The Bone Fire

by The Bone Fire (retail) (epub)

  Alice Cross lifted her voluminous skirts and turned on her heels. ‘I might be a servant, Robert of Lyndham,’ she said, as she stalked away across the cobblestones. ‘But then again, so are you.’

  Lyndham grasped his dog about the neck and then kissed the bemused creature on the head. Holdfast seemed neither to have noticed, nor to care that he was the subject of such a heated debate.

  Lyndham stood up and turned to me. ‘I’m sorry that you had to witness that, de Lacy. The woman is impossible.’

  ‘Mistress Cross can be difficult,’ I agreed. ‘But then again, she has a difficult job. It won’t be easy to run this castle all winter.’

  Lyndham waved my excuse away. ‘She’s always been like this,’ he said. ‘Insolent with her superiors. Behaving as if she were mistress here.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know why the Eden family tolerate her. But there we are. She is their servant, not mine.’ He bowed his head to me and wished me a good night.

  By now the snow was falling in large flakes, so I made a second attempt to reach the door to our stairwell, when I met another person, looming through the silent, white curtain. It was the monk, Old Simon.

  ‘Have you seen Corvina?’ he asked me, his voice quavering. ‘She’s flown away, after that brute threw a stone at her.’

  ‘She will have taken shelter somewhere,’ I answered. ‘It’s a cold night and crows are very intelligent birds.’

  ‘I’m worried about her, Lord Somershill,’ he said, his face pale and strained. ‘She always comes back to me at night.’

  I opened the door to our stairwell. ‘Don’t stay out here in this cold, Father,’ I said. ‘Corvina is safe. I’m sure of it.’

  Chapter Twelve

  When I climbed into bed alongside Filomena, I discovered that we were alone for once, as Hugh was asleep in his own truckle bed in the corner of the room. But, if I had been harbouring any amorous ideas, they were soon thwarted when I discovered that my wife was still fully dressed beneath the sheets and blanket. She even wore her long cloak, with the hood raised over her head.

  She turned over to speak to me once I had settled down, pulling her hood over our heads, so that we were hidden inside a fur-lined cocoon. ‘Did you get any answers about the coins from that Dutch boy?’ she asked, once she had kissed me lightly upon the lips.

  ‘Hans says they were a repayment for a gambling debt.’

  She paused. ‘Do you believe him?’ Even though it was dark, I could tell that she was frowning.

  ‘It’s hard to say,’ I answered. ‘Mind you, Edwin seems the type to play at dice, so it’s quite possible that he lost a lot of money to Hans.’

  ‘So you think Edwin is innocent?’ she said with a disparaging sniff.

  ‘I’m not saying that.’ I leant forward and let my lips touch hers again briefly. ‘But equally, I don’t really have any evidence against him.’

  She moved back sharply. ‘Edwin has the most to gain by Godfrey’s death, Oswald. You must suspect him, at least.’

  ‘I don’t know, Filomena. I still struggle to imagine him as the killer,’ I said, before attempting to slip my hand under her cloak. ‘My instincts tell me that he’s innocent.’

  ‘Could somebody else have entered the castle from outside?’ she asked, foiling my move by pulling the edges of her cloak tightly about her body.

  ‘I did wonder, at first, if there might be a secret tunnel or entrance,’ I said. ‘Especially as Godfrey said something about being able to slip in and out of the castle.’

  ‘And?’ she said, intrigued by this thought.

  I hesitated. ‘And . . . I don’t think it exists, Filomena. The killer isn’t somebody who crept into the castle. It’s somebody who was already here.’

  ‘So, what are you planning to do, Oswald?’ she said. ‘There is a murderer among us, and you haven’t discovered anything yet.’

  ‘Well, that’s not quite true,’ I blustered, a little hurt by this accusation.

  ‘You think that Edwin is innocent because of your instincts. And you say that Hans is innocent because the coins were a gambling debt. So, if the murderer is not one of those two men, then who is it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted.

  ‘If you ask me, you should take each person in this castle into a room, one by one. Question them until somebody confesses.’

