by J G Lewis
“My head hurts, Mama.” Little Nicholas had spent the day running from apron to apron, quick to tears.
“My poor pet.” She felt his forehead, and sure enough it was warm to the touch. “You’re feverish. Let’s tuck you up in a blanket, and I’ll sing you a song.”
Even that prospect did little to cheer him. They sat in a big chair, with the hounds gathered at Ela’s feet, and she told him his favorite stories. Petronella and Richard came over and sang him a song and kissed his hot cheeks and he cheered slightly but wasn’t himself.
Ela took him to bed with her again, keeping a damp cloth at hand to cool his fevered brow. Still raw from her husband’s death she couldn’t find the strength to trust in providence, and she barely slept a wink.
In the morning little Nicky was still hot, crying piteously whenever he was awake, and now two of her older children were sick.
Chapter 17
Sibel and the other maids rushed around with cool spring water and soft clothes, cooling the children’s foreheads. Ellie felt too ill to break her fast, and brave Stephen lay pale and still against his pillow.
“I must make a poultice.” Ela felt helpless. Her children’s fever was now accompanied by a spreading pink rash on the chest that struck terror into Ela’s heart. Smallpox? Scarlet fever? They’d sent for the doctor but he was not at home and nor was his servant.
Ela’s mother unhelpfully recalled a recent outbreak of illness in her village that had killed a family of eight almost overnight.
All three children were propped up by pillows near the fire in the hall, where they could be attended over constantly. Will, tortured by inaction, hovered nearby, fussing. The youngest chambermaid—a child herself—held a candle and murmured Hail Marys. Ela could tell she was scared—as Ela was too.
“Do stop praying like that,” pleaded Will. “It’s unnerving.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” The girl’s eyes filled with tears.
“Will!” Ela was shocked at him. “Prayer is never amiss. We should all call for God’s intercession.”
Will loomed in the shadows. “God has shown us little mercy of late. My father was gone an entire year and I prayed nightly for his return—”
“As did we all.”
“Then his joyous homecoming is followed hard by an agonizing death. Did God bring him back just to taunt us?”
Shocked as she was by his words, Ela empathized with his anger. But it was her job to counsel him, not just console him. “Every man has his hour on earth. The length of our lives is for God to decide.”
“Then prayer is pointless.” His voice was almost a snarl. “If our heavenly Father has already decided when our time is up.”
“Prayer is our means of intercession. Pray for your father’s soul and yours.”
“And my sisters’ and brothers’?” His voice shook with barely controlled rage and fear.
“Pray hardest for them.” Ela could feel tears welling, and she itched to leave the room. “I’m going to my herb cupboard to make a drawing salve for the rash.”
She rushed from the room. The hours before her husband’s death were so fresh in her mind. How he’d prayed and begged God for forgiveness, sure he was dying and doubting his entry into Heaven after a life with no shortage of worldly pleasures.
She’d felt his agony, his horror at an eternity in the flames of hell that he saw looming before him.
He’d died at peace, thanks be to God, shriven and absolved of his sins. Still, his terror during those last days of fevered prayer and penance was something she’d never forget.
Ela retrieved a small key from her solar, then fetched a basket from the silent kitchen and headed to the small storeroom where they kept dried herbs over the winter. She chose sprigs of chamomile, calendula and lavender, and a handful of rose petals.
In the kitchen she chopped and pounded and added drops of freshly boiled water to grind the herbs into a paste with a pestle and mortar. It was so much easier to keep moving, stirring, doing, than to kneel and pray. A weakness in her character, no doubt. She envied those who could spend hours in stillness and prayer. Perhaps one day she’d be so steady and faithful, but for now each crisis spurred her into action.
She said a prayer over her poultice, that it might bring relief to her sick children, to herself, all the family and servants who would be endangered by fever in the castle.
Despite the bustle of activity, the big hall felt dark and oppressive, its small, defensive windows seemed to keep out the light as much as let it in. “Any change?”
“For the worse.” Her mother’s voice was taut. “The fever won’t break.” Little Nicholas was limp and flushed, his eyes glazed. When he spoke it was babbling nonsense that seemed unconnected to his thoughts.
“Let me apply this.” She pulled the covers away from his hot, flushed skin and applied the gritty poultice as gently as she could. Nicky stopped babbling and tossing, but his eyes stared, glassy, and his lips moved as if in silent agitated speech with an unseen visitor. Ela said another prayer, and everyone in the room joined her in repeating the familiar, soothing words.
Ela knew how fast a fever could turn deadly, or turn a corner and fade away. She prayed that the Lord intended for her baby, and his brothers and sisters, to live a long, happy life here on earth. She’d been so blessed that she’d never lost a child. Had she counted her blessings too soon?
She also prayed that no other members of the household would catch the illness. You didn’t have to be a doctor to know that close proximity to a diseased person placed anyone in danger.
After a long day of worry, her attempt at sleep did not go well. In the wee hours of the morning she visited each of her children, just to watch their chests rise and fall with the breath of life.
In the morning Ela was glad of the distraction of her daily rounds and even small disturbances—a present of dead birds left in the passage by the big tabby cat and a pail of milk half-spilled right outside the kitchen door—provided moments of sweet relief from the ache of worry.
