The Final Toll

by Denise Domning

  The corner of Prior Thierry's mouth curled. His gaze shifted from the monk to Faucon. "Not only impious, but heathens, all of you, with no respect for God's law," he spat out, then turned on his heel and strode from the hall.

  The instant the prior's back turned, Faucon eased between Brother Colin and the seated, sobbing Lady Bagot. Around the hearth he went, passing Sir Adam, who now hung his head as if he also mourned. Will had his fists pressed to his temples. Dropping into a crouch in front of his brother, Faucon balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to fall back, should his brother strike out.

  "Will?" he asked gently.

  His brother's only reply was a feral sound. Someone touched Faucon's shoulder. He almost toppled as he looked up.

  It was Colin. Questions filled the monk's eyes. As Faucon returned to his feet, Alf left his place at the table to join them. Eustace followed, stopping a respectful distance from Offord's guests.

  "My brother, Sir William de Ramis," Faucon said quietly to the healer, fearing a louder voice would aggravate his brother's pain. "From time to time his head aches beyond all toleration."

  That was the promise Faucon had made to their father, that they never told anyone outside the family more than Will's head ached from time to time. There was to be no mention of the fits of screaming rage that came from nowhere or that Will sometimes ran mad.

  "Ah, I'll be right back," Colin said with a nod, already moving toward the hall door.

  Alf stepped closer. "Is there aught I can to do help?" he asked.

  Faucon looked from his man to Eustace, and hesitated. It was hard enough to keep Will's secret at home. It would be impossible here in this strange place, especially if Will did race from Offord Hall. His brother knew nothing of this locale nor any of the landmarks. He'd truly find himself lost once he returned to sanity. Better to ask for help to keep him here than to plead for assistance to search for him.

  "When my brother's head hurts this much, he can react strangely. Be ready to help me hold him in the hall should he seek to leave. He's strong, especially when he's like this, and he will lash out," he explained, looking from Alf to the bailiff, including Eustace because it might take all three of them to hold Will.

  But Will didn't rise or run. Instead, he kept his fists at his temple and rocked on the bench. A few moments later Colin returned with a small clay jug. Its glazed green exterior wore glistening dark streaks as if the monk had spilled as he filled the vessel.

  Colin gently touched Will's shoulder and got a startled groan for his effort. "Sir William, if you can bear the taste, this potion will make you sleep deeply, although not for long. I've given it to others who suffer as you do. Most find relief after they awaken."

  Perhaps it was a stranger's voice, or mayhap the promise of relief. Rather than ignore an offer of help, as Will was wont to do at home, he slowly extended his right hand as if to take the jug. It was something Faucon had never before seen him do when he was in this state.

  Taking this as agreement, Colin knelt in front of Will and guided the knight's fingers until they closed around the neck of the jug. Then, with his own hand on the base of the jug, Colin steadied it as Faucon's brother sought to bring it to his lips. "I warn you. I usually mix this with something to cut the taste, for it is truly foul," Colin said, speaking quietly. "But if you can bear it, drink it all."

  The jug tilted. Will struggled to raise his head high enough to swallow. Instead, the liquid trickled down his chin. He freed a muffled sound of frustration. "Pery," he gasped out.

  Faucon stared at the sibling he had once adored, torn between astonishment and disbelief. For the first time since his accident, Will was asking him for help. Coming to stand next to Colin, he said, "Perhaps we can lift his head for him so he can swallow?"

  Retrieving his jug from Will's control, concern creased Colin's face. "He's as bad as that?" he muttered, returning to his feet.

  The monk studied the knight for a breath. "Rather than force him to raise his head, which could cause more pain, lean him back toward the table. I can then help him raise the jug." To Faucon's brother, Colin said, "Sir William, this will take longer, and you may still struggle to swallow."

  Although Will made no move or noise to acknowledge what the monk had said, Faucon motioned to Alf and Eustace. With soldier and bailiff at either end of the bench and Faucon steadying his brother, they lifted man and bench away from the table. When Colin nodded his approval, Faucon took his brother by the shoulders and pulled Will back. Colin helped Will bring the jug to his lips. Will sputtered, gagged, but managed to swallow most of the dark, thick liquid.

