Forsaken Soul Read online

  “So Martin went up to the room alone?”

  “Aye. He paid and climbed the stairs.”

  “The harlot came next? No one else?”

  “You think I have the time to spy like a woman on her neighbors? I’ve a business to run, something you seem to have forgotten.”

  “You keep your eyes honed well enough for anyone who might cheat you of a tiny silver farthing or cause trouble.”

  The innkeeper solemnly considered that for a moment, then his features relaxed as if he had concluded the observation was a compliment. “Hob and Will arrived, then the whore. The brothers often joined Martin upstairs for ale.” He snorted. “And more if the cooper was feeling generous.”

  “Who served the food and drink?”

  “My niece. Perhaps you might find some answers there, if you sing sweetly enough.”

  Ralf’s face grew hot. “I am investigating a murder, not playing minstrel.”

  Glaring at the king’s man, the innkeeper growled like an apprehensive dog. “She has yet to kill a man, Crowner, although she might have had cause—one time or another.”

  Ralf swallowed a retort.

  The man swept the fish back into the basket. “On her way to deliver the fare, she stopped to talk with me. She did not like that I rented the room upstairs to men who pay to swyve Ivetta.” Shrugging, he continued, “Not that I fault her, but the coin was reliable and Ivetta is clean. No one has claimed to have caught any sickness from her. Had anyone complained that they had done so, I would have banned her.”

  The crowner nodded.

  “While we talked, she put the tray down. Perhaps someone dropped the poison in the food then?”

  “Did your niece always serve them?”

  “Aye. She knows our inn depends on its reputation for good service given in exchange for good coin. She might not like doing it, but she understands business.”

  “Did she say anything later about what she saw that night?”

  “I didn’t ask her. Look, my niece has never been happy about this agreement. I do not want to start a quarrel so I never bring it up. See no point in inviting her woman’s squall. Now that Martin’s died, the whoring upstairs is done. It’s one thing to rent a room for a purpose I can turn my back to, but I don’t want the reputation of running a brothel. Ivetta can whore from now on in her own hut, if she can find the custom without her bawd.”

  “Whatever you may have wished, your niece chose to confront you about the arrangement anyway. Was that a common practice of hers or had something different happened to cause it that night?”

  “Nothing odd. That’s just a woman for you, continuing to argue about settled matters.” Shaking his head, the innkeeper lugged the fish basket over to the door. “These are ready to gut,” he shouted.

  A man as tiny as the innkeeper was huge rounded the corner. With ease, he hoisted the basket onto his shoulder and disappeared in the direction of the inn’s cookhouse.

  The fish had looked good, Ralf thought, his stomach issuing an appreciative rumble. Maybe he’d return for the evening meal. “Where did your niece put her tray down?” he continued.

  “At the table near the door.” The innkeeper waved for the crowner to follow him into the public room, then pointed out the specific place.

  “And who passed by while you talked?”

  “My back was to it. Ask Signy if you want details.”

  “No one was sitting there? On such a busy night?”

  “You were near. Why don’t you ask yourself if you remember anyone?”

  Ralf walked over to the innkeeper and jabbed a finger into the man’s chest. “Mock and you may find your inn is filled with my men often enough to frighten away anyone with the slightest fear of the king’s justice.”

  The man stepped back. “No need, Crowner, no need! I have told the truth. I saw nothing, remember nothing, and am too busy to care what anyone is doing. Were I to notice such things, I might be crowner instead of you.” He yelped as Ralf shoved him. “A jest! ‘Twas a jest!”

  Ralf did not step away. His teeth were so close to the innkeeper’s nose he could have bitten it off.

  The man bent back as if he feared that was exactly what the crowner had in mind. “For God’s sake, I know nothing more about what happened that night. The harlot screamed. I ran to see what had happened. My niece has told me nothing. Ivetta has lost her bawd and has not returned here. Martin is dead. Business has suffered. What more do you think I can tell you?”

  “Hob and Will? Did they quarrel with Martin and did they do so often?”

