Luke took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I see.”
“I felt right sorry for him, I did,” the innkeeper said. “He didn’t ask to go mad. God works in mysterious ways, and the Devil, too.”
“‘Tweren’t his fault,” someone else agreed.
“He hated what he was. You could see it in his eyes.”
Christ. “Thank you,” Luke said. “You’ve been helpful.”
* * *
“Ill?” Faithe whispered. “How ill?”
“Very ill, from what they told me.” Luke glanced uneasily at Alex, sitting beside him, and reached across the table in the dim little inn to take Faithe’s hand. “It sounds as if he may have had the same malady of the brain that killed my sister, Alienor.”
Alex grew alert.
Luke wondered how to tell her the rest. “He was... he’d become—”
Alex kicked him under the table. When Luke looked in his direction, he surreptitiously shook his head. Although he’d been but ten years old when their sister had been taken, he remembered the nightmare all too vividly, Luke knew. He and Alienor had been very close, and her death, preceded by months of escalating insanity, had affected him deeply at the time.
Apparently Alex didn’t want Luke to tell Faithe of Caedmon’s dementia. Was he right? Would the news devastate her, as Alex feared? She was a grown woman, not a child, and strong. Still, what woman would want to find out that her husband had become a raving madman toward the end of his life? How could he tell her that Caedmon had spent the winter begging for scraps between fits of violent lunacy, getting by on the Christian charity of the good people of Cottwyk? Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “He got headaches.”
“Aye.” She nodded distractedly. “Aye. He’d been getting them before he left for Hastings. Awful headaches.”
“That’s right,” Luke said. “He must have been sick already.”
“What else?” Faithe asked. “It must have been more than just headaches.”
Luke bought a moment by taking a sip of his ale. “Seizures,” he said. “He had seizures. And sometimes he’d see double.”
Faithe looked mystified. “Why didn’t he come home, so I could take care of him? Why did he stay here? I don’t understand.”
Alex spoke up, quietly. “Perhaps he didn’t want to burden you with his illness.”
A perceptive observation on his brother’s part, but then Alex had always been gifted with the ability to look through a person and see the workings within.
“Do you think that was it?” she asked Luke.
“I’m certain that was it,” he said, squeezing her hand. “He told the inkeeper as much. He was trying to spare you.”
“I wish he hadn’t.” She stared at something on the table that he couldn’t see, her eyes glimmering in the darkness. “I wish he’d come home.”
“From what I can tell, the people here were good to him,” Luke assured her gently. “They fed him and took care of him. They liked him.”
Faithe started to say something, but choked on the words, her face crumpling. She closed a hand over her mouth as tears welled in her eyes.
“Oh, Faithe.” Rising, he circled the table and sat next to her, gathering her in his arms and pressing her face to his chest. “Sweet Faithe,” he whispered, stroking her hair as she cried silently, gratified that she could expose her vulnerable side, even as his heart ached for her. “My love. My sweet love. It’s all right. Everything will be all right. Let’s go home.”
She looked up. He blotted her wet face with the sleeve of his tunic.
“We can’t go home yet,” she said hoarsely.
“Faithe—”
“We haven’t been... to that place. We haven’t seen where it happened.”
“You’re in no state to go there.”
“I’m fine.” She raised her chin gamely, sniffing away the last of her tears. “I’m going.”
“Nay,” he said firmly. “I’m putting a stop to this. This has gone far enough. We’re going home.”
She closed her hand over her chatelaine’s keys, again seeking strength from them. “You two are welcome to return to Hauekleah. I’ll join you when I’ve finished here.”
Alex grinned and downed his ale. “She sounds very determined, brother. I can’t think of any way to make her leave with you.”
Neither could Luke, short of tying her up and throwing her over his saddle, and he suspected that would be a mistake. “All right,” he conceded grudgingly. “We’ll take you where you want to go.”
She stood, followed by Luke and Alex. “Did you ask them how to get there?”
“Aye,” he lied as he ducked through the doorway. “It’s to the north, through the woods.”
