Thomas’s father had fled before the Inquisition, seeking sanctuary with the family he had left behind when he had joined the Templars. Thomas remembered the night they came for him. His father had looked scared then. Scared for them. And scared for himself. The next time Thomas had seen him, he was emaciated, scarcely alive, with the signs of torture on his body, though that was always denied.
“Of course, were you to help me and thereby demonstrate your devotion to the Church, all lingering doubts and past actions might be expunged. I speak of your own actions, naturally. Your father shall forever live in infamy.”
The Dominican turned his attention back to Cecily. “You see, my lady, you were quite wrong to suggest when we first met that the Inquisition has no power in England. Your young friend here can tell you otherwise. The Church and God’s judgment know no bounds. I am sure you had no notion of Thomas’s rather interesting heritage. Nevertheless, you should be careful with whom you associate, lest you sully your own good reputation.”
He gave Thomas a final self-satisfied smirk.
“I had really hoped to speak with Lady Isabella today, but it appears she is still unwell, so I shall leave you two for now—the would-be herbalist, and the heretic’s son.” He clucked his tongue. “And Thomas, should you uncover anything of use in your meanderings, I trust you will inform me at once. I think it would be for the best.”
* * *
“It seems there is much more to you than you would have had me believe,” Cecily whispered to Thomas as they watched the Dominican head back to the courtyard. “Oh, never fear—I shall not make you any more uncomfortable by pressing you on the matter.
“He is a most wretched man,” she added more loudly once the Dominican was out of sight. “But you must have wished to speak with me. Is it about your investigation, or”—she paused meaningfully—“was there something else perhaps?”
Thomas was not sure, but he sensed Cecily was toying with him and could swear he saw the corners of her eyes wrinkle in mirth. Why had he come here anyway? Thomas had asked himself the same question.
“I suspect there is little that goes on hereabouts that escapes your attention, my lady. You certainly have your father’s trust and seem to be familiar with the affairs of his estate.”
Cecily inclined her head by way of agreement and in acknowledgment of the tacit compliment.
“I felt sure you might be able to shed some light on what happened to Roger Lacy.”
Was that true? Did he really believe so, or was it just an excuse to speak with her again? He had to admit that, as much as he had been inclined to dislike her, he had thought of Cecily often enough since their first chance encounter. Her soft blue eyes, the red of her lips against her pale skin, the way a loose lock of hair had fallen so teasingly about her temple. She may even have been so bold as to venture into his previous night’s dream. Thomas coughed and recollected himself.
“I understand he had business here at the manor. Did you meet him? Do you know why he was here?”
“Oh yes,” she said, closing her eyes a moment in thought. “What you say is true. Lacy did visit here, but I did not speak with him. He asked specifically for an audience with my father’s wife.”
My father’s wife. Thomas found it curious that Cecily chose not to mention Isabella by name.
“Do you know what they discussed?”
“No, but she did come to my father shortly after, asking about a position for Lacy. She was quite insistent. Petulant even. It surprised me as he looked to be such a shabby thing, but she was adamant that he had been an excellent steward on her father’s estate. Were it so, I have to wonder why he had fallen on such hard times.”
Thomas was certain now. There was no love lost between the two ladies of the house.
Cecily eyed him curiously. “Why do you ask? Surely you do not think someone here could have been involved in his death?”
“Of course not. I just wanted to find out all I could about him. I suppose I too should speak with Lady Isabella.”
Cecily looked dubious. “My father’s wife is unwell, and I think an audience is unlikely at present. She often seems so, however, and sometimes keeps to her chambers for days. Should you speak with her, you may also find her to be somewhat … distracted.” She smiled. “But you did not come here to listen to our family’s gossip.”
“Perhaps I shall return tomorrow, then, and hope to find her in better health.”
“Perhaps,” Cecily allowed, clearly doubting there would be any improvement.
They were quiet for a moment. Thomas desperately dredged his mind for another topic that might extend their conversation. Cecily saved him the bother.
“Shall I walk you to the courtyard? It is rare for me to receive visitors, especially interesting ones.”
She hefted her basket, took his arm, and they fell naturally in step together. It felt easy, comfortable.
“You must tell me all the news, Thomas. Living out here, we are always the last to know anything. I rarely find myself in Lincoln, or any other great city for that matter. We are quite sheltered here. I suppose we should be grateful, as it kept us safe during the rebellion. Nobody bothered us.”
“Your father did not cast his lot for either side?”
Cecily gripped Thomas’s arm just a little more firmly and drew just a little bit closer—close enough for him to feel the swish of her skirts against his thigh and smell the scent of her perfume, more pleasing to him than that of the flowers in her basket.
“I would say that my father had sympathy for the rebels’ cause, but he did not desert the king. Of course, we did not ride to Edward’s side either. It has put us in a difficult position now. Once Despenser has done with those who backed Lancaster, I do wonder whether he will turn his attention to those who did not aid the king. Despenser grows bolder by the day. Tell me, is there any news of Mortimer? I suppose he is the leader of the rebels now that Lancaster is dead.”
