Cathedral of Bones

by J G Lewis

  “He’s a blind old man. How would he kill anyone?”

  “He’s a very crafty and capable old blind man,” said Haughton. “Who apparently also killed his wife some years ago. Weren’t you suspicious of him?”

  “Katie never said he killed her mother.” Morse looked confused.

  “Would you have married her if you’d known?” said Haughton. “Perhaps you’d have thought that murder ran in her blood.”

  Morse shook his head, obviously confused. “She never said a word against him. Used to visit him almost every day, the ornery old cuss. Why would he kill her?”

  “He thought she intended to turn him out of his house so she could make it into a dairy.”

  “Well, that was the plan.” Morse frowned. “Not to turn him out, mind you, but to repurpose the old forge into a dairy and move in with him. He probably didn’t have long to live anyway. You’d think he’d be glad of someone to take care of him.”

  “You would indeed,” said Haughton. “But there’s no accounting for the ingratitude of some.”

  “So—” Morse frowned, looking from one to the other. “If he confessed to killing her, why isn’t he down here?”

  “He’s dead,” said Ela preemptively. She didn’t want to hear Houghton fumbling for an explanation. She also didn’t want to elaborate. “But he admitted to the murder before he died. The details are not important.”

  Morse blinked. She could hear the questions—How? Why? Who?—pulsing in his brain, but he wisely kept them silent. He shifted until he was fully facing them and straightened his back. “Does this mean I’m free?”

  Haughton cleared his throat. “There remains the question of John Brice’s murder.”

  “I had no motive to kill him!” Morse rose to his feet. Ela had to fight the urge to take a step backward even though she was well out of reach.

  “Cuckoldry is a time-honored motive. Legions of men have killed to defend their honor or that of their wife and no doubt many have been forgiven the deed under the circumstances,” said Houghton. Ela thought it was cunning to throw him a lifeline of hope that he might be exonerated even if he was guilty.

  “Maybe they have, but I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “He killed my husband!” The screeching voice from a dark corner reminded them all that Elizabeth Brice was down here as well. “He’s a murderer.”

  “I’m innocent. I never touched your accursed husband. I never killed anyone in my life.”

  “Guilt or innocence will be determined at the assizes,” replied Ela. She couldn’t let Morse go free while Mistress Brice still protested her innocence. No matter that she now believed Morse’s protests. While she could pronounce guilt or innocence in smaller local cases, capital crimes were a matter for the king’s traveling justices.

  Ela didn’t think it was right that men and women were imprisoned together. The reality was that very few women had been imprisoned down here, and then usually just for a night before they—as new-found enemies of the king by dint of birth or marriage—were hauled onwards to the Tower of London.

  The assizes were already late and if they were further delayed Brice and Morse might be down here for weeks or months, might even die down here waiting for trial. That was one reason she’d been so reluctant—too reluctant, some might say—to make an arrest in the first place. The prisoners here were ill fed and received no exercise or pleasure in life and that could kill some almost as fast as poison.

  “What of my cows?” he asked bleakly.

  “They are well fed and cared for in your absence. If you’re found innocent they’ll be returned to you along with your farm.”

  The prospect didn’t seem to cheer him. He’d already lost a lot of his vigor. A man of his age—not that much older than her but not young either—might not recover from this ordeal well enough cope with the rigors of running his farm alone. He had no children to help him.

  The responsibility of imprisoning him weighed heavily on her shoulders.

  “What of my cows?” Elizabeth Brice’s high-pitched voice rang out in the darkness. “For when I’m found innocent by the judge?”

  “Again, they’re being cared for, fed and milked and maintained in your absence.”

  There was always the grim possibility that the innocent party would hang and the guilty one emerge into the sunlight to claim both herds of cows.

  “You shall both be notified when the dates are set for the assizes.”

  “Not that we even know what day of the week it is down here,” mumbled Morse. “And it’s calving time when I should be watching over my herd day and night to welcome new life into the world. I’ve never lost a calf yet.”

  Never? Unlikely. But whatever lies he told himself to survive a few more weeks were fine with her.

