by J G Lewis
Though wouldn’t most old blind men rather be taken care of by their daughter in the bosom of their family than left alone to fend for themselves? Why would he refuse her company in his shop and home? None of it made sense.
She trotted up the castle hill and through the arches into the castle, then dismounted and handed Freya to a groom.
“Where are your escorts?” A deep voice from behind made her jump. She spun to face Gerald Deschamps.
“I left them behind to take care of a disturbance in the town. Two men are being attended in the stocks.”
“My lady should not ride abroad without protection,” he murmured.
“Indeed, I did not intend to.” And it was foolish of her to take a detour. She must go check on her sick little ones and reassure Will that the Mass was arranged. And there remained the pressing question of whether Harwich should be arrested for murder. She’d prefer to consult with the coroner, but Deschamps might take it amiss if she didn’t speak to him about the situation since he was here and Giles Haughton wasn’t.
“I visited Katherine Morse’s father while I was in Salisbury.”
“The blind man?” Deschamps looked perplexed. “Why?”
“I happened to be passing by what I thought might be his shop, and I wanted to discover his perspective on the Brice murder.” She hesitated, not sure how to describe what happened. “It was an odd encounter.”
“How so, my lady?” Polite disinterest. She started walking toward the great hall, spurred by anxiety over her sick children.
“He was—hostile. I asked if his daughter had wanted to set up a dairy on the site of his ironmongery. She’s been described as having such plans. His reaction was startling.”
“Startling?” Again, he sounded bored.
Ela doubted herself. Why had she felt such fear? It was hard to put into words. Harwich had asked her to come look at his rotten stairs, and she’d suddenly felt like her corpse might wind up underneath them. But why?
“I asked him if Katherine and her husband were planning to move there. He said, “Over my dead body.” It was unnerving since the circumstances of my visit did involve a dead body.”
“Perhaps you’re reading too much into it. An elderly blind man could hardly kill anyone. And why would he kill his only caretaker?”
“I had the same thought. But it was odd. I felt—threatened by him.”
“You should never ride anywhere alone. What if you’d come upon a thief?”
“It wasn’t intended. Next time I’ll take more attendants.” A guard opened the door into the hall and she swept in, grateful to be back at her own well-protected hearth. Sibel rushed forward to take her cloak.
“How is little Nicky faring?”
“Awake and chattering away,” said Sibel cheerfully. “He’s turned a corner on the mend. I’m sure of it. Ellie and Stephen are still feverish but not worse than before.”
“Thanks be to God.” Ela crossed herself. If one child had recovered the others should too. She hurried to visit them, pausing as Petronella thrust a prayer she had copied to parchment into her hand for her to admire and stopping to pet her sweet and eager greyhound, Greyson, who jumped at her skirts.
Maybe she’d overreacted about Harwich. He was a rough and grimy character, unsettling to behold. His sightless eyes—for they’d passed her crude test—were disconcerting through no fault of his own. Perhaps, once again, her fear of him revealed a weakness in her own character. A lack of true Christian charity. She would have to pray over it.
Ellie’s eyes greeted her as she entered, and a smile played on her pale lips.
“You’re awake my sweet,” Ela stroked her still-hot brow. “Bishop Poore will send up prayers for your full recovery.”
Ela’s mother, seated on a chair in the corner with her pearl rosary knotted in her fingers, crossed herself. “Praise God.”
“I knew you’d convince him,” said Will, who sat on the bed next to Stephen. “I’ll attend the Mass myself.”
“All of them? He promised Sext, Nones and Vespers.”
“You’re a wonder, Mama.” Will jumped up and kissed her cheek. “The nearest as I need a ride to shake off all the worry.” He clapped a hand on poor weak Stephen. “And I know you’ll be stronger when I return.”
Ela admired her son’s faith and youthful energy. Perhaps she could consult him for his views on Harwich?
