The Final Toll

by Denise Domning

  The lady drew a deep breath. Her shoulders lifted. "The bell will be safe, but what of me and my daughter, both of my daughters? Sir Adam has already murdered once to get what he wants," she warned quietly.

  "Brother Edmund," Faucon said to his clerk as he continued to watch the lady's back, "add this to your scribbling. Say that Lady Martha makes a gift of the bell to the priory, in return for a pension for herself and her lady mother in a convent."

  "Is that the desire of the ladies?" Edmund replied, glancing from his employer to Lady Bagot's back.

  "Tell me, Brother," Faucon asked his clerk before the lady could respond, "how long must a husband wait before he's free to remarry after his wife retires to a convent?"

  "Seven years," the monk replied swiftly. "That is, unless the man wishes to sue for an annulment, which will take almost as long and cost him dearly. Most men find it more practical to wait the full term."

  Her back still turned, the lady freed a quiet breathy sound, then another and then repeated the sound yet again. It was a moment before Faucon recognized her laughter.

  It took Edmund much longer to complete his scribbling than he expected. That was because he decided to create two chirographs— one for Lady Bagot, the other for Prior Thierry— that included the terms for the return of the bell. After that, he wrote a letter for Lady Offord, informing her father that his daughter was now a widow, which Faucon agreed to see made its way to Londontown. By then, Eustace had returned home, bringing news that Sir Adam had departed Offord, taking with him all the horses belonging to Offord and Bagot.

  With Eustace came one Medwyn, one of the Offord's villagers. He'd been among the jurors to protest Lady Joia's innocence. Medwyn wanted his Crowner to know that Sir Adam was sending him to Killingworth to demand the sheriff arrest Lady Bagot for her father's murder. That ploy resulted in Faucon hiring Eustace and an oxcart to carry all the ladies to Pinley Priory, a nearby Cistercian convent, for their safety.

  It wasn't until mid-morning the next day before they departed Offord. Alf parted ways with them outside the village bounds, turning for Wootton Wawen to bring Prior Thierry to the convent. After he led his party across the Alne and found the track that led north toward both the convent and Blacklea, Faucon lost himself to the journey.

  Sunlight gleamed on hill and pasture, and found blue-black in the ravens soaring overhead. The gale of a few days ago had left the trees dressed in the tattered remains of their rusty fall finery. Riding directly behind him, Brother Edmund chanted his prayers in a low voice. Faucon savored air spiced with that scent particular to autumn, then sighed out tension. The hours passed to the steady huff of oxen, the creak of wooden cart wheels, and the jingle of the metal rings on Legate's harness.

  As they drew near the fork that would take them to the convent, Faucon squinted into the distance. Two mounted men waited along the path. It was Alf on his piebald and a man mounted on a tall gray horse. If that was Prior Thierry, then the churchman once again wore the tunic and cloak of a nobleman.

  Faucon kicked Legate into a canter, his gaze locked on the gray steed. As he drew nearer, he recognized the destrier. The horse was an old man for sure, but he wore his battle scars proudly, his face and form pronouncing his great worth. What sin had that Continental nobleman, one who could afford such a horse, committed that resulted in his banishment to a foreign and rural priory?

  "You bring the bell?" Prior Thierry demanded before Faucon brought Legate to a halt a little distance from the warhorse.

  "It comes with our party," Faucon replied.

  "So there was no thief?" the prior wanted to know.

  "There was not," Faucon agreed. "Instead, Sir Robert had hidden it with Lady Martha, the daughter of Lady Bagot, telling his granddaughter it was her dowry. The little lady chooses instead to return it to you and her Church, doing so to honor the man who loved her dearly. In return for her gift, she begs you to aid her and her mother in securing a pension for them at a convent."

  "With the Cistercians?" the prior asked in surprise, the jerk of his head indicating the path that led to Pinley. His sneer was filled with Benedictine snobbery.

  Faucon shook his head. "Not necessarily. We travel to Pinley Priory for Lady Bagot's safety. Sir Adam banished her from her home and hearth after her father's death," he added carefully, not wishing to reveal much of Lady Joia's tale or Sir Adam's crime.

