George took Thomas’s stool and sat on it. “So, what happened?”
Thomas leaned back against the anvil and took a moment to gather his thoughts. “I think I know what’s going on with my father.”
George’s eyebrows went up in a perfect likeness of Lionel. “Well, tell us.”
“I can’t,” said Thomas. “Not yet. I need your help first.”
“Our help?” Eileen pulled up a second stool and sat beside her brother. “To do what?”
Thomas took a deep breath before saying, “To search Timothy’s wagon.”
“What?” Eileen’s mouth dropped open and stayed there. “What for?”
“Proof that I’m not insane.”
Eileen’s mouth dropped open even wider, and stayed there. George’s eyes widened, then narrowed as his eyebrows squeezed together in a frown. The siblings exchanged a quick look, then turned back to Thomas. A very long, very uncomfortable silence filled the smithy.
“Please,” said Thomas, when it became clear neither of them was going to say anything. “I know how it sounds—”
“No, you don’t,” said George, shaking his head. “This is a really bad idea.”
“I know,” Thomas said. “But it’s the best I can come up with.” He turned to Eileen. “Please. I’ll do it by myself if I have to, but I would really rather have help.” There was another long, uncomfortable silence. Thomas looked from one to
the other, but could not read anything from their expressions.
“If we do this,” Eileen said at last, “you tell us everything. No matter what.”
Relief swept through Thomas. “I promise.” His turned to her brother. “George?”
George’s frown was still there, and stayed on his face while George thought it through. Finally, George sighed. “All right, but you get to explain to Bluster when we get caught.”
Thomas was amazed at how relieved he felt. “We won’t get caught.”
“You hope.”
“What do we do?” asked Eileen.
“We’ll need a candle to search his wagon,” Thomas said. “And we’ll need to tell your parents we’re going down to hear the fiddler, and that we might be late coming back.”
A smile ghosted across Eileen’s face. “Not going to leave them wondering?”
“Oh, no,” said Thomas. “There’s enough people angry with me already.”
Chapter 9
The bench outside the tavern was hard and worn smooth from years of use and provided a perfect view of the watchtower. Thomas and his friends had spent the better part of an hour sitting there, waiting. The sun had gone down, and the last of its light had left the sky. The grey cylinder of the watchtower had faded to a vague black shape against the darkness of the night sky. Only the orange and yellow fire-light spilling out the inn door lit the night for them. Inside, the fiddler was playing a fast-paced reel that was nearly drowned out by clomping feet as the villagers whirled and danced. Thomas paid it scant attention. The bench provided a perfect view of the watchtower, and Thomas wasn’t taking his eyes off it.
“What if he comes for a pint before he goes home?” asked Eileen.
“Then we say hello, and wait for him to go inside.”
Thomas wished he could have brought his rapier. He knew that the bishop and his men were gone, but there was nothing to say they wouldn’t come back and Thomas had no desire to face them unarmed. He did have his dagger, hidden under his coat, but had left the rapier behind. Being the only one wearing a sword was the surest way to attract attention, and Thomas had no desire for more of that. Bad enough that everyone who passed stared at his bruises.
“Isn’t there any other way?” asked Eileen.
“No.”
“Well, maybe if you told us why, we could think of something.”
“If I told you why, you’d think I was insane.”
“We’re thinking that now,” said George, stepping from the inn with three mugs of beer in his hands. He handed one to Thomas and smiled. “And more so as the night wears on.”
Thomas snorted. “Wonderful.”
“Don’t worry.” George handed the other mug to his sister and took a seat on the bench. “We won’t do anything until you start chasing the moon.”
“That might be later tonight, if I’m wrong about this,” Thomas warned.
“There,” Eileen said. “He’s coming out.”
Thomas could see Bluster, a lantern in his hand, coming out of the watchtower. The man stopped at the door and locked it behind him, then made his way down the stairs and down the rise towards the houses. Thomas watched him go until the light disappeared among the houses of the village, and put his mug on the bench. Eileen did the same. George quaffed his, first.
Thomas took a quick look to be sure no one inside the tavern was paying attention to them, then pushed himself to his feet, groaning with the effort.
