by Jude Chapman
She took his hand in hers, turned it palm up, and deposited in its center two items: a betrothal ring and a dragon amulet, both encrusted with his beloved’s blood.
“Not in life, not in death. Tell Drake. Tell your brother he sent Geneviève de Berneval to everlasting Hell.”
She tramped back to her husband’s side. Henri de Berneval placed a protective arm around his wife and led her, sobbing uncontrollably, into the family manor.
Drake carried a single wild flower the color of Jenna’s hair. Approaching the grave, a depthless hole soon to enclose a gentle creature who left the world much too soon, he released the blossom. It drifted slowly, slowly down and landed on the deerskin shroud that held the girl-turned-woman he had adored forever. A bright circle of gold along with a dragon amulet followed the daisy.
Perchance not in life, but surely one day in death.
Chapter 25
RACHEL BEN YOSEL SAT AT Aveline’s kitchen trestle. As if to keep herself warm, she clutched a leather-bound sheaf of parchment to her bosom. A cup of hot mead sat before her. Sitting across from her, a similarly untouched cup of mead at her elbow, Aveline placed a comforting hand over Rachel’s. Neither woman spoke. Standing not far distant, three men, members of her community, men who were brawny and grim, stood guard.
When he entered, Drake sensed something afoot and sat wordlessly beside Aveline.
“Yacob has been killed,” Rachel said. “In the London riots. His ledger, which he always takes with him, was taken and probably destroyed. The house where he was staying, the house of his cousin, was burned to the ground. The cousin, his wife, and their three small children also died, cremated along with all their worldly possessions.”
Her hands shaking, she passed the book to Drake as if it contained the Torah of her faith, something holy and consecrated.
“He wanted you to have it,” Rachel told him. “The original was recorded in Hebrew. Yacob inscribed this one in French and kept in a secret place only he and I knew. I hesitated. I thought … forgive me … my husband believed you to be a good man … but I thought—What can a Gentile do? Why should he care? Can he bring my Yacob back? To his children? To me? He cannot.”
“But something changed your mind,” Drake said.
“We buried Yacob yesterday. Upon returning to our home, our house, the place where Yacob and I … where we bore our children … it too ….” Her voice faltered, but she went on. “The brigands were driven off before they destroyed everything built over a lifetime. After much scrubbing and painting, we shall be able to move back in as if ….” She stopped, realizing that nothing would ever be the same again. “He had a premonition, you see. He wasn’t afraid. He only regretted.”
Tears overflowed. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. Aveline squeezed her hand. Rachel sent her a fleeting smile of gratitude. “They didn’t find it. They failed to burn it. Yacob had good reasons for leaving this to you. I believe you will serve his memory.”
“And so I will.”
She stood and tightened the black wimple about her head.
“Who was it?” he asked. “Who attacked him?”
“Two men, they say. One with a broken nose. The other pocked.”
Drake stayed at the table after Rachel left. While Aveline went quietly about her work, he turned over leaf after leaf of Yacob’s precise script. The ledger was the reason Yacob ben Yosel had been murdered. It was also an indictment of the man responsible. One name stood out, the single source for countless loans, loans doled out to the sons of the barony like sweetmeats, not just in Winchester but up and down England’s coast. Enormous sums no one man could possibly support, except perhaps one, or possibly two.
Drake got up from the trestle table and strapped on sword and dagger.
Aveline called softly after him. “Be careful, Drake fitzAlan.”
He went to her, gathered her in his arms, and kissed her on the lips, quick and to the point. He was out the door before she had the chance to raise a protest.
* * *
“I was just about to come for you,” Sheriff Randall Clarendon said when Drake entered his office at Winchester Castle. The above-ground chamber looked much like the holding cell below except for the addition of two arched windows.
“Come for me?”
“I have a warrant for your arrest.”
Drake took a deep swallow. “For what crime?”
“Jenna’s murder, surely.”
“Jenna killed herself.”
“With your dagger?” He picked up the damascene and flourished it with morbid delight.
“Not mine. Drake’s. Graham stole it from him the day of the tourney and later used it to stab me. You remember. Outside the alehouse. You left as soon as you were sure I was still breathing. I thought we settled this before.”
“We settled nothing, irrespective of the lord of Itchendel protecting his eldest son.” Rand set aside the dagger and cleared off a space at his writing desk, stacked with writs, warrants, orders, and lists. “Come. Sit. I have your confession prepared. All you need do is affix your signature. You can write? If not, an X will do.”
With a single finger, he pushed a sheet of vellum across the table. Drake hesitated. Rand nudged it closer. Drake cranked his neck and read.
I, Drake fitzAlan,
do hereby confess to murdering Maynard of Clarendon
on Saturday, the 19th of August, in the year of grace 1189,
of murdering Rufus fitzHugh on Sunday, the 20thth of August, in the year of grace 1189,
of inflicting mortal injuries upon Seward Twyford on the same date, which ultimately led to his death,
and of murdering Geneviève de Berneval on Monday,
the 4th of September, in the year of grace 1189.
Dipping quill into inkhorn, the sheriff held out the writing instrument. Drake took it, suspended it over the vellum, and looked across the table at Randall. “You expect me to put goose quill to vellum?” he asked, surprised he still had command of his voice.
