The moment her courses failed she could have sought out old Tibia. Sin though it was, women in the village often did, willing to do penance rather than chance hunger by failing to help at harvest time or see yet another wee loved one die. But this would have been Ralf’s child. Would she have rid herself of a babe she might have loved? With clenched fist against her heart, she thanked God she had not had to make that choice.
“Sweet Signy!” a merry fellow shouted as he exited the inn. “The ale tastes bitter without you to serve it.”
“Yet it seems you have drunk enough of it not to know which soft hand passed you that last jug!”
The man belched with good cheer, gave a genial wave, and staggered down the road to his bed.
Watching him, she mused how strange it was that reputation depended on what rumors were about and the credence given them. As long as a woman was not flagrant with her lovers, others could pretend she was virtuous if they had little else to quarrel with her about. That was a fragile state of affairs, but, truth be told, she had taken few enough lovers to keep the rumble of gossip low. Ralf had been the first in a long time, and she had lain with him only once. Since then, she had been chaste enough, although some now claimed she had caught Tostig’s eye.
She sighed and walked back into the inn. Would she mind if that were the case? Despite coming to the inn many evenings and speaking at length with both her and her uncle, the tall Saxon had yet to claim any love for her, nor had he even suggested they lie together. Perhaps his only interest at the inn lay in the priory ale he had to sell.
Signy glanced back in the direction of the now-invisible crowner, tossed her head, and picked up a sweating jug. Tostig was a handsome man, she decided. If he begged sweetly, she might consider taking him to bed. That was a thought pleasant enough to soothe her bruised heart.
She smiled and served a table of thirsty men.
As she looked around for others in need of food or drink, she was relieved not to see either Hob or Will. If God were kind, they would have left. Of the two brothers, Hob was usually harmless. Although sullen in nature, he avoided confrontation when by himself. Will, on the other hand, was both choleric and brutal. That noted, the brothers caused trouble when Will had had too much to drink. Although prone to starting fights, he was a coward when attacked. Hob, it was, who had to protect his elder brother with his fists.
Signy slammed the jug down on a table. If she ever did inherit this inn from her childless uncle, as he had promised, she would hire a strong man to throw such fellows out. “Under my ownership,” she muttered softly, “this inn will countenance neither harlots nor fights.”
“A bowl of your fine stew, served with your pretty hands, would be a pleasure, lass!” shouted a man nearby, his gaze savoring the curves of Signy’s heavy breasts.
“Would your wife like to know how our cook prepares it?” the innkeeper’s niece replied with forced humor, softening it with a dazzling smile.
Chapter Four
Crowner Ralf wiped his hand across his mouth. “Not drunk enough to feel happy,” he muttered, staring into the brown liquid that still half-filled his leather jack as if accusing the ale of some crime. Were he to think more on that, he might have confessed that little had ever brought him profound contentment until recently, but he was rarely in the mood for contemplative debates. Tonight was no exception.
Earlier, he and Tostig had met at the inn to celebrate the crowner’s return from court. That they had done with pleasure enough, but his friend from childhood was a prudent man and left, like any responsible merchant, at a sensible hour. Thus Ralf was left alone, accompanied only by all the reasons why he had not been in the village for over a year.
Some time ago, he had glanced up to see Signy climb the stairs to the private rooms above. Resting his bristling chin on his hand, he let himself enjoy the sight of her soft buttocks swaying under the fabric of her robe. A tall and buxom woman, she gave this inn its especial brightness and had once shared his bed with ardent willingness.
He sighed and stroked the tabletop with lingering remorse. Had he not called her by another woman’s name when he was riding her, she might have continued to pleasure him, but his mistake had quickly cooled her eagerness. Since Ralf was not a complete boor, he did understand why and had even apologized, but all efforts to make amends were greeted with a broom to his head. He had not approached her since. After that night, she always sent another wench to serve him whenever he visited the inn.
