"I cannot say as I've ever once tried mixing it with food," the monk replied with a sorry smile. "I fear I haven't had much experience killing men."
Faucon pushed back on his bench, his hands resting on the table. "And yet, the way Sir Robert ailed in these instances tells us that the hemlock was there, hidden in something he consumed. If not drink, then it must be the food. Bailiff, tell me everything you can remember about those meals. You say he overate. What was it he ate most of?"
Frowning, his blue eyes narrowed, Eustace rubbed a hand over his bearded chin. "Two meals, so far apart, and me thinking nothing about them, not even after Robert grew ill," he muttered. "I mean, we were all at these tables with him and the food was all cooked in the same pots. If the meal were poisoned, wouldn't we have ailed as well?"
"Then can you remember who was at the table with him each time he fell ill?" Faucon asked.
"Lady Offord, of course," Eustace told him. "And Lady Bagot as well, along with the little ladies."
That startled Faucon. "Lady Bagot, but not Sir Adam?"
Eustace nodded. "Over this past year, Lady Bagot has often ridden over from Bagot to enjoy a meal with her father. She and her daughters were present at both of those meals. And for Lady Martha's saint day celebration, of course, as was everyone else."
Then Eustace blinked. Something flashed across his face and his eyes widened. "But you cannot think Lady Bagot would ever have done aught to hurt her sire," he cried in protest. "I've known her from the moment of her birth. Never has there been a more loving daughter nor a more adoring father, especially over these last months. You've seen how distraught she's been since Robert's death."
"Eustace, you're trying to leap the stream before we even know where it is," Faucon assured him. "Calm yourself. Tell me whatever you can about the meals themselves."
Instead, the bailiff's expression shuttered. Just as Milla had done yesterday, Eustace had closed the drawbridge and manned the ramparts. "Sir, you're asking the wrong person. Two meals so far apart, and we who serve don't always eat the same dishes as the family," he said, contradicting himself.
Faucon watched him closely. "Perhaps I should ask Milla instead?"
"Perhaps that would be more helpful," the man agreed flatly. "As for me, it's time I got on with my own chores. If you'll excuse, sir?"
"Many thanks for your help this morn, Eustace," Faucon said with a smile.
"For the sake of my dead master, I am glad to do my duty," the bailiff replied politely, then turned to stride from the hall.
"That is a frightened man," Alf said quietly, as they watched Eustace round the screen.
Faucon nodded. "So I was thinking as well." But whatever frightened Eustace, it wasn't something he thought his sister knew. "I think it's time I returned to the kitchen to talk with the cook."
Just then Idonea rose, offered the poppet to Martha, then came to stand next to Brother Colin on his bench. Her eyes were wet and she'd knotted her hands at her waist.
"Sir Faucon, I pray you. Don't believe Sir Adam. I did nothing wrong, and I would never have harmed my husband," she cried. "I wouldn't even know how, so I vow!"
It was Colin who answered. "But of course you didn't, my lady," he said, seeking to soothe even though no one yet knew if what the monk said was true.
Rather than challenge Colin's assumption, Faucon leapt to grab the opportunity Idonea offered. Although Lady Offord was barely older than Helena, as Sir Robert's wife, she could serve as chaperone. That made it possible for him to speak directly to Lady Helena without treading into worrisome territory.
"Will you come join Lady Offord, Lady Helena?" Faucon asked Sir Adam's older daughter. "Perhaps between the two of you, you can recall the meals that caused your Grand-père to ail."
Being a biddable girl, Helena did as he asked. As she came to stand at Idonea's right, Martha followed, tucking her poppet under her arm. The plaything now wore a sleeveless shift. She pressed herself between her older sister and Idonea, then forced her free hand through Idonea's clenched fingers until the widow relented.
"I'm not certain what we ate," Idonea said on a ragged breath. "All I remember is that Sir Robert began to complain about his stomach before we began the second dish." She looked at Helena. "Do you remember that?"
Her head modestly lowered, Helena glanced up at Faucon before she spoke. "I remember only that Grand-père drank too much wine on each of those nights. When Maman warned him that he should drink no more, he told her he had to have more wine because his stomach ached so."
