Cathedral of Bones

by J G Lewis

  Her stomach lurched. “Killed my husband? Why would anyone say that?” His words echoed Haughton’s and turned her stomach.

  His horrible laugh rattled next to her ear. “They say you got used to him being away on wars and jaunts. That you relished the taste of freedom and being mistress of your own home. And that you weren’t happy to see him back.”

  “That’s a lie,” she spat the words, finding the strength to pull her hand free and rip back her veil. He pressed the knife to her neck, but with her next move she grabbed his wrist and bit hard into it. His hand opened and the knife fell to the dirt floor.

  Now she had the advantage. She could see the knife, glinting in the light that fell through the door crack. If she could grab it she could—

  What? Kill him? Did she intend to become a murderer? Were people in town truly saying that she already was?

  His hands swept over the ground, searching for his knife while his big body still held her pinned.

  Then suddenly both of his hands were around her throat. “I don’t need a knife to kill a puny maid like you. I never needed one before.”

  Ela tried again to scream, but his thumbs squeezed it out of her neck. She tried to gasp for air but couldn’t get any. She made a frantic grab for the knife, which lay just out of reach.

  “Shame about all that money, though. I’d have loved to end my days a rich man.” His hands squeezed tighter and tighter. He was trying to kill her in earnest now. She could already see those sparks returning around the edges of her vision.

  Hold your breath. Try again. She swept her hand out, and this time brushed the knife handle with her nails. She could feel herself growing heavy, dizzy, her last breath ebbing slowly from her lungs.

  Get it. She swiped again, and this time she managed to get some purchase on the blade with her fingertips and shift it closer.

  She struggled so hard to draw breath, but his hands crushed tighter and she was sure that any minute he’d crush her windpipe.

  Got it! Her fingers closed around the handle. She’d almost no breath left in her body. Her vision had narrowed to a tunnel, and she tried to direct all her energy into raising her hand, with the knife, then she brought it—blade first—down into him as fast and hard as she could. She struck his back somewhere near the ribs.

  He yelped and his hands loosed on her neck. She gulped air with the desperation of a drowning man, and as his hands closed back down around her throat, she stabbed again.

  “Can barely feel it. A wasp could do worse. You’ll be dead soon.”

  Ela tried to scream, but it just wasted precious breath. Even her stabs seemed to have no effect on this tough, blind beast who felt no remorse for the murders he’d already committed.

  Stab his neck. She raised her hand, again feeling her vision narrow and the dazzling sparks of light return. This might well be her last chance. She lifted her fist, inexpertly gripping the unfamiliar weapon, and slashed at his neck with all her might. A spray of darkness splashed across her face.

  Chapter 19

  “You bitch!”

  The stuff on her face was Harwich’s blood. She stabbed again, this time aiming for his eyes, anywhere that she could hit and hurt him.

  Blood now spurted from the neck wound like he was a freshly slaughtered calf. He seemed to have forgotten about strangling her, and she took the chance to shove him off her and heaved herself at the door. It flung open. “Help!” she screamed. “Help!” Where was everyone? Anyone?

  She crashed along the path, still clutching the bloody knife.

  Two soldiers ran up to her and roughly grabbed her, wresting the knife from her hand. Did they not know who she was?

  “He’s in the wall. He tried to kill me.” She didn’t want him to escape.

  “My lady?” One of the soldiers was holding her hands behind her back but let them go as he recognized her.

  “Catch him! He’s in the closet between the two piles of wood.” They turned and one ran between the tall woodpiles and disappeared. Ela held her breath.

  “He’s dead,” called back the soldier. “Neck wound. Blood everywhere.”

  Ela heard a whimper escape her lips. She’d taken a life.

  “Are you hurt, my lady?”

  “I don’t think so.” She wasn’t entirely sure. Her dress was dark with blood and her hands red with it. “Please have him laid out in the armory and take me to my chamber.”