This evening, although she stopped to speak to Tostig, she had turned her back on the crowner, ignoring him as if he did not exist and had not been absent from the area for well over a year. He had been hurt at the snub, and, when she disappeared through the crowd of men, Ralf realized he still regretted what had occurred between them. Although much had happened since he tried to escape his especial grief in mindless service to his unpleasant elder brother, he had retained a fondness for a woman he believed to be kind and sweet-tempered—unless provoked, of course. Now, he suspected she might have transferred her affections to Tostig, a pleasing thought overall.
Or was it? He frowned.
In any event, Tostig had said nothing about any feelings for Signy. He had not even spoken her name after the innkeeper’s niece left them. The man instead had amused the crowner pleasantly with village news and asked about Ralf’s brief marriage as well as tales from court.
Did that mean Signy had not captured his heart?
Perhaps he should simply overlook Tostig’s reticence to talk of any woman. The man had rejected all idea of marriage when his parents died and he chose to raise his younger sister, Gytha. The girl herself was now of marriageable age, but her doting brother had given her more choice about a husband than was considered wise. Since she had yet to settle on anyone, a few eager suitors now urged Tostig to simply decide for her, as was more proper. He ignored them.
“There’s a spirited girl,” Ralf said with a grin when Tostig told him that she had just rejected a goldsmith of acceptable means. “When she finds a husband she likes, he had better be a worthy fellow or he will have you to deal with.” And maybe himself as well, Ralf thought. He had always liked the lass.
Ralf sat back. Out of old habit, he began to scan the crowd. Most of the faces were familiar to him. Some of the tradesmen had grown grayer, stouter, or even frail. Sitting with them now were sons too young to have joined their fathers when Ralf was last here but since grown old enough to take on a man’s responsibility as well as vice.
Was Ivetta the whore still stripping these lads of their virginity, he wondered, or was she finally too raddled for that? Tyndal was not big enough to have an excess of young girls, lush and ripe for the swyving by rampant young men. The town prostitute had often provided that service, although it was not uncommon for a daughter to be churched before a father could push her to the church door for a wedding.
A movement at the corner of his eye caught Ralf’s attention, and he turned to see Will and Hob coming down the stairs, stumbling like a pair of drunken goats. His mouth filled with a foul taste and he swallowed some ale as antidote.
When they were all younger, the brothers were town bullies, picking on the weaker like the cowards they were while leaving him alone because he always blackened their eyes first. Martin Cooper was part of that gang, he remembered, and had added cruel jests to the brothers’ usual ill behavior. Most of the damage left by all three was minor enough in the life of any boy: some broken noses, a few burns, and one lost ear. There were also the inevitable, broken maidenheads, although more than usual were unwillingly burst as he had heard. The girls denied all. Out of fear, he suspected.
Once, however, the boys had gone too far. A lad had died of hanging when the rope caught in the tree. They panicked and ran, leaving him to jerk in the air and then choke to death. The boy’s mother had discovered his limp body and raised a hue and cry, but the boys suffered no consequence.
In fact, after the crowner’s jury fo
und the death accidental, she was fined for falsely raising the hue and cry. After the decision was announced, Ralf and Tostig had discussed whether the verdict had been decided more on other considerations than the event itself: two of the boys were the blacksmith’s sons; the dead lad’s mother was believed to be a meddler in magic.
Tonight, the two brothers passed near enough that Ralf could smell their sooty sweat, but the men were too deeply involved in some argument to pay him heed. The crowner was glad enough of that. Just remembering the death of that young boy had made his fist itch to strike. When he had been named crowner, it was the memory of this tale, among other things, that caused him to swear never to choose the easy answer to any crime.
As he watched the two men disappear, he recalled Tostig remarking that the younger brother had become almost respectable over the last several months, although he still bloodied his knuckles in Will’s defense when necessary. Had Hob changed that much? Although Ralf had seen the younger blacksmith grow less wild over the years, he believed that few men ever truly repented until they were on their death beds, knowing they must face God’s judgment.
