The Winter King (23 page)

She was planning an elaborate funeral feast, and everyone at Medley was working as hard as they knew how to make sure her wishes were obeyed. Extra hands had been called in to help; even Sebastian, nominally in charge of all the comings and goings, did not recognize some of the people bustling in and out. Everything had to be perfect; here Sebastian was entirely in accord with his young mistress. The entire household knew that many high-born, wealthy, influential and important lords and their ladies would attend. Only a very few were privy to the full guest list …

And, as if all that were not enough, Lady Richenza had refused to let the burial go ahead until some cleric could be found to mutter the right words. As if, Sebastian reflected sourly, it would make any difference. A man as evil as Lord Benedict would be lucky not to be sent straight down to the Devil.

It was Sebastian himself who had finally found the solution that would see Lord Benedict safely in the ground, and his household relieved of the torment of smelling his stinking corpse. Recalling in a flash of genius the two canons who had come to inspect the newly dead lord, he had sent word to Tonbridge, asking if, of their charity, one or other of them could spare the time to
attend the burial
, as he had tactfully phrased it, and
perhaps speak a few words to comfort the mourners
.

Word came back that Canon Stephen would be happy to oblige, and Lady Richenza at last gave her consent for arrangements to proceed. The fact that a canon was by no means a priest – and anyway, in truth, was forbidden by the interdict from so much as opening his mouth at a burial – seemed to have escaped her notice. Sebastian, for one, was not going to point it out.

The hard-working household still had a few days to finish preparations for the lavish feast. Today was for the burial. Standing up, straightening the severe black tunic and smoothing down his hair, he opened the door of his room.

The smell hit him like a punch in the face, for the steward’s room was off the corridor which ran down to the cellar steps.

Sebastian took a perfumed handkerchief out of his sleeve, pressing it over his nose and mouth and inhaling the strong scent of cloves.
This will soon be over
, he told himself. He went first to the hall, where, as he had ordered, a group of six men awaited him, their faces full of apprehension. Two of them carried a hurdle between them. ‘Come with me,’ Sebastian said curtly.

He led the way back along the passage and down the steps into the cellar. There were one or two expressions of disgust. Someone with a weaker stomach than the rest made a retching noise.

Sebastian stopped in front of the trestle, with its heavy load. Glancing round, he thought one or two more men had joined the group.
Brave, or just plain nosy?
he thought. He nodded towards the corpse. ‘Get on with it,’ he said.

The men with the hurdle stepped up to the trestle, resting the hurdle on the side of the planks and gently easing it under the body. Two other men went round to the other side of the trestle, and two moved to stand at the corpse’s head and feet. Sebastian, intent on what was happening, was only vaguely aware of others behind him, craning forward to watch. Grunting with effort, the men stationed around the trestle lifted and shoved at the corpse, trying to insert the hurdle underneath it.

Just as they were raising the head and shoulders of the body, one of the men stumbled, falling heavily on to the chest of the corpse. There was a sudden loud squelch, and a jet of liquid squirted from beneath the body, just under the shoulder blade, the foul stuff seeping into the rich fabric of the tunic and rapidly discolouring it. The stench was appalling.

The men stopped, suddenly still as statues.

‘What was that?’ hissed Sebastian.

‘
I
didn’t do anything!’ the man who had stumbled muttered nervously. He looked round at all the pairs of eyes intently watching him. ‘Did I?’

Sebastian had been on the point of ordering them to get on with it. But now, unfortunately, he realized that might be difficult. People talked, and there were far too many men intently watching his every move. Women, too, he noticed, glancing swiftly around the cellar; some of the female servants had come to observe their late master as he began his last journey.

Nodding at the man standing by the corpse’s head, he said, ‘Unfasten the tunic and the undershirt, then turn him on his side. You!’ He pointed at the man who had almost fallen. ‘Help him.’ The men did as he commanded, their hands clumsy in their haste. Shoving the avid spectators roughly out of the way, Sebastian stared down at his late master’s pale, flaccid back.

The edges of the tiny wound that had killed Lord Benedict had turned back, curling like the lips of a partly open mouth. As all those staring down at him took in the implications, there was a gasp of fascinated horror.

‘Who did
that
?’ someone demanded.

‘’E died because ’is ’eart gave out,’ another voice put in. ‘Them monks said as much.’

They were canons
, Sebastian thought absently. His mind was racing.

‘Then how come there’s a stab wound in his back?’ a third man asked.

‘Who else saw the body other than the canons?’ someone asked.

‘The healer woman came with them,’ a woman’s voice piped up from somewhere near the steps. ‘Then she came back again to lay him out, and she had that forest woman with her.’

