by J G Lewis
“You swine!” Elizabeth Brice’s face was beet red with fury, as well it might be. Ela was half-tempted to clap her straying husband in the stocks to give her the satisfaction of throwing more eggs at him.
But that did not serve the greater cause of finding justice for Katie Morse.
“Silence,” Ela commanded. “John Brice, your behavior was reprehensible, as I’m sure you’re aware. Your first duty is to your wife and family.”
He had the decency to hang his head slightly. Ela couldn’t picture this milksop killing anyone, but she knew that almost anyone could kill under the right circumstances. If only she understood the circumstances of Katie’s death. She’d sustained a blow to the head, that was sure, but where, when and how?
The pressing question now was whether to detain the couple, or either one of them, in the dungeon or to let them go. Since Brice was a yeoman farmer with land and a herd of cattle to tend he was hardly likely to abscond. His wife had children to care for and was more likely to box his ears and burn his dinner than head for the hills.
Ela had learned much today—that John Brice was the guilty party in Katie’s affair and the father of her child—but she needed more time to piece this ill-fitting puzzle together.
“Unless any others gathered here feel that this pair need further questioning, I propose that they return home until such time as we need to speak to them again.”
“I need compensation for wasting half the day when I came here to sell my cow.” John Brice’s high-pitched voice grated on Ela’s nerves. “There’s no time to sell it now before I must be back for milking.”
“Consider yourself lucky that you aren’t spending the night in the dungeon for causing a disturbance of the peace.” She looked at his wife. “And that goes for both of you. Who’s caring for your children?”
“My mother,” muttered Lizzie Brice. “She told me to marry him because he had a farm and made a living. She didn’t notice that he has all the character of a parsnip.”
Ela reflected that a well-seasoned parsnip might take this as an insult, but decided not to dignify her with a response. She looked at Haughton and the jurors to see if they had further questions. Taking their silence as nay, she ordered the guards to escort the couple and their cow outside the walls forthwith.
She needed to talk to Morse again to determine how much he knew about Katie’s affair. And to figure out how likely he would be to take revenge on her with his fists.
Chapter 9
Ela spent part of the afternoon in the small room where the castle ledgers were kept safe, along with her stores of vellum and ink and sealing wax, from the depredations of mice and pilferers.
Logs detailing the castle’s expenses for food, wages, repairs, etc., were compiled by stewards responsible for ordering supplies and paying wages. For some years now, Ela had taken on the responsibility of comparing the compiled expenses from week to week, month to month and year to year. If she saw signs of waste or worse she was quick to take action. The same was true for her various manors, though their incomes and expenditures were far more modest. Now that she intended to take on the sheriff’s duties, Ela reasoned that it would make sense to charge someone else with studying the numbers and providing her with summarized reports.
But the prospect of relinquishing even a little control of the castle’s expenditures worried her. Given the vast quantities of—oh, everything—they consumed within these ancient stone walls, there was room for a small leak, a tiny trail of profligacies, to turn into a flood that could drain their fortunes quite rapidly.
She trusted their loyal cook to correctly note down the hundreds of fishes, fowls and sides of bacon, the thousands of eggs, the endless churns of butter and bushels of spices, that passed through her chapped hands, but if there was an intermediary, or two, or three, in between her records and the cook’s purchases, would hogs and eggs and flagons of wine start disappearing into the pantries of her staff and their families?
Ela stretched her shoulders, trying to ease the tension building in them. She’d bitten off more than she could chew. Of that there was no doubt.
Her husband would have shrugged his shoulders at such cares. He’d no doubt have calculated the failings of human nature into his household budget like a steady tax. But that was why she’d always managed the accounts, even dismissing two different stewards he’d hired to relieve her during her pregnancies.
You don’t trust anyone. He’d chastised her—smiling—on more than one occasion.
I trust the mind God gave me, she’d retorted, also smiling.
