Faucon nodded to acknowledge the reeve's words. "I see that you're convinced. But as I said, it's my duty as your new Coronarius and Keeper of the Pleas, to discern the truth behind an unnatural death. Only when I prove to myself who committed the deed will I present that one's name to the jury for confirmation."
"You don't present the name," Aldo corrected instantly. "It has always been my right– the right of the village reeve or headman to present the name to the jury of the hundred when we jurors consider a murder or other crime."
"So it may have been, but no longer. It is now my duty," Faucon replied, offering this as if it had been ordained by the same royal councillors who had created his position out of whole cloth at Michaelmas court last. In all truth, those bishops and barons had given their new Coronarii no instructions at all about the performance of their duties. But Aldo didn't know that, and this was one duty Faucon had claimed for himself and meant to keep.
"Sir, this cannot be," the reeve protested again, sounding shocked to his core. "Not once has our sheriff, or the bishop who was sheriff before him, ever spoken the name to the jury in this hundred, at least not since my twelfth year, when I was bound to our jury. They've always allowed us to do so, thus confirming it as our right.
"For good reason," Aldo continued. "Who knows better than I what any man in Mancetter might be capable of? I know every man's character and what he might do. But more importantly, I know what a man would never do. How can you, a stranger to us in Mancetter, know anything like that about us?"
This wasn't the first time Faucon had met resistance over this point. "I can't and don't expect to know anything about you or your folk," he assured the man. "Nor do I forbid you from speaking a name. Indeed, should you disagree with the name I offer, I insist that you step forward and accuse the one you believe guilty of the deed. However, know that you must do more than shout out a man's name. You must be able to prove to me, as well as to the rest of the jurors, why I'm mistaken about the one I accuse. If you can do that to my satisfaction, you have my word that my mind will be changed and I will instruct the jury to confirm your name."
"But sir, that isn't how it's done," Aldo cried, sounding far more upset over losing what to him was a cherished bit of ritual than relinquishing control of Dickie's corpse.
"Aldo," said the old man, stepping forward to rest his hand on the taller man's shoulder, "we all know Raymond killed his son. If we know it, then if this knight speaks to us, he'll soon know it as well. Let him do his duty. After all, this was a horrible deed and a boy is dead long before his time. Surely, that makes Dickie's death deserving of such scrutiny."
Aldo jerked free of the oldster's touch. "Heyward, darkness has fallen," he said sharply to the oldster. "Be off for home. Aye, we all of us must return to our own families and fires," he told the rest.
Like a troop released from duty by their sergeant, the men turned and departed. The cowards at the corner of the old woman's cottage did the same, turning their backs to their hiding place as they started for the track and their homes. Much to Faucon's surprise, Aldo also turned to depart.
"Reeve, I thought you were staying at the church with us," he called after the man.
Aldo looked over his shoulder at his Crowner. "I'll return with those neighbors who care to join me once I've settled my house for the night. If Father Godin cannot provide you with an adequate meal, send him to me and I'll see to your comfort." There was nothing gracious about his offer.
Rather than enter the church, Faucon remained on the porch, knowing that Waddard would be making his way here shortly. Watching the reeve disappear into the darkness, Faucon again breathed out tension. He was surprised to see his breath cloud in the air before him. He hadn't noticed the rising chill, not dressed as he was, in full armor under a heavy cloak.
The instant Aldo was past the far edge of the old woman's cottage, her door opened. A feeble, flickering rectangle of light cut into the darkness, bright enough to halo the potter and his daughter as they exited. The two had barely cleared the threshold before the door closed behind them. Night dropped over their shoulders like a heavy cloak, while the silvery light of a quarter-moon high above them made their faces gleam.
Waddard looked toward the church. When he saw his Crowner, he began limping along the edge of the track toward the churchyard gate. "Sir, have you seen my wife?" he called as he came, sounding beyond exhausted.