  When he was done, Faucon brought him back upright and retreated. Will sucked in a full breath, coughed, then groaned at the pain this caused him. After that, he again brought his fists back to his temples.

  "How quickly will this help?" Faucon asked on Will's behalf. Then he wondered if Will could even think to wonder such things while he was in this state.

  "If it works, he should grow drowsy soon enough that we must swiftly find him a place to rest," Colin said.

  Faucon looked at Eustace. "Is it possible for my brother to take his rest on a pallet here in the hall?"

  "I'll see to it, Eustace," Lady Helena answered. She yet sat on the bench they'd shared at breakfast. This time, when Faucon looked at her, she neither blushed nor blanched as their gazes met. She left the table for the hearth and her mother. Lady Bagot's noisy sobs had ebbed into quieter gasping breaths.

  Helena took her mother's hands. "Come, Maman. You should rest as well," she said gently, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her mother's brow.

  Her head bowed, Lady Bagot came obediently to her feet. As Helena put an arm around her, turning her toward the bed in the far corner, she looked over her shoulder at Faucon. "You should follow me with Sir William," she told him.

  As if his daughter's voice had stirred him to it, Sir Adam lifted his head. "He awoke this morn, complaining about his head aching," he said flatly.

  The knight's expression was as lifeless as his voice. At the moment, he seemed a smaller man. It was as if, having spent his rage for no gain, he had folded in on himself.

  As Faucon met his gaze, Sir Adam added in the same flat tone, "Your brother told me the changing weather makes it happen."

  "That is so," Faucon agreed, ignoring the uncomfortable twist deep within him that always happened when he lied on Will's behalf. But with it came surprise that his brother had bothered to excuse his behavior to a stranger. That wasn't something Will had ever done while Faucon yet lived in their home. Nor, to Faucon's knowledge, had Will ever repeated any of the standard explanations their sire had concocted to disguise his eldest son's weakness.

  Turning, ready to help his brother to his pallet, Faucon came face-to-face with Colin. The monk aimed a narrow-eyed look at him. "This is no ache brought on by a change in the weather," he whispered. "How was your brother injured that he suffers so?"

  "He took a blow to his head while practicing the joust as a squire," Faucon replied, almost as quietly.

  "Did he fall unconscious?" the healer wanted to know.

  Faucon nodded. "For three days. We thought he would die." Perhaps Will had died during those days of unnatural sleep, for the man who returned to them wasn't the boy who had taken the injury.

  "Such are the hazards of the warrior's trade," Colin said, speaking more normally, then shook his head. "That's two incurable ailments you've shown me this day. For your sake and your brother's, Sir Crowner, I pray forced sleep relieves his pain. Come, I'll help you get him settled on his pallet. After that, we should seek out Lady Offord. I thought she was bringing that cure of hers to me."

  Will allowed them to remove his cloak and boots, but couldn't bear to lift his arms so they could remove his tunic. They left him fully dressed, stretched out on his back so he could keep his hands at the sides of his head. Alf went to sit with his back against the wall near Will's pallet, having offered to watch over the knight until he was safe
ly asleep.

  As Faucon started toward the tower door with Colin, Edmund tucked his basket of supplies under his bench and joined them, unwilling to be shut out of the tower a second time. It was only as they reached the tower door that Faucon realized his opportunity. He looked back at Sir Adam. The knight remained seated on the edge of the hearthstone while Eustace had returned to his bench at the head of the servants' table.

  "Sir Adam, I'd like to search Sir Robert's chamber and the storeroom below it for the bell, in case it's only been misplaced. Will you join us?" Faucon called. "Eustace, you should come as well."

  Nodding, Eustace came immediately to his feet and started toward them. Sir Adam stayed where he sat. His head turned as Offord's bailiff walked past him. It was only after Eustace was around the hearth that the knight rose, doing so with an aching slowness, as if the movement required all his energy.