She’d sent word to Westminster that they now had two prisoners to be tried and waited to receive word of when the assizes would take place.
They were expecting a large delivery of wine from Burgundy, and she hoped it would not be as sour as the last batch and that it would last until the next grape harvest.
As the sun rose, she could see that Nicky had turned a corner. His eyes were brighter and though he still seemed listless and weak, he wasn’t fevered and babbling. Ellie, however, had entered the more serious stage of the fever and the tearful maid said she’d just suffered a round of convulsions that had scared them all.
Will paced anxiously. “Mama, we must ask Bishop Poore to offer a Mass for their recovery.”
“We could have Father Daniel offer a Mass right here in our chapel,” she suggested. She wasn’t anxious to ask Bishop Poore for any more favors so soon after the last one.
“But the Mass must be in the chapel where father lies interred. His soul can intercede for us!”
Ela blinked. Her son didn’t usually show signs of such deep faith. And yesterday she’d worried his faith was badly shaken. “What do you mean?”
“Father is so recently dead, barely crossed over, I hear that such souls have one foot in this world and one in the next.”
“Who said such a thing?” She suspected one of the soldiers, who were from various backgrounds and prone to all kinds of unlikely superstitions, some bordering on heresy. “The Lord hears our prayers no matter which world we are in.”
“I know, Mother, but my heart tells me to ask Bishop Poore for a Mass.” He looked so earnest.
“All right. I shall ask him. I’ll ride there this morning.” She was pretty sure Will would offer to do the riding part. He was ten times as restless and energetic as her.
He heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Mama! I promised Ellie I wouldn’t leave her side.”
Ela was stunned. She couldn’t really spare the time to ride there
. She’d spent so much time riding abroad lately that she was starting to question her motives when there was much to be done at home. But she didn’t want to disappoint her son in his solicitude for his sister and perhaps he was guided by angels or some such thing. “I’ll leave at once.”
Ela cursed herself for being glad of the opportunity to stir again even if it meant leaving her sick children. A brisk trot on Freya would blow away some of the worry and fear that dogged her like a cloud of angry bees. She summoned two soldiers to attend her.
The visit to Poore went smoothly, oiled by the application of gold coins from Byzantium. He seemed genuinely concerned about the little ones and took the time to pray privately with Ela, which touched her and made her think more kindly of him. Tierce had just passed but he promised to offer the Masses at Sext, Nones and Vespers with prayers for their speedy recovery, and Ela left feeling lighter.
They rode past two older men yelling at each other. When they came to blows, Ela—as sheriff—called to them to stop. They ignored her and the soldiers jumped from their horses to arrest them. She ordered for them to be placed in the stocks for the rest of the morning to contemplate their misdeeds and left the soldiers there to supervise.
Shaking her head at the never-ending abundance of human folly, she rode back alone through the new town. Despite her misgivings about its creation, and the way it undoubtedly undermined the importance and economic stability of her ancestral home inside the castle walls, Ela admired how quickly the streets had become lined with businesses. Bright new whitewashed buildings with fresh thatch had sprung up along quiet country lanes, turning a sleepy hamlet into a bustling market town in just a few short years. Since she saw it so often she hadn’t taken the time to admire the dramatic changes.
She couldn’t help but note the rotten thatch and distressed walls of the few remaining older buildings, and one in particular caught her eye. A big iron horseshoe was the only sign announcing the business, and Ela remembered with a jolt that Katie Morse’s father—the old blind man—still kept and lived in his ironmongery somewhere in the town.
What was his name? She searched her memory, which was usually good with such facts. Robert Harwich. She’d half-forgotten about him in all the drama surrounding the case. She’d meant to visit him to see what could be done to improve his condition. And perhaps she should ask him what he knew about the Brices and if he thought there was any possibility that Morse killed Brice as well as his wife.
Could this be his shop? It seemed likely. She dismounted Freya and tied her to a ring for that purpose outside.
“Hello? Is there anyone home?” She hadn’t much liked the old blind man. He was a rough and crude character, but perhaps her distaste revealed more about her own failings than his.
She heard someone, or something, stir behind the scarred wood door. The area in front of the shop, where horses must have once been shod, was unswept and cluttered with odd-sized pieces of stone and hunks of half-rotted wood, perhaps intended for some project and then forgotten. Being blind he probably had little idea what the place looked like anymore.
“Hello? It’s Ela, Countess of Salisbury.” Her grand title rang hollow in the dismal surroundings. Perhaps the fact that today she had no retinue made it sound odder. “May I speak with you?”
She heard a piece of furniture scrape against a flagstone floor. “Coming.” The low, graveled voice sounded like Harwich. His shop was a prime location near the center of the new town. Rather wasted in its current condition.
The door opened to reveal Harwich, as grimy and disheveled as ever—she scolded herself for the superficial thought—and looking none too pleased at being disturbed.
“Did the scoundrel hang yet?” His white-glazed eyes seemed to see right through her.
“No.” His accusatory tone flustered her. “Capital cases must await the traveling justice who comes for the assizes.”