  Chapter 20

  The assizes came one week later. They had barely enough notice to set up curtains in the hall to provide a private sleeping quarters for the traveling justice and his attendants. The lads were still fussing with the poles, and Ela was in the kitchen hurriedly consulting with the cook when the party’s hoofbeats sounded on the bridge.

  Ela hurried out into the gathering darkness to greet the king’s justice in her official capacity as castellan and sheriff. But her welcoming smile soon palled when she noticed the colors of Hubert De Burgh entering the main arch alongside those of the justice.

  His boldness both enraged and alarmed her. Had he heard that she’d spread a rumor about him? Had he come for revenge?

  The justice, clothed in a long, damp brown cloak and a leather hat, leaped down from his horse. His name was Alan Fitz-Peter and she knew very little else about him.

  “God be with you, Sir.” She kept her hands folded together so he wouldn’t try to kiss one. “I trust you had a pleasant journey?”

  “As pleasant as can be at this time of year, my lady. My deepest condolences on the loss of your most excellent husband.” He bowed low and mercifully kept his hands and lips to himself. “His loss could not be felt more keenly by myself or any other knight of the realm.” He gave his hat and cloak to a servant, revealing a ruddy face and silvered hair that almost matched his pale gray eyes.

  Ela snuck a glance past him to De Burgh, who was fussing over the unloading of some baggage.

  “Your kind words are much appreciated. Do come in.” She wished she could slam the castle gates behind him. “We have several prisoners awaiting trial.”

  Had Giles Haughton even told anyone yet about her accusations of De Burgh? It’d been but a week since she’d shared her suspicions with him.

  Servants rushed out with jugs of spiced wine, a bowl of sad-looking fruit and a plate of oatcakes left over from this morning’s breakfast. “My apologies for our meagre Lenten fare.” She offered him a seat at the table. They’d intended to sup on thick pease pottage and fresh-baked bread with butter for supper but the cook was now wrestling some jellied eels and salted cod into acceptable dishes for the party.

  Fitz-Peter turned to look for the rest of his entourage. Ela reluctantly watched De Burgh strutting into her hall like a peacock, seizing a cup of wine with one hand and dispensing his gloves with another like he owned the place.

  Something that—Ela realized with alarm—might be part of his plan. She’d still had no word from the king confirming her role as sheriff.

  De Burgh walked toward her and held out his hand, clearly intending to take hers and kiss it. She ground her fists together. “God be with you, my lord De Burgh.”

  Did he fear eternal damnation? Or was he too well-rewarded here on earth to care for his immortal soul?

  He took the hint and bowed low. “Greetings, gracious lady. We welcome your hospitality on this unpleasantly rainy day.”

  “I’m glad the assizes weren’t delayed any further. We were worried we might have to wait until summer.”

  “We hear there are but trifling local squabbles to be dealt with.” He smiled boldly. “It shouldn’t take long.”

  “If they were so tr
ifling I would have tried them myself.” She bristled at the suggestion she was shirking her duties.

  “How? When there is no sheriff named since your husband’s untimely demise?” He had the insolence to look amused.

  “As countess and castellan of Salisbury I have informed the king of my intent to fulfill the role incumbent upon me.” The low, authoritative tone of her own voice surprised her. “Until such time as my son Will gains his majority.” She paused a moment. “What brings you here?”

  “The cause of justice, my lady. As the king’s justiciar it is my greatest goal.” He sipped his wine, and Ela praised God that she was too well bred to spit in his eye. “Is Deschamps about?” He looked around, as if intending to answer the question himself.

  “No doubt he is. Do you have a question for him?”

  “Some dry matters about the management of the king’s garrison. There’s no need to trouble you with them, my lady.”

  “On the contrary, as the king’s castellan I am most interested in all matters related to his garrison.” Ela’s stomach churned. If only they could focus on the trials at hand and save this posturing for later. But she could hardly ignore his bold attempts to undermine her status in front of her entire retinue.