  This time, smell or no, she wanted to keep his body close at hand until she learned what the legal proceedings would be. Killing a man was a serious matter, even in self-defense.

  Her legs felt weak under her, and she found herself leaning on the soldier. More soldiers rushed around them and past them to where the body lay. As they approached the kitchen door amid shouts and alarums, servants hurried out. Sibel let out a cry at the sight of her.

  “It’s someone else’s blood,” she tried to explain. “We need to wash it off.” The feel of it on her skin was awful, like a thousand crawling insects that wanted to burrow inside her.

  “Mama!” She heard Petronella let out a cry.

  “I’m fine, my pet.” She looked past Sibel to one of the cook’s helpers. “Please keep the children away. I don’t want them to see me.”

  “What happened?” Petronella’s face was white.

  “I’ll tell you later.” Her voice was shaky and she couldn’t be sure she wasn’t about to cry. The immense relief of being out of mortal danger finally hit her. He’d tried to kill her and—thanks be to God—he’d failed.

  She wished there was another way to her solar than through the great hall but—for safety reasons—there wasn’t. She hung back, waiting for the cook’s helper to distract her children, who would be just breaking their fast if they were even up.

  “Oh, my lady, what happened?” Sibel was shaking like a leaf.

  Deschamps rushed forward. “My lady, are you wounded?”

  “I seem to be still in one piece. Please summon Giles Haughton and both of you attend me as soon as I am washed.” She tried to sound as coolheaded as she could manage. She reminded herself that the men about the castle saw blood and death in battle and didn’t start crying or fainting over it. Or did they?

  Up in her chamber Sibel peeled off her bloody clothes. “If I soak them right away, the stains should come out.”

  “I’ll never wear them again.” She half-wanted to cast them in the fire right now, but wasn’t sure if Giles Haughton would need them as evidence. She and Sibel wiped all traces of the blood from her hands and face, which took repeated changes of water as if the stain of her act of violence couldn’t be washed away by mere water.

  Washed and dressed, her damp hair tucked behind a fresh veil, Ela struggled to compose herself to face Deschamps, Haughton and all the other men in and about the castle whose scrutiny she’d never felt so keenly.

  Haughton was in the hall, breathless and flushed from his rushed journey. “My lady, did you sustain injury?”

  “By God’s grace, no. Though I admit I’m deeply shaken.” She wanted to say she never thought she’d kill a man, but suddenly this seemed a failing on her part. The men around her trained daily in the arts of swordsmanship and riding, with a view to readiness for battle.

  “The guards tell me the old blind man attacked you?” He looked perplexed almost to the point of amusement.

  “He lay in wait for me. I never had the chance to tell you that I visited him yesterday and laid before him my questions about his daughter wanting to open a dairy in his smithy. He confirmed his animosity to her plan. I wouldn’t have thought such a disagreement cause for murder, but he seemed to think I’d pinned him as the suspect and he wanted to silence me.”

  “Had you told no one about your meeting with him?”

  “I told Deschamps about the encounter and that I felt uncomfortable, even threatened, in his presence, but he thought I was overreacting.”

  Houghton harrumphed. “Clearly you weren’t. But how did a blind man gain access to th
e castle, let alone identify you closely enough to assail you?”

  “I’d wondered if he was actually blind or just faking, but he said that his infirmity strengthened his other senses. He also as much as admitted he killed his wife by drowning her in a well and that his daughter witnessed it. How he entered the castle I don’t know. The boy who sweeps the path wasn’t there. I fear for his safety.”

  Houghton crossed himself. “A truly evil man. You did well to finish him.”

  She rejected the pride his praise threatened to raise. “I have no desire to be judge, jury and executioner but in that moment I knew only one of us would emerge alive. I’m truly sorry he will not be judged by his peers.”

  “No doubt at this moment he faces judgment from his creator.” Haughton’s face still showed signs of amusement. Or was it amazement?

  “His body is in the armory.”

  “How fitting, since the last person to lie there was the one he killed.”