Her husband was raised to be a great man. Although he wasn’t King Henry’s legitimate heir, he’d been raised to wield a sword, win at tournament, command a company of men and shower himself with glory at any opportunity that might present itself. Fussing over quantities of eggs or flour were not in his training.
As a girl, Ela had been raised to run a great household. Her mother was known to give as much attention to the quality of the salt and wine in her cellars as to the wool and furs that clothed her and her husband.
She’d also been trained from birth to delegate responsibilities. She’d never cooked herself a meal, let alone raised and tended the animals or vegetables that graced their table. She’d never swept her own floor or emptied the ashes from the hearth or polished the cups and plates or scrubbed the linen tablecloths. She rarely even pinned her own wimple.
She trusted others to perform those small but important tasks. She really must learn to delegate more responsibilities so her ship didn’t founder under its own weight. She must also get ready to handle incoming waves like unexpected taxes and fees from the king and his accursed justiciar, or—God forbid—the loss of one of their wards’ generous incomes.
“Ela, darling, are you locked up in here like a pantry mouse?” She heard her mother’s voice accompany a rap on the door.
Ela had locked the door from the inside. She guarded these ledgers like the family treasure. She rose and turned the old iron key in the lock. Her mother stood outside with a bright smile and a cup of warm spiced wine, which she offered to Ela.
“Come in, Mama,” she said with a sigh. There were two stools. “Do sit down.” She locked the door again. “How did you know I was here?”
“Petronella. Your sweet daughter said you spend many hours in here. Were you on your knees in prayer?” There was a hint of mockery in her tone.
“Only if I were praying to the gods of mammon. You taught me well, Mother. I cannot let fifty head of grouse go unrecorded, even if my own son shot them.”
“Quite right, too, my dear. Servants are born pilferers. You must watch them out of the corner of your eye at all times.”
“But I need to keep my eyes on more important things, like who murdered one of my villagers.”
“What about Will?”
“Will doesn’t have a head for figures. He finds details dull. If he were in charge of the castle cellars we’d kill the fatted calf every night.”
Her mother laughed. “No, my foolish daughter. I meant you should put Will in charge of the murder investigation. As sheriff.” She indicated that Ela should sip her wine. Ela put the cup down on the scarred wood table at a safe distance from her ledgers.
“Will is no more suited to be sheriff at this tender age than he is to monitor the dozens of eggs passing through these halls. The course of justice is—as I am learning—a slow and ponderous journey down lots of unlikely dead-end lanes. The pursuit of truth requires patience more than courage. Young Will would likely gallop to conclusions and hang the wrong man in his rush to victory.”
“You do have a point.” Ela tented her hands under her chin. Her wimple was pulled tight, as always, to show off her still-youthful jawline. “What about young Richard?”
“He’s only twelve!”
“But with the mind and demeanor of a man of fifty and twelve. He could tot up your bushels of oats and kegs of ale.”
Ela stared at her. “I want to say that this is the crazi
est idea I’ve ever heard—” She frowned. “But he is scrupulous.”
“And honest to a fault. If he tattles on your servants the way he does on his sisters, not a penny will slip through your fingers.”
“But still, he’s only twelve…” She pressed a finger to her mouth, thinking. “Perhaps I could hire a steward and ask him to train him in the management of the household funds. I could tell him I intend for Richard to one day manage the king’s privy purse.”
“That way he can oversee the steward, while your steward thinks he’s overseeing young Richard.” Her mother smiled, showing dimples.
“Did I ever tell you that you’re a genius?”
“Not often enough, my dear. Not often enough.” Her mother rose to her feet. “Did you open your gift from the king?”
“Yes. It was a chest full of furs and rich fabrics. Very kind of him.”
“Perfect to make some new clothes for my grandchildren’s weddings.”
“Indeed. I want to get Will and Isabella married to our wards as soon as possible.” She didn’t tell her mother that William’s will had designated the wards’ incomes to pay his debts. Or that she had a legitimate fear that Hubert De Burgh might decide he wanted to marry those fortunes into his own family.