  The day continued in a similarly challenging fashion. Little Stephen pinched his finger in a door hinge and was inconsolable at one point, which required her to put motherhood first and allow the men to mutter among themselves.

  Young Will bravely stepped in and moved among them like a young rooster, which seemed to please—or amuse—them. They plied him with drink and regaled him with tales of his father’s exploits that had Will alternately choked with emotion and laughter. Ela’s mother had departed for home, so—servants aside—Ela was the only female present and had to carefully steer the conversation to avoid crude male camaraderie intended to jostle her away.

  Ela forced herself to stay up late into the night, watching the men slide into their cups until finally Fitz-Peter and De Burgh headed into the curtained bedchambers she’d erected for them in the hall.

  With her mother and Jean gone, there were rooms enough to house them elsewhere in the keep but she wanted an ear on them at all times. She quietly asked Will to bed himself down close by them and make a note of anything they said that she should know, and he nodded sagely, clearly pleased by the trust she placed in him. She hoped he was sober enough to comply.

  That night, exhausted as she was, Ela murmured the entire rosary on her knees at her prie-dieu. Let justice be served, she prayed. Some would argue that she’d avenged Katie’s murder herself, but she didn’t see it that way at all. Morse might still hang for the crime and for John Brice’s death as well. Perhaps De Burgh had some agenda that might pervert the course of justice to suit his own ends.

  He’d tried to fold her castle and title into his own family by plotting her marriage to his nephew. Having failed in that attempt he’d grown bolder and killed her husband.

  Who knew what he might try next.

  In the morning, the trestle tables were arranged in a U shape, with the justice, Ela and Haughton and De Burgh seated in the middle, and members of the jury lined up along the sides. Deschamps hovered nearby, ready to command the guards if need be.

  Elizabeth Brice and Alan Morse were brought up from the dungeons and stood flanked by guards in the middle of the tables. Ela had instructed that the prisoners be made as presentable as possible before their trial. Sibel had sent two young women down into the dungeon with jugs of water, combs and a clean wimple for Elizabeth Brice, but both prisoners still presented a sorry sight. They looked pinched and harried and had both aged ten years from their ordeal, short though it was.

  “Alan Morse,” Fitz-Peter looked over his notes. “You stand here accused of murdering your wife, Katherine Morse, and also your neighbor John Brice.”

  Morse said nothing.

  Ela glanced at Haughton, who stood and cleared his throat. “Um, your honor, the girl’s father confessed to killing her.”

  “Then where is he?”

  “He is deceased, my lord, but he confessed before he died.”

  Fitz-Peter looked at De Burgh and the jurors. Ela felt all their eyes burning her skin.

  “He died of natural causes?” Fitz-Peter sounded incredulous.

  Ela fought the urge to stand and describe the circumstances. She knew it was important that they be described by a third party.

  Haughton, still standing, looked about a foot shorter than usual. “Harwich entered the castle unbeknownst to the guards, attacked the countess and—before she slayed him in an heroic act of self-defense—revealed himself as the murderer of his daughter.”

  Fitz-Peter appeared to be struck speechless. De Burgh sat back in his chair, eyes wide. “The countess killed the suspect?” He glanced at her for a moment, then stared from Haughton to Deschamps. “Why was he not in the dungeon at the time?”

  Haughton cleared his throat. “He wasn’t a suspect at that time. We had initially thought Morse responsible for his wife’s death.”

  “Why would he attack the Countess?” Fitz-Peter looked confused.

  “She had interviewed him in her role as sheriff. The previous day she’d visited him at his home and reported to Gerald Deschamps that she found him menacing and suspicious.”

  “Yet he still wasn’t arrested?”

  Frustration surging through her, Ela stood. “We were dealing with illness in the castle. Three of my children were taken ill so I was preoccupied. Harwich was elderly and blind. No one thought him capable of murder.” She hadn’t wanted to make a fuss. And Deschamps had dismissed her concerns.

  “I can imagine that you have your hands full with the management of your family and domestic tasks,” cut in De Burgh. “It’s entirely unfair that you should have to perform the sheriff’s role on top of those most essential duties.”