Rand smiled affably. “I do.”
“You left out a few names. Drogo’s. Tilda’s goons.”
“You’re welcome to add them as a postscript, but this will do as a start. The hangman’s rope can only encircle one throat no matter how many deaths occurred at the hand of one man.”
Drake made as if to write out his name. “You’re sure you want me to sign this?”
“Quite sure.”
“Well … there’s a problem.”
“Do tell.”
“With this confession.”
“I’m tired of fencing with you, Drake.”
“As I said before, I’m not Drake. I’m Stephen.”
“You and Stephen switched places,” Rand said, entirely sure of himself. “Stephen sailed for Normandy as you while you remained behind as him. You went to the hollow, where you and Jenna often met, to confess your sins: that you killed her lover and then, to cover up your crime, her lover’s comrades. She could never forgive you for murdering Maynard. She refused you. You impaled her in a fit of jealousy. The dagger you used was your own. After consummating the deed, you placed the weapon in her hand to make it look as though she took her own life. But she didn’t, did she?”
Drake let out a breath and said, “No, she didn’t.”
“Then you admit to killing her?”
“I admit to nothing, except to say, I was Jenna’s lover, and not your brother.”
Rand raised his chin and peered out from beneath half-closed eyelids. “You still hold that you are Stephen?”
Drake still gripped the quill in his unsteady hand. “I can forge Drake’s name if you like, but the signature won’t carry its weight at the assizes. We may be twins, but our handwriting is different.”
“If you are Stephen, then you killed Jenna.”
“Why?”
The two men glared at each other.
“Jenna stole the dagger from me when last we were together. In my chamber at the alehouse. Before I left f
or London. Aveline Darcy can attest to our rendezvous. And Graham de Lacy can vouch for me since I asked him to look out for Jenna whilst I was gone.”
“Why would she steal the dagger?”
“There can only be one reason. She feared for her life.”
Rand mulled over his assertions before saying, “A fair to middlin’ alibi, which I don’t believe for a trice. Be quick about it, Drake. The ink is drying on the nib.”
“Let it dry.”
The challenge was put before Rand. He showed his pique with flinty eyes. Each man held his breath. Drear and bare, time marched on.
Eventually Drake laid the quill atop the unsigned confession. “If you still insist, I’ll put my name to it later. But only after you’ve had a look at this.” Drake handed him a rolled parchment.
The acting sheriff took it, perplexed, but spread the sheepskin over the confession. A Hebrew notation marked the upper corner. “Yacob’s?” Rand asked, glancing up. “Yacob ben Yosel’s?” When Drake nodded, he said, “There is more, then?”
“Aye, in safekeeping.”
“No fool you.” Poring over the document, the sheriff studied each entry. Before long, he threw up a questioningly look. Drake let the ledger speak for itself. Bending his head once more to parchment, Rand read again from the top, both elbows perched on the table and thumbs rubbing temples. When he finally sat back, he said, “Stephen’s debt … sorry … your debt has been expunged, I see.”
Drake had no choice but to single out this particular page. In the ledger the author had been cruelly murdered for, the ledger Rachel’s home had well-nigh been burnt to the ground for, the ledger Yacob ben Yosel painstakingly duplicated with his own hand for a postmortem event such as this, Stephen fitzAlan’s name did not stand alone. Maynard Clarendon, Seward Twyford, Rufus fitzHugh, and Drogo Atwell were also listed, along with the repetition of a single name beneath theirs, the name of the one man providing surety not just for their loans but for innumerable others: Gervase des Roches, clerk of the Winchester Treasury.
“Graham settled the debts.” Drake was on his feet by now, his spurs jingling with every step.
“Why so unstinting?”
“Not with coin, but by spreading a rumor. Or rather, by facilitating a rumor.”
Randall sat back, the chair creaking, and waited for Drake’s explanation.
“Jenna spread what she thought a harmless tale … about Maynard and … and herself. And … and I let her … at your brother’s urging.”
“For what purpose?”
“One reason that I know of. A second I’d be guessing.”
“I’m listening.”
“To hide our … relationship … in Jenna’s mind. If that were all, it would have been harmless enough.”
Rand waited.
“To give my brother a motive for killing Maynard.”
“The purpose being?”
“The end game,” Drake said, “was to prevent Maynard from seeking absolution from you, the sheriff of Hampshire.”
“Acting sheriff,” Rand corrected. “Absolution from what?”
“Collecting the tribute.”
“An unsanctioned tribute.”
“Maynard only learned about that after the fact.”
Randall thought it over. “Doesn’t stand to reason. Whatever his troubles, and he’s had plenty, Maynard never came running to me.”
“Then to silence you. About the treasury’s underhanded dealings.”
Rand calmly said, “Which are?”
“Can’t you see, man?! There is your proof!”
Rand lifted the parchment. “This? This proves nothing, except perhaps a moneylender practicing his penmanship using one man’s name. And,” he went on, forestalling Drake’s protest, “even if there were merit to what you say, I would be the first to, as you say, seek absolution from the king, but only after avenging my brother’s death through any means possible.”