Her mother didn’t blink. “I’ve already started drawing up an invitation list. Who should be married first, Will and Idonea or Isabella and De Vesci?”
Ela had pondered the same. “Would a double wedding be out of the question?”
Her mother pursed her lips. “I see the enticement of one expensive wedding celebration to secure two fortunes. If their families will agree, why not? We must just make sure that no mortal enemies need to be invited under our roof at the same time.”
Ela sighed. “It seems every baron in the kingdom has been mortal enemies of every other baron at some point or other in the last twenty years. Surely they can exchange pleasantries for a few hours.”
“The way your William did with Hubert De Burgh right before he died?” Her mother looked at her steadily.
Ela froze. She hadn’t shared her suspicions with her mother and never wanted to. She’d never even told her about the proposal. “What do you mean?”
“I just thought it was so magnanimous of him. When they were on opposite sides during the struggle for power between Louis and King John ten years ago.”
“Oh. Yes. True. Well, you know William wasn’t one to hold a grudge.” She’d forgotten all about that. William could pin someone to the ground at the end of his sword one day and clap a hand around his back the next.
He was too trusting, too brave, too big-hearted, for this cold, cruel world.
“Ela, when was the last time you had that hall floor scrubbed?”
“Uh, never. Why would I? Old and dirty rushes are removed and fresh ones installed weekly.”
Her mother sighed. “So like your father! You are as happy to live with the detritus of former banquets as well as earlier generations. At least once a year you should remove all the rushes and have the bare floor scrubbed until it shines. You’ll be surprised how it improves the air.”
Ela suppressed a sigh. Her mother always had housekeeping suggestions, as if Ela weren’t a thirty-nine-year-old mother of eight herself.
And frankly, removing a dead body from your keep did wonders for the air as well.
“Or perhaps you’re worried you’ll find more dead bodies to burden you with investigations under the straw.” Her mother peered over the rim of her wine cup.
“I suspect the dogs would have found anything that exciting by now. But I see the good sense in what you’re saying and no doubt the removed rushes would be an excellent mulch for my spring herb garden.”
“You’re not still growing all those strange plants yourself, are you?”
“Indeed I am.” Ela felt her neck stiffen again. “The village apothecaries have all the usual old-fashioned remedies, but there are many that they don’t have. If you were to read the Trotula, like I keep suggesting, you’d be aware that they are many efficacious remedies that—”
Alianore waved her hand dismissively. “A lot of foreign rubbish. I don’t want to accidentally poison my household with tinctures made from unfamiliar herbs. Do you test them on yourself first? Or do you have a sacrificial taster?” She lifted a plucked brow.
“I don’t have a green thumb myself, so my gardener plants the seeds I buy from abroad and tends them for me. His good wife has kindly prepared many potions and pastes from them, which she tests herself.”
“On your household staff?”
“Sometimes.” Ela had not fully considered the implications of this. Usually a turned stomach or contact rash was the worst someone might suffer from a new herb.
“Did you try any new herbs on your husband as he lay ill?”
“No!” Ela rose to her feet, knocking the ledger and almost spilling her wine, which had crept closer as she sipped it. “I mean, yes, I tried various remedies to ease his suffering, but I didn’t kill him with my medicines.”
“Rest easy, my dear! I didn’t mean to accuse you of murder. Perhaps I’ve rubbed a sore spot.”
“I refuse to close my mind to fresh funds of knowledge, even if they come from the Saracens themselves.” Ela hated how closed-minded even educated people could be when it came to new ideas and discoveries. Sometimes she felt that if a concept wasn’t mentioned in the pages of the Bible she was supposed to ignore it as if it didn’t exist.
Her mother crossed herself as if her soul shuddered at the prospect of Saracen ideas crossing her threshold. “Tread carefully, Ela. As a woman without a protector you must be wary of seeming…odd.”
