by Jane Adams
CHAPTER 36
If Ethan was surprised to have Rozlyn show up at his home at six in the morning, he didn’t show it. He took one look and then took charge. “You’re burning. Come on, get into bed and I’ll bring you something cool to drink.”
“Bed?”
“I’ve a spare room. You never know when people will arrive, so I keep it made up. Come along now.”
He sounded like a bossy nanny, Rozlyn thought. She wondered about the “never know when people will arrive”. Used to folk landing on your doorstep unannounced, are you? She asked, or at least she thought she did. She might only have posed the question in the confines of her own head.
Ethan had directed her through the door from his living room and up the narrow, enclosed stairs. Rozlyn suddenly sat down, legs giving way and a cold sweat momentarily replacing the fever and chilling along her spine.
“Christ, Ethan, someone shot at me.”
“Shot at you?”
She nodded. “I feel nauseous,” she confessed, taking deep controlling breaths.
“The bathroom is the first door to your right,” Ethan informed her, “and your bedroom next door to that. I’ll wait for you in there.”
Rozlyn didn’t manage to reply. She struggled to her feet and surged through the door Ethan had indicated, just making it to the toilet bowl before throwing up so violently she felt herself almost pulled inside out.
“Feel better?” Ethan asked from the doorway.
Rozlyn nodded pathetically, sat back on her heels and watched the water flush around the bowl.
“There’s a new toothbrush in the cabinet. I always keep a couple extra. You never know.”
“Thanks,” Rozlyn managed. “You often have unexpected guests throwing up in your bathroom?”
“I generally find it’s the best place to do it.”
“Yeah, right.” She closed her eyes and stopped wondering about Ethan’s guests. All that mattered at the moment was that she was one of them and Ethan had a bed, a spare toothbrush and a cool drink. She managed to get to her feet despite the fact that the room shifted beneath them, then she brushed her teeth until her gums tingled. Ethan, as promised, was waiting in the little guest room. There was space for a single bed and a narrow wooden wardrobe set against a background of rosy wallpaper, the closet dark oak and wonderfully carved. The corner near the door was occupied by a low, bow-legged, pink upholstered chair. Curtains had been drawn and a red shaded lamp glowed on the tiny round table set between the chair and the inviting bed.
“Who shot at you?” Ethan asked.
Rozlyn shook her head. “I was where I shouldn’t have been. Mark Richards’ place. One of his security men shot my rear window out.”
Ethan frowned. “Where did you leave your car?”
Rozlyn tried to remember. “I usually park near The George,” she said. “I think it must have been there. I’m sorry, Ethan, I don’t seem to recall.” She smiled weakly. “I feel bloody lousy.”
“You look it,” Ethan told her frankly. “There’s a bug going around. Looks to me like you’ve caught a dose of it. Now, give me your keys and get yourself into bed. I’ll get you a drink and then go and move your car.”
“Move it?”
“I don’t imagine you were in a fit state to pay your parking fee,” Ethan said practically. “You don’t want to be clamped, do you? Besides, if your rear window’s been shot out it will attract the wrong kind of interest, don’t you think? There’s a little side road at the back of here and I’ve a friend with a place to park off-road. Don’t worry. It’ll be quite safe there.”
“You know,” Rozlyn said, “anyone else would be having hysterics and wanting to call the police if I was to tell them I’d been shot at.”
“I’m not given to hysterics,” Ethan told her. “And, frankly, I’ve never found the police much use. Now, get into bed and let me sort things out.”
Rozlyn closed her eyes. Her body was shaking and the chill had returned. She didn’t know if she had the strength to get undressed. She wondered at the fact that she’d had the strength to run and climb the wall but figured two slavering big-toothed dogs and a couple of armed men were probably the ideal motivating factor. Dimly, she was aware that Ethan was easing her out of her coat.
“Come along now.”
Ah, nanny was back again. Rozlyn surrendered. She let Ethan help her with the rest, feeling oddly unconcerned that this man she barely knew was helping her remove her jeans and shirt. Ethan covered her with warm blankets and cool linen sheets. Helpless as a child and quite happy to be so, Rozlyn was asleep in minutes.
CHAPTER 37
A visitor awaited Treven on his return home. One of Kendryk’s brother monks, a heavy set, squat faced man with a scar that ran the length of his cheek. They called him Aiken — the Oak. Treven had noted him before; he was rarely far from Kendryk’s side.
“Father Abbot wishes you to return with me.”
“For what reason?”
“When you had gone, he sent out men to search for the sister of the dead woman. And the one she fled with. He thought it best to test the words of Hugh de Vries.”
“Have they found anything?”
“Not when I left but I have waited an hour before your hearth. We should return now. The Lord Abbot said to tell you that I ride well. Horses would save time spent walking.”
“You can ride Hugh’s horse,” Treven told him. “But have a care, his mouth is like leather and he’s as headstrong as his master.”
Snow fell heavily as they returned the two miles to Theading. It had come early this year, Treven thought — it was still a few days before the year’s end at All Hallows. Not a good omen for the winter to come. Aiken handled his mount with ease and, looking at his hands, Treven noted they were broad and calloused. He wondered what the monk had been before he took his vows; what work he did for Kendryk now.
