The priest shrugged. "Everyone here must contribute in some way and for the past year or more, Dickie had been adamantly refusing to do so," he commented, then continued.
"Both Aldo and Juliana were set against the idea for the same reason. Like flint to iron, each time Dickie and Aldo interacted, sparks flew. But Waddard refused to heed them. Instead, he went to his neighbors, seeking their support.
"You see, Aldo's wife was barren. She died two years ago. Although our reeve presently courts Bett, who is recently widowed, she's yet to accept his offer of marriage. That means Dickie is— was Aldo's only heir."
"What?!" Faucon's eyes widened. "Raymond was Aldo's brother?"
"So he was," Godin nodded. "Because of that, every man here agreed with Waddard. I think they had no choice. To deny one heir the chance at what is his by blood is to open the door to denying any other heir that same right."
"Aldo bowed to the wishes of his neighbors. He kept the boy beside him at the forge for all of two weeks before he refused to have Dickie on his property again."
Godin glanced at the man next to him. "Then, three nights ago Aldo caught Dickie in the act of damaging his home. That's why I thought it wise to see if he'd once again visited Aldo with the intent to vandalize. When I arrived, I saw that the gate to Aldo's toft was open, so I awakened Aldo and we went to the smithy."
"How did your reeve seem when he saw you at his door?" Faucon asked swiftly.
Godin's shoulders relaxed with the question, suggesting they'd reached a subject he was free to discuss. "If you're asking if I saw guilt writ upon our smith's soul, the answer is no. Indeed, Aldo was so startled to see me that he didn't think to ask me why I was there. The instant I told him that his toft gate was open he flew out of his door, his feet bare and wearing nothing but his shirt. It was clear he thought the same as I had, that Dickie had done more damage. I followed him as he raced ahead of me into the smithy."
Faucon breathed out his disappointment and set the cup on the floor. "Tell me everything you saw when you entered the smithy. Leave out no detail."
That had Godin frowning in thought. "I don't know that I looked at much other than Dickie. He sat with his back to the anvil, looking much as he does now," the priest replied, the nod of his head meant to indicate the corpse that Brother Edmund inspected. "There was blood on the earth near his feet and on the anvil behind him, but more as if it had flowed from his broken head onto the metal rather than from the attack itself. Beyond that, nothing seemed out of place or amiss. No damage had been done to either the structure or any of Aldo's tools."
"What was Dickie wearing when you found him?" Faucon asked.
That startled the priest. He glanced in the direction of Dickie's corpses, then brought his gaze back to his Crowner. "The shirt and chausses it seems you've cut off of him."
"Were there any other garments, his shoes, a cloak perhaps, nearby?"
"No clothing that I saw," Godin offered with shake of his head.
"Was there anything near him that might have been used to do the murder? A tool, a small hammer, or perhaps a staff?" Faucon asked hopefully.
Again, the priest shook his head. "If there was, I didn't see it. To me, it looked as if Dickie had simply sat down with his back to the anvil and died."
Faucon grimaced at that, for it echoed Aldo's story. "What of the reeve? How did he seem when he found Dickie dead in his smithy?"
Godin met his gaze, then sighed. "You'll think the worst when I tell you," he said to his Crowner. "Aldo stared at the boy for a long moment. Then he shook his head and said ‘good riddance.'"
"So, why bring Dickie here instead of taking him to his home?" Faucon wanted to know.
Turning his gaze back to his folded hands, the priest said, "I had reason to suspect that a number of my flock would want to do to Dickie's body exactly what they soon demanded."
Then he looked sidelong at his Crowner. "Here is what I must add to this tale so that you have a better understanding of what happened. Everyone in Mancetter tells me that Dickie is the image of his father. This resemblance was no boon. To some here it made Dickie a constant reminder of his dead father, and Raymond's evil deeds- deeds I'm told that Raymond committed both before and after his death. There are those who despise the boy for no other reason than his parentage.
"Let me add that Dickie has not been a passive recipient of such unfair judgment, at least not since my arrival here. Although I more than once counseled him to choose our Lord's path, one of forgiveness and tolerance, Dickie instead found a number of very clever ways to strike back at his worst critics." The priest who might not be a priest offered a small smile as he said this.