“Not if you valued your life more. Nor would anyone blame you.”
“You’re saying I wouldn’t kill the man responsible for Maynard’s demise?”
“You would let the king pass judgment, as is his duty.”
His finger lay alongside an unperturbed eye. “Where’s the connection, then? The tribute collections have nothing to do with the treasury of Winchester.”
“Oh no?” Drake gripped the parchment. “The tribute was collected at the barony’s behest … to cover ruinous loans … funded illegally by the king’s treasury.” Letting the parchment float back to the table, Drake paced, sword clattering at his side.
“Unfortunately Yacob ben Yosel is not here to testify to the truth of such an allegation.”
Drake stopped pacing. “How very convenient that those who could testify are all dead.”
“Except for Graham.”
“And the murderer.”
“You shock me, Drake fitzAlan … sorry … Stephen. You knock the feet right out from under me.” He scraped back his chair, and leaning back, folded arms over chest.
Drake remained standing, clutching and unclutching the pommel of Stephen’s sword.
“Gervase des Roches, then, is the mastermind behind everything? And Graham did his bidding?”
“I only know Graham is the only man left alive out of a troublemaking band of thieves who stole from their own fathers.”
“You’re saying Graham is the murderer?”
“He knows how to use a sword. And a dagger. In fact,” he said pointing, “that very dagger. He tried using it on me, remember? As for the treasury, I suspect you’ll find it lacking.”
Randall let his chair fall forward. The legs thwacked the floor with a bang. The sheriff pondered. And then he bolted from his chair.
* * *
Sending for the usher, the chamberlains, and the tellers, Randall ordered the receipt of the Winchester Royal Treasury to be opened.
“Where is mon sieur des Roches?” Rand asked, after they assembled before the locked underground chamber.
The usher answered. “He cannot be found, sieur.”
“Since when?”
“Since two days past.”
“Why wasn’t I told?”
The men looked to each other for courage. No one wanted to take the blame for something not of their doing. “We thought he would return anon. He often goes off.”
Saying nothing, Rand motioned for the others to proceed.
The men pressed forward, torches carried aloft.
The pyx held ten wooden receptacles, each girded with an immovable strap and the seal of the treasurer, themselves contained within a sizable stone chamber secured by a bolted door, itself enclosed within an even larger stone chamber and secured with another bolted door. Two keys, each in the possession of two chamberlains, were fitted into two locks of one of the boxes picked at random. When the lid of the coffer was thrown open, the usher ascertained that neither the strap nor the locks nor the seal had been tampered with. A teller counted out the contents and confirmed the box held the proscribed hundred pounds in silver. All the foregoing was accomplished before the sheriff, the chamberlains, the usher, three other tellers, and one knight of Winchester. As Drake guessed, the treasury held a meager tally: no more than a thousand pounds.
“I’m not wholly surprised,” said Randall. “The king took most of the coin with him in August. The Exchequer isn’t due to meet until later this month, whence the balance will be collected.”
The usher hesitated to disagree.
“Speak up, man!”
“A-according to the t-tallies, the balance not to be collected, as you say, until the Michelmas Exchequer, there ou-ought to be upwards of twelve-thousand pounds.” Never more sure of himself, the usher’s stutter miraculously disappeared. “Precisely twelve-thousand, nine-hundred, two-and-thirty pounds of silver.”
“Then where is it?”
“That’s what I would like to know.” The usher was indignant. More, he was gloating.
Chapter 26
W
HEN DRAKE RETURNED TO STEPHEN’S chamber at the alehouse, it was full dark. A monk supplied with enough flagons of wine to inebriate a monastery greeted his brother at the door.
Stephen shed his monk’s robes while Drake collapsed onto a chair, legs spread forward and head flung back. He was bone-weary and in no mood to explain how twelve-thousand pounds had been filched from the Royal Winchester Treasury by means unknown and thieves at-large; or how the clerk of the treasury was the subject of a wide search; or how an unsigned confession was temporarily buried under warrants, writs, and lists but undoubtedly would resurface and demand attention.
Since Stephen wasn’t in much of a talking mood, either, they eventually settled onto the floor and shared the wine.
Using a folded arm to pillow his head, Drake said, “I wish I could remember our mother.”
The defrocked monk said, “I do.”
“Not likely. She died the day after giving birth to us.”
“Still, ’tis so.”
“Was she as beautiful as they say?”
“More so.”
“Eleanor remembers her. Said we take after her.”
“We don’t take after William.”
“Thank God for small favors.” They crossed themselves in unison.
The brothers drank on, wordlessly toasting Jenna on each round.
Stephen asked, “What should we do about John?”
“Do?”
“It can’t be coincidence, Jenna’s stolen missive. We ought to tell someone.”
“Are you mad? Accuse the brother of the king?”
“You saw her. She didn’t put up the least of a fight. Whoever did it … she knew him … trusted him.”
The more Drake drank, the more he remembered. The more he remembered, the more he hurt. The more he hurt, the more he drank. Outside, a storm was brewing. Inside, a similar storm was brewing, not as brilliant or noisy, but harboring the same potential for violence.