* * *
“This is it?” Faithe asked dubiously when they rode into the clearing and she saw the humble little cottage.
“This is it.” It’s not much of a whorehouse, Luke had said the first time he’d seen it. He’d barely been able to make it out against the shadowy woods that ringed it. At least it’s shelter, Alex had said. ‘Twill rain soon, and I’d rather be in there than out here when it does. Shivering from the effects of the herbs, Luke had told himself to ride it out, that a good, hard tupping was all he needed to set him right.
How wrong he’d been. And how it chilled him to recall these long-forgotten details. How much more would he recall before this day was over?
The wattle-and-daub hovel looked even more dismal in the light of day than it had that ill-fated night four months ago. The thatch was decayed, the deerskin over the door partly rotted, and there were gaps in the crumbling clay walls big enough to shove a fist through. Chickens scratched in the hard-packed earth surrounding the cottage; there must have been over a hundred. Luke didn’t remember the chickens—or the crude poultry house at the edge of the woods—but then his memory of this place and what had transpired here was blurred and patchy.
“How can you be so sure this is the right place?” Faithe asked. “Perhaps their directions were poor. This doesn’t look like... one of those places.”
Alex grinned at her. “And what would you know of such places, Faithe? This is it.” He dismounted, and Luke and Faithe followed suit.
The deerskin moved; the dirt-smeared face of a child peeked through, and then the skin abruptly fell back into place.
Luke, Faithe, and Alex blinked at each other. From within the cottage came a shrill cry of “Mummy! Mummy!”
The deerskin parted again, and this time there appeared the large, befreckled face of a woman. A froth of coppery hair blossomed from beneath the rag tied around her head. Luke felt a jolt of recognition, but shook it off. This wasn’t the whore who’d been struck by lightning. That woman was dead. This was someone else, another redheaded woman.
She blinked back at her three visitors, and then opened the skin wider. Her belly was swollen with child, and an infant slept openmouthed against her hip, cocooned in a sling tied over her shoulder. Several children’s faces popped out around her. One tried to squeeze around her bulky form, but she yanked him back by his tangled hair, producing a yowl of pain.
Luke knew that this was no whore.
“What you be wantin’?” the woman asked, eyeing them distrustfully. No doubt she rarely had callers, and she would assume they were all Normans, which would make her even warier.
Luke began to speak, but Faithe touched his arm and stepped forward. “I’m Faithe of Hauekleah,” she said. Surprise—that Faithe was a Saxon, no doubt—widened the woman’s eyes fleetingly. “These men,” Faithe continued, “are my husband, Luke of Hauekleah, and my brother by marriage, Alexandre de Périgueux.”
“My name is Aefrid,” the woman said. “These youngsters” —she nodded toward the many little faces pressing between her and the doorframe— “is mine.”
Luke was glad she didn’t try to name them one by one. There were an alarming number of them, pushing and squirming and struggling to get a look at the visitors.
“I wonder if we might... come inside?” Faithe asked.
Aefrid hesitated, as if she couldn’t imagine why such highborn folk would want to come into her home. “You hungry? All’s I got is porridge, but you’re welcome to it. Ain’t got no ale, but the water comes from a clean spring.”
Faithe smiled warmly. “Some spring water would be lovely.”
The red-haired woman frowned in evident puzzlement at the notion of water being lovely.
“Mind if we stable our horses in back?” Luke instantly regretted his loose tongue.
Aefrid regarded him curiously. “How’d you know I have a byre round back?”
“I... assumed it, since I see no separate barn or stable for your livestock.”
Aefrid snorted. “The only livestock as I can lay claim to is these godforsaken fowl.” She kicked one of the chickens into a feathery riot. “Dumb as mud, and evil-tempered to boot, but they lays me enough eggs to make a livin’.”
“Are you a widow?” Faithe inquired as Aefrid guided them around back to the attached byre, into which they led their mounts. Children swarmed after her, scurrying to keep up and clutching at her ragged skirts. Luke tried to count the children, but they all looked alike, with their round, freckled faces and rusty hair, and they skittered about too quickly to keep track of.