No, he’d just scold her for visiting him without a retinue. She’d save the news for Giles Haughton, and together they could interview Morse about his relationship with his father-in-law. That might reveal more about both of their characters.
But first her sick children needed her time and attention, as did the cook, her maid and the other castle staff. She did not intend to give anyone, including her mother, cause to scold her for neglecting her womanly duties for her role as sheriff.
At night, after praying for her children’s health and safety, Ela prayed for peace in her own heart and the wisdom to know when to seek justice here on earth and when to allow the Lord to dispense it as he saw fit. She’d sent for Haughton to attend her the next day after Tierce and she hoped his experience would guide them on how to proceed with Harwich. At the very least they could get Morse’s account of his wife’s plans and his father-in-law’s odd reaction.
Poor Katie Morse, to have been cut down before she had a chance to pursue her dream of owning a dairy. Not that she would have been able to do it anyway, with two hostile men as her nearest and dearest. But if she was wise she’d have found a way to make it their project as much as—or more than—hers and would have enlisted them in her efforts while downplaying her own leadership role.
Sometimes it exasperated her how much a woman had to quell her natural desire to lead, to invent or even to fight. It wasn’t unusual for young girls to learn the gentlemanly arts of falconry and hunting, even the skills of swordsmanship, alongside their brothers, but ultimately their role would be circumscribed by hearth and children and their husband’s bed.
Widowhood—if horribly unwelcome—was Ela’s chance to live on her own terms. She had the benefit of the protections provided by the Magna Carta and by her husband’s connection to the royal family, even if the king was still a youth. She’d earned respect locally for her piety and good management of the castle and her household. She wasn’t looking to seize power or land or to threaten another’s estates, simply to claim control over the estates she’d inherited from her father as a child.
Sometimes she thought her desire to control the estates was a manifestation of the sin of pride. Other days it seemed that God had gifted her with a sense of right and wrong, a talent for administration and insight into the thoughts and actions of those around her. Surely employing such gifts in his service was not a sin?
She knelt at the prie-dieu in the corner of her bedroom and said several decades of her rosary, willing her active mind to still and her willful nature to enfold itself in the Holy Spirit. When weariness overtook her, she climbed into the bed, her curtained sanctuary from the world, and let her body relax into the well-stuffed mattress.
In her dream she was riding her horse—not Freya but a long-ago dun pony called Tisse—along the edge of a steep cliff. Below her she could see soldiers gathering for battle in long, rectangular ranks, unfamiliar banners waving and armor shining in the sun. She carried a tall lance that was so heavy she could barely keep her grip on it and had to constantly hoist it higher on her shoulder while trying not to steer her mount off the cliff.
She awoke suddenly with a deep sense of unease, missing faithful Tisse and wondering whose armies were gathered below and whether they were friend or enemy.
She rose and Sibel brought her fresh water to splash her face and helped her dress by candlelight. It was still dark as she headed outside on her rounds. Sleepy guards shuffled to attention as she passed and wished them a good morning. The kitchen was already astir with preparations for breakfast. She passed through the herb garden, fresh with morning dew.
The chapel was lit with fresh candles and still smelled of incense from the Matins service. She genuflected before the altar and said a quick prayer before departing to make sure the penned suckling pigs were being attended to and the morning’s eggs collected.
She passed a rowdy group of soldiers at the east gate, still drunk to all appearances, who could barely gather themselves to stand to attention as she passed. She’d be sure mention that to Deschamps. Her husband had been indulgent with the soldiers, saying their loyalty in battle was more important than how straight they stood to attention, but to her mind ill-governed men could be as dangerous as they were useful.
In the shimmering light from the high braziers she observed with displeasure that the main path out the gate and into town had not yet been cleared. Where was the boy with his rake? Then a movement close behind her made her spin about and scan the shadows.
“Who’s there?”
The drunken soldiers she’d passed were out of sight and already laughing about something among themselves.
Her, possibly.