  "That's hardly surprising," the Churchman replied, sneering still.

  "What say you to the lady's request?" Faucon pressed. His tone was intense enough that it set the big gray to fretting.

  Although his knees and hands barely moved, Prior Thierry brought the dangerous beast back to a calm stance. "I would first ask what right this daughter of Bagot has to make such a gift without her father's consent." The Churchman's brows lifted. "I'm guessing he cannot know she has it, for that man would never allow it out of his possession if he did."

  Faucon smiled. "Martha of Bagot is not Sir Adam's child. He has no right to control what is hers, and this Sir Robert knew when he gave the bell to his granddaughter."

  That teased a quick and not unappreciative laugh from the prior. "Lady Bagot admits to her sin? Does she name the father?"

  "Sir Luc of Bagot, who is also banished by his older brother," Faucon replied.

  "Huh," the foreign Churchman offered on a harsh breath. "How is it that you, Coronarius, should become the advocate for another man's wife and her bastard?"

  Faucon met the noble prior's dark gaze. "I erred, Father Prior," he replied simply.

  Again the prior's brows lifted. He studied Faucon for a moment, then nodded. "And now you seek to make right what you set wrong. Here's a path I know well enough. You have my word. Once I know the bell is the one Sir Robert showed me and I have it in my possession, all will be arranged as the ladies require."

  "There is one other request. Lady Martha begs that she might be allowed to attend the rededication ceremony for the bell," Faucon told him.

  That won him a quizzical look from the former nobleman. "Why would a child make such a request?"

  "She has formed an attachment to the bell," Faucon told him. "She wishes to see for herself that it is happily and safely home."

  Much to his surprise, Prior Thierry's expression softened. He nodded. "A perceptive child, I think. All of this is acceptable to me, once I see the bell for myself."

  Not wanting to startle the destrier, Faucon turned Legate and rode a short distance back toward his party. He put his fingers to his lips and freed a sharp whistle to catch their attention. "Hie, Brother Edmund," he called to the monk with a wave.

  As Edmund raised his arm in acknowledgment, another man's distant, piercing whistle echoed from the path in the direction of Blacklea. It was followed by a second shorter whistle, then a third longer one.

  "Will?" Faucon whispered in abject surprise.

  He roweled Legate around and stared ahead on the track. At first, there was only haze. Then Legate's brother appeared, racing full out. A few breaths later and four more horses appeared out of the haze. God take them, the sheriff's men had mistaken Will for him!

  "Stand ready here, Alf. My brother brings men to us," he called to the soldier, then again turned Legate toward his party.

  Edmund's donkey had barely started away from the oxcart. "We are attacked! Protect the ladies any way you can," Faucon shouted, then started Legate back toward Alf.

  Will was now only yards away. He rode crouched in the saddle, his head almost pressed against Nuncio's neck. As Faucon and Alf drew their swords, Prior Thierry brought his destrier alongside Legate.

  As Nuncio carried Will past them, the Churchman pulled a stout wooden staff from the back of his saddle where once his shield would have hung. "Stay mounted or die under his hooves," the prior commanded. There was aught in his tone that won him their instant compliance.

  Then almost as one, nobleman, knight, and soldier put their heels to their mounts and rode at the oncoming soldiers. Faucon aimed Legate a
t the man in the lead. His horse was exhausted, running with sides heaving and mouth open. Shouting, the soldier raised his sword high. Keeping his own weapon close, Faucon slowed Legate the instant before they met. Startled, the soldier caught back his blow and took a blow to his thigh for his trouble. Screaming, the man dropped his weapon. Free from control, his panicked horse circled and sent his rider flying as Faucon rode past.

  Swords clashed to Faucon's left as Alf engaged his man. To his right, the prior swung his staff into the head of the third man. His skull cracked like an egg. Knight and nobleman rode toward the last man.

  "To me!" the fourth soldier shouted as he turned his mount to race back the way he'd come.

  "Mine," Prior Thierry roared at Faucon.