  ‘I don’t think that would work,’ I said. ‘The killer would just deny everything.’

  ‘Then make them afraid to lie to you,’ she said. ‘Use some force to scare them.’

  ‘You want me to torture a confession?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. If needs be,’ she said defiantly.

  ‘I can’t do that, Filomena. This isn’t the Chamber of Torment in the doge’s palace.’

  She puffed out her lips. ‘You English,’ she muttered, as she turned her back on me.

  We didn’t speak for a while, but I hate to go to sleep on an argument – so I reached out my hand and gently touched her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Filomena. I thought I’d made the right choice in coming here. I didn’t foresee any of this.’

  The apology worked. She twisted back to speak to me, her indignation gone. ‘I know, Oswald,’ she said softly. ‘I know that you had good intentions. But I’m scared.’ She paused, dropping her voice to the softest of whispers. ‘Because there’s something that I want to tell you.’

  At first my heart sank, as I feared this might be another theory about Edwin, but she took me by surprise as she kissed my lips again. ‘My bleeding is late, Oswald.’

  I found her hand inside her cloak. ‘Really? That’s wonderful news,’ I said, before I slowed my voice and made sure to curb my obvious delight. ‘How late?’

  Filomena sensed my trepidation, for she felt it just as acutely. We had suffered many disappointments in the last two years, and we knew that any premature celebration was certain to turn the Fates against us. ‘Nearly four weeks.’

  ‘Do you feel sick?’ I asked, remembering Mary’s pregnancy with Hugh.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Then perhaps it’s too early to be sure?’ I suggested.

  She touched my face in the dark. ‘You do want to have a child with me, don’t you, Oswald?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I insisted. ‘I just think that it’s wise to be cautious, that’s all.’

  ‘Cautious about what?’

  How to answer this question, without causing her offence? ‘It’s just that we have had false news in the past,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to celebrate. Not before we’re certain.’

  She gave a sigh. ‘Yes, you’re right. I wanted you to know, but we should not tell anybody else yet. Particularly not your mother.’

  I knew why she was saying this. The last time that Filomena had suspected she was carrying a child, Mother had announced the news, without our permission, to the whole village at the Lammas Day feast. We had then spent the following months explaining the absence of her pregnancy to every tenant, reeve and passing lord.

  Despite my concerns, I was excited. Even though we had suffered from disappointments before. And even though this child might be born into a world of plague and murder. I let myself enjoy a moment of happiness, burying my nose into Filomena’s hair before falling asleep. But my dreams were not of the happy kind.

  I was standing beside the burning plague house. Just as before, the flames were high as they danced about the timbers, engulfing the blackened bodies in the heat. But this time, rather than being lifeless corpses, these people were still alive. They called out to me repeatedly, though I could do nothing to help them – not until one voice rose sharply above the others. It was a voice I knew well. It belonged to my own son, Hugh. His face still pale and unblemished by the flames.

  I fought my way inside the fire, desperate to save him, but every time that I caught hold of his hand, a burning timber fell in front of us, keeping us apart. The more that I failed, the faster he burnt. At first the flames crept about his face, only singeing his skin, but soon the fire consumed
him, until there was nothing left of his body but a scorched and blackened shell.

  I woke from this nightmare, sitting straight up in bed, until my heart stopped racing. I knew the meaning of this dream well enough. No wise woman was needed to interpret this tale.

  I rose at first light, and tried not to wake Filomena as I crept over to my strongbox, but my stealth was in vain.

  ‘What are you doing, Oswald?’ she asked me as I turned the key in the lock.

  ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about the murder last night,’ I said. ‘You were right. I do need to make more progress. So it occurred to me to read Godfrey’s letters again. There may be something that I missed last time.’ I rummaged about in the valuable belongings kept inside this secure coffer. There was a leather purse of coins. A collection of belts. An astrolabe. And my mother’s psalter. But no sign of the letters.

  Filomena rose from bed, sensing my panic as I began to take each item out and stand it on the floor beside the box. ‘What’s the matter, Oswald?’

  ‘The letters are not here,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe you put them somewhere else?’ she suggested.