“Nobody has heard from him since he escaped the Tower. It is believed he is sheltering in France, plotting a return. Or at least that is the story I heard.”
And since he heard it from the lips of the Bishop of Lincoln, no less, Thomas suspected the rumor to be true, though he did not say so.
“He still has supporters then.”
Thomas did not sense that Cecily intended this as a question, and with the courtyard drawing annoyingly close, he chose to concentrate on ambling as slowly as was humanly possible, certainly slower than was acceptable in polite society. Cecily did not seem to object.
“And how goes the war with France?”
“Poorly, my lady. The English garrisons were inadequately manned and unprepared for conflict,” Thomas explained. “The French have already seized Angenais and have cut off Bordeaux. If reinforcements are not sent soon, the city could even fall. I believe the king plans to raise another army and lead it to Gascony.”
“He will lead it himself?” she repeated, surprised.
“So he has said.”
Cecily nodded thoughtfully. “It is said that the king is purging his court of French interests and has even seized the queen’s own lands in retaliation. Is that true?”
Queen Isabella was the daughter of the late King Philip of France. Edward had married her at the behest of his father when she was only twelve years old, and there was rumored to be little affection between them. Cecily was venturing into exactly the kind of political waters Thomas tried to avoid.
“Purging is a strong word, my lady. For certain, King Edward has responded to French aggression by seizing such of France’s property as he might. It is true he has seized the queen’s property. And you are not quite so ill-informed as you would have me believe, Lady Cecily,” said Thomas with a smile. “I think that I am not the only one here with secrets.”
She returned his smile, conceding nothing.
Cecily halted their progress and looked up at his face, her eyes somehow managing to catch and reflect even the faint light of the overc
ast autumn day in a strikingly azure shade of blue. “Forgive me,” she said. “This is a terribly forward question, but you mentioned that you consider no place your home. Am I to understand then that you have no family, no wife?”
“I was married once.”
“But no longer? Is it too forward of me to ask what happened?”
Thomas’s mind flashed back for a moment to a lake, a clearing in the woods, torn clothing, blood on the ground.
“She was murdered,” he said quietly, his eyes distant.
He looked back up to see Cecily studying him intensely.
“I am so sorry,” she said and meant it. “I should not have asked. It was inconsiderate of me. I was being far too inquisitive, and now I have caused you distress.”
“You were not to know, and it was a long time ago now.”
“Did you find the man?”
“Not yet. But I shall one day.”
Thomas wondered if he still believed that to be true. He had spent almost all that was left of his fortune in vain pursuit of the truth and was no closer now than the moment he had found his wife’s body.
Cecily touched his arm again—a small gesture to show that she understood his grief and sensed his doubt.
“You have suffered much, I think. What was it that the chaplain said the other day? ‘Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.’ I grieve with you, Thomas, but you should not despair of bringing her justice. I am confident that in time that you shall do so, however long it takes.”
By now they had reached the entrance to the courtyard, and Cecily released Thomas’s arm. He felt the loss instantly.
“Well, I shall let you be about your business, Thomas. Thank you for keeping me company, and I hope you will come visit me again when we are both more at leisure.”
Thomas smiled and, determined for once not to appear boorish, offered a genteel bow. For all the Dominican’s insults, Thomas could not regret the afternoon’s experience.
* * *
As for Cecily, she wanted to know more about this interesting young man who seemed to have such a hold on her father. Much more. She watched him cross the courtyard and mount his horse. He did ride well, like a man accustomed to the saddle, not like a yeoman at all. She flushed as her mind turned to quite inappropriate thoughts.
Cecily reached into her basket and lifted an anemone blossom to her nose. The old wretch was right; it really had no scent, but it was a pretty flower, and pretty little flowers often had the most surprising properties. The anemone was quite useful in the right doses as a stimulant. Like most plants with beneficial medicinal properties, however, in the wrong dose it could be quite deadly and could induce a heart failure, especially in someone more elderly. Friar Justus was not so learned as he supposed.
She felt the first drop of the rain that had been threatening all day. The storm was coming, and she should seek shelter. On horse, Thomas would avoid the worst of the rain. The Dominican, however, was sure to be caught in its midst. It was a long walk to the priory, and he might well be soaked to the skin by the time he arrived. Cecily smiled. There, at any rate, was something to be pleased about. A sudden streak of lightning forked across the sky, followed almost instantly by the low rumbling of thunder. Even better!
CHAPTER 11
Friar Justus was growing annoyed. He was annoyed, first, at Guy. The man was still sulking at being tossed out of the maid’s interview. It was really quite tiresome. This time Justus allowed him to remain in the room. Not because he was in any way influenced by Guy’s behavior, but because this was one of those occasions when his presence might serve to focus the subject’s mind. So, the ruffian lounged by the door, arse on a table, one foot perched up on a stool, picking away at the wooden doorframe with that ghastly knife of his. He was not big like the constable, but tall and rangy, and he simply oozed threat. Nobody seeing him could doubt the danger he posed, and it was clear nobody was leaving the room until the Dominican was done with his business.