  Faucon instantly turned Legate back toward Alf, his sword raised high. The sheriff's man shoved at Alf's sword and kicked at the piebald, trying to break free to protect his back from this new threat. He wasn't fast enough. Faucon buried his sword into the man's exposed neck.

  Roweling Legate around, ready to aid the prior, he was in time to watch the former nobleman bring his gray alongside the escaping soldier, then drive his staff like a lance into the man's back. As the soldier arched in his saddle Prior Thierry rode past, bringing his staff around for a backhanded blow that sent the man flying from his horse. Then he turned the big gray and drove him toward the fallen man.

  As the soldier rolled and scrabbled in the mud to escape, the destrier rose with a scream and lunged at the fallen man, slamming his front hooves down upon the man's chest. When he had killed that one, the prior allowed the destrier to seek out the rest.

  "We are forever bonded, he and I," Prior Thierry said to Faucon and Will, stroking the nose of his dangerous horse.

  The prior hadn’t allowed the knights or Alf to dismount until the bloodlust had left his destrier. Now, the deadly animal acted the part of pet, snorting and pushing his head closer to his master as if begging for more pats. Behind them, Brother Edmund was praying over the four mangled corpses that Alf and Eustace had laid along the path. The two commoners were gathering up their horses. As for the ladies, they had been content to remain in the cart, keeping their distance from the fork.

  "But you are avowed. How is it that you can keep him?" Will asked, once again brushing at his face and beard. His wild ride had left him befouled with mud and sweat.

  Prior Thierry smiled at that. "I argued that he had not long to live and it was unsafe to deny him his beloved master." Then he winked. "There were those determined that I should end my life cloistered. When they realized he," he again rubbed the horse's nose, "was all that kept me tied to your world, my former world, I had my dispensation."

  Then the Churchman looked at Faucon. "So, tell me, Coronarius. Whose souls have we just sent to meet heavenly justice?"

  Faucon hesitated. More than anything, he didn't want to expose these soldiers as Sir Alain's men. Nor did he wish to lie to either Will or the Churchman. That left only a dodge. "What say you, Will? Who were these men, and how did they come to be chasing you?"

  His brother frowned at him. "How am I to know who they are? This is your shire, not mine. Nor did I think to ask them what they wanted when we noticed each other along the road. Instead I assumed they were outlaws intent on murdering a lone traveler, for they took up the chase immediately."

  Then Will smiled. The spread of his lips was untouched by any emotion save relief. It was his beloved brother, the boy who had almost perished in that accident, who looked at Faucon. "You cannot know how glad I was to hear your whistle, Pery."

  Faucon grinned. "And you cannot know how surprised I was to hear yours," he replied.

  "So now what?" the prior asked, glancing between the brothers.

  Still smiling, Faucon looked at the Churchman. "Now, I call Brother Edmund to join us, then we walk to the cart where he left his basket. There, Lady Martha will present you with her bell."

  "Sister?"

  The single whispered word startles me out of my inner silence. Today, on the day that celebrates the saintly bishop, Eucherius of Lyon, I have been contemplating the martyrdom of the Theban Legion. Six thousand, six hundred sixty-six Christian soldiers gave up their lives rather than enter battle against fellow Christians. I chose the lesson of Saint Eucherius to battle the despair that eats at me, that has eaten at me since I was confined to the infirmary.

  I feel it. My time is at hand. But I cannot leave, not while we are only eleven. I promised them perfect paradise for eternity. But without the twelfth, do I doom us all to damnation or only myself?

  As I return to consciousness, I gaze upon angelic perfection. The child's thick dark hair, caught in a braid that spills over one shoulder, frames her oval face. Her dark brows curve gently over clear blue almond-shaped eyes. Her nose is narrow, her cheekbones high. She is the image of our Lord's blessed mother as a child.

  She notices that I watch her. Her lips spread into a smile so sweet, so completely filled with innocence, that I cannot help but smile in return.

  "I wanted to come sooner," she tells me. By her careful, toneless voice, I know she is one of our students, a girl sent by her parents to learn wifely skills. This voice is their first lesson. "But Mother Superior bid me wait. She said you were yet too ill for visitors."