  ‘No. I definitely locked them in here, Filomena. They’re too precious to leave lying around.’

  For a moment I felt angry with myself. Perhaps I had hidden Godfrey’s letters in a different place and forgotten where. But another thought soon crossed my mind. I closed the lid of the strongbox to examine the lock.

  Filomena guessed what I was thinking. ‘Has somebody forced the box open?’ she said.

  ‘Not exactly,’ I answered. ‘I think they’ve managed to turn the lock without using a key.’

  ‘How would they do that?’

  ‘With a long pin, I expect,’ I said, running my finger across the lock plate and feeling a few tiny scratches on the surface. These indentations felt new. There was even a little metallic dust on my fingers as I lifted them to my lips.

  ‘But how could somebody creep in here and do that?’ she said. ‘This room is never empty.’

  ‘What about at supper time,’ I answered. ‘When we’re all in the Great Hall.’

  ‘But so are all the other guests.’

  I rested back on my haunches. ‘But not last night. Remember. Hans arrived late. And he is a man with the tools for this job.’ I got to my feet. ‘I’m going to find him now.’

  ‘He’ll deny it, Oswald.’

  ‘I don’t care. I will not have that boy coming into our apartment and stealing from my strongbox,’ I said, striding towards the door.

  ‘Take Sandro with you,’ she called to me. ‘You shouldn’t confront him on your own. Hans always has his uncle with him. And I don’t like that pair.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Filomena,’ I said.

  She caught up with me and pulled my hands to her chest. ‘Do you have a knife with you?’ I suddenly wanted to laugh, and didn’t manage to fully hide this impulse. ‘This is not funny,’ she said. ‘Hans could be the murderer we seek. I told you that before.’

  I leant down and kissed her fingers. ‘I have a knife, Filomena. I always do.’ I then lifted back my cloak and showed her the dagger and sheath that hung from my belt.

  She released my hands. ‘Then be quick,’ she said. ‘And please, Oswald. Take care.’ She patted her stomach. ‘This child will need a father.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hans was scratching a short line into the surface of his wall as I swept into his dark chamber. The candlelight illuminated many more of these marks, all in groups of seven – recording the weeks that he had already spent in this castle. As I strode across the room, a chicken ran past my feet, heading desperately for the door. For some reason, the floor was littered with its curling, downy feathers.

  The Dutchman turned to regard my entrance without any particular shock, before putting his knife to the floor and slowly rising to his feet – his grey eyes catching the thin light.

  ‘You’ve stolen two letters from me,’ I said, looking about the room, to see if Pieter de Groot was ready to leap to his defence. Thankfully there was no sign of the older Dutchman. ‘I want the letters back,’ I said.

  Hans smiled at this request, but didn’t answer.

  ‘I know it was you,’ I said. ‘Don’t deny it.’

  He shrugged in response, and before I could think twice, I had drawn my dagger from its sheath and was holding the tip against the leather of his jerkin.

  Hans lifted his hands in mock surrender. ‘I haven’t stolen anything from you,’ he said, his voice steady and confident. ‘You’re wrong.’

  I pressed my knife a little harder into his jerkin. ‘Yes, you have. You crept into our apartment last night and opened the lock of my strongbox.’ I twisted the knife, making an indentation in the leather. ‘Now I want the letters back.’

  It was at this moment that Pieter de Groot strolled in, holding a loaf of bread and whistling a tune, until he saw my face. ‘What are you doing here?’ he shouted at me as he dropped the bread to the floor. ‘Get away from Hans.’

  I kept my knife in its place. ‘Your nephew has stolen two letters from me.’

  ‘Stolen? Hans is not a thief,’ he protested, but I saw the panic cross his face, and I guessed that this was not the first time Hans had been accused of such a crime.

  ‘I just want the letters back,’ I said.

  De Groot threw up his hands. ‘Letters? Why would Hans steal letters? He can’t read.’

  And then I realised my mistake. I turned to Hans. ‘You stole them for Edwin of Eden, didn’t you? That’s why he gave you those coins yesterday. It had nothing to do with playing dice.’