“And wary of using my brain and the powers God gave me as well, I suppose. I should sit by the hearth embroidering handkerchiefs while my children tug at my hem.”
“Now, Ela, who taught you to read in both French and Latin before the age of ten?”
“You did. But surely you didn’t mean for me to squander that knowledge entirely on romantic verse?”
“I never read you a word of that foolishness. Imagine a true knight spending his days pining for a woman who’s married to another man? I intended for you to read the Psalms, not some mystical nonsense from Sienna or some such place.”
“Salerno. And the Trotula’s wisdom is practical medicine, not mysticism, mother. I don’t know why you won’t at least read the first book before pronouncing judgment. There’s such useful advice on managing childbirth and—”
“I’ve managed to attain this advanced age without reading it and I intend to continue my life in a similar fashion.” Her mother rose to her feet—why did she always appear at least six inches taller than her actual height?—and swept out her skirts. “And I suggest you spend at least a few moments embroidering at your hearth and communing with your children before vespers.”
“To avoid appearing odd.”
“You are no more odd than your father, God rest his soul, though it certainly does look odder in a woman.” Alianore leaned forward and kissed Ela awkwardly on her forehead. “I am proud of you, my dear.”
Ela’s heart fluttered with a mixture of confused emotions. “Thank you, Mama. I think.”
She could send Haughton and two of the jurors out to interview Morse again. She could instruct them to report back to her in detail and if necessary bring him in for questioning.
But did she trust them to ask the right questions? To seek the truth even where it wasn’t convenient or easy to find? To find justice for Katherine Morse, who was now conveniently buried beneath the thawed ground and could easily be forgotten?
Chapter 10
The next day, Ela set out with Will, Giles Haughton and two guards to visit Morse again. He was still the most likely killer, with the motive of wanting revenge on his wife for making him a cuckold. Now they knew who his wife had been sneaking out with, Ela intended to dangle the information in his face and watch his reaction.
Haughton was wary of telling him the id
entity of his wife’s lover for fear of further repercussions, but Ela observed that half of Salisbury knew it already after the performance Brice and his wife had put on in the marketplace. Morse was bound to find out sooner or later—if he didn’t know already—and she wanted to take advantage of the element of surprise.
Besides, it seemed likely they would bring Morse into custody so he wouldn’t be able to kill anyone else.
The day was bright and breezy, with sunlight illuminating clutches of bluebells in the woods and along the shady paths. Hopeful buds swelled on the bare tree branches. Birdsong filled the hedgerows and the world felt heavy with the promise of spring.
Will led the ride at his usual just-short-of-breakneck pace and Ela didn’t complain, but let Freya gallop after his mount, mane flying and nostrils flaring. The assizes were due in Salisbury as soon as the traveling justice was available, and they’d be ready to bring Katie’s killer to trial. Her responsibilities were to make sure the right person was tried in the first place and that justice was served as swiftly and effectively as possible.
Right now she felt proud of their accomplishments, since in just a few days they’d gone from finding an unidentified corpse to piecing together a picture of her last months. Now all they had to do was figure out who she’d been with on that final, fatal day. Most likely her husband.
Will pulled up his horse as they drew near Morse’s fields. Face flushed with exertion, he turned to her. “So we’re trying to exact a confession from him, right?”
“We’re here to find the truth, though a confession would be ideal. Brice, the man his wife was having an affair with, is also a suspect, though in my view he has less motive. We’re here to press Morse harder and see if he cracks. Or if some evidence arises that proves him innocent. We must keep an open mind.” She said the latter as much for Haughton, who trotted up, panting and sweating, behind her.
They rode up to Morse’s door. It was nearly midmorning so his cows should be milked and back in his fields by now. But they weren’t. His bull was there alone in one field, but the other more well-trodden pasture lay empty. “We’ll ride to the dairy.” She gestured for them to follow her along the lane, which bore fresh hoofprints in its deep mud.