"Not since she entered your church. Come, we'll find her together," Faucon invited, then turned to face the nave wall of the church behind him.
The door stood open, just as Will had left it when he'd followed Edmund into the sanctuary. Impenetrable darkness filled the arched opening, unbroken by so much as a glimmer of light. That turned the doorway into more hellmouth than godly entrance.
A frisson of fear crawled up Faucon's spine as his imagination offered him the image of every corpse he'd recently seen, struggling to rise on its own. Then with his next breath, his eyes adjusted and solid darkness resolved into something with more depth and texture. Enough starlight spilled through the doorway to show him the church had a tiled floor, and that there appeared to be three different colors of tiles. The ones that seemed almost black would surely be dark green in daylight, while the grayed squares might be yellow. The final color was definitely white.
From the far end of the sanctuary, a long horizontal white swath moved toward him. His heart quirked, then he cursed himself for a coward and a fool. Squinting made the shape stand still. As it steadied, he recognized the altar table covered with a white cloth. With that, the rest of the small church resolved out of the dimness.
There was nothing along either of the long walls to indicate stations of the cross. However, there were two equidistant lines of wooden posts cutting through the sanctuary. They divided the central open space— the area where the parishioners stood to hear their service— into thirds.
Faucon frowned at the posts. They represented a style of construction used mainly for barns. Then again, given its small size, the church looked more barn than holy structure. That had him agreeing with Waddard. Mancetter's church was too small and too humble for the community it served.
Behind him, the uneven scrape of Waddard's shoes and thud of his crutch across the porch floor marked the man's progress toward his Crowner and the church door. His daughter followed him, moving with a lighter step. As the potter stopped beside Faucon, his girl halted slightly behind her sire.
"The church is yet dark," Waddard said in surprise. "Where is Father Godin?"
"I thought he was in the church," Faucon replied without moving his gaze from the doorway. "He entered ahead of my clerk and no one has exited."
Only then did Faucon recognize it wasn't the thick darkness that unnerved him; it was the complete lack of movement in the sanctuary. Where were Juliana and Father Godin, Brother Edmund and Will? Not even the dead boy moved. Yet.
"Where is everyone?" he muttered to himself.
"Most likely they're all at Father Berold's home," Waddard replied, also staring into the night-cloaked and quiet structure. "For certain that's where Father Godin went after he opened the door for you. Any time he departs Mancetter, he must always hurry home upon his return to assure his wife that all is well and he is safe."
Faucon blinked as he grasped the full meaning of what the commoner said. "The church has a second door?"
Waddard nodded. "Aye, in the sacristy, or rather in the lean-to that serves our church as a sacristy. The door into the lean-to is there, behind the altar." He pointed toward the back left corner of the church.
"Does that second door also have a lock like the one out here?" Faucon asked.
"Nay, only a bar. But a bar is enough for that door if the straps out here are joined." Waddard gave a wave of his hand to indicate the nave door. "As you saw, sir, with that lock in place out here, no one can enter without the key."
That was a sensible enough statement, except for the fact that churches rarely locked all their doo
rs. Nor did Faucon know of any church that sought to prevent folk— alive or dead— from entering by way of the sort of contrivance Mancetter's priest employed. Tucking his gloves into his sword belt, he pulled the heavy door close to him and found the strap fastened above the handle.
It was too dark to see it properly, but his fingers told him it was made of a thin strip of crudely-hammered metal about as wide as his palm. Although the hole that accommodated the lock shank was burred as if only recently cut, rust had formed on both the strap and the metal pins that fastened it to the door. That said the strap had been on the door far longer than Dickie had been dead.
"Was it Father Godin or Father Berold who installed this contraption on your door? Is its purpose to solely keep Raymond from entering the church?" Faucon asked Waddard, again pushing the door wide.
"Neither priest put those there. It was Aldo who created the straps. Nor was keeping Raymond out of the church his purpose for putting them there," the potter replied with another tired sigh. "That's because between his first visit on my wedding night, until this past year, Raymond has returned only every so often, coming perhaps once or twice a year, and content to rattle our latch just enough to disturb me at my rest.