“A widow? Me?” Aefrid guffawed as she kicked chickens aside to make room for their horses. “Naw, my Gimm run off soon as I tells him I’m cookin’ us up another wee one.” She patted her big belly as she led them through the low doorway that connected the byre to the cottage. “Couldn’t take it no more, I reckon. Just wandered off down the road, cryin’ like a babe.”
Luke tripped over something as he entered the cottage—whether a child or a chicken he knew not, for the dark, musty dwelling was packed to the rafters with both. A miasma of unbathed humanity and live poultry made his nostrils flare and his throat close up.
“My,” Faithe murmured; a rather eloquent understatement, to Luke’s way of thinking.
“How many children do you have?” Alex asked their hostess, amusement, and something like awe, in his voice.
Aefrid looked sheepish. “I never was much good at counting.” She reached out and seized two little girls by their braids. “Dita! Run to the spring and fetch a bucket of water. Hildy, you try and find some cups ain’t too dirty.”
Faithe studied the interior of the gloomy little cottage, as if trying to imagine it as a house of sin. Luke followed her line of sight, his gaze coming to rest on the fire pit, over which a kettle of porridge bubbled thickly. A memory assaulted him: Alex sleeping on one side, he on the other, both wrapped in their mantles. He remembered the hallucinatory dreams, the waking delusions, and shivered as he had that night.
Alex lifted a tiny girl from a bench, sat down awkwardly, and settled the child on his lap. She slid two filthy fingers into her mouth and stared up at him with eyes like wagon wheels. “How long have you lived here?” he asked the child’s mother.
“Since March,” Aefrid answered, accepting three cups from little Hildy and setting them on the table with a thunk. “This was my sister’s place, rest her soul.” She crossed herself and wiped the cups down with a handful of skirt. “Felled by a bolt of lightning, she was. God’s vengeance for her wicked ways.”
“She was a... sinner?” Faithe asked.
“A traitor to her people,” Aefrid spat out. “She consorted with—” Cutting herself off abruptly, she shot uneasy glances toward Luke and Alex.
Alex grinned at Luke, who knew what had amused him: It wasn’t Helig’s having spread her legs for a living that Aefrid objected to, but her having spread them for Normans.
“I see.” Faithe appeared to be biting her lip.
“Aye, well, here’s Dita with your water.” Aefrid set the bucket on the table and dipped their cups in one by one.
Luke accepted his, and seeing nothing crawling within, downed it in one thirsty gulp. It was sweet and cold.
Aefrid stroked her belly with one hand, the baby cradled against her hip with the other. “Gimm run off at the beginning of February. Candlemas, it was. Left me a shoemakin’ business, but I ain’t no cobbler, for one thing, and I gots these little ones to care for.” She shook her head. “We lived in one room over the shop in Slepe. Not even any little croft to plant a few turnips in. Did a lot of prayin’ and a fair measure of starvin’ during the month of February. Then I got word they done found Helig...” She broke off, her eyes shining in the murky half-light, clearly not as unmoved by her sister’s death as she’d made out.
A picture flashed in Luke’s mind: a woman’s body faceup in the cold morning drizzle, her bright hair singed, her feet charred, her exposed skin imprinted with strange, fernlike burns...
Her eyes wide open, staring up into the rain.
Alex looked at him, his expression grave. He remembered, too. Luke wished he hadn’t come here. He wished he were anywhere other than here in this stinking clay hut having scenes from his worst nightmare dragged out into the light of day.
“Well” —Aefrid sniffed and patted her sleeping babe— “God has His ways, that He does. Helig’s ill fortune was a blessing for us, inasmuch as we came into this here cottage. By rights it should have gone to my brother, Ham, but he lives at Foxhyrst Castle—he’s the sheriff’s hangman—and he didn’t need it. So he give it to me. Sold the shoe business and bought me some chickens and brung ‘em here. Now, I sell eggs in Cottwyk and sometimes in Foxhyrst, on market days. We may not be rich, but we don’t go hungry, and there’s plenty of folks can’t say that.”