"Who were his worst critics?" Faucon wanted to know.
"Most of the parents of the boys who clung to Dickie and called him friend," Godin replied. "But of all those who spoke against Dickie, Aldo was chief among them. Now don't leap to judge our reeve because of what I've had to tell you. For all that Aldo is rigid and unforgiving, and believes he always knows what's best, in his heart he wants only to do right. He takes his responsibility for these folk as a God-given duty. As quick as he's been to levy fines and punishments for misbehavior, he's just as quick to care for those who have a true need. No one in Mancetter suffers unnecessarily, no one starves.
"That said, no one in Mancetter has been fined more often than Waddard and Juliana, always for Dickie's misbehavior," Godin added.
"So Aldo and Dickie were fighting their own private war," Faucon said softly, offering the priest a small smile.
"They were indeed, a war that was steadily escalating beyond pranks and minor punishments into something more serious," Godin agreed, and again sighed. "I was not the only one here who worried that this war of theirs could end no other way than with a death, and I was certain it wouldn't be Aldo's."
As he continued, Godin again focused his gaze on his folded hands. "There have been wider consequences to Dickie's actions of late. The damage he did to Aldo's home three nights ago may well leave Waddard struggling to feed his daughters this winter, given his present inability to do the work that supports his family."
"Yet, having said all that, you can still insist that Aldo didn't kill the boy?" Faucon asked.
The priest shifted his head to the side to meet Faucon's gaze. "I don't insist on anything. Sir, if this church had a relic, I'd put my hand on it and tell you that I don't know who killed that boy. After that, I'd say to you the same thing your clerk asked at Merevale. Is that not yours to determine?"
Faucon released a frustrated breath. Storing what he gleaned from the man's tale, he cut himself another piece of the ham, then asked, "What of Raymond? What can you tell me of Dickie's father?" And Aldo's brother, he wanted to add.
"I don't know much to tell other than he was Juliana's first husband and Dickie's sire, and known to be cruel and destructive. Everyone who speaks of Raymond is glad that he's dead, preferring his corpse on their lane rather than the man himself."
"Another indecent soul," Faucon remarked, then cut a slice of cheese from the wedge. He offered his knife to Godin so the man could do the same. "Waddard tells me Raymond attempted to break into their cottage, seeking to reclaim Juliana and their son."
Godin returned his Crowner's knife as he nodded. "So Waddard has said to me as well, the tale taking several different forms, depending on the man's mood and how he wishes to tell it. However, the first time he told it to me was the simplest. He said that Raymond returned on their wedding day, or rather the dawn after their wedding night, once all the guests had departed. He said the corpse tried to break down the door to enter."
"Have you seen Raymond walking the track?" Faucon asked.
Again the priest paused before speaking, taking time to choose his words. "I've never seen the Raymond that Waddard described, but that's not to say I haven't seen something on our track. Like everyone else in the village, over the last year I've watched a hooded and cloaked form walk slowly from one end of the village to the o
ther during the dark of night. Whatever lurks beneath that hood and cloak moans as it walks. From time to time, the scurrilous creature dares our Lord's wrath and pounds on the church door."
There was something in the priest's voice that conjured up Jilly and her bold behavior. "These eerie encounters have no effect on you?"
Godin's dark red brows rose. His expression remained guarded. "What effect should they have? The creature, whatever it is, has done nothing more than walk, moan, and rattle a latch. No one has died and no one has been attacked. Not one person has even been sickened."
Faucon took another bite of cheese, chewing on it at the same time he chewed on what Godin had said, and what he hadn't. "Do you tell me that you have no fear in regard to this creature or that you don't fear because you know what actually lurks under that cloak?" he asked after he swallowed.
"Did I say either of those things?" Godin replied in a careful dodge.
Taking up the cup, Faucon sipped cider as he pondered. "Huh," he said at last, "I hope Abbot Henry won't be disappointed. Before we left Merevale the abbot accepted my vow to track down and dismember Mancetter's walking corpse. He promised to help me inter Raymond so he never again rises to torment this village. Now I wonder if once Dickie is interred, Raymond will no longer plague Mancetter."