“Show yourself,” she commanded as loudly as she could. Then someone grabbed her by the throat and dragged her to the ground in a sudden thrust that knocked the breath from her lungs.
Help! The word formed in her mind, but she couldn’t it them to her lips because a big hand clamped tight over her mouth. She struggled, desperate to free herself, but the fiend that held her seemed to have four arms, each like an iron band.
Then she felt the knife blade dig into the skin of her throat even through the linen of her wimple.
“Be careful now,” rasped a deep male voice. “This blade is a mite too sharp for safety.”
The mocking whisper defied recognition. Had Morse escaped the dungeons? She opened her mouth to speak but found it thrust full of a foul-tasting wad of cloth that made her gag and retch.
Why could those fool soldiers not hear her struggling?
The hard stones of the castle road bumped her right hip and ribs as her assailant dragged her off the main path and in between two great stacks of firewood piled like buttresses against the wall.
What do you want? All she could do was grunt since the rag stopped her mouth, forcing it open.
“It won’t do to kill you on the path and leave a big pool of blood now, will it?” The grisly whisper made her struggled harder. “Not when I need to get back out through the gate before daylight.”
Harwich. Her assailant’s identity assaulted her like a blow. But how? He was elderly and stooped as well as blind, but now his grip was like the forged bonds in the dungeon below. She fought and struggled to free her hands. If he intended to leave her for dead she had nothing to lose.
She used her tongue to push at the filthy rag stopping her mouth. Servants and tradesmen trekked into this castle all morning long, and it was near daybreak. Someone might pass at any moment. If she could just—
A callused hand slapped her so hard across the face that her breath fled her lungs, and she choked on the rag. Unwelcome tears stung her eyes, further blurring her vision.
He shoved her onto her back, and her head hit the stones hard enough to make sparks fly in her mind.
This is what he did to Katie. The blows to her face and head must have come from him knocking her to the ground. Now he intends to leave you dead and your children orphans.
But she wasn’t dead yet.
A fierce jolt of energy surged through her, and she managed to jerk one arm free and reach up to pull his hair. All she got was the greasy cap from his head. A futile gesture, but as he struggled to catch her arm she freed her other hand, pulled the rag from her mouth and screamed as he dragged her again across the hard, uneven stones.
Surely someone would hear her? Where was the boy who swept the path? Her veil had slipped to cover her face and, pressed almost face down against the stones, she tried to keep her bearings in the hope that she could gain enough footing to right herself and run. His hand covered her mouth again, and she struggled to bite it through her accursed veil.
But as a door—a door?—closed behind her with a thud, she realized he’d dragged her into a closet within the castle wall.
The door blotted out what wan light bled through her veil from the braziers and the first light of day and now she was trapped in total darkness with a man who wanted her dead.
“What are you doing?” It took her a moment to realize that he’d uncovered her mouth and she could speak. Her words emerged in a rush of shock and fury. She tried to lift her hands to push her veil aside but he held one arm and the other was crushed beneath her while his heavy malodorous weight pressed down on her.
“You aren’t as clever as they say if you can’t puzzle that out.” The cold blade, which she’d almost forgotten about, now dug into her throat again. “Oh dear, there’s blood spoiling your fine clothes.” His voice sounded oily. “But never mind. Soon there’ll be more.”
Why hadn’t he killed her yet? What did he want? “You’ll never leave the castle grounds. There are soldiers everywhere.”
“Aye, useless band of loafers in case you hadn’t noticed. They take no heed of an old blind beggar. No one does.”
Keep him talking. “Are you really blind?” She had to find a way to overpower him. For all his age and infirmity, he was as muscled and strong as an ox drover.
“Been blind nigh on ten years. What they don’t realize—those that mock me and kick stones at me—is that losing one’s sight sharpens the other senses. I can hear a mouse coming from half a mile away. I know every man, every woman from their smell, before they have a chance to see me.”