"I remember what Grand-père ate," Martha said, her tone serious. She stared directly at her Crowner. "Grand-père ate his little birds on each of those nights."
Helena raised her head far enough to frown at her younger sister. "Martha!" she chided. "Have a care with your words. Don't you recall what Brother Edmund told us yesterday? Sir Faucon is the king's servant. If he asks you a question, you must be certain the answer you give is the truth. If I cannot remember what any of us ate, how can you possibly remember so well that you could swear what you say is true?"
"But I do remember and it is the truth," Martha insisted, her voice rising. "He ate his little birds," she told her sister.
Then she looked directly at her Crowner. Her gaze was steady and her chin firm. Everything about her said she took her obligation to speak the truth very seriously. "I do remember and I can swear it, sir," she told him.
Faucon eyed her narrowly. "But did you not say yesterday that your grandsire always shared his birds with you? That is, until you had your own portion for your saint day?" he asked.
"He always did, except on those nights," she replied, nodding to affirm this was what she recalled. "That's why I remember what he ate. I wasn't allowed to share his meal."
"Why were you not allowed?" Faucon asked, a little startled.
A shameless glint took fire in Martha's pretty green eyes. She lifted a dismissive shoulder, then the corners of her mouth twisted into a wicked smile. "I am not always Maman's good girl. On those nights, I had to stay on the bench with Helena and eat stew, instead of sharing the birds with Grand-père."
The huntsman in Faucon stirred sharply at that. Although the spore he saw on the trail ahead of him was faint and confused, and still felt improbable, the trail he must follow was appearing at last.
Then Martha's golden-red brows flattened in question. "Sir, what is 'poisoned'?"
Curious, Faucon replied in English. "It's when someone eats something that makes them ill."
"Like when Grandpapa took ill on my saint day after he again ate his own little birds?" she asked in the same tongue, making the transition with ease and speaking without accent.
"For shame, Martha," her sister scolded. "You know very well both Papa and Maman have forbidden you to use the commoner's tongue."
The child slanted an impatient look at her sister. "My Anie spoke it. The sir speaks it, and so does Idonea," she said, moving without hesitation back into her parents' native tongue. "Besides Papa isn't here and Maman is sleeping. They can't hear me," she said, now lifting her chin to an imperious angle, looking very much like her mother as she did so.
Faucon eyed the little lady. Helpful, beautiful, but disobedient, disrespectful, and as spoiled as rotten meat. It was a good thing for Sir Adam that Martha was his second daughter, not his first. Where Lady Helena would someday make a good wife, no man in his right mind would have Martha, not even if Sir Adam could afford to give her a dowry, or chose to divide what was Helena's between his two girls, thereby diminishing both their chances for advancement. Instead, Faucon wagered Martha would spend her life in barren service to her family, at least for as long as her family could tolerate her.
Leaving Alf to watch over Idonea and the little ladies, Faucon and Colin made their way through the spattering rain, heads down and picking their way around mud puddles, to the kitchen. Once inside, Faucon basked in the welcome heat of the fire at the same time that he caught his breath at the stink of fish and
blood. He glanced at the barrel that had last night contained swimming eels, only to find it now empty of water and filled with their entrails.
Across the room it was Nobby, not Milla, hard at work at the table. The lad stood on a short stool so he could reach the tabletop. Spread out in front of him was an array of vegetables— turnips, onions, parsnips, cabbages, along with a great pile of greenery. Faucon watched the boy take a delicate stalk from that green mound, strip what he thought parsley into a bowl then toss aside the stem. This was hardly a scullery lad's usual duty. That had Faucon grinning. Nobby, it seemed, had ambitions.
"Nobby," Faucon called to announce himself.
So completely was the boy immersed in his task that he started and almost tumbled off his stool. Catching the edge of the table to steady himself, he turned to face them. Under his thatch of fair hair, his brown eyes were wide and his face colorless. He held his free hand to his chest as if seeking to restore his heart to its rightful place.
"Sir!" he cried breathlessly.
