by Tamara Leigh
He considered her thin, pale face lit by a torch outside the alehouse from which she had stumbled minutes earlier, drew a deep breath. “The devil, you say?”
Fear leapt from her jittering eyes.
“Why the devil, Lettice?”
She moistened colorless lips, glanced around as if to ensure no others listened. “Marked by evil, he was. I had no choice. Ye must know I did not.”
One question answered only to breed more. “How marked, and for what had you no choice?”
She opened her mouth, left it ajar as if reconsidering. Then she raised trembling fingers to the corner of an eye and swept them down her cheek to her jaw. “All red and purple was he, as if kissed by…ye know. Him.”
Elias dug his short nails into calloused palms. A mark of birth, possessed by many—though rarely so large or visible—did not a devil’s child make. But as ever, superstition ran rampant.
“That would alarm, indeed,” he said with control lest he frighten her away. “What did you do?”
“I couldna keep him, Elias.” She shuddered. “Though lovely one side of him, that other side…that mark…”
Lord, he prayed, no matter were it my son or another’s, let her not have set the babe out in the wood. Let her not be so cruel.
“What would have been said of me?” she bemoaned.
Would it have been much worse than what was said of her when she took coin for the use of her body? he wondered with resentment he should no longer feel for a woman he had ceased loving years ago—or mostly.
He unclenched his jaw. “How did the babe die?”
Lettice flinched, drew a shoulder up to her ear. “I did not wish to know. It…was taken care of.”
It.
Pain. Anger. Disgust. All set their brand upon Elias. It seemed naught remained of the woman he had loved. In looks, speech, spirit, and heart, she was unrecognizable. And just as he had been unable to save her then, he could not save her now. Worse, he could not save the babe who might have been his.
Though he longed to walk away, remembrance of what he had once felt for this woman bade him open his purse. “Promise me,” he said as her gaze shot to the leather pouch, “you will take what I give to better your circumstances, not—”
“How much?” she gasped.
He hesitated, then cinched the strings, and as she whimpered like a child shown a sweet and denied it, removed the purse from his belt. “Much,” he said. “If you spend wisely, ‘twill last through this season into the next.”
He reached it to her, and she snatched it to her chest, pivoted, and ran.
He was tempted to follow, but for what? Just as her life was hers to live, the coin was hers to spend.
“Lord,” he groaned, “let it not become a stone upon which to stumble. Let it bless her.”
Once darkness stole her from sight, he lowered his head and felt the sting of tears of which he would not be ashamed even had the one who knighted him told he ought to be. But Sir Everard Wulfrith of that family known England to France as the mightiest trainers of knights said only those unworthy of defending king and country were bereft of tears for the hurts and sorrows of their fellow man.
“Lettice,” he breathed.
“Milord?”
He jerked, cursed himself. Tears were naught to be ashamed of, but succumbing to them in this place at this time of night—leaving himself open to thievery and gutting—was far from worthy. And now the one who had stolen upon him knew better than to quietly approach a warrior.
Back against the alehouse’s wall, a Wulfrith dagger at his throat, the man who had gone as still as the dead gaped at the man above him.
Elias assessed him. He was attractive and fairly well groomed, near his own age, shorter by a hand, more bone than muscle, and of the common class as evidenced by a tunic fashioned of homespun cloth—albeit of good quality and showing little wear.
“What do you want?” Elias growled.
“But to earn a few coins.” The man splayed his arms and opened his fingers to show empty hands. “No harm intended, milord. None done.”
Elias thrust his face near. He smelled drink, though not of the sour sort. “I have given the last of my coin.”
A loud clearing of the throat. “Surely a lord so fine as you can get more.”
He could. His squire awaited him at the inn which lay opposite the direction Lettice had fled, in Francis’s possession several purses fatter than the one with which Elias had parted. “Why would I wish to do that?”
“The harlot’s babe. I can tell more about him than she.”
What else was there to know? Elias wondered, then asked it.
The man moistened his lips. “There is much to be told that none but straight-fingered Arblette can reveal, milord.”
Straight-fingered, Elias silently scorned. Could a self-proclaimed honest man truly be that?
“Buy me a tankard of ale, milord?”
Elias considered the face below his, released the man. “One, and if you think to play me for a fool, I shall spill every drop from your belly.”
“How know you of the babe? And what?”
Straight-fingered Arblette raised one of those fingers, and Elias thought it ironic there was a bend to it, then the man looked to the pretty girl who approached the table chosen for its relative privacy in the back corner of the inn Elias had insisted on over the stinking, dilapidated alehouse.
“There ye be!” She set down two of four tankards—so hard ale slopped and dripped between the planks onto Elias’s boots. “I be back for me coin.”
As she turned toward a table occupied by a half dozen men, several of whom were overly interested in Elias and his companion, Arblette slapped her rear.
She gasped, teasingly protested, “Naughty!” and swayed away.
Lifting his tankard, Arblette returned his regard to Elias. “Not as naughty as she wishes me to be.” His grin would have been all teeth were he not missing several. “But I aim to marry better, so unless she defies her brute of a father, she must needs be content with pats and pinches.”