Justus sighed loudly and sat down on the stool. The man facing him across the table was the second reason for his bad humor. Adam was an ugly, dull-seeming character. He was dressed in a disgusting smock that might once have been white but was now a dirty brown and looked like it might well have been used to wipe a giant sow’s backside. He sat there quietly, eyeing Justus with a witless expression, his breath whistling through his flat nose, his elbows spread out wide on the trestle table, and a beaker of the piss, which they laughingly called ale hereabouts, clutched in his grubby hand.
Justus sighed again. They had been at it for hours now, and he was getting nowhere.
“Let us go over this one more time, Adam.” He tried to sound genial. “Do you recall the night of the murder?”
“Oh, aye, I do. A terrible thing to be sure, but like I already said, I don’t remember nothing special-like.”
At first Justus had thought to threaten the man. Guy had stalked the room, looming over them, scowling impressively, but the dullard seemed completely unconcerned and had barely given him a second glance. It was time for a different approach.
“I find that hard to believe, Adam. His Grace, the Archbishop of Canterbury, himself is greatly disturbed. I doubt he will credit that those about saw and heard nothing of note. I should hate to see you excommunicated as a heretic sympathizer. Cut off from God’s mercy. Denied the comfort of the holy sacraments. Forbidden confession—or even to enter a church.”
The Church was so intertwined in their lives that the very suggestion of excommunication was horrible and unthinkable to the rustics. But the dullard did not seem to understand at all.
“Me either, Father. That would be horrible, to be sure. But I don’t know as how that means I done saw anything.”
What kind of language was the fool speaking? It was as though the man had just opened his mouth and vomited words out onto the table, expecting Justus to pick through the disgusting stew to find some kind of sense. English was just one of several languages Justus had mastered, and was by some margin his least favorite. He thoroughly disliked its guttural sounds. The local dialect was particularly grating, a soft burr emphasizing every other word. People hereabouts seemed to have no sense of grammar, and their language was replete with silly little sayings that Justus supposed were intended to impart some sort of homespun wisdom but that in truth were utterly devoid of meaning. As if on cue, the dullard rapped the table with his knuckles.
“But as I always say, a blind cock is as like to find himself in a fox’s gob as up a hen’s arse.”
Dear God! What on earth was he talking about?
Justus clenched his staff in a white-knuckled fist, pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, and took a calming breath. He would have to give up soon. If nothing else, he needed some fresh air. He could barely stand the smell of shit emanating from Adam’s filth-covered clogs. Maybe he should just have Guy thrash him, then bring him back in and see if he changed his tune. No, that was too risky. De Bray had been very insistent about not harming his people. For the time being, Justus needed to tread carefully.
“I am sure you saw something,” he coaxed. “A strange light, maybe, or an unusual creature. Something untoward. Or perhaps you heard chanting from the direction of the church?”
Adam pursed his lips, a pained expression on his face, as if he were trying to scrape the memory from inside his head. “No. No, I think I would remember something like that.”
“I feel sure you must. Any good Christian would have felt something strange afoot that night.”
Adam simply shook his head and began picking at the scabby remnant of a pink rash, a virulent case of Saint Anthony’s fire that had spread across the side of his nose and halfway up his left cheek.
It was in that moment that Justus began to suspect there was something terribly forced about Adam’s ostensible nonchalance, and it occurred to him that the man might not be quite as stupid as he appeared.
“You know, Adam, in aiding my inves
tigation you would place yourself beyond suspicion. You would also be helping the Church. We would naturally be grateful for your efforts, and perhaps some small reward would be in order.”
The scab picking stopped, and Adam leaned forward, assaulting the friar with breath laden with ale and pottage. Justus felt his stomach lurch but swallowed slowly and somehow managed to maintain a companionable smile.
“Exactly how grateful do you think the Church would be?” He nodded at his right hand, the thumb and fingers of which were rubbing together meaningfully.
Could he be any cruder?
Justus forced himself to lean forward and whisper in an equally conspiratorial manner, though his stomach lurched again and he felt his gorge rising. The things he had to endure in the service of the Lord!
“Very. Grateful. You would not regret your assistance. There would be some gratitude now and more to come.”
He spirited a small leather purse from his robes and slid it discretely across the table, pushing it slowly toward Adam’s left hand. Adam glanced down and scooped the purse into his lap.
“Mayhap I did see something after all.” He tapped the side of his nose with a well-chewed fingernail and gave Justus an exaggerated wink.
“I was sure you must have,” encouraged Justus. “Perhaps, for instance, Roger Lacy mentioned to you that he feared something amiss, that he was being followed or that he was under a spell.”
“Aye perhaps he did at that. He was nattering away to himself in the alehouse. I am sure I might have heard him say something of the kind, and it would be no surprise if nobody else could make sense of it.”
“Perhaps you also noticed something strange near the church.”
Those Who Go by Night Page 11