“You should be proud of yourself,” Faithe told Aefrid, to her red-faced gratification. Setting her cup down carefully on the table, Faithe said, “I should tell you why we’re here.”
“I thought,” Aefrid said hesitantly, “you was travelin’ and got thirsty.”
Faithe took a step toward the woman and said, “Someone else died here that night—the night your sister was struck by lightning.”
Aefrid nodded cautiously, clearly trying to sort out where this was leading. “Aye, fellow name of Caedmon. They say he wasn’t quite—”
“Wasn’t quite well,” Luke said quickly, pinning Aefrid with his darkest gaze. “That’s right. He was ill. Had been for some time. That was before you moved here, of course.”
“Aye, but they told me all about ‘im,” Aefrid said. “And I could swear they said he was—”
“He was the lord of a great farmstead.” Alex stood, balancing the little girl on his hip while she patted his close-cropped hair, giggling. “And he was Lady Faithe’s husband.”
Aefrid gaped at Faithe. “Oh, milady, I’m...” She glanced warily at Luke and Alex. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I’m sure you are.” Luke withdrew his purse. “Our purpose in coming here was to see where Lord Caedmon died and find out whatever you may know about that night.” He shook all the rest of his silver into Aefrid’s palm, to her apparent stupefaction. “Understand,” he added, meeting her gaze meaningfully, “that we’re not asking what you’ve heard about him personally, but whether you know anything about his murder. Any help you can offer us would be most appreciated.”
“Lord,” she whispered, gaping at the coins as her children squeezed around to watch—and grab. “I ain’t never seen this much silver in one place, milord. And never in my hand, I can tell you that!”
“Can you tell us anything about the murder?” Faithe asked her.
“Only what the townsfolk told me,” Aefrid said. “Someone come here that morning lookin’ for... my sister... and found the cottage empty save for the body upstairs in the loft. They put him on a litter and went lookin’ for Helig, and found her dead on the road.”
Faithe was staring up at the loft.
“Thank you,” Luke said. “You’ve been most helpful.” He took his wife’s arm and guided her into a corner. “There’s nothing to be found out here, Faithe. It’s time to—”
“We should go up there,” sh
e said.
“There’s no point to that, Faithe,” he said as gently as he could. “We’re not going to learn anything by poking around here. Any clues Caedmon’s killer might have left behind—except for that mantle pin—are long gone.”
“I know,” she said, “but I have to go up there, anyway. Don’t you see? For so long I thought I knew how Caedmon had died, and then I found out everything I knew was wrong. Now, I just want to understand. I want to... see where it happened. I have to shut the door on this.”
“Ah, Faithe.” He did understand. He wished he could just drag her out of here for her own good—and his—but he couldn’t justify that, so he just said, “I’ll go up first.”
The ladder squeaked as he climbed it. He recalled the Saxon, Caedmon, hauling himself up it unsteadily that night. Luke had thought the man who’d stolen the whore from him was merely drunk, but he wasn’t. He was sick, probably dying.
Despite his ill-health, he’d managed to get what he’d come for. Luke remembered waking up from a violent nightmare to groans and the rhythmic crackling of straw from the loft. He’d tried to rouse his brother so they could leave, but Alex could sleep through anything. Luke drank all the whore’s brandy and passed out by the fire pit.
The next time he awoke, it was to screaming.
He paused at the top of the ladder, peering into the loft, seeing it but not seeing it.
The whore screamed while thunder crashed overhead. Why was she screaming?
He’d lurched to his feet...
“Luke?” came Faithe’s voice from behind him on the ladder.
“Aye.” Luke climbed up the rest of the way and entered the loft, crouching. He heard Faithe come up behind him, but didn’t turn around.
He recalled, vividly, awakening to the whore’s screams and racing up here to find...
Christ. The Saxon was beating her. She was trying to fight him off, but he just kept slamming his fist into her face, calling her a betrayer, a Judas.
Lords of Conquest Boxed Set Page 95