Kendryk was waiting for them in the open space before the Scriveners’ home. Snow fell about him but he stood bare headed and seemed not to notice the cold. Treven was reminded of the stranger he had seen in the ash grove. Aiken, of course, had not enquired as to where he’d been, but Treven knew that Kendryk would and he wondered if he could lie . . . or if he should.
“The searchers are returning,” Kendryk told him.
“And has aught been found?”
“No and in this white mirk I doubt it could be.”
“Then why send them out?”
Kendryk sighed and regarded him steadily with those cool grey eyes deep set in the death mask of a face. “I sent them in your name, Treven of Theadingford. A claim was made. You, as Thegn, must be seen to do your duty as regard that claim and to act immediately. You should not allow time for folk to question your intent or your reasoning.”
Treven’s anger surged, the more piquant because he knew there was truth in what Kendryk had just said. “When will you cease instructing me in the rule of my affairs?” he demanded under his breath.
“When you learn to see what must be done without my guidance,” Kendryk returned. “Treven, in war, I doubt you have equal. In this time of so-called peace you have no practice and as yet, little skill. Though,” he smiled and the death’s head grimaced, skin tightening over bone so Treven thought almost that it might split, “I have high hopes of you King’s Thegn.”
Treven glowered at him, but his planned retort was interrupted by a cry from across the field that lay between the homestead and the wood.
“They have found something?”
A small knot of searchers broke from the woodland and struggled through the snow that now lay ankle deep. Their leader held something in his hands. Fabric, Treven saw as they drew closer. Woolen cloth that had once been deepest blue but which now was half black with mud and torn and mired.
“Aliss Scrivener wove this cloth two winters since,” the man told Treven and the Abbott.
“You are certain?”
“I am certain. She taught my children the art. The Scrivener w
omen wove fine cloth, the mother and the two girls. Cate was the better spinner of yarn, but her sister wove with a tight weft and this pattern on the hem . . .” He thrust it forward for Treven to see. A band three fingers deep had been created in a pattern that twisted the weaving into a checkerboard design. Treven, no weaver himself, could not guess how it was done, but the tightness and skill were obvious even to an unskilled eye. “This was a pattern of her own making,” the man told him.
“So, if the cloak is there, so might be the owner.”
Treven looked upward at the sky. Snow-filled and dense, he could not see higher than a house roof before his vision became blocked by the swirl and dance of heavy flakes.
“Be that as it may,” he said. “I’ll not send any out in this.” He reached out to take the cloth from the searcher. “You’ve done well.” He said. “When the weather clears, lead me to the place you found this. If the woman lies in the woods, we will find her and bring her body back for decent burial.”
“And the Waelas man she ran with?” Kendryk asked him, and Treven knew this was yet another of the abbot’s tests. Impatience and anger battled but he held them back. “The man and woman fell into sin through too much love,” he said quietly. “I’ll not expect Edmund to have him here, but I’ll see him buried on my own lands. It seems to me they have paid penalty enough for such misjudgment.” The man with the cloak nodded and handed Treven the sorry bundle of blue cloth.
“I’ll get to my home. My wife will be watching for me.”
“That was well done,” Kendryk told him when the men had left.
“I do not seek your approval.”
“No, but you will get it or otherwise. Treven, make no mistake, I would rather claim this land for my Abbey and for the glory of the Christ, but since my earthly lord decrees otherwise, I would at least see his servant keep it well, whether that servant enjoys my words or not.”
Treven scowled and strode off towards the Scriveners’ homestead. Inside, he ordered the trestle table lifted from the wall and spread out the cloak. The shape was simple; a long rectangle of cloth meant to wrap around the body and (if necessary) be drawn over the head. He could see the signs of wear at the point where the brooch would usually have fastened. The fabric next to that had been ripped as though the cloak had been torn from the body while the brooch was fastened. Streaks of black mud showed, Treven fancied, where the fabric had folded and creased and been most exposed.
“The cloak was torn from her body some time after death,” he told Kendryk.
The Abbott nodded. “Wild animals could have done that. See, here, tears from teeth or tusks. There are boar in these woods and a body lying on the ground would attract scavengers.”
Treven nodded. “I doubt there’ll be much to bury,” he said “unless we find her before winter really sets hard. This, I believe, is blood. It looks like rust against the blue, though the whole is so caked in mud and filth it is impossible to tell.”
“It seems that Hugh’s claim may be genuine,” Kendryk observed.
“And if we find the older sister and her lover, what to do with the father?”
“Unless another can be found with more reason to kill, and, I do not believe, Treven, that either brother struck the blow that killed their wives, then the father is guilty and such guilt cannot be left unpunished.”
“The man has lost his mind.”
“But did he lose it and then strike his children down? Or lose it after through grief and guilt.”
Treven shook his head. “I find it hard to think that a man with full reason would want his child dead because she loved unwisely.”
“Fathers have killed for less.”