"Despite that, Aldo was convinced that the very idea of a walking corpse on our track was the reason for Father Berold's strange madness, especially because his behavior began the day after one of Raymond's annual visits. Aldo was equally as certain that, if he could make our priest feel safe again, Father Berold would recover. So Aldo hammered out these straps and attached them to the door, borrowing the lock that Father Berold used to close the chest in which he stores his vestments, the holy chalice, and such like.
"Aldo and his contraptions and systems," Waddard scoffed as he shook his head. "He's forever changing the way we do things, always telling us that if we use his method, our chores and tasks will be finished faster or done more easily. He's ever certain his newest idea will be the solution to all our problems, just like that." The potter lifted his free hand and snapped his fingers.
Then he adjusted his crutch under his arm so he could lean more heavily on it as he continued. "That's because Aldo invests far too much faith in his hands and head, and not enough in listening to what the rest of us know. I told him two years ago— and I'd say the same now today if asked— that our priest was already too far gone to ever regain what he'd lost. I, and those who believed the same, have since been proved right. Father Berold only steadily worsens."
Faucon's brows rose as he considered that. "What of Father Godin? Does he put that lock through the straps every night to protect your church?"
"Him? Nay, not at all. Indeed, he's refused to use that lock until today, only doing so to protect Dickie's body from my neighbors," Waddard replied. "From the moment of Father Godin's arrival here, he's steadfastly insisted that the folk of Mancetter must have access to our sanctuary and our Lord at any hour."
The potter shot a sidelong glance at his Crowner before again aiming his gaze into the darkened church. "Doesn't that just make him as mad as Father Berold? At least about this issue. We've all told him that there's not one of us who'd ever visit the church after nightfall. Who among us wants to open this door and find Raymond waiting inside the church for us? Who wants to meet him along the track as we walk to and from the church?"
"Instead, Father Godin allows Raymond to come and go as he pleases?" Faucon asked, remembering how the Northern priest had suggested that he'd encountered Raymond more than once.
"Hardly so. After we convinced Father Godin that his prayers weren't enough protection for us, he began securing the door every night. Rather than use the lock, he instead threads a length of rope through the holes in the straps then ties it in a simple knot. He's told us that this is as good as that lock. He's seen Raymond's decrepit hands. He says that the corpse could never untangle that knot with his bony fingers.
"We didn't believe him at first," Waddard continued, "but thus far his trick works. Father Godin says Raymond hasn't entered since he began using the rope.
"Well, Raymond hasn't entered the church, but that knot can't stop him from yanking and pulling on the handle. Of late, Raymond has grown bolder. When the door frustrates him, he pounds on it, moaning as he does. A few times he's even walked behind the church to where Father Berold's house stands and pounds on that door as well."
From behind Waddard his daughter made an impatient sound. She started around her father, but in the dark her foot found the toe of her sire's crutch. As his support shifted, Waddard caught her by the shoulder, both to steady himself and stop his daughter.
"Where do you go, Jilly?" he asked her.
Wearing a dark blanket around her like a cloak, she looked up at her father. Moonlight pooled on her round face and made her blue gown glow a pale gray where her wrap didn't cover it. "Papa, the little ones are home with only Evie to tend them." Although her voice was high and girlish, there was a maturity to her tone that belied her age. "Stay here. Sit on the porch and rest. I'll find Mama and bring her to you."
Waddard gasped. "You will not! You'll not enter the church, not by yourself and not until Father Godin brings light to drive away the dark." This was more cry than command.
Between moon and stars there was just enough light for Faucon to see the irritation that flashed across the child's unguarded expression. "Papa, you can't possibly think Raymond could be in there now?! Were we not watching from Grandmama's house while Aldo stood before this very porch? Has this knight not been in front of our church door since the sun set?" Her tone and manner made her sound far bolder than her father.
