchen and enough wine to fill his deer-leather wineskin. The servants were used to the baron’s sons stealing bites and would pay no attention to him in the hustle of meal preparation. If these later remembered seeing him passing through, he did not care. He only wanted to escape the castle itself without leaving any hints as to where he might have gone.

And, he decided, he would have to walk. Riding might gain him distance from here more quickly but taking a horse from the stable was dangerous. One of the grooms could decide it would be to his advantage to stop him if rumors of his involvement in Umfrey’s death were circulating. Taking the time to saddle the beast himself would slow him down, and he would be more noticeable on horseback as he left the castle.

He would have to find a local hiding place until the hue and cry was done. Once the assumption was made that he was probably far away, he could safely join a party of travelers down the mainland road and take on the guise of a battle-worn soldier with little patience for chatter. Until he reached the nearest city or, better yet, a harbor, his best hope of escape was to remain inconspicuous.

As Raoul flew down the steep steps, he thought of Umfrey and realized that he truly regretted his death. He had grown almost fond of his quivering cokenay of a brother since Gervase had taken flight from the window. As he thought more on it, he acknowledged that Umfrey had never been cruel to him like their father or even the other brothers. A little name-calling and that was about the extent of it.

In truth, Umfrey was more like a woman, having lost all claim to manhood. Raoul had seen this elder brother often enough, groaning with pleasure, as that soldier swyved him like a bull would a cow.

“A pity I never had sisters,” he murmured. “I might have gotten along better with them.”

But it was too late to think more on the past. Umfrey was dead, and Raoul wanted very much to live.

He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and set his mind to quickly stealing the sustenance he needed to survive. Then he would slip into the bailey and become one more in a crowd of faceless people, coming and going, all of whom had some business in the fortress or with its lord.

As for a hiding place, he knew the perfect location.

Chapter Twenty-One

Sister Anne dipped her hands into the basin, turning the pale chill water into a glistening red. “We must send this joyful news to Lady Margaret and Baron Herbert.”

Prioress Eleanor bowed her head. “We may not.”

Anne spun around, stifling a cry of protest.

“I did not make that decision to be cruel but rather to save the parents even sharper grief.” She put a hand against her breast. “I do understand that their anguish may push them beyond mortal endurance if they think Umfrey has been killed. May their torment be brief.”

“Then why force them to suffer so?” Anne reached out in supplication. “Enduring far less than this, men have been known to deny the very existence of God.”

“Had someone voiced to me what I have just uttered to you, I would have cried out in the parents’ defense as well.” The prioress grasped her friend’s hand. “Consider this. The next victim might be Raoul, Leonel, Lady Margaret, or the baron. If the killer is not caught swiftly, others will surely die while we flounder in search of justice. Shall we allow the slaughter of all to give only a brief respite to any survivors?”

“You believe this attack was not the first against the family?”

Eleanor nodded. “A pattern is emerging. The death of the eldest was undoubtedly caused by fever. Although the second death might have been accepted as an accident, even self-murder, the third took place too close in time and was most peculiar in nature. This last death, being so curious, makes men begin to think too much on all the deaths. The murderer has begun to make mistakes. Not only was he careless in the stabbing of Umfrey, he has tried to kill too many, far too fast, and perhaps with too much cleverness.”

“What is the killer’s purpose?”

“I am not sure. The reason must be hidden in the baron’s past, an act he committed that has led to this awful vengeance. Nor do we know how many deaths will satisfy the killer’s longing for retribution. Until we know who he is, we may not understand why he is doing this.”

“The rumor I have heard is that Satan cursed the family and sends his liegeman to collect their souls.”

“A man is the more likely perpetrator even if wickedness rules his heart.” Eleanor looked away. “I do not know his name but hope to trick him into revealing his identity. Umfrey’s attacker may be emboldened to strike again soon if he believes he has murdered another successfully. He has already become imprudent. Greater arrogance would render him even less cautious, making him easier to trap. Were he to learn of Umfrey’s survival, he might grow wary, more difficult to catch. Such reasoning forms the foundation of my plan.”

“If postponing the message that Umfrey lives will stop the killing, the delay will bring more joy than sorrow. Please forgive my reaction. I spoke only as…”

“…any woman and mother would.” Eleanor smiled with gentle sympathy. “I only pray that the plot shall succeed, bring swift justice and eventual peace, so the outcome may outweigh the cruelty.”

“I join you in that hope.”

Glancing at her friend’s brief smile, Eleanor nodded, knowing well the dangers inherent in her ploy. After all, men not only denied God under such duress, they had slain themselves in despair.

“My lady?”

Master Gamel stood in the doorway, wiping his hands on a pink-tinted cloth.

Eleanor forced a cheerful look. “How does your patient?”

Gamel glanced at Sister Anne, his expression soft with evident affection. “He sleeps with a draught of mandrake to bring him respite from the pain I caused. I did not tell him what I was giving him because he had already refused the drink to numb the hurt of treatment. He said that his suffering would please God, yet men heal better when the torment is less acute. Or so I have observed.”