“Then they are not fathers.” Treven drew a deep breath. “I find it hard, no, impossible, to think of a reason or an act that would lead me to want to strike my own child dead.” He folded the cloth, then changed his mind and laid it by the fire to dry. “Where is Hugh? For that matter, where are the brothers?”
“The brothers have gone to Storton with the girls’ father. You were not here to consult. I thought it best to have him moved before more damage could be done.”
“Consult? What damage?”
“You think a mad man will stop with two deaths?” Kendryk questioned. “Treven, we can debate when he might have lost his reason but simple observation will tell you that however it was lost it is most definitely gone. I have seen men sick like this. They devise in their minds a sly cunning that those of us who still, God willing, retain our faculties are hard pressed to read. Two women came to me and reported attacks upon them and their children. Both times their husbands were at hand, but as time passes, we can only expect the old man to become more unthinking in his actions. At Storton, we have a hospice. He can be confined and cared for and watched closely. It seemed to me a solution you could only approve.”
Treven was forced to admit that he was right. He nodded. “Thank you for your wisdom,” he said. “I will send alms to care for his needs.”
“And if you did, I would soon be returning them to you. Treven, when your land can support such pledges, then I will accept them. I shall expect your tithing, with the rest, but beyond that I will not ask until you have riches to spare. Only then will I be more demanding. Hugh,” he added, “waits for you in the place he was confined. I made it plain he was not welcome in my presence, though I’ve ensured he has food and fire. He’ll neither starve nor freeze. Oh, and tell Osric, from me, that I should like to know what herbs and oils he used in his potion. I could make use of them in the infirmary.”
* * *
Hugh lay on his back, a blanket thrown across his legs. The hut was warm. A brazier set up in the middle of the room burned with a smoky light. When Treven opened the door, the sudden draft caused the wood to roar and the smoke to billow. Treven waited for the blaze to die down and watched the vapours rise again and drift up towards the roof. When he cast his eyes down again, Hugh was looking at him.
“Do you still damn me, Treven?”
“I do.” Treven paused, crossed the room and stood over the prone figure of his one-time comrade. Hugh sat, he cradled the wounded hand across his body, though his face was no longer creased with the agony it had caused him and his speech, slightly slurred, told Treven that wine laced with poppy had taken most of his pain. Treven pulled a wooden stool close to the pallet bed and sat down, studying Hugh carefully
“When you have healed sufficiently, I will have you escorted home,” Treven told him.
“And I have said I will not go.”
“The King will command it.”
“Will he? Treven, I come from a family of powerful men and well-connected women. They have wealth and land and the king’s ear. He needs his allies and they have been his and his brothers before him. You think he will offend them by sending me home under the cloud of an imagined disgrace? Treven, you have nothing to offer him but your honour and your courage. Ask yourself. In this time of peace, when playing politics is more valued than that game of spear and sword, who will our lord most cherish?”
“Aelfred gave me land.”
“Aelfred gave you a border territory to defend. You have a ruined hall and fields that will need clearing before they are again put beneath the plough. It will take many years and many men giving their tithing before you make any profit from your precious earth. Many more before it becomes a place where men of quality could feast or Scops sing their tales of glory.” He sat forward, leaning close to Treven. “I have wealth, I have influence. Put this matter aside and look to the future. Think of all the hopes and dreams we had when first we came here. You have need of me. Would you throw all away because of some scrap of a girl?”
For a long moment Treven considered his words. He could see the truth of them. He thought of all the times he and Hugh had fought, slept, eaten side by side, shared all manner of hardships, grumbled and scolded and celebrated victory. They had shared a closeness that he had not even known with Hild and it hurt all the more to know that
someone he had known so well should now have changed beyond all recognition.
“I have no need of your wealth,” he said softly. “I will wait for the profit from my fields.”
“And when your people go hungry and look to you for bread?” Hugh demanded. “Will you tell them they must wait? Or would you use my wealth to trade for what they need?”
“And I have no regard for influence,” Treven continued, ignoring Hugh’s question. “I believe, and you know I believe that a man should be judged by his own deeds and not those of his brothers or his forebears. The poet tells us that all men must die. All things die and pass away. All that remains is the memory of our deeds and that memory should be glorious and honourable. Hugh, if the only legacy I have is that I am remembered as an honourable man, then I call that riches enough.”
“Tell me that when you go hungry and watch as others starve.”
“The people now in my demesne have managed their own lands and filled their own bellies in the years before I came. My being here will not diminish their skill, neither will it add to their burdens.”
“They will look to you for leadership.”
“And I will learn to lead them.”
“You expect Kendryk’s help in this? If so, then you’re a fool, Treven, and remember also, that this land is given under the King’s deed. Aelfred can take away what he has given. Don’t forget, my family have the ear of the king and should I have them whisper in that ear that Treven betrayed a comrade and cast him aside? A comrade in arms that the King himself appointed to serve, how long then will you keep this precious place?”
Treven rose from his stool and stared at Hugh with a mixture of incomprehension and pain. Hugh returned his gaze, looking upon Treven’s puzzlement and misreading it. He spoke with a quiet urgency, leaning still closer to his one-time friend. “Treven, I will do none of that, I swear. You only have to let me stay.”