"My pardon," Faucon offered, still smiling as he and Colin rounded the hearth to join him at the worktable. "What's this?" he teased gently. "Have you become cook in Milla's stead?"
That steadied the boy's heart better than his hand ever could. He grinned proudly. "Perhaps some day. It's eel pie we'll have for our meal today, with stewed fish as the second dish. I'm preparing the vegetables for the stew while Milla is at the ovens baking the pies. If you want to speak with her, you should go there. Do you know where the ovens are?"
"In the garden, I believe," Faucon replied and got a nod from the lad. He started to turn, then caught himself and considered the boy for an instant. "Nobby, do you remember the meals where Sir Robert overate and became ill?"
"It wasn't my fault," the boy said instantly, his expression pinched.
"Why would you say such a thing?" Faucon retorted in surprise. "How could it be your fault?"
The lad looked at his Crowner, stricken. "Milla says the betters will always blame the cook if one of them ails after a meal," he whispered.
"Does that happen often here? Did Sir Robert blame Milla for making him ill?" Colin asked gently.
Nobby gave a quick shake of his head. "Not Sir Robert. He is always kind. It's Lady Bagot. She thinks everything is Milla's fault. Too much salt, too little salt. Too bland, too bland, always too bland, even though all the rest of us like how Milla seasons our meals." The boy frowned in disapproval. "The lady blames Milla despite that she knows very well Sir Robert won't spend coins on spices save for very special occasions."
"But how can Milla be blamed for anything when her meals are so tasty that her employer is tempted to eat more than he should?" Faucon asked with a reassuring smile. "That's what Lady Bagot told me, that Sir Robert enjoyed his meals too well, and overeating caused his illnesses."
"The lady said that?" Nobby replied, looking truly shocked. "But I was here when she came after that first meal when Sir Robert took ill. She was crying and Milla doing her best to comfort her. When I asked Milla why the lady was so upset, she told me that Lady Bagot said the birds had made Sir Robert ill. This, even though Sir Robert had eaten the same dish the week before with no untoward consequences," he added, his choice of words suggesting he quoted his mistress. As well he might, given that he had no French and Lady Bagot no English.
"Well, Milla was so distraught over the lady saying the birds made Sir Robert sick that she sent me to fetch another bird. She wanted to cook it and have the lady taste it, so she would know the flesh wasn't bad."
"An intelligent test," Faucon said, enjoying the storyteller as much as the tale. "So did the lady taste it and was she convinced the birds weren't at fault for Sir Robert's illness?"
Nobby shook his head. "Milla ate it instead. Oh, she offered it to the lady, but the lady refused to take a bite. Instead, she watched Milla consume it. And did Milla grow ill? Nay, not even a little bit." The boy's shrug said he had expected no less. "Of course not. How could she when all those birds come from the same flock? If one was bad, all would be bad," he said, sounding again as if he were repeating what he'd been told.
"But these are wild birds," Faucon said, frowning. "How can anyone know if they all come from the same flock?"
"They aren't wild," Nobby replied, stripping another parsley stem of its leaves. "We raise them here at Offord especially for Sir Robert's table."
The thought of raising a bird that men usually netted in their fields startled Faucon. Then he was surprised at his surprise. If a man loved the taste of a particular bird and could find a way to make them breed while cooped or caged, why not keep a flock for himself?
"Could I see Sir Robert's flock of wild birds?" Faucon asked.
That teased a shrug out of Nobby. "I'm sure you can, if you don't mind walking in the rain. They're not here at the manor. It's Eustace who raises them. Keeps them at his home, he does. When we want them, he brings them here alive in a special cage. It's my job to wring their necks and pluck or skin them."
Brother Colin glanced sidelong at Faucon. Faucon's brows rose. Eustace, the frightened man. The man who must have suddenly remembered what Sir Robert had eaten each time he ailed, as well as on the night of his death.
"Nobby, tell me this. Did everyone at the high table eat quail on Lady Martha's saint day?" Faucon asked.