  ‘Answer the man,’ said de Groot, as Hans remained steadfastly silent. ‘I said, answer him!’

  Hans threw his eyes to the floor and wouldn’t meet his uncle’s gaze. De Groot had the power to scare him, at least. ‘Nobody paid me to steal letters,’ he mumbled. ‘I don’t know anything.’ But he was a surprisingly poor liar when confronted by his uncle, and his trembling voice betrayed him.

  I stood back, replaced my dagger in its sheath, and then left the room – but as I closed the door behind me, I heard a violent argument erupt between the two men, ending in a screech of pain. I can only assume that de Groot was dishing out some discipline. With his fists.

  Edwin of Eden was not in his bedchamber, so I headed straight for the kitchen, knowing this to be a favourite haunt of our new lord when he got out of bed. It was somewhere he would find food, warmth and the company of women.

  Sure enough, I walked into the smoky chamber to find Edwin cornering one of the maids by a long trestle table. The girl was stirring a pot of foaming flour and water and doing her best to lean away from his attentions – so when I asked her to leave, she dropped the wooden spoon into the bowl and then eagerly scampered out, delighted to make her escape.

  Edwin looked at me with watery, red-rimmed eyes, before flopping onto the bench beside the table. ‘I was getting somewhere with that one, de Lacy,’ he said as he waved towards the door. ‘She’s plain, I grant you. But what choice do I have? Locked up in this castle like a hermit.’ He grabbed a slab of bread from a pewter plate and started to pull the crust from the crumb. ‘What’s so important? Have you found the killer?’

  ‘I want Godfrey’s letters back,’ I said plainly.

  Edwin placed the bread onto the plate, but didn’t look up at me. ‘What letters?’ he said unconvincingly.

  ‘The ones that Hans has stolen for you.’

  He hesitated. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes you do, Edwin. You paid Hans to steal letters from my strongbox. The ones that Godfrey gave me for safekeeping.’

  He patted the bench beside him. ‘Come on, de Lacy. I think you’re starting to imagine things. Come and sit down with me. Have a drink.’

  I remained standing. ‘I don’t want to drink with you, Edwin. I just want the letters back.’

  He inhaled a long breath of air. ‘I’ve already told you, de Lacy
. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes you do. You paid Hans to steal those letters, Edwin. Particularly the letter about Godfrey’s wife and child. The one that disinherits you.’

  He turned his attentions back to the bread, starting to pull the crust apart in short, agitated tugs. ‘I think you should leave, de Lacy,’ he said, his face now flushed. ‘Go and get some more sleep.’

  He was unnerved, at least. His hands were shaking, so I decided to change my approach. ‘No,’ I said, taking a seat next to him on the bench and making sure to sit uncomfortably close. ‘I think I will join you after all.’

  ‘Go away,’ he said, as I shifted closer.

  ‘You do realise that Godfrey will have written other letters, don’t you?’ I said, leaning over and taking some of his bread. ‘The letter that you’ve stolen won’t be the only proof that you’re not the true Lord Eden.’

  ‘Get away from me.’

  I moved even closer, now able to smell the salty, pungent odour of his sweat. A vein in his neck was quivering. ‘Godfrey was nothing, if not efficient,’ I said. ‘He will have recorded his son’s birthright more than once.’ I smiled sweetly. ‘It seems to me that your thieving was in vain.’

  Edwin growled. ‘I told you to get away from me.’

  I chewed on the bread and refused to move. ‘It must be useful to have a man like Hans in the castle,’ I said. ‘Somebody who will do your bidding for money.’

  ‘I haven’t paid a farthing to Hans,’ he protested. ‘You’re imagining it.’

  ‘I’d like to believe you, Edwin,’ I said, continuing to chew. ‘But the evidence is building against you.’

  ‘What evidence?’ The vein in his neck was now raised and throbbing.

  ‘You were seen passing a large purse of coins to Hans.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Not long before that, your brother was murdered.’ I wiped the crumbs slowly from my lips. ‘It’s very tempting to draw a conclusion from these two events.’