"But even if Raymond were in there, I'd still enter," the child continued, almost scolding now. "Have you not always told me that Raymond walks more slowly than a merchant's wagon rolls? If that's so, then I can have no reason to fear him, not when all I need do to save myself is to walk faster than he does and not fall."
With that, she pushed her father's hand off her shoulder and strode into the church. "Mama, it's Jilly. Where are you?" she called as she went. If Juliana was within hearing distance, she made no reply.
Faucon followed the child into the structure, making his way up through the central area framed by those roof supports. Waddard followed, the tired huff of his breath and the achingly slow tap of the man's crutch echoing forward. Ahead of Faucon the girl's skirts rustled softly as she walked, the leather soles of her shoes scraping lightly across the tile.
For the second time, the far-too-still sanctuary set Faucon's nerves to jangling. With no light to guide his feet and the girl's blue skirts just a pale blur in front of him, he moved cautiously. Then from the far left end of the structure came a familiar strained creak- the sound of leather hinges shifting as the door they supported opened.
His gaze tracked the sound, only to catch on the tiny flame that appeared in mid-air behind the altar. Jilly freed a startled gasp and halted abruptly in front of him. Faucon caught himself just before he collided with her. Neither of them moved as that bit of light drifted down toward the holy table.
Just as the scent of burning straw reached Faucon the tiny spark flared into a new circle of light, its purity and clarity speaking of a beeswax candle. Although it was but a small flame, it was illumination enough to reveal Father Godin's face and red hair, as well as the upper portion of the thick candle that played host to it.
Taking the candle, Father Godin turned his back to them. Dark reclaimed the sanctuary for an instant. The priest's footsteps said he moved toward the east wall. When he stopped, he half-turned then tilted the candle away from him. The flame jigged, then stretched toward the ceiling. With a loud sizzle and the stink of burning meat, dirty orange light burst into being. By scent alone Faucon knew the torch had been dipped in tallow.
Bathed in that oily light, Brother Edmund, his face framed by his black cowl, appeared out of the darkness. The monk then bent his torch to the side. A second brand exploded into fatty flame. This time the newborn light glittered ag
ainst the knitted metal of Will's mail tunic.
"Here be places," the Northern priest said in his odd English. Then, because he spoke in a tongue that neither of his torch bearers understood, the churchman lifted his candle high and waved his free hand in front of it to indicate spots on either side of the wall behind the altar.
While Edmund and Will carried their burning brands where Father Godin indicated, the priest returned to the altar, set the candle upon it, then retreated to that leftward wall. Again, leather hinges creaked. This time, the silhouette of a small door cut into the flickering torchlight. The priest disappeared behind the darkened panel, the hinges creaking one more time as the door closed behind him.
As moths to a flame, the newborn light spurred both Faucon and Jilly back into motion. They continued toward the altar while at the back of the church, monk and knight raised their torches. Metal brackets appeared out of the dark. So did the image of the holy corpus painted onto the east wall. It half-disappeared after the torches settled into their angled brackets and fell a little forward.
At that angle the shifting light spread outward away from the wall. The pool of illumination stretched outward until Faucon saw the full length of the altar dais and the dead boy sitting at its right corner.
Boy? Faucon eyed the corpse propped up against the leg of the holy table in surprise. Dickie was no boy. Mayhap his parents and neighbors had still called him so because of the number of his saint days or some sort of childishness on his part, but it was a man full grown that Faucon saw in the length and breadth of Dickie's corpse.
Just as Aldo had described, Dickie sat with his back straight and his legs outstretched before him. Given his present state of rigidity, his legs extended out into mid-air where they reached beyond the edge of the altar dais. The boy's head had fallen forward as he died. With his chin resting against his chest, his shoulder-length dark hair had spilled over his shoulders to hide his face and the horrified expression that had convinced Aldo that the already-dead Raymond had done the deed.
Caught Red-Handed Page 7