  “This time I’d prefer for him to be examined and buried—outside the walls of course—before he has a chance to spread his stench though the castle.”

  “Shall we examine him now?”

  Ela shuddered. “I prefer that you do it without me. I can answer any questions you have. I stabbed him in the neck with his own knife as I was half-pinned under him.”

  “You are quite a woman.” Again, the rather patronizing amusement.

  “I hope that I do justice to my duties,” she said stiffly. “And there remains the question of Morse. If Harwich killed his daughter and Elizabeth Brice killed her husband, that leaves Morse innocent of both crimes.”

  “Indeed. Though we’re not sure who killed John Brice so perhaps it’s prudent to keep them both under lock and key until the assizes.”

  “I’d still like to talk to Morse,” said Ela. “He should know that he can emerge to freedom. It’ll give him the strength to survive the ordeal.”

  “You seem so sure he’s innocent.”

  “A gut feeling.” She frowned. “Like the one I had when Harwich asked me to come deeper into his house and all my instincts recoiled against him. I don’t wish to destroy Morse’s business and let his land go neglected if he’s innocent.”

  “And I suppose that if he’s found innocent he’ll inherit his wife’s father’s property.” Haughton’s eyebrows lifted.

  “In the absence of a will or a closer relation, perhaps you’re right.”

  “Or you could claim it for your estate. Such an action would be considered quite proper.”

  “I think not. There’ll be talk enough once word of Harwich’s death gets out.”

  Might her name might be uttered with a tinge of admiration and fear that could advance her position?

  Again, she chastised herself for pride, especially for such an unchristian deed. Thou shalt not kill. Taking a man’s life was a grave sin. Did she just sacrifice her place in Heaven?

  During his last hours, her husband had prayed and begged forgiveness for the many things he’d done in life that might be held against him during the final judgment. As a soldier he’d killed many times and—according to his fevered ramblings—he’d broken most of the other commandments as well. She’d prayed and wept with him while he prepared to meet his maker and at the end he did seem to feel ready.

  “My lady, are you well?”

  “What? I’m sorry.” She realized Haughton had been speaking. “I was distracted. Please forgive me.” She didn’t want to make excuses that might get people whispering that the role of sheriff was no job for a woman. No doubt they were saying that anyway. “I’ll come with you to the armory. I’m ready.”

  Perhaps Harwich’s face was less likely to haunt her nights if she dealt with his corpse in the cool light of morning.

  “If you’re sure—” He looked doubtful.

  “I’ll be fine.” She moved toward the door. Her heart pounded beneath her gown, and she hoped she’d be able to maintain her composure. “I had no choice but to kill him. It was his life or mine.”

  “Your bravery and quick actions are to be commended.”

  “There’s no need to waste your praise. The entire situation is regrettable.” Again she battled a confusing mix of pride and embarrassment. Perhaps the Lord had sent her this trial as a test.

  She wasn’t sure if she’d triumphed or failed.

  They crossed the hallway, and the soldiers outside the armory opened the door for her. She swore she could see a different look in their eyes. Word of the death—and her narrow escape—must even now be sweeping through the castle and the town.

  “By God’s grace it’s him there and not me,” she murmured and crossed herself as they walked into the gloomy armory. The only light fell from the small high window. The body was laid out on the table, an awkward bulging form covered by a bloodstained sheet of cloth.

  Haughton marched over and peeled the cloth back in a swift gesture. Ela braced herself, half closing her eyes, then opening them slowly so as not to take in the whole grotesque scene at once.

  Harwich’s black-and-white streaked hair was wild as always, his face pale beneath its veneer of dirt. Blood covered his neck and chest and the lower half of one side of his face. He’d been stripped naked, but Haughton tactfully left the cloth covering the lower parts of his torso.

  She seemed to remember stabbing his face but there were no marks on it. The single, fatal wound was to the left side of his neck.

  Haughton peered at it. “You severed his artery. A man bleeds to death in seconds from such a wound.”