  The innkeeper blinked. “Quarrel? You know the three well enough to answer that yourself. You are all of an age.”

  “I have not been here for many months. Things change. Answer me.”

  “They haven’t. They fight when they are drunk, and then buy each other ale the next night. Sometimes Will stayed to share Ivetta. That angered Signy more than when Martin had the whore by himself because it meant she must serve refreshments more than once.”

  “Were they sharing the whore that night?”

  “Martin slipped me extra and ordered more food and wine when they did. I never knew until then. Don’t think it was always planned. That night I knew only that he was with Ivetta, and he died before he could pay me the additional. And he was good about that. He was an honest man about it.”

  “How about Ivetta? Did she have any quarrel with the cooper?”

  The man laughed. “He never beat her. She ate well enough and drank more. Her clothes were no worse than any harlot might expect. Many wives would be happy with a man like Martin, let alone a woman of her trade. And, unlike a spouse, Ivetta didn’t have to make his clothes or cook his meals. Why would she want to kill him?”

  “I’ll be back,” Ralf said. He shook his head in frustration as he walked away.

  The innkeeper shouted after him: “When you do, bring some of the king’s coin. Leaving that corpse upstairs cost me two day’s business!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ralf did not get far from the inn. As he stepped out the door, he saw Thomas walking away from him. “Have you visited Hell of late, monk? You look like it,” he shouted at the monk’s back.

  Thomas spun around. “I must therefore be grateful that all vanity was forbidden me when I took the tonsure, Crowner.” He cocked his head to one side and studied his friend with much care. “But I fear you have much the same appearance,” he said at last, breaking into a grin. “However, now that I look more closely, I see no difference in your face from the last time we met.”

  “It is dusk, monk. When did you begin leaping priory walls at night for bright village joys?”

  “I am bringing a sleeping potion to old Tibia and have just delivered dill water to a young mother.” He pointed behind him. “The babe is colicky. Neither she nor her husband sleeps much at night.”

  “Are these evening visits Prioress Eleanor’s idea?”

  “Sister Anne’s but our prioress saw the charity in it.”

  “You say you are visiting old Tibia?”

  Thomas nodded.

  “Then I will walk with you. I am on my way to see Will the blacksmith.”

  “How goes the murder investigation?”

  “Slowly enough.”

  Thomas nodded in sympathy at the angry edge in the crowner’s voice. “Too many suspects or not enough?”

  “In this village, there were few who did not dislike Martin, including me. If someone had taken a cudgel to him at long last, I would not be surprised. What troubles me is the use of poison. Have you heard about that?”

  Thomas nodded. “Sister Anne told me. You’d find that a more common method in places other than this fish-reeking coast.”

  Ralf chuckled. “Still longing for the stench of London streets, monk? You may have the king’s court, if you want it though. I would not even give a clipped coin for that.”

  Thomas shrugged. “All my thoughts of Lo
ndon have faded like a lady’s fine silks in the sun.” That was true enough, but the memory of his rank prison cell had not.

  “An interesting image, monk! Many streets are indeed colorful with the effluence of both man and beast, but the sun does not fade the odor.” The crowner slapped Thomas on the shoulder.

  “As for the court, I have no experience of it, being a simple monk. We rarely come so close to God’s anointed.” Folding his hands into his sleeves, Thomas looked at the man with affection. “It pleases me to see you laugh.”

  They stood together in companionable silence, watching several gray and white mews fly overhead, engaged in raucous avian conversation.

  “Back to murder,” Ralf said as they walked away from the inn. “Poison is the weapon of someone who cannot or will not face his enemy, man on man. That is my opinion. In court, there are enough cokenays dressed in multi-colored robes that would use it, but I know none such here. A woman might though. Have you heard any rumors?”

  “None involving mortals. You accused Ivetta. Why?”

  “I think she did it. She was alone with Martin the longest.” Ralf gestured back at the inn. “Just talked with our fine innkeeper who said his niece usually took up the meal but that night had a quarrel with him and set the tray down on a table while they argued. Thus the drink and food remained unattended. According to him, someone might have slipped poison into it on the way out of the inn.” He snorted. “That seems unlikely. Too much luck involved.”