Then given the chance, he would ruin the lass without ruffling his conscience. Disliking him more, Elias searched out the owner of the inn in which he and his squire had taken a room for the night. The man was of good size top to bottom, his fat bettered by a greater amount of muscle which bunched as he stared at the one who was too familiar with his daughter.
Arblette was not the only patron to trespass, a recipient of ale at the nearby table hooking an arm around the young woman’s waist as she set a tankard before him.
Again she protested, though without teasing, then swatted free. And yet it was at Arblette her father continued to stare.
“You have your ale,” Elias said. “Now tell how you know of Lettice’s babe.”
He took a long draught, belched. “I know ‘cause my grandsire disposed of that devil-licked thing.”
Though rarely moved to violence outside of defending himself and others, Elias curled his fingers into a fist atop the table. “Disposed?”
“Ah, now!” Arblette splayed a hand as if to ward off an attack. “Not that way, milord, though ’twas as my grandsire was paid to do.”
Then the child was not dead? Or had he been snuffed out in a supposedly more humane manner than exposure to the elements and beasts of the wood?
“What way?”
“The way of a good Christian.” The man took another drink, winked. “Albeit one in need of funds.”
As Elias further tensed in preparation to lunge across the table, the serving girl reappeared. “Give over, milord.”
He drew breath between his teeth, opened the purse his squire had delivered him upon his return to the inn, and dropped a coin in her palm that more than covered the ale. “Go.”
She gave a squeak of delight and trotted away.
“That there coin buys me three more fills!” Arblette called.
She laughed and flicked a hand as if to rid herself of a fly.
He
sighed, lost his smile. “Tell milord, how much would you pay for a look inside my head?”
Elias shifted his cramped jaw, dug two more coins from his purse, and pushed them across the table.
Arblette grunted. “Since it seems we are talkin’ about yer son, surely more is warranted.”
Elias raised his eyebrows. “If what you know proves useful.”
The man blew breath up his face, causing his straight black hair to fly upward and settle aslant on his brow. “Certes, you are good for it?”
“As told, if what you tell bears fruit.”
Arblette leaned across the table, rasped, “Seven, mayhap eight years gone, the mother of your harlot—er, Lettice,” he corrected as Elias’s face warmed, “sent for my grandsire. ’Twas to him all around these parts turned when they could not stomach ridding themselves of undesirables.”
Senses warning he and the other man had become of greater interest, Elias glanced around. Though the voices of those unconcerned with what transpired at this table ensured privacy, he lowered his own voice. “Undesirables?”
“Unwanted babes, whether of the lesser sex when ’tis a son a man needs, sickly, deformed, misbegotten, or devil-marked like your boy.”
“Continue.”
“My grandsire was paid for the disposal of Lettice’s newborn son.” Hastily, he added, “Though as told, not the usual form of disposal.”
“What form?”
“Whilst setting out a babe some years before, my grandsire was approached by one who offered to pay him for all those destined to breathe their last in the wood.” He raised a hand to keep Elias from speaking. “He agreed, as ever it was with heavy heart he did what needed doing and he was certain whatever their fate it was better than death by abandonment. A decent man he was. Now what she does with the babes…”
A woman then, but for what purpose did she buy undesirables?
“I pray…” Arblette’s voice caught, and he gripped his hands atop the table as if to address heaven here and now. “I pray the Lord forgives my grandsire and me for whatever parts we played in that woman’s ungodly schemes.”
The chill seeping into Elias became ice. He was not superstitious—rather, not foolishly so—but he knew there was evil in the world eager to manifest itself through weak men and women, whether they acted on behalf of the devil or in their own interest.
Arblette looked up from his white-knuckled hands. “Though in the beginning my grandsire thought her intentions good, that she provided for the babes as best she could, he began to suspect she was sent by the devil to claim his brood and those undesirables whose only sin was of being born of poverty and shame.”
He believed she gave the babes to the devil? How? Surely not through sacrifice.
Now it was Elias who addressed heaven. Lord, he silently prayed, not that. Heart pounding, he said, “What roused his suspicion?”
“Ever she denied him her name. Ever she kept her face hidden. Ever she appeared within hours of him marking the tree beneath which he was to leave the babe.”
“How was the tree marked?”
“As instructed, a rope tied around its trunk.”
Elias jutted his chin. “What else?”
“Were she not walking hand in hand with the devil, she would have to dwell near to daily pass that portion of the wood to see if the rope was present, and only once a month at most—more usual every other month—was the tree marked. And yet ever she appeared when summoned, and for all the babes given into her care over the years, there is no evidence of her or them in these parts.”
“You are saying no others have seen her?”
“Only my grandsire and I.”
Elias narrowed his eyes. “Once he suspected her intentions, why did he continue selling her babes?”
Arblette raised his palms in a gesture of apology. “Not being of a superstitious bent, I dissuaded him from such thinking. And when I began to believe as he did, I reminded myself—and him—the undesirables were destined for unconsecrated ground. Thus, already their souls were lost.” Moisture gathered in his eyes. “It was selfish, but her coin put more food in our bellies, clothed us better, and made the lean winters more bearable.”