  Ela wondered if she should explain that she knew about anatomy from her medical readings and that was why she’d chosen to stab the neck, but decided the information was superfluous.

  “A lucky blow.” Haughton turned to her. “It’s one of the few places where you can kill a man with one cut. The others mostly involved pushing the blade into just the right place between the ribs. Much harder to kill and easier to get your knife stuck.

  “I’ll remember that for the future,” she said dryly. “Though I certainly hope I’ll never need the knowledge.”

  “I’ve never killed a man myself,” said Haughton, “for all the bodies I’ve studied and handled.” He lifted the head and gingerly examined the back of it. “His death was about as quick and merciful as they come. More than he deserved from the sounds of it.” He closed Harwich’s sightless eyes and pulled the sheet back over the head. “My coroner’s report is complete. Or at least it will be when I write it up.”

  “Will I face trial?”

  “Most certainly not. You killed him in the line of duty. If anything you should be rewarded for your services to the crown.” Amusement lit his face again. Ela wanted to be annoyed, but she was mostly relieved.

  She wasn’t officially sheriff yet. There was always the possibility that the king—or, more likely, De Burgh—would appoint someone over her.

  “I want to talk to Morse now. Harwich’s confession has absolved him of his wife’s murder and he should know that.” She didn’t relish the thought of heading down into the dungeon and the presence of people who cursed the ground she walked on, and Haughton’s company would be reassuring. “Will you attend with me?”

  “Certainly.”

  She led the way out of the armory and along the hallway that led to the dungeon. She could see through the open arched doorway at the end that the sun was now well up in the sky and the passages bustling with servants and soldiers.

  “I don’t understand how Harwich got in.” She spoke her thoughts aloud. “It’s an armed garrison, for pity’s sake.”

  “An investigation wouldn’t go amiss. Find where the fault lies and make sure it can’t happen again. And perhaps you should take an armed attendant on your morning rounds.”

  She sighed. “Perhaps I should have an armed attendant at the foot of my bed all night long.”

  “I’m sure many a noble or monarch has said the same, and likely had one, too.”

  “I refuse to live like a pris
oner in my own castle, guarded at every step.” She frowned. By putting herself in position of power she’d somehow managed to further limit her freedom. It was perplexing. “But I suppose I owe it to my children to guard myself well.”

  “Yes, my lady. You have a double responsibility.”

  They descended the wobbly ladder into the grim, airless space of the dungeons. Braziers threw off the only light and the sour smell of unwashed bodies stung her nostrils.

  “We’re here to see Morse,” she said to the jailer, peering into the gloom. Sometimes they moved the prisoners around, for reasons unknown to her. Perhaps to keep antagonists away from each other.

  The jailer led them past two prisoners, and she avoided looking at their faces. Morse’s massive form was hunched over, facing toward the wall. He didn’t stir at their approach.

  “Morse,” growled the jailer. “Rise and salute the Countess of Salisbury.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” protested Ela, though he showed no signs of doing it. “We’re here because your father-in-law confessed to killing his daughter, so we know you’re innocent of the crime.”

  He didn’t move. Had he lost his wits? Was he asleep?

  The jailer kicked him and he flinched, as did Ela. “Attend my lady!” he yelled. “Did you not hear what she said?”

  Ela resolved to ask someone else to address the jailer about his harsh manner with a prisoner who might well be innocent. But she knew it wouldn’t do for her to scold him in front of the prisoners. He’d likely take it amiss, and she’d have another enemy to watch for.

  “We know you didn’t kill your wife.” Perhaps she hadn’t spoken plainly enough the first time.

  At last he stirred, his head swiveling slowly and his broad shoulders turning. With his dark beard growing in he looked like a wild man of the woods. Ela stiffened as his gaze met hers.

  “I told you that all along.” His eyes glinted in the light from a nearby brazier.

  “Did you not suspect Harwich yourself?” Haughton leaned in, speaking to Morse. “You could have saved us time and trouble.”