  “Unless someone did not care when he killed Martin and had the poison ready for just the right moment?”

  “The king might have his food tasted for such a reason, but we deal more directly with disagreements on this seaweed covered coast you love so well. That idea would have merit someplace other than Tyndal village.”

  Thomas laughed. The ongoing joke between them had become a comfortable thing.

  “Martin has been a bully since boyhood,” Ralf continued in a more serious tone. “If he angered someone, he would have been stabbed or beaten bloody coming home drunk from the inn not long after any offense. Who in this village would lie in wait with a vial of poison? Perhaps tied up in the sleeve? I can name no such man.”

  “A woman then, as you suggested.”

  “Ivetta.”

  “You haven’t arrested her.”

  Ralf scowled. “I may think her most likely, but I cannot come up with a reason why she would have murdered him. That’s the trouble. She’s followed the man like a bitch in heat ever since he broke her maidenhead years ago in the field over there. If she never cared that he turned her into the village whore afterward instead of marrying her, why would she want to kill him so many years later? She may have had cause, but I have yet to discover a recent one.”

  The two men stopped as they came to Tibia’s hut.

  “You have not yet talked to Ivetta?” In the growing dark, Thomas could not see the crowner’s face, but the man’s long silence answered eloquently enough.

  “Your prioress agreed it was best if she talked to her,” Ralf admitted at last. “Knowing how persuasive Prioress Eleanor can be, I might even hope that she could get the harlot to confess to murder. Or, if not that, persuade her to repent her sinful trade, although I cannot imagine Ivetta in a nun’s habit myself. Your prioress will also speak with the innkeeper’s niece to ask what she might have noticed.” The last was quickly mumbled as if in afterthought.

  “As we both have learned, the leader of Tyndal can pry secrets from most men, let alone any woman. Your request for her help was a wise one.”

  The crowner flushed. “It was her suggestion, monk. I am grateful.”

  Thomas nodded. Having witnessed the harshness with which Ralf had treated Ivetta, he knew his prioress must have greater success gaining the prostitute’s confidence. Why would anyone, especially a frightened woman, confide in a man who gave every sign of wanting to hang someone, anyone, as soon as possible? As for Signy, he had heard rumors enough that the rough-mannered Ralf had offended her deeply not long ago.

  Suddenly Ralf’s expression brightened. “As for help, Brother, why don’t you ask old Tibia if she noticed anything that night? I saw her in the inn sucking at a bowl of stew.”

  “She suffers great pain, Crowner. I fear the only thing she can see is her path to heaven.”

  “I had an aged aunt with eyesight better than any hawk. On her deathbed, she told her son, in front of his wife, to give up the mistress he thought he had well-hidden. Don’t let an old woman fool you into thinking she has one foot in God’s hand.”

  “If she is alert enough to remember anything, I shall ask her,” Thomas agreed.

  Still grinning at the memory of his cousin’s discomfort, Ralf set off in the direction of the smithy.

  ***

  Thomas peered through the thick darkness of old Tibia’s hut. His heart beat several times before he finally saw her in a corner, sitting on a stool. “It is Brother Thomas,” he said in a soft voice.

  “My son!” Tibia’s voice was flat with pain. Her hand reached out toward him, fingers clawing as her breath came in gasps.

  “I have the potion,” he replied, quickly pulling the stopper from the neck of the jar.

  She grasped the small container and gulped the liquid like a starving babe at its mother’s breast.

  When she was done, he helped her ease off the stool and lie on her matted straw.

  “I remind God daily to take note of your kindness to this crone,” she whispered.

  “God knows everything,” he replied. From the sweetish stench of old urine and the musty smell of decay, Thomas suspected the straw had not been changed for a very long time. Tomorrow he would come earlier and bring fresh straw for a clean bed.