“Sure you can walk?” muttered George.
“I’ll be fine,” said Thomas, stumbling the first few steps until his legs began working properly again.
The noise of the tavern faded quickly behind them, and by the time they got to the watchtower the night hum of the insects and the wind gently rustling through the trees sounded louder to their ears than the fiddler’s music. They walked around to the wagon and the stone bulk of the watchtower muffled the last sounds of the fiddler and hid the lights of the village from their sight. The night suddenly felt far darker and far quieter than it should have.
The designs on the wagon’s sides were nearly invisible in the darkness. The dark wood door at the end looked almost ominous to Thomas, as if it was about to spring open of its own accord.
Thomas took a deep breath and willed down the butterflies dancing in his belly. He took the time to examine the wood around the hill to make sure no one was lurking around, then reached forward and pushed gently at the door of the wagon. It was unlocked.
“Wait,” Eileen whispered, grabbing his arm. “What if his body’s in there?”
That thought sent Thomas’s stomach plummeting and brought a whole new crop of butterflies flying about. He swallowed, took another deep breath. “Bluster said the nuns were taking him,” Thomas whispered back. “They’ll have done that by now.”
He pushed the door again. It swung open, revealing a small, dark space, empty of corpses. Thomas sighed with relief. “Light the candle.”
Eileen had the candle, and it took her a few tries for her flint to spark the tinder. The wait seemed interminable. The tinder blazed, small and yellow, and Eileen used it to light the candle. She raised it and shuddered.
The dim yellow light shone onto the floor of the wagon by the door. A dark stain that had once been red covered it where Timothy’s body had lain. The stain looked black in the light of the candle, and didn’t shine the way it would have when it was still wet. Thomas reached out a hand, hesitated, then touched the edge of the stain. His fingers came away dry. The wood was old and starved for moisture and had sucked Timothy’s blood into itself.
Thomas held out his hand for the candle and Eileen passed it to him, the flame shielded by her hand. It took another moment and another deep breath before Thomas had gathered the nerve to step up and pull himself into the wagon. He took a step in, then turned to shut the door, but Eileen pulled herself in before he could.
“There isn’t room for both of us in here,” protested Thomas.
“Twice as many makes twice as fast,” said Eileen. She turned to her brother. “Keep watch, George. Let us know if anyone is coming.”
She pushed the door closed before Thomas could argue further. “Well?”
The inside of the wagon was very narrow, and the two were standing almost body-to-body in the space by the door. Thomas, suddenly very aware of their proximity, stepped back and promptly kicked something with his heel. The noise made them both jump and clutch at each other.
“What is going on in there?” George hissed from outside. “What was that?”
Thomas caught his breath. “It’s all right,” he whispered back. “It’s just a mess in here from being knocked over.”
“Well, don’t do it again. You scared me half to death.”
“Me, too,” Eileen whispered. She looked around the small wagon. “What are we looking for?”
“I don’t know,” Thomas turned and made an inspection on the wagon’s interior. It was certainly a mess. Many things—mostly vegetables and dried fruit, which were once hanging from the ceiling—were now on the floor, as were the contents of several shelf baskets. Despite the clutter, Thomas was certain that whoever had killed the little man had not searched the place. The door to the thin cupboard in the corner was still latched shut, and the chest that sat underneath the narrow shelf the little man had used as a bed was unopened.
“You take the cupboard,” Thomas said, “I’ll look through the chest.”
“What are we looking for?”
“Anything unusual.”
“That helps,” Eileen muttered. Still, she went to the cupboard and, after some quick wrestling with the door, pulled it open and began searching.
Thomas pulled the chest out from underneath the bed and opened it. He saw only clothes. One by one he pulled them all out, searching between them and stacking them on Timothy’s bed until the chest was empty. He searched the chest, itself, looking for any sign of hidden compartments. There was nothing. Thomas put all the clothes back, and pushed the chest back under the bed.
“Nothing here,” Eileen whispered, closing the closet. “Now what?”
“Keep looking.”