  Her comment confuses me for a moment. Then a memory rises. This is the child who breached my privacy. She is the reason I am trapped in the infirmary.

  She is the reason I have not yet died.

  The instant that thought rises out of my quiet center, the place where He lives in me, holy light bursts forth from her eyes. The illumination given to angels expands until her face and then her body is alight in glorious radiance.

  Then the holy flame reaches out to me. I am overcome by the ecstasy of His touch. This is the one. She is why my flesh did not give way to the despair of my soul.

  "Who are you?" I breathe in humble question to this unearthly creature.

  Given the heat of the light that pulses from her, I expect the deafening voice of an archangel. Instead, she speaks with the voice of a bell, each crystalline syllable so exquisite that I am overcome by wave after wave of heavenly joy.

  "I am Marianne, daughter of Sir John and Lady Marian of Blacklea."

  Read the other books in the series

  Thank you for reading my fourth mystery novel and the hardest book I've ever had the displeasure to write. There are no words to express how lost I got in my own plot and how hard it was to find my way out of that morass. Here is the quote that led me astray and had me caught for all those months:

  "I love the old ways, the simple way of poison where we too are as strong as men." Medea, Euripides

  However, I’m still loving Faucon and his mysteries, and this little hiccup/hiccough isn’t going to make me quit now. So, on I go into my nineteenth book (if you're counting, I have one ghostwritten book which has never been published), bruised, battered and better for the experience.

  As I wrote this book, I once again found myself writing about mistreated women. I swear I'm not on a crusade. It's just a fact of life for women in the Twelfth Century. But as you may have noticed at the end of the book, there was always a way to get even.

  And, of course, if you liked the book, or I suppose even if you didn't, please consider leaving a review. If you've found any formatting or typographical errors, please let me know by email at denise@denisedomning.com. I appreciate the chance to correct my mistakes!

  Children's Books

  I've started a new illustrated series of children's books based on the antics of the animals on my farm. The first book is about my two livestock guardian dogs who became "best friends forever" the moment they met.

  Moosie and Bear

  Available in both digital and print formats (the digital version is free if you buy the print book).

  Medieval Mysteries

  Season of the Raven

  Season of the Fox

  Lost Innocents

  The Final Tol
l

  Buy the first three and save a few pence

  The Seasons Series

  Winter's Heat

  Summer's Storm

  Spring's Fury

  Autumn's Flame

  A Love for All Seasons

  Or you can buy all five books at once as a box set: The Seasons Series

  The Children of Graistan

  Perfect Poison, a novella

  Awaken the Sleeping Heart

  The Lady Series, although two doesn't quite a series make. There were supposed to be more. Hmm, I wonder... .

  Lady in Waiting

  Lady in White

  The Warrior Series

  The Warrior's Wife (previously The Warrior's Damsel)

  The Warrior's Maiden (previously My Lady's Temptation)

  The Warrior's Game

  My only Regency era book and my only Western.

  I'm afraid these are one-offs. These periods are just too modern for me. I'm better off back when guys just bashed each other with hunks of steel.

  Almost Perfect

  An Impetuous Season, a novella

  Monica Sarli's Memoir Men-ipulation

  And then there's Monica Sarli's memoir which I co-wrote. Men-ipulation is a memoir of addiction and recovery. After fifteen years abusing Cocaine, Crack and (her personal favorite) Heroin, Monica chose on August 4, 1986 to clean up and hasn't looked back-even though cleaning up cost her everything she valued in life. For anyone struggling with addiction or who loves someone suffering with addiction, this is a book you won't want to miss. (And, yes she really talks like that all the time.)

  Glossary

  This book includes of number of Medieval terms. I've defined the ones I think might be unfamiliar to you. If you find others you'd like defined, let me know at denisedomning@gmail.com and I'll add them to the list.

  Braies: A man's undergarment. Made from a single piece of linen that is tied around the waist with a cord. Worn more or less like a loin cloth but more voluminous so the garment can be arranged to cover the hips and thighs.