After seven years, Gavin had grown tired of fighting, tired of killing. He’d had no interest in finding employment in another endless, futile war. He’d had enough of innocent people dying. He’d returned home to Scotland to purchase a modest and remote estate. There he’d hoped to settle down, raise his daughter, and with God’s blessing find a new wife to give him more children.
In a quiet voice, he told Isabella what they must do.
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, HIS black armor polished so that it gleamed in the sun and his black warhorse lifting him above the head of his squire, who rode upon a mule, Sir Gavin Dunnett once again entered Bonville Keep. This time the steward came out to greet him with a wary look upon his face.
“We are in mourning here,” he announced. “We cannot offer hospitality.”
“And you are?”
“He is Michael Barlow, Lady Bonville’s former steward,” another voice interrupted. “Now that she is dead, I am the one who will decide who is welcome here.”
Although Gavin recognized the speaker as James Maplett, husband to Marion Bonville, he inquired as to his identity. When he received the answer he expected, he asked by what authority James laid claim to the castle.
“I am the husband of the eldest of Lord Bonville’s heiresses.”
“Is that all it takes, then? To be the eldest daughter’s husband? You would yield your authority to the husband of an older sister?”
Caught off guard by the question, Maplett conceded that he would. “But there are none here,” he pointed out.
“In that you are mistaken. I am Sir Gavin Dunnett. My wife, Mariotta, was older by a year than your Marion.”
The smug look on Maplett’s face was replaced by one of chagrin. Barlow gaped at Gavin in shocked disbelief.
Ignoring them both, he caught the eye of the halberdier with whom he’d supped and tossed the fellow a pouch heavy with coins. “Use that to pay back wages,” he commanded.
His generosity stilled any protests guards or servants might have made. The arrival of the rest of his men silenced belated objections from Barlow and Maplett.
Once he had control of Bonville Keep, Gavin closeted himself with his daughter, who had done as he bade her in the wee hours of the morning and returned to her bed, saying nothing to anyone of her father’s nocturnal visit. After reassuring her that all would be well, he entrusted her to the keeping of Alison’s two younger sisters. Then he ordered Alison released from captivity and brought to him.
Gavin Dunnett reminded Alison of a caged beast as he paced back and forth in the tower chamber. At last he turned on her. “Did you kill Beatrice Bonville?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing. You have certainly profited by her death.”
“I did not kill her, either. Oh, I thought about it.” In a few pithy words, he told her of Beatrice’s claim that Isabella had died in infancy and his intent, when he’d believed that lie, to reive the castle. “I deemed it a just revenge to liberate a few of Beatrice’s favorite pieces of jewelry before coming for Isabella.”
So, Alison thought, he’d broken into the castle treasury. She did not begrudge him any of the trinkets he’d taken. Indeed, she would not have blamed him if he had killed Beatrice.
“Does it matter who stabbed my stepmother?” she asked. “I can think of no one here who mourns her passing.”
“It rests with me, as temporary caretaker of this castle, to discover who killed Lady Bonville, if only because the crowner has already been sent for. In search of the king’s share of the criminal’s estate, he’ll want someone to blame. Being English, he’d delight in finding evidence against a Scot.”
“So you propose to give me to him instead?”
“I propose that you help me discover the real killer. If you did not murder her and I did not, then it only makes sense that we work together to find the truth.” Taking Alison’s agreement for granted, he barked another question at her. “You accused Beatrice of poisoning Isabella. What did you mean?”
“Why, what I said. Two days ago, I returned early from an errand on which Beatrice had sent me and caught her dosing Isabella with a substance I did not recognize. Soon after, Isabella suffered a relapse. She became violently ill. I feared she would die, even though I treated her with nettle, and goat’s milk, and honey water, and even mustard seed. All the antidotes I knew of.”
“She first sickened hard upon her grandfather’s death, or so I have been told. Was that the result of poison, too?”
“I think so. When she fell ill, no one knew the cause, just as no one knew what caused my father’s sudden demise.”
“Do you mean to say Lord Bonville was murdered?”
“I cannot prove it. He was not a young man, nor in the best of health.”
Gavin seemed to read her mind. “You think Isabella saw something… heard something… but would she not have told you?”
“Not if Beatrice threatened her. I think she did. And then, to make sure of Isabella’s silence, she tried to kill her, too. There is henbane missing from the stillroom.”
“A poison?”
“Aye. Oh, there was reason for it to be there. My father suffered from gout. Henbane leaves, stamped with populeon ointment, are used in its treatment. But the juice, if enough be taken internally, can kill in a matter of minutes.”
“A dangerous poison, then.”