  “He needs reminding, Brother! I’d not have Him forget you.” Tibia’s laugh was sharp.

  “Have you no family at all?” Thomas asked, looking with pity at the cruel poverty of the small space.

  “Hell’s full of my kin.”

  “None of your husband’s family…”

  “Husband?” She snorted. “My son could’ve been the spawn of many, Brother. When my father and mother died, I lived by whoring. Young flesh draws a high price.” Her voice grew muffled as the mixture began to dull her senses and ease her pain.

  Perhaps God did need reminding if a young girl was allowed to suffer the loss of her parents and then all virtue in order to survive, Thomas thought. A chill sadness took hold of him.

  “Shocked, holy man? Or disgusted by my sins?”

  “Only grieved that you should have so much sorrow.”

  “Don’t be, Brother. It doesn’t matter that no one’s alive to call me kin, or would if I had any, but I’ve known some joy. When I quickened with my son, I stopped whoring.” Her eyes glittered in the small light. “Nay, I didn’t find virtue. I fell in love with the babe too quickly to rid myself of him, as I knew well enough how to do.”

  Thomas smiled at the softness in her voice, then caught himself wondering if his own mother, a woman he never knew, had felt the same about him. He looked down at Tibia, but she had turned her face from him and did not see his especial sympathy.

  “I sold herbs and potions to feed us both. Some say charms as well, but many point out the Devil in others so no one will see the Fiend in themselves.” She turned back with a toothless grin. “Look at me, Brother! Why would I dance naked for the imps at midnight? Satan himself would not couple with this body even if I offered my soul.”

  The monk sat back in shock. Surely there were no limits on what the Evil One might do to gain a soul for Hell? “I have seen you consulting with Sister Anne about cures,” he said, quickly changing the subject.

  “She is a good woman. Taught me much while I could still walk upright and visit the priory hospital.”

  “Did your son not have a wife?”

  There was no answer.

  Thomas fell silent and listened to Tibia’s breathing deepen into
sleep.

  His heart now overflowed with compassion for this woman. On impulse he bent to kiss her rough cheek. No matter what his particular distress, he was surrounded by many who would care for him if he suffered the physical pain this woman did, and do so with tenderness. Her lifelong suffering and loneliness was greater than anything he could even imagine, and he quietly berated himself for his own selfish moaning.

  As he slipped out the door and walked back to the priory, he remembered that he had not asked old Tibia about what she might have witnessed at the inn. He shrugged. Why trouble the poor woman right now when she endured so much agony. The questioning could surely wait.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “You’re standing in my light.” Will lowered his hammer as sweat made pale and twisted paths through the black ash on his face, arms, and chest. The air stank of hot metal and unwashed flesh.

  Ralf did not move. “I offer you a bargain then. I will give you light if you will enlighten me.”

  “Not changed at all, have you? Landless Norman spawn with naught to do but torment honest tradesmen. You always were a troublous cur. Only Tostig could stand you, but I’ve oft thought him a cokenay, since he doesn’t keep a woman and hasn’t shown much longing for the cloister.” The smith smirked and rubbed his hand under his nose. “Which of you holds the lance, I wonder?”

  Ralf grasped his sword.

  Will reached over for his tongs and picked up a white-hot coal.

  “Drop it, Will!” a voice shouted. “’S Blood! The man will skewer you before you ever decided what to do with that.” Hob emerged from a hut near the smithy, wiping his hands on a ragged piece of cloth. A muscular beige dog, with blotches of pink scarring along one side, followed him but carefully kept his distance from the elder blacksmith.

  Sparks scattered as Will tossed the coal back into the fire.

  The dog yelped and ran back to the dark interior of the hut.

  “Lout! Are you trying to burn the village down?” Hob grabbed a bucket and dashed water on some ominously glowing embers. When rising steam confirmed all danger of fire was over, he turned to Ralf. “Why bother us, Crowner? You have Martin’s murder to solve. Or is the killer too clever for your frail wits and your pride demands you punish someone to prove your manhood? There’s no other reason for you to be here.”