The prioress squeezed shut her eyes, trying to banish the memory of Umfrey’s piteous cries when the physician bathed his deep cuts in wine, spread honey around the edges, and covered the wounds with dry, clean dressings. Gamel’s work was skillfully swift, but time slows to the speed of a worm’s crawl when raw flesh is further abused.

“The potion was made by your sub-infirmarian. Had it not been for her knowledgeable assistance, I would not be as confident of the young man’s recovery.”

Anne blushed. “I did nothing, good sir. It is your skill that shall save him.”

Turning to Eleanor, his manner grew shy. “Many quarrel with this choice of treatment, my lady. Most prefer cautery of all wounds, regardless of weapon, and ointments to draw forth the laudable pus, but I have had much success treating dagger wounds in this other manner.”

The prioress glanced at Anne who answered her unspoken question with a nod. “Then God has given you wisdom,” she said. “No man of faith should doubt His grace in doing so.”

“Barring the wound turning foul, he has every hope of survival, although the injury will be long in healing.”

“A careless killer, do you think, or one blessedly unskilled?” Although she suspected the former, Eleanor needed the physician’s opinion to be more certain.

“More likely God’s grace,” he replied, “or so Umfrey believes.”

The prioress raised an eyebrow in question.

“The assassin must have been in a hurry. A moment’s reflection would have been sufficient to realize that the one blow could have been deflected.” Using a palm to represent the victim’s chest, he demonstrated the direction of the blow with his other. “The knife first hit the large gold cross the baron’s son was wearing, then his hair shirt. Although neither would have been enough to keep a knife from a plunging into the heart, both skewed the direction just enough so the knife hit his rib and slid away into flesh. Added to that good fortune was the timely arrival and wise actions of Brother Thomas. If he had not found him so quickly, Umfrey’s body would have emptied of all blood. Your monk saved his life by damming the flow.”

Eleanor indicated understanding, then frowned. “Who knows that Umfrey still lives?”

The physician looked confused. He began to ask her meaning, then answered her question instead. “The servants who carried him here knew he was barely alive. They all told me that Umfrey was more in need of a priest than a physician’s service. Umfrey did not regain his wits until after all had left. Only we must know that he is alive.” He hesitated. “And Brother Thomas as well.”

Anne concurred.

“The servant who entered the chapel with your monk certainly believed Umfrey was dead,” Gamel said. “He hurried to tell Lady Margaret that news. After he left her, his progress was slower as he stopped to alert all he met of the latest horror committed by the Devil against this family. I have heard much whispering in the halls to that effect.”

“Then we shall confirm the rumor, less with deceitful word than by sad demeanor,” Eleanor replied. “We have little time to catch the attacker.” Her jaw clenched. “I will tell my brother this tragic news of Umfrey’s death, and he will be swift in gathering others for a discreet but organized search. Even though I trust his prudence, I must mislead my brother as well. A confidence, spoken in whispers, may still be overheard.”

“The family will beg permission to prepare the corpse for burial,” Anne said.

“And I shall dissuade them for a short time.” Eleanor pressed her hand over her eyes, as if trying to hide her dismay at such devious tactics. “Brother Thomas needs time alone in the room to struggle with the Devil for the possession of Umfrey’s soul before any burial can take place.”

“There is one more matter, my lady.” Gamel nervously twisted his hands.

From the physician’s expression, the prioress knew he had held back a distressing detail. Impatient and uneasy, she beseeched him to share it.

“I should have told you this sooner, but the significance was so grave, so incomprehensible, I lost all ability to give speech to what I heard. This terrible thing may complicate your efforts to catch the killer.” He spoke so softly his words were almost impossible to hear.

The prioress wondered what could be worse than these murders. “I implore you to speak plainly, good sir.”

Gamel looked over his shoulder at the door. “While I was cleaning the son’s wounds, he remained conscious. I grieved that he was alert to suffer so much, but I thought the memory of greater pain might distract him from my current work. I asked what he recalled of the attack.”

Eleanor nodded approval. Whatever fearful news the physician had learned, he had had the wit to seek details soon after the attack.

“Umfrey told me that he had left the chapel to relieve himself. When he returned, his father greeted him by the altar.”

“The baron never speaks directly with any of his immediate family,” Anne said.

This was strange news indeed, the prioress thought. She gestured for him to continue.

“Earlier, he had asked that Raoul beg their father to come to him.” Drops of sweat shone on Gamel’s forehead. “At first, I assumed the baron had found compassion for the lad who was suffering so much. Whatever their quarrel, no father would want his son to bear such anguish. I would never…”

“Your conclusion is reasonable,” she replied, keeping her doubts about Herbert’s sympathy unspoken.

Gamel rubbed at his eyes as if trying to rid them of an irritant. “When the young man finished his story, my heart almost ceased beating with his appalling revelation.”

Anne and Eleanor stared at him with dread-filled anticipation.

“Is it not an unnatural father who opens his arms to his child, only to stab him in the heart?”