"I'm certain this village would be relieved if Raymond's visits ended," Godin replied, coming to his feet.
Faucon looked up at the priest who might not be a priest. "Is there anyone in Mancetter you would insist that I speak with regarding Dickie's death?"
"I would insist that you speak with everyone who knew the boy well," Godin replied. "Everyone," he repeated, as if that in some way conveyed a message to his Crowner.
Faucon eyed him. "Tibby?"
"Including Tibby," Godin offered with a nod."Now, I must bid you good night. My wife—" again he stumbled over the word "—doesn't like to be left alone during the dark hours."
"Should I bid you good night or adieu?" Faucon asked.
One corner of Godin's mouth lifted at that. "Were I you, I'd close the church door before it grows much colder. If it remains open, you'll find yourselves hard pressed to stay warm tonight," he said, then turned for the sacristy door.
Despite Godin's warning, Faucon left the church door open. He wanted what torchlight escaped it to serve as a beacon for Alf. After eating his fill, he returned to the back of the church and watched as Edmund completed his inspection. At last, the monk set aside the candle and looked up at his employer.
"Although there are bruises, they're old. Other than those, there's nothing remarkable or that I don't recognize on the boy save for these small marks here." There was a hopeful note in his voice as the monk pointed to two faded reddish spots on one side of the boy's neck.
Faucon grinned. "Those aren't the marks you seek, Brother Edmund. Those are love bites, made in the throes of passion, not death." Indeed, those marks proved that if Tibby was ruined, it had been with her permission.
Disappointment washed over his clerk's face. Brother Edmund once again scanned the corpse, then shook his head. "Healing bruises and a few scrapes. Mea culpa once again, sir. I should never have told you this boy might walk," he said on a sigh.
"Why do you say that?" Faucon asked in surprise.
"Because to speak with authority when I lack the knowledge required to be an authority is to indulge in the sin of pride," his clerk replied, looking over his shoulder at his employer.
"That's on your soul only if you choose to carry it, Brother," Faucon replied, again fighting the urge to laugh. "I say that your knowledge, even if faulty, of the walking dead has served our Lord well this day. You've prevented these villagers from desecrating a boy without cause, thus saving Dickie from being wrongly cheated of his resurrection. You also prevented these folk from sinning by dismembering an innocent, or at least one who is innocent as far as we yet know. Surely, these two good deeds must counterbalance whatever wrong you inadvertently committed when you offered me your opinions."
"So you might say, but our Lord expects—"
A sharp scrape echoed to them from the far end of the nave. Faucon wrenched around to face the door. Edmund leapt to his feet. Almost as one they stepped closer to the altar, peering across the darkened sanctuary.
The misshapen creature who came toward them had two legs and a great rounded hump on its back. That made its form bulky enough to block the starlight that otherwise filled the doorway. It huffed a little as it moved slowly toward the altar.
"Who comes?" Edmund demanded first in French, his hand pressed against his chest and the crucifix he kept tucked in beneath his habit. "Qui venit?" he then challenged in Latin.
"Who comes?" Faucon asked at the same time in English.
"Heyward, sir," called the oldster who had urged Aldo to respect their Crowner's right to investigate Dickie's death. "I come bearing haystraw for our bedding tonight. I know Father Godin hasn't enough to share for our night's vigil and I dare say Aldo won't think to bring any since it doesn't matter to him where he sleeps." There was nothing in the old man's voice to suggest he felt this was a discourtesy on the part of his reeve.
"That's kind of you," Faucon said to him. To Edmund he said, "It's the old man who stood with the smith before the porch. He brings us hay for bedding."
Rather than relief, disappointment again washed over the monk's face. "Huh. I need to pray before I can eat," Faucon's clerk almost grumbled, then rounded the altar.
The old man, his beard as white and thick as the hair upon his head, stepped into the circle of torchlight at the same time that Edmund knelt and disappeared from Faucon's view. Although Heyward had transported his offering in some kind of blanket, bits of golden straw and sere green strands of summer grass had escaped as he walked, coating his ragged brown cloak and the faded tawny tunic and brown chausses he wore beneath it. With his hands clutched at his left shoulder, holding his bundle closed, his sleeves had slid back to reveal thin arms marked with the dark spots and ropy veins given to the aged.