The crowner poured himself more ale and raised the jack to drink. “Maybe some do, a bit,” he whispered, setting the jack down. After all, he was not drinking himself into oblivion tonight. The reason was his wee babe, a daughter he adored. Why find some empty solace at the inn when he had a child at home who would smile when he picked her up for a hug?
“After all the horrors I saw in my soldiering years and the cruelties I have seen men commit against each other, how can this leathery heart still melt so?” A veritable miracle, he decided, his mouth twisting into an embarrassed grin as he pushed the drink further away.
He never thought fatherhood would affect him so. Perhaps his own father had been right when he called Ralf a disappointment, the contrary one, compared to his elder brothers. A man was supposed to want strong sons, but he had roared with joy when he learned his wife had given birth to a lass. But how could he not love this beautiful little girl? Weren’t her cheeks pink like a fine apple and her ten fingers perfection in miniature?
Shifting on the bench, he knew he must find her a new wet-nurse very soon. As he was rocking the baby to sleep in his arms last night, the woman his brother had sent complained bitterly about the rank pig swill and steaming piles of manure all too near the house on the land Ralf had acquired through marriage. He might have been pleased that the manor was situated close to Tyndal village, but few women, used to the comforts of such things as castle latrines, would enjoy what the remote and lonely land of East Anglia had to offer. He had promised the woman he would send her back to Winchester soon enough.
Aye, the land stank of dead things from the sea and hobby-lanterns danced above the fens on misty nights. Yet he loved this place despite all the sad memories it evoked. Perhaps he was happiest back at Tyndal village after all. Old habits must die hard, he decided, and suddenly realized he was hungry.
He waved at a serving wench and asked for stew. When she put the bowl down in front of him, the pungent smell of well-spiced rabbit cooked with onions brushed aside his mild alcoholic haze and led his stomach to rumble with pleasant anticipation.
As he plunged his spoon after a bit of meat and onion, he caught sight of Signy waiting on a group of men nearby. He felt a twinge of lust as he recalled how those rounded thighs had held him fast in the night. Then he shook off the image and filled his mouth with flavorful stew.
Two men beside him roared out an irreverent song, slamming their jacks on the wooden table.
Ralf turned to grin at them.
It was just then that a woman’s piercing scream from the upper loft shattered all merriment.
Chapter Five
Thomas heard shouting and grew cold with fear. He quickly took a deep breath but smelled no smoke. That brought him hope, but what besides fire would warrant such an outcry?
He bent to listen to Tibia’s strong, steady breathing. It would be a blessing if she could sleep like this until morning, and if there was no purpose in doing so, he would not rouse her.
A fire was the most probable cause for the uproar, a horror that could destroy the village so swiftly, but he still could not smell smoke. Might it have been an attack by lawless men? That was doubtful and had never occurred in his memory. There was no reason to believe it had now. Puzzled, he rose to investigate first before carrying her from her bed.
As he squeezed through that narrow hole that served as entry to her hut, he saw a crowd of villagers milling about just outside the inn. “No flames or smoke at all,” he noted with relief, then grew curious. Why did they seem so distraught, yet remain as if awed by something? He pulled the rough door closed and went to discover the reason for the commotion.
“What took place?” he asked, walking up to a broad-shouldered man who stood at the far edge of the crowd.
“The Devil flew into the inn’s loft, I heard.” Rivulets of moisture twisted through the stubble on the man’s face.
“Did you see him?” Thomas asked, noting that the hot summer night was insufficient cause for such rank sweat.
“Nay, but I have more sense than to let Satan come close and grasp my soul with his twisted fingers. Someone in the inn wasn’t so clever and now lies there a corpse, or so I was told. That’s why I stand here.”
The Devil would not be put off by such a short distance, Thomas thought, but decided there was no merit in frightening the man further. If it was Satan, perhaps he could be of service. Sinner he might well be, but he still bore a monk’s tonsure. Oddly enough, he found himself eager to confront this tormentor of his and pushed his way through the crowd toward the entrance to the inn.