“Aye. Just smelling the flowers can make one drowsy. A small dose cures insomnia. A larger one causes an unquiet sleep that ends in death.” She did not add that some superstitious folk believed the plant could also be used as a love charm—if it were gathered in the early morning by a naked man standing on one foot.
“Did you tell anyone of your suspicions?”
“Only my sisters.”
“Which sisters?”
“The two who are younger than I am. I was born tenth, Tertia eleventh, and Ysende twelfth.”
“The three Beatrice meant to send to Holystone to be nuns.”
Alison bristled. “If you think that would be reason enough for one of us to kill her—”
“Can you account for their whereabouts every minute of last night? For that matter, can you prove you were here with Isabella when Beatrice was murdered?”
Alison was unable to school her features in time. One look at the expression on her face and his suspicions about her returned. “What is it you have not told me, Alison?”
“Nothing to do with murder.” She sighed. Better Gavin hear the truth from her than wonder if she’d committed a much greater crime. “I searched my stepmother’s chamber while she was still at supper. I was looking for the missing container of poison. I found nothing. I dreaded the morrow—today—when Beatrice would take me to task for my actions, but I did not kill her to prevent being scolded.”
“How would she know you’d been in her chamber?”
“Christiana saw me creeping away.”
“Christiana?”
“Beatrice’s waiting gentlewoman. I was certain she would tell Beatrice, but I meant to brazen it out. It is not as if I stole anything.” She sent him a pointed look. “But then you came, and I did not want to lose Isabella, and I saw a chance to get away from Beatrice’s wrath, besides.”
“Or a chance to escape punishment.”
It hurt to think he still did not trust her. And angered her. Hands on her hips, Alison glared at her accuser. “Ask Christiana. She can swear nobody was in Beatrice’s chamber, dead or alive, when I left it.”
Where else, she wondered suddenly, had Gavin gone before he came to the north tower for Isabella? He’d been in the great hall, disguised as a Benedictine monk. That much she’d surmised. But that left several hours unaccounted for. Could Gavin have killed Beatrice? The possibility turned her almost as cold as her fear that he would continue to suspect her of the crime.
Gavin heaved a gusty sigh. “I believe you, Alison. I need no confirmation. Let us go, together, and talk to Isabella.”
IN THE INNER CHAMBER in which his da
ughter had slept before her banishment to the north tower, a room she’d shared with Lord Bonville’s three unmarried daughters, Tertia and Ysende kept their niece company. So did Christiana Talbot. Gavin did not notice her at first. It was easy to overlook the plain-faced waiting gentlewoman when she was in the company of a flock of tall, slender, fair-haired Bonvilles.
“This chamber adjoins the one where Beatrice was struck down,” he said to Alison’s sisters. “Did you hear anything?”
“We slept soundly,” one of the sisters told him. They looked too much alike for him to tell which one she was.
“I heard naught until Christiana screamed,” the other said.
“You found the body?” He turned to stare at the gentlewoman. His intense gaze seemed to fluster her.
Before he could pose his next question, Alison asked one of her own. “Did you see anyone near Beatrice’s chamber after I left it?”
“Only Lady Bonville herself,” Christiana replied. “She’d ordered me to sleep on the truckle bed, in case she wanted something fetched in the night.”
Gavin lowered his voice in deference to his daughter’s presence, although the child seemed intent on a piece of embroidery and was paying no attention to their conversation. “She slept alone?”
“Aye, Sir Gavin. For once.”
Gavin frowned. “But if you were in the room, how did the killer reach her without waking you?”
“I went out to use the privy,” Christiana mumbled. “I was only gone a few minutes. When I came back, I noticed that the bedcurtains were askew. Then I saw the blood.”
“Could one of her lovers have killed her? For jealousy? For revenge? Because she rejected him?”
“She never rejected anyone,” Alison muttered.
Christina looked discomfited, but after a moment her face brightened. “I have remembered something! She did have a falling-out with one of them. A Scots emissary visited here a month ago. Lady Bonville seemed most taken with him at first, but he left in anger.”
Another lover? “Before or after Lord Bonville’s death?”
“He left the day after. But he might have come back!”
Clearly, she hoped he had. Better, to her mind, that the killer be an outsider.
“I thank you for this intelligence, mistress. It may be most significant.”
Christiana bobbed a curtsy and fled the chamber.
Gavin let her go, but he could not so easily dismiss the disturbing possibility she had raised. If Bonville’s death, or Beatrice’s, had been motivated by some political intrigue between England and Scotland, then he might never discover the truth.
After a few more questions, which yielded no new information, Gavin sent Alison’s sisters away. Then, in a gentle, coaxing voice, he spoke to his daughter. “Lady Bonville can no longer harm you, Isabella,” he said. “She is dead.”
The child looked up from her embroidery, her small, pinched face too somber for her years. “Dead? Like Grandfather?”