Elias wondered how much he spoke in truth and how much was false. And hoped the latter was heavily weighted, that this was but an act to gain more coin. Not only did the life of the boy who might be his son depend on it, but the lives of other innocents.
“I would speak with your grandsire.”
Arblette blinked. “Did I not say?”
“What?”
“A slow sickness laid him abed two years past, and last year I put him in the ground, God have mercy on his soul.” He touched a hand to his heart. “Hence, the business is mine.”
“You call it a business?” Elias struggled to contain anger so sharp he hardly knew himself—he who preferred to laugh, tease, riddle, and arrange words pleasing to heart and soul.
Arblette grunted. “What else to call it, milord? A business it was, and a fair good one with coins from the wretched mothers one side and more coins from the unseen woman on the other side.”
“Was,” Elias snapped up the word. “’Tis no longer your business?”
Arblette winced. “Still I perform a much-needed service, but no longer do I take coin from the one who paid me better than the mothers.”
“Why? Have you now proof of those babes’ fate? Not mere suspicion?”
Arblette rubbed his temple as if pained. “The last time I delivered a babe to…” He trailed off. “Well, let us call her what she is—a witch. The last time I prayed for the Lord’s protection and followed her, and what I saw…”
“What?”
“I did not stay for it all. I could not, it grieved and frightened me so. But ’twas a most unholy ritual. She danced around a fire in the wood, chanted, and held the babe aloft as if in offering. I vowed then to never again summon her no matter how great my need for coin. And I have not these three months, though my purse can hardly be felt upon my belt.”
Elias continued to watch him closely for evidence he lied, well aware one of his own shortcomings was gullibility resulting from the need to believe the best of others, even when they were at their worst. It was the poet in him…the teller of tales…the composer of songs. But as for the actor, that side was of little use in determining if this man he hardly knew wore a face not his own.
“You think all the babes dead?” he asked.
“I do not. Though ’tis likely a great many have been consigned to the dirt, methinks some rove amongst us in search of good Christians to enlist in service to the devil.”
Vile superstition, but therein the possibility the babe, who would now be a boy, lived. A boy surely in need of a father.
Arblette leaned farther across the table. “Then there is the rumor of recent.” He moistened his lips. “Most unusual twins were born in our village a year past. Joined they were—here.” He tapped his chest. “Though sickly, I gave them into the care of the witch thinking they would be comforted as life left them. However, not long ago I heard talk such babes are being exploited by a troop of performers who charge to look upon the spectacle, and for it have been ordered by King Henry himself to leave England.”
“You believe the woman sold the babes?” Elias said through met teeth.
Arblette sighed. “I know not what to believe, but it makes one question if the babe I gave—”
“Sold!”
The man lowered his chin, nodded. “And now I wonder if ’tis a business for her as well and what other babes suffer that fate. If your son…” He fell silent, providing too much time in which to imagine Lettice’s babe exploited for his marked face.
Elias wished the man would look up so his emotions might be better read, but Arblette was slow to raise his chin, and when he did he immediately went behind his tankard and drained its contents.
“I must needs know more about the woman,” Elias said.
Arblette lowered his vessel, tapped
the table. “As told, my business is not as lucrative as once it was.”
Holding back a curse, Elias removed two more coins and pushed them to the man who swept them into his palm.
“I know not her face.”
“As already told.”
“I know not her name.”
Elias glowered.
“I know not whence she hails.”
“But you know how to summon her to dispose of babes,” Elias growled.
“True, but do you recall, I vowed to never again do so no matter how much she offers.”
“She offers. What of my coin?”
Arblette raised his eyebrows, motioned to the serving girl. “All this talk makes me dry.”
Grudgingly, Elias waited as the knave’s vessel was refilled. This time Arblette pinched the girl, eliciting a squeal, and once more Elias commanded her to leave.
Seemingly unconcerned by the anger leveled at him by the inn’s owner, Arblette said, “What do you propose, milord?”
Elias set before him a purse of a size similar to the one given Lettice, this one holding a quarter of his remaining coin. “Half now, half when you deliver the woman to me.”
Arblette stared at the offering. “May I?”
Elias loosened the strings and spread the leather just enough to reveal the contents against a silken red lining.
Arblette whistled low.
“Agreed?” Elias said.
“I can but summon the witch under pretense I have another babe to dispose of.” He raised his eyebrows. “’Tis for you to capture her ere she disappears in a sudden fog—which she does sometimes. I would not have the wrath of one such as that fall on me, especially as I am no mighty warrior as your blade tells you to be.”
The Wulfrith dagger, prominent on his hip, not only as a matter of pride but to warn any who thought to set upon its bearer.
“When I have her in hand,” Elias said, “you shall gain the second half of your coin—though no clearer a conscience unless you continue to delude yourself in believing the Lord approves of leaving his most lovely creation in the wood to die.”
“Most lovely…” Arblette snorted. “Ye may say that of babes merely unwanted for poverty’s sake, the lack of food taking them a bit later than were they left to the wood, but you cannot say that of those sinful creatures born out of wedlock and abominations come forth with misshapen heads and bodies and marked faces.” He nodded. “I do the Lord a service.”