“Don’t go in there!” someone shouted at him.
“It is a monk from the priory. Prioress Eleanor has sent aid!”
“Brother Thomas!” another cried out. “Praise God and the holy priory for sending you to us!”
“May God forgive my sins!” A fat man collapsed to his knees as the monk passed. “Save us from the Evil One, and I will bring the priory an offering at daybreak. I swear it, Brother!”
Thomas hesitated a moment, recognized the man as one more prone to fair sayings than fine acts, and hurried on through the inn door. Shutting it carefully, he pressed his back against it, made the sign of the cross for protection, and looked around for imps or their fiendish prince.
There was nothing. He relaxed. How shabby an empty inn looked, he caught himself noting, and was oddly troubled by the observation.
Near the bottom of the stairs, he saw Signy standing beside her uncle and walked toward them. Their faces were pale; their staring eyes dark with fear.
“What happened?” he asked gently.
Startled, Signy gasped and her hand flew to her heart. “How did word reach the priory so quickly?”
“It has not,” Thomas said. “I was sitting with old Tibia after she took a potion sent by Sister Anne. When I heard shouting, I rushed here to find the cause.”
The innkeeper grunted. “It’s well you did. Our crowner is in the loft alone, except for a corpse and a whore. Some claim Satan is flying about up there with his dark angels. Now that good King Henry is dead, the Prince of Darkness has little reason to show respect for a king’s man. What’s needed upstairs is a man of God to get rid of any rank spirit and save the crowner!”
“The Devil may be evil but he is not stupid,” Thomas replied. “King Edward is coming home from the Holy Land.” Looking up the stairs, he could see little and heard only the thud of footsteps mixed with muted speech. If Ralf was confronting Satan, they were both behaving in a most courteous fashion. “Satan knows how much God favors a crusader king and would face our crowner knowing that.”
“I am so grateful the herb woman left the inn before this happened!” Signy hugged herself to keep from shaking. “Is she well, Brother? Should I go to her now that you are here?”
“The drink caused her
to fall into a deep sleep. Methinks she will be well enough until morning.” He turned to the innkeeper. “You said our crowner is in the loft with a corpse and a harlot. Then the Devil came? Or was this in reverse. I do not understand.”
The man puffed his florid cheeks out. “My business did not need this. It is hard enough to keep good customers with the common twists and turns of trade, but news of violent death in an inn scares people away faster than rotten meat.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow at the reply. If the innkeeper was now worrying more about trade than fork-tailed imps, he was recovering from his fright. Any conclusion that Satan had made a personal appearance here was also growing less likely.
“A man is dead,” the man continued. “When the news spread, someone claimed to have seen a black-winged imp with a bloody mouth fly out the door. My customers fled and now rumor is rife that my inn has been taken over by the Prince of Darkness.” The innkeeper waved at the crowd outside. “My trade suffers! The ale I bought turns stale, and the stew grows rancid. Those men outside should be drinking and eating in here.” He blinked, then began to grin at Thomas with new hope shining in his eyes. “Could you do an exorcism to scare the Fiend away, Brother? Done while the whole village could watch? Doesn’t the Devil flee in a great puff of smoke, or something like that, to prove he’s left?”
“Uncle, I think we might show some concern for the safety of our crowner—and the whore as well,” Signy said through clenched teeth.
The innkeeper’s expression did not suggest he was regaining much interest in either.
“Has anyone called for his sergeant?” Thomas asked.
The innkeeper shrugged and looked at his niece.
“Not yet,” Signy said. “Ralf ran upstairs as soon as he heard a scream. He has not come down or asked us to do anything yet.”
“He must be safe enough,” the innkeeper added. “I may have heard some curses but haven’t yet smelt burnt flesh.”
“Then I shall join him,” Thomas said, looking up at the loft.
Forsaken Soul Page 3