  Faucon waited until both men reached the doorway, then started up the stairs. Their footstep echoed in the narrow stairwell until they sounded like an invading troop. If Lady Offord had lingered in the bedchamber, she was well warned of their approach.

  Stinging moisture, driven by the wailing wind, spattered Faucon's face as he stepped onto the landing. The shutters on the wide window across the room stood wide. The ashy sludge that dripped from the brass pan in the brazier beneath the opening suggested they'd been left open all the night.

  Idonea sat in the half-barrel chair, having turned it to face the stormy world outside the tower. A length of red fabric was pulled over her like a blanket. The rain had dampened her fine wimple until that wispy bit of silk clung to her shorn head.

  Faucon crossed the room, passing the curtained bed and the corpse hidden within it, to stop next to the widow. Idonea glanced up at him. Her cheeks were wet, but not with rain. As their gazes met, she drew up the fabric until it hid her face.

  Giving her a moment to collect herself, Faucon pulled his cloak around him and considered the view. From this prospect he could see almost all the cottages in Offord's village, as well as a goodly swath of pastureland. That made him reconsider the unguarded opening. Although it was a terrible defensive decision, the pleasure it must have given Sir Robert had surely been beyond tallying.

  Colin, his cowl pulled up over his head, made his way past Lady Offord's chair. Being a more sensible man than his Crowner, he closed the shutters. The chamber fell into an instant and rank dimness, making it even more drear in here than it was outside.

  Then the monk retreated to stand at the opposite side of Idonea's chair. "Sitting in the cold and wet cannot help your joints," he said. There was no judgment in his tone.

  The widow made a sad sound, raising her head out of that fabric. Her mouth trembled. "Should I care?" she asked.

  "I think you should," Colin replied, "but then, I am an old man and have learned to cherish even the bad that has been in my life. Come now. You don't strike me as a coward. Gird your loins, my lady. Take up your sword! You may never defeat your enemy, but I guarantee you'll win more than a few battles before all is said and done." Then, having done his best to thrust his unwilling patient back into the current of her own life, he offered her a smile.

  She met his effort with a quivering bend of her own lips. "You are wrong, Brother. I am very much a coward," she told him in English.

  "Lady Offord," Faucon said. "We've come to search the room and the storeroom below for the missing bell. As it turns out, the prior did not take it on the night your husband died."

  "Oh," she said on a sigh, "then I suppose I must move." As she came to her feet the red cloth spilled out of her lap. Only then did Faucon recognize it as the tunic Lady Bagot had chosen for her father to wear into eternity.

  "While they search, I'd like to see that potion of yours. Were you able to find it?" Colin asked her, in another, more subtle attempt to drive her out of self-pity.

  The new widow made a face at that, looking for that moment as young as Martha. Lady Bagot was right. Idonea was still a child, one who had been coddled as completely as Sir Adam's youngest daughter. But then Faucon expected it was easy to make a pet of a frail and ailing child.

  "As you will," the widow said, her tone more agreeable than he'd expected, given the face she'd pulled. She pointed to the locked chest pushed against the wall on the other side of the chair. "Sir Robert allowed me to keep my coffer in his chest. Let me fetch the key," she said, starting for the bed.

  After Colin stepped off the trap door, Faucon moved the chair then used the rope handle to open it. Once the door rested on the floorboards, he peered down into the storeroom. There wasn't light enough in the chamber to to show him the nearest chests, much less allow for a search.

  Faucon turned toward the stairs. Edmund and Sir Adam stood on the landing with Eustace yet in the stairwell, a few steps below them. The bailiff peered into his master's bedchamber from around the turn of the wall.

  "We're going to need a few lamps, bailiff," Faucon said.

  Eustace nodded and stared back down the steps. That stirred Sir Adam into movement. He crossed the room to stand at the edge of the opening. Edmund stayed where he was. The monk's expression said his curiosity had been satisfied by climbing the stairs, and he wasn't certain he wanted to be a party to whatever else might go forward in this chamber.

  Carrying the ring of keys, Idonea knelt before Sir Robert's chest. It took her two tries before she found the right key, then metal scraped on metal and the lock fell open. As she lifted the lid, Colin moved closer to her.