He nodded.
“Is the man dead, too?”
“What man, Isabella?”
Although she stabbed her needle into the cloth with more force than necessary, Isabella did not answer. She was stitching a rose, Gavin saw, in blood red silk.
Alison knelt beside the girl’s low stool. “Your father speaks true, sweeting. No one will hurt you ever again. But you must tell us everything you know.”
A single tear dropped onto the fabric. “I wanted to keep Grandfather company.”
Gavin settled himself on the floor, tailor-fashion, the better to hear his daughter’s soft-spoken words. With one hand, he reached out to her. The other sought Alison’s fingers until, with the kneeling woman and the seated child, he had formed a circle. He could not be certain how the others felt, but the contact rendered him calmer and more hopeful.
“You did nothing wrong, Isabella,” he said.
“Lady Bonville told me to stay away.”
“She banned you from your grandfather’s sickroom?”
Isabella nodded.
“And you disobeyed?” Alison dried Isabella’s tears.
“Yes.”
“Tell us, sweeting. What happened then?”
With a final sniff, Isabella glanced at Gavin, then set aside her embroidery and turned to her aunt to confess. “I crept back to sit with him. He did not wake up, but I think he knew I was there.”
“I am sure that comforted him,” Alison said.
“Then I heard someone coming, so I hid myself behind the screen.”
“What screen?” Gavin asked.
“It conceals the close stool,” Alison told him. “Go on, Isabella. What did you hear?”
“Lady Bonville. She said—” Isabella broke off and looked about to weep again.
“What did she say?” Alison now held both of Isabella’s hands in hers. Their eyes were locked.
“Hold him down while I make him swallow it.”
Alison’s gaze shifted to meet Gavin’s, then away. Even though they had suspected as much, it was a shock to hear Beatrice’s guilt so clearly revealed. He could only imagine how his daughter had felt.
“Did the man say anything?” Gavin hated to force Isabella to go on reliving that terrible day, but there was no choice. Beatrice might be dead, but her accomplice was not.
“I heard noises,” Isabella whispered. “Choking and sputtering.”
Her grandfather’s death throes.
“And the man? Did he say anything when the noises stopped?”
“He said all this would be his now that Bonville was dead.”
“Did you recognize his voice? Think, Isabella. Had you ever heard it before?”
“He whispered.”
Alison wrapped the girl tight in an embrace. It seemed the most natural thing in the world for Gavin to shift his position so that he, too, could fling one comforting arm around their shoulders. Neither of them objected. Alison even managed a faint smile of approval.
“What happened after Beatrice and the man left?” he asked.
Isabella’s eyes filled once more. “I came out of hiding and I saw him. Dead.” A choked sob all but obscured the word. “I ran away, back to mine own chamber, but she saw me.”
“Beatrice saw you leave the room?”
“She caught me and shook me till my teeth rattled. She said if I ever said a word about what went on in Grandfather’s chamber, she’d kill me. I promised not to tell anyone, ever.” Isabella turned wide, confused eyes to Gavin. “Why did she still hurt me when I promised not to tell?”
If Beatrice had not been dead already, Gavin thought, he’d kill her now for what she’d done to his daughter. He rose stiffly when Isabella dissolved once more into tears, and went to stand by the chamber window, while Alison calmed her.
He was still there some time later when, exhausted by her weeping, Isabella finally fell asleep.
“She is not yet out of danger,” Alison whispered as she came up beside him.
“Aye. It stands to reason that the same person who helped Beatrice murder Lord Bonville also killed Beatrice.”
“A falling-out among criminals?”
He nodded. “And if he knows what Isabella overheard, if he believes there is any chance she can identify him, he will try to silence her.”
“Then we must discover who he is,” Alison said. “One of Beatrice’s recent lovers, that much seems certain. That narrows the field to three.”
“Two, unless you think the Scots emissary returned to the castle in disguise.”
She sent him a speaking glance. If Gavin had done so, someone else could have. Aloud, she asked, “Which one seems more likely? Michael Barlow or James Maplett?”
“Barlow wanted to marry Beatrice. It is not unheard-of for a steward to wed his… mistress. In that way he’d have gained power and, perhaps, wealth. All this would be his. But if that was his goal, why kill her? With Beatrice dead, he’d have nothing.”
“A lover’s quarrel?” Alison suggested. “A crime of p
assion?”
“Maplett had a better motive. He expected by Beatrice’s death to gain the Bonville estates, by virtue of being the husband of your sister Marion. But any fool should have known his reasoning was faulty. He is no more the Bonville heir than I am.”
Alison looked thoughtful, but she had no more to contribute. She went off to question the servants while Gavin talked to the Bonville men-at-arms.
Murder Most Medieval Page 22