"Nay, no one had it but Sir Robert," the boy replied, stripping another stem. "No one else likes them, mostly because of that sauce the master prefers. Everyone else, both high and low, ate dove with the sauce we all do like."
"Everyone?" Faucon stared at him in surprise.
"Everyone," Nobby told him with a firm nod. "We all had dove."
"But how can that be true? Milla told me yesterday that she'd made the quail for Lady Martha as a gift for her special day."
The lad frowned, his head cocked. "Are you certain that's what she said?"
"I am," Faucon replied.
"But that cannot be," the boy protested. "It's true that Milla intended to make quail for the little lady. Hadn't Sir Robert come to the kitchen the day before and told Milla to be sure to have six quail instead of four for the next night? Our master had promised Martha— the little lady," Nobby corrected himself, "that on her special day they would dine together. He would have four birds and she would have two of her own.
"Then early the next morn, the lady came to the kitchen. After the lady left, Milla told me that she'd complained that the quail were far too small, much smaller than our usual, when of course they weren't."
He paused, his expression tight as he thought, then he shrugged. "Well, they might have been a little smaller. I was the one to pluck them that day, and they were different than the ones of the previous week. But they weren't that small.
"Anyway, Milla said that the lady thought it wasn't enough food for her father if he was to share with her daughter. She wanted us to go to Eustace for two more quail. She said because it was a special celebration, her father should have the six small birds while Lady Martha would have her own two."
Here, the boy scoffed and shook his head as if astonished at the idiocy of the lady's request. "We couldn't just ask Eustace to bring us two more and have them ready to serve for that night's meal. They have to be killed, plucked, gutted, then brined, don't they? Else they'll break your teeth. There was no time for all that. That's when Milla decided to give the little lady doves. It's not as if anyone at the high table would ever know the difference. Birds all look the same, legs, and wings and such, don't they?" Nobby said, his brows lifted to peaks over his eyes.
"So we chose two of the smaller doves, left them whole, just like the quail, and made a separate dish meant for the little lady alone. Sure enough, no one at the high table noticed that anything was different. I know. I was watching."
"And did Milla serve Sir Robert all of six of the quail?" Faucon asked.
Nobby nodded as he ran his fingers down another stem of parsley. "Of course she did. Hadn't that been what the lady said she
should do?"
There was only one place to go after that. "Nobby, how do I find Eustace's home?" Faucon asked.
The track through the center of the village was crowded despite the persistent storm. Rain or not, folk were out and about on their daily business. Faucon and the monk parted to go around a man balancing a wide yoke across his neck and shoulders. The buckets that hung from his yoke were filled with stones. Then they shifted together to one side to pass an old woman. The goodwife had her head bowed and her bright blue hood pulled down to her eyebrows while she balanced a large bundle of faggots on her dripping back.
Ahead of her was a man wrestling an empty hand cart through the mud. His cap was pulled so low that he only saw them at the last moment. "Pardon," he muttered breathlessly as he yanked his cart to the side so they could pass, and got a nod of thanks from his Crowner in response.
As they reached the expanse of the village green, Brother Colin looked up at him. "I yet struggle with the idea that hemlock could have somehow been infused into the flesh of these birds and leave no taste." He sounded both puzzled and frustrated.
"As do I," Faucon agreed. Together, they turned at the far edge of the green as Nobby had instructed. "But no matter what we struggle with, this is where the trail leads. You say that hemlock killed the man, and you've ruled out drink. We asked what the knight ate and discovered that each time he ailed he'd dined on these birds."
Faucon rubbed at his brow. "Perhaps we should try boiling quail meat in a deadly dose of hemlock and see if the taste remains?" he offered with a wicked grin.
That made the monk laugh. "My pardon, but I think I'll refuse any invitation to dine at your table."
That won him a quick wink."Have no fear," Faucon told him. "Lady Marian would never allow me any control over my kitchen."
Just then the wind gusted. Tucked into its folds was a stench Faucon recognized. His head came up with a jerk. He scanned the line of cottages ahead of him. Two faint streams of smoke bent over a fence behind the house where the track curved. By Nobby's description, this was the bailiff's house.
The Final Toll Page 15