  Faucon followed, driven by curiosity. Just as he expected, Sir Robert's sheathed sword lay atop two thick linen sacks, the same sort of sacking that Faucon used for his own armor. Reaching down, he ran his fingers along a curve of metal that showed at the head of the chest. It was a spur. Pushing his hand down, he found its twin. These had no doubt been given to him by Sir Umfrey on the day that Robert the Squire had become Sir Robert.

  Idonea reached across the width of the chest and dug out a small wooden coffer. Even in the dimness Faucon could see it was a cheerful thing, with top and bottom painted green and blue in a checkerboard pattern. That it was neither bound nor locked said it contained nothing of great value, save perhaps to its owner.

  Setting it on the edge of the open chest, she lifted the lid. The spicy scent of violets wafted from it. Beyond the dried flowers, it contained a string of prayer beads, a small knife, its hilt wound with brass thread, a simple fabric necklet decorated with embroidered flowers, and four small jars. Three of the jars were empty, their mouths left uncovered while the fourth had a waxed cloth tied around its neck to protect what it contained.

  This was the jar Idonea handed to Colin. "This is the last one and it's nearly empty," she said, closing and setting aside her little coffer. "Mayhap it's a good thing you came to visit, Brother. I wasn't certain what I would do after I took the last dose."

  Colin untied the thong and removed the cloth, then put his nose close to the mouth. After breathing in the scent, he dipped the tip of his little finger into the belly of the jar and touched it to his tongue. An instant later he winked at Idonea. "Now, that's an apothecary who knows how to make a cure anyone would take."

  His jest won a quick smile from the kneeling widow. "So he does. I like honey," she admitted. "Mama always paid him extra to add the sweetness because she wanted to be certain I would take every drop."

  Colin handed the jar to Faucon. "Taste this, Sir Crowner. Just a little bit on your finger as I did."

  Faucon did as bidden, carrying a small amount of dark syrup to his tongue. He grimaced. The heavy sweetness of the honey was marred by a musty dark flavor that was both decidedly unpleasant and unfamiliar to him.

  "Sweet as it is, I think I wouldn't want to drink much of this," he said, handing the jar back to Colin as he offered Idonea a nod. "You're wrong, my lady. You're no coward. I think you're far braver than I."

  That made her lift her hand to her mouth to hide another laugh.

  "Now imagine that
taste trebled," Colin said, replacing the waxed cloth, "then treble it again, for that would be the dose we discussed earlier."

  "This taste is hemlock?" Faucon replied in surprise.

  "Hemlock?" Sir Adam echoed faintly from where he stood at the edge of the door in the floor. Something stirred in his expression. He blinked, then his eyes narrowed as if he strove to shake off his strange stupor.

  "Hemlock?" he repeated. "There is hemlock in her potion?" he said, his voice gaining strength with every word.

  Then, as swiftly as rage had emptied from him, it returned. Sir Adam's shoulders tensed. He straightened to his tallest. His hands curled into fists as he gaze locked on the new widow.

  "Poison is a woman's weapon," he roared. "Murderess! You killed Robert!"

  Her mouth open in terror, Idonea fell back to sitting. She scrabbled onto her hands and knees, but when she sought to rise, she slipped on the wet floor. Faucon caught her by the arm and lifted her to her feet. Holding her by the wrist, he pushed her behind him. Much to his relief, Idonea didn't fight to escape. Instead, she cowered into the middle of his back.

  "Did I not tell you she killed Robert," Sir Adam charged, stepping closer than Faucon liked, then leaned closer still, as if he meant to tear through his Crowner to reach the lady.

  Swift footsteps sounded from behind Faucon then Edmund came to a rustling stop next to his left elbow. Together, they formed a wall between raging knight and terrified lady.

  "Murderess! Foul little blouze! You'll hang, I'll see to it!" Adam promised at the top of his lungs.

  "Cease, Sir Adam," Faucon shouted back. "Lady Offord's syrup didn't kill Sir Robert. The amount of hemlock in her cure isn't strong enough to cause death."