They searched every alcove, nook, and cranny of the little wagon twice. They found balls, clubs, the smashed remains of the man’s lute, and a half-dozen knives he used for juggling. None of it was what Thomas was after. He rapped on the walls and floorboards of the narrow space, looking for hidden compartments, but found nothing. For a moment Thomas seriously considered banging his head on the floor to see if that would help. At last, concealing the candle in his hand, he opened the wagon door.
“Well?” hissed George, his nervousness clear in his voice. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“No.” Thomas swung down, and turned to offer a hand to Eileen, but she had already jumped down.
“So what were we looking for?” Eileen asked.
Thomas didn’t answer. He had been desperately hoping for something to show them—something to show himself—for proof. Instead of answering, he turned away from them and reached inside the wagon to pull the door shut.
Something inside glinted in the light of the candle.
Thomas stopped, but the glint had already vanished. He pushed the door back open and ducked his head, moving the candle back and forth until something inside caught the light and reflected it back. It was under the juggler’s bed, whatever it was, near the front of the wagon. Thomas realized that when he put the chest back, he’d shoved it under the end of the bed nearest the door, instead of where it had been. Otherwise, there was no way he’d be able to see whatever was reflecting the candle’s dim, wavering light.
“Thomas,” Eileen grabbed his sleeve. “What were we looking for?”
Thomas shook her off and pointed. “Look there.”
Eileen let him go, followed the line of his arm with her eyes. “What is it?”
“Don’t know.” he said. “Do you see it?”
Eileen leaned further forward. “Aye, I do.” She squinted. “Why didn’t we see it before?”
“The chest was in the way.”
“And because there’s no way to look at it without being this close to the floor,” George said, looking over his sister’s shoulder. “What do you think it is?”
“I’ll tell you in a moment,” Thomas said. He handed George the candle, then crawled back into the wagon, keeping himself close to the ground. The movement made all his ribs hurt, but he wasn’t about to give up. He kept his eyes on the light reflecting off the metal. George was right. If he moved his chin more than a foot off the floor-boards, the glint would vanish.
“Well?” hissed Eileen.
“There’s something here.”
“We know that. What is it?”
Thomas reached forward cautiously. His fingers touched a thin metal keyhole. He ran his hand around it, found the edges of a small compartment. The space was as wide as his forearm was long and perhaps six inches high, with the key-hole at the bottom.
He thought a moment, then pulled his dagger and slipped it into the space between the edge of the compartment and the floor. Praying the steel would hold, Thomas pried against the little lock. At first there was only pressure then something moved. Thomas pried harder. There was a tearing of wood and the little door popped open with a noise that made Thomas jump and, to his ears, felt loud enough to wake the entire village and the residents of the cemetery beyond. He waited for George and Eileen to shush him, but they said nothing, and gradually Thomas realized that the sound hadn’t gone beyond the confines of the wagon.
Thomas waited until his breathing returned to normal, then flipped the little door up and reached into the opening. He found a small cloth sack which jingled when he pulled it out, then a wooden box, and finally a single book, almost as wide as the space itself and rather thick. He took them all, pushed what was left of the little door back into position, then started crawling backwards out of the wagon. It hurt worse than crawling in. He stopped on his way and pushed Timothy’s chest back where he’d found it to hide the evidence of the burglary.
“What did you find?” George asked.
“Not here.” said Thomas, groaning as he straightened. He put the three items under his jacket. “Douse the candle and let’s get back to your house. And not by the way we came, either.”
***
George took them on a long, round-about path that circled the village before leading them back to the forge. Once inside, they closed the doors tight, leaving them in near-darkness, save for the dull red glow from the banked coals. George lit the candle from the coals then put it on the anvil. Eileen pulled three stools out from under a table. Thomas sank down onto his with relief. He was not nearly healthy enough for what they had done, and his body was telling him so.
“So what is it?” Eileen demanded. “What did you find?”
Thomas placed his prizes on the anvil. They were not much to look at, even in the dim light of the coals and candle. The sack was coarse brown fabric, tied shut with a bit of old ribbon. The box was painted red, and held closed only by a small latch. The book was plain and leather-bound and wrapped shut with twine.