He stopped a little way from the altar dais. "I fear I didn't have enough sacking to bring to serve all of us." The sideways jerk of the old man's head indicated the fabric in which he'd wrapped his burden. "I'm hoping you and yours won't mind using your cloaks to cover your nests."
"That we can do," Faucon assured him. "Many thanks for doing this."
The old man nodded. Then his gaze dropped to the floor in front of him and he sighed sadly. "Ach, Juliana sleeps again. Her and her ever always broken heart, poor thing. Does Waddard know she's here all alone?"
"He does," Faucon replied with a nod. "Waddard deemed it right that she stay, saying she should remain with her son until she's ready to leave the boy. If you don't mind carrying your burden a little farther, would you take it to yon corner?" he asked, pointing to the far corner of the church, away from the sacristy door.
"As you will," the old man agreed.
As Heyward emptied his bundle in the corner, Faucon retrieved his armor and the garments he'd shed earlier, bringing them to the same spot. The old man spread what sacking he had over the pile. When he straightened, his gaze caught on Dickie's body where it leaned against the back wall.
The oldster looked at his Crowner, his brows lifted high over his pale eyes, adding wrinkles to an already wrinkled brow. "Is that how Aldo found him, Dickie without a stitch on him?"
"Nay, we removed his clothing so Brother Edmund could inspect him," Faucon replied. "My clerk is wise with regard to those who walk after death. He says they're often marked in some way. He'd hoped to find those marks so we'd be forewarned as to whether we needed to bind the boy and set a watch."
"Ah, Aldo mentioned some such about marks as we walked home."
Here, the old man cocked his head. "Well, how you said it wasn't exactly how Aldo said it. He told us your clerk was seeking a mark that only Raymond could have left on his son so there'd be no doubt that Dickie's sire did the deed. Did you find such a mark?"
&
nbsp; Everything about the old man— from his voice to the way he lifted himself a little on his toes as he talked— said he longed to inspect the dead Dickie, if for no other reason than to satisfy his own curiosity. It was a gift Faucon could give him, knowing exactly what it would win him in return. "Thus far we've found nothing out of the ordinary. Would you care to look for yourself? Perhaps you'll notice something we missed?"
"If you don't mind," Heyward replied eagerly, already moving to where Dickie's body rested.
With a groan he lowered himself onto one knee. Squinting a little, he scanned the boy. A moment later he reached out as if he meant to move Dickie's hair away from his face. Instead, he caught back his hand and shot an almost guilty glance at his Crowner. Faucon shrugged and nodded.
Heyward pushed aside the boy's hair. Then, just as his Crowner had done earlier, the old man shifted as he sought to study the boy's expression from different angles. "Huh," the oldster said after a moment. "What was Aldo about with that talk of terror? If not for his mouth hanging askew, I'd say Dickie looks like he sleeps."
Then with another groan, he returned to his feet, both knees creaking as he rose. "Sir," he said, "all I see here is Dickie. Nothing unusual, nothing different, save for the lad's lack of clothing." The same disappointment that nagged at Edmund filled the commoner's face. "So what say you? Will the boy walk?"
"What say you, Brother Edmund," Faucon called behind him. "Heyward of Mancetter wishes to know if finding no marks guarantees the boy will stay where he lies."
"I'm no longer willing to speculate," Edmund called back, dismay thick in his voice. "I suppose he'll walk if he walks, or won't if he doesn't. If you don't mind, sir, it's well past Vespers and I must complete my prayers."
"My pardon, Brother," Faucon replied.
To the old man, he said, "My clerk advises that we must do what is usually done in these instances. We sit in the mystery as we wait to see what happens. Now, as I said when you and your neighbors stood before me outside the church, I'd like to speak to you about Dickie's death, and about Raymond. We can do that right now if it suits you." He paused, his brows lifted as he eyed the old man. "Or perhaps you prefer to wait until Aldo arrives before I ask my questions?"
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