“So he’s still alive and breathing while my Katie lies in a cold grave?” His voice dropped so low she swore she could hear it rattle.
“He’s safely imprisoned in the dungeon and will remain there until his trial.” Ela tried to remember why she’d come here. Suddenly it seemed like a terrible idea. Harwich had made it clear from the outset that he was sure Morse was his daughter’s killer.
“I don’t know if you heard that their neighbor John Brice was killed.”
“Stabbed, I heard. Ruthless bastard. I told my Katie not to marry him.”
“So you think Morse killed Brice? We have Brice’s wife in custody.”
“What for?” His upper lip curled with apparent disgust. “Why would you think a woman killed her own husband when there was a violent and greedy man next door?”
“Well,” Ela hesitated and—for no good reason—glanced back at the street behind her. She lowered her voice. “Not exactly next door. We don’t suspect a disagreement over land or cattle. It turns out that Master Brice was engaged in…” She hesitated, not wanting to cloud a father’s memories of his daughter. “In a liaison with your daughter.”
“Never!” Morse hurled his exclamation on a tide of spittle. “My Katie would never do that.”
Ela found herself taking a step back. Her horse, tied behind her, pawed and stamped at the rutted ground. “Brice himself admitted it, in public.”
“He’s a liar. My Katie was an angel, a very saint walking on this earth!”
Ela was already regretting her visit. It hadn’t furthered her investigation and now she’d upset a blind old man. If she offered him alms now, they’d be flung back in her face. Still, she’d already stepped in it, so— “If anything, an affair provides a pretext for Morse to kill her.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed, and her skin prickled. Could he actually see her? “I suppose. Still, he’s a murderer one way or the other, ain’t he?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Since Morse himself denies both murders we need evidence to convict him at the trial. We don’t have any hard evidence and no witnesses. It’s his word against—”
“He’s a violent man. Used to beat her regular-like.” Harwich looked increasingly irritated. “If she sought a little comfort somewhere else, who can blame her?”
Ela blinked. Had he really gone so quickly from denying that she was capable of an affair to sympathizing with her for it?
She peered past him into the dark interior of the blacksmith’s forge. “Do you live here in your workplace?”
“Aye.” His eyes narrowed again. Maybe he could see her, if not perfectly. “It’s not luxurious but it’s all I have.” She heard the hint of a sneer in his tone.
“It’s a fine location now the town has grown around it. Have you considered renting it out and moving somewhere more comfortable for someone with your—”
She groped for less inoffensive words than old age and infirmities.
“I still ply my trade here,” he growled, clearly roused. He turned and shuffled back inside and picked up something off a dark and dusty shelf along one wall. Ela peered at it, but had to step in out of the daylight to see it was a crude buckle of the type that might be used on a simple harness.
“You’re lucky to have a trade you can follow without your sight.” She tried to figure out how she could test whether he could see her. “There aren’t many jobs you could do, I’d imagine.”
“Aye, and that’s why I’m not leaving! Every day folks come to my door and try to make me move. That accursed bishop wants me in his new poorhouse. Well, damn it, I’m not moving.” His voice rose, and Ela found the hairs standing oddly up on the back of her neck.
An odd thought occurred to her. “Was Katie planning to open her dairy here in this location?”
He stilled, staring at her with his—maybe—sightless eyes. Ela made a sudden movement with her right hand, snatching it up above her head as if a wasp was attacking her. If he could see, his eyes would involuntarily follow the movement.
But they didn’t.
“What are you doing?” H
e snarled. “I heard you move.”
“Swatting at a fly.”
“This is no place for a dairy. No room. I’m not moving upstairs when the stairs are rotted and my knees not strong enough to climb the ladder.”
Ela’s ears pricked up. “She was planning to move here? With Morse?”
“Over my dead body.”
His words rang in the air. Ela felt a cold finger of fear scratch at the base of her spine.
His dead body—or Katie’s?
But if he was truly blind, he couldn’t have killed her and dumped her in the river, could he?
“Come back here, I’ll show you how rotten the stairs are.” He shuffled back into the gloomy windowless interior.
Ela’s nerves sent up a flag of alarum. “I have to go. Thank you.” She hurried to the bright doorway. Harwich turned and started moving toward her. Could he be a killer? And she was here by herself like a fool?
Chapter 18
Outside Ela fumbled with her reins and startled poor Freya, making her jig about while Ela tried to mount. “Thank you for your time, Master Harwich,” she called, as she urged Freya out of his yard into the street.
As soon as she was past a cart pulling a load of stones toward the cathedral site, she broke into a trot and kept trotting until she’d left the town behind. On the empty lane Freya stepped up to canter, likely spurred more by Ela’s pounding heart than any intentional cues. Ela cantered her all the way back to the castle, mind racing.
But by the time she dismounted she was questioning her own sanity. Why would a blind old man kill the only family member who cared about him?
Unless she was anxious to turf him out of his home. Ela didn’t know Katie Morse. Maybe she wasn’t the sweet and dutiful girl of her imagination. Maybe she was a greedy harridan who bossed her husband and threatened her old father with seizing his property and ending his livelihood.