  Ela seethed. De Burgh knew that she both wanted and intended to be sheriff. Still, why hadn’t she raised the alarum and sent soldiers to arrest Harwich? It was true that her thoughts were with her sick children. She’d doubted her own judgment when Deschamps scoffed at her fears. “I had told Master Deschamps about my suspicions based on a disturbing encounter I’d had with him the day before. Harwich correctly suspected that he would soon be arrested.”

  De Burgh looked at Deschamps, who had the decency to look flustered. “It’s my greatest regret that I didn’t send a party out to arrest him immediately.” Deschamps shifted from one foot to the other. “He was elderly and utterly blind, so I didn’t see him as a threat.”

  “So he entered the castle in full view of the king’s garrison and set upon its lady?” De Burgh seemed to have set his sights on skewering Deschamps.

  “It was early in the morning, my lord. He asked for assistance from the boy who sweeps the paths, then sent him off with a coin to buy bread. The boy had seen the old man in the castle before—when he came for an audience with Ela to report his daughter’s death—so he had no reason to suspect him.”

  And the soldiers were drunk. Ela thought it but didn’t say it. They’d let him hobble right past them, thinking nothing of it.

  “I suppose it’s lucky it was just one blind old man, not King Louis and his army.” De Burgh looked from Deschamps to Ela. “As castellan of Salisbury you bear responsibility for this breach of the castle walls.”

  Ela blinked. “Indeed.”

  “She handled it as a soldier would have!” burst out Deschamps, eager to snatch—something—from the jaws of humiliation. The soldiers’ failure to secure the keep lay at his feet. “Killed him dead.”

  De Burgh surveyed Ela for a moment. “I congratulate you on your knightly response.”

  He was mocking her.

  “I had no intention of killing anyone. I merely acted in self-defense. He knew I had guessed that he killed his daughter and he confessed as much before attempting to slit my throat.”

  De Burgh stared at Deschamps, then back at Haughton. “Did anyone else he
ar his confession? Or are we to rely solely upon Ela’s assurances that he made it?”

  Ela bristled. “Are you accusing me of fabricating Harwich’s guilt?” Her words rang out over Haughton’s mumbled reply. “Pray tell, why would I do such a thing?”

  Was De Burgh hoping to twist this case so that she ended up on trial for murder? He’d already accused her of grave failures both as sheriff and castellan. Now perhaps he intended to sweep her neatly out of the way of his greed and ambition.

  “A good question, my lady.” De Burgh’s oily smile chilled her. “The fact remains that you—the man’s killer—are the only soul alive who heard him confess to his daughter’s murder.”

  “How many witnesses does a trial require to prove innocence?” Ela heard the imperious tone of her voice and hoped it covered her fear.

  “That is for the justice to decide.” De Burgh looked at Fitz-Peter.

  Fitz-Peter hurriedly cleared his throat. “And the justice relies greatly on the opinions of the jury.” The jurors were looking at each other, clearly startled or excited by this strange turn of events. “We shall adjourn this trial until after lunch while I acquaint myself with these surprising new details.”

  Ela wanted to protest. It was only half way through the morning. Neither accused had been interviewed. If De Burgh had come to upset the entire proceedings and shape them to his will, apparently he was well on his way to succeeding.

  She sent Sibel to the kitchen to see if the cook could send out lunch early. Alan Morse and Elizabeth Brice were sent back to the dungeon. Haughton shot her a helpless look.

  Will muttered something in her ear that she didn’t catch but he hurried away with Bill Talbot before she had a chance to question him. Probably going hunting to blow off steam. Possibly he couldn’t bear to watch his mother squirm under this inquisition.

  While the cook fussed and fumed in her harried kitchen, Ela laid out every gruesome detail of her encounters with Harwich, both in his grim forge and in the closet in the castle wall. Ela, Fitz-Peter, De Burgh and the jurors retraced the early morning footsteps that had led her into Harwich’s hands and exclaimed over the bloodstains still darkening the earthen floor of the unused storage space. The boy had admitted showing him the closet as a place to rest while he went to fetch the bread.