“Is that how you knew it was me?” Her eyes were adjusting to the deep blackness beneath her veil and she could now make out the thin outline of dim light that marked the door. “What do I smell like?”
“Money!” A raucous laugh made her flinch. “Gold coins and rich meals and fine furs. You don’t think they have a smell, but they do.”
Her mind raced. “I do have gold. I can give you money. How much do you want?”
His crude laugh made her skin crawl. The knife against her throat made her gag, and his weight on her crushed her spine hard against the uneven dirt floor of the closet.
“Oh, if that were true. I’d be a rich man—for an hour before you arrested me and had me hanged.” He sounded wistful. “You think I’m stupid, don’t you?” His whisper came hot in her ear, making her shrink from him with revulsion. “A stupid old blind man who’ll fall for your trickery. I know all about women and their trickery.”
“Did Katie try to trick you?”
“Oh, aye. You all think you’re so clever, don’t you? With your plans and schemes and manipulations. Coming to take care of me. To keep the place clean and orderly. It took me a while to catch on to what she was really after.”
“Perhaps she wanted to live with you so she could tend to you.” She could feel his grip on her arm loosening. Any minute now she might be able to tug it free and right her veil. With her sight she had at least one advantage over him as long as she could get that knife blade from her neck.
“She didn’t want to live with me. Not even for one day. She hated me. And why wouldn’t she? When her mother fell down the well she said I pushed her.”
Ela’s blood stilled. Another death on his hands made this man a stone-hearted killer who’d think nothing of snuffing out her life.
“I’m sure she loved you. All girls love their father.”
“Did you?”
His question shocked her. “Of course. He died when I was nine. I’ve never forgotten him.” She gagged as the knife blade pressed against her skin. She could swear she could almost taste her own blood.
“Lying whore.” She heard a rasping sound and felt the hot sting of his spittle on her cheek. “You’re all lying whores. Look at that little bitch, letting her neighbor into her bed. I didn’t even know about that until you told me. Women are only good for one thing, and I haven’t had that in so many years I�
��ve forgotten what it’s like.” He leaned in and his foul breath turned her stomach. “Maybe I should find out.”
“One hundred pounds in silver coin,” she rasped, her voice shaking. She needed to refocus his mind.
“If you hadn’t come by yesterday I’d have left you well alone,” he muttered. “You’d have hanged that worthless son-in-law of mine and I’d have peace at last.”
“Five hundred pounds in silver coin.” She’d offer more but she wanted it to sound believable. Most men in the village would never see that much in their entire working life.
“I may be blind, but I’m not deprived of sense.”
“I’m the sheriff. I can guarantee your freedom.”
She wasn’t legally the sheriff, and she couldn’t guarantee anything. The truth of that burned in her blood.
The knife twitched slightly at her throat.
“You’d be a rich man. The law couldn’t touch you. I could write you a guarantee of freedom.”
His coarse laugh sprayed her veil with more spittle. She tried hard not to swallow as the sharp blade pressed against her throat.
“Oh, sure, I’d live right in Salisbury and you’d ride past my door on your way to see the bishop and I’d tip my velvet cap to you and you’d wave your ringed fingers.”
“You laugh but how do you think the king deals with rebel barons? Does he kill them all? No, they make an agreement and pledge to live in peace. There’s a code of honor among the nobles.”
His silence suggested that her words had opened a wedge of possibility.
“I’m not a noble. You’d turn on your word and throw me in the dungeon as soon as daylight fell on me.”
“My word is my bond.” Or so she’d once thought. Now she was lying like the devil possessed her. This man had killed two women, and she was to be the third. “I’m a woman of God. Anyone in Salisbury will tell you that.”
“You’re a rich man’s widow and enjoying your freedom rather too much from what I hear.” The knife wasn’t pressed so hard against her throat. Ela worked slowly and very carefully to free the hand pinned underneath her. “Some say you killed him.”