‘
I
didn’t see them, Aggie!’ another woman objected. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure as I’m standing here enduring that stench!’ said the first one crossly. ‘I showed them down the passage to the cellar myself, so I should know!’

‘He could have been stabbed after he died,’ a voice said quietly. ‘Maybe to hide what really happened.’

Sebastian spun round, trying to locate the speaker. In the shuffling, shifting crowd, now quite sizeable, it was impossible. ‘Who—?’ he began.

A shrill voice interrupted him. ‘How else could he have died, then? It weren’t any of us did for him, much as …’ The words broke off in a squeak of pain as the speaker was abruptly silenced.

‘He was a sick man,’ the quiet voice said. Sebastian craned this way and that, trying to see who it was. ‘Suppose he’d asked her for help, and she fed him some secret potion, and that was what killed him? Easy enough, when she was laying him out, to make that deep, narrow wound, in the hope that one of us would find it and think he was murdered.’

There
, Sebastian thought,
that sallow man in the dark tunic
…

But then someone else came pushing down the steps, and the crowd moved again.

‘That’s right!’ a woman cried. ‘If that healer woman’s gone round telling folks that the stab wound killed him, then it’s only her word that says so. Nobody else saw it, did they, till
after
she’d laid him out? Not till now, this very moment!’

An excited babble broke out, everyone all at once remembering details which, Sebastian was quite sure, were largely made up. He raised his hands. ‘Enough!’ he shouted.

Recognizing the voice of authority, the crowd instantly obeyed.

‘Are you proposing –’ Sebastian’s eyes roamed over the crowd in the cellar as he spoke – ‘that Mistress de Gifford, renowned apothecary and healer, wife to the sheriff of Tonbridge, risked her reputation and her position and gave Lord Benedict a potion that killed him? Then, to hide her blunder, inflicted a stab wound to suggest he died by other means?’

There was a dead silence, save for the fading echo of his words. Into it, a soft voice said, ‘She’s a fine woman, aye. But she weren’t the only one as came to lay him out.’

‘We shall not,’ Sebastian said firmly, ‘delay the burial.’

Not without difficulty, he had finally cleared the crowd out of the cellar, curtly ordering everyone but the six detailed to carry the hurdle back to their work. He had sent word asking Lady Richenza to meet him in the hall and, ushering her away from the hurdle bearers, he had told her what had been discovered. She was dressed for the interment, robed and cloaked in dark, sombre colours, her face hidden behind her heavy veil.

Which, Sebastian reflected, was a pity, since it meant he could not see her expression.

‘Is … is Canon Stephen here?’ she asked in a barely audible voice.

‘He is, my lady. He awaits us at the grave.’

‘Then let us proceed.’

Without another word – with no comment whatsoever about the surprising discovery – Lady Richenza lifted her chin and strode across the hall towards the door and the steps leading down to the courtyard. Hurrying to catch her up and offer his arm – she must surely be in some distress, and must not be allowed to fall – Sebastian emerged at her side. Matching his stride to hers, they set off for the burial ground. The men raised the hurdle and its heavy load and followed.

In the feeble morning sunshine, the body of Lord Benedict de Vitré was finally laid in the ground.

In the middle of the day, Abbess Caliste heard footsteps in the cloister outside her room, and the sound of raised voices, immediately followed by a peremptory tap on her door. Even as she said, ‘Enter,’ the door was thrust open.

She looked up in surprise as a tall, lean man clad in black and a slight, veiled woman came in. She had the impression that there were quite a few more people out in the cloister, but the tall man quickly shut the door on them.

He turned to face her. ‘My lady abbess, I apologize for interrupting you in your work,’ he said courteously. She nodded an acknowledgement. ‘I present Lady Richenza, widow of Lord Benedict de Vitré.’ He indicated the young woman standing stiffly beside him.

Abbess Caliste studied Lady Richenza. As far as she could tell, for the veil did its job well, the girl was staring straight in front of her and had not even glanced at Caliste; issuing any words of greeting did not seem to have occurred to her.

‘I am sorry for your loss, Lady Richenza,’ Caliste said. The only response was a curt nod. Turning back to the man, she added, ‘What is your business here?’

‘I am Sebastian Garrique, steward to Lord Benedict. We are searching for the healer.’

Caliste said cautiously, ‘There are many gifted women among my nursing nuns. Is one of you unwell?’

‘We don’t want healing,’ Lady Richenza said abruptly. ‘We’re looking for the healer woman because she … she …’

‘There is some – er – confusion over the death of Lord Benedict, my lady.’ Smoothly, the steward took over. ‘It has been suggested that he may have been killed by the administration of a badly prepared healing potion, and that an attempt was made to disguise this by the infliction of a stab wound, after he was dead.’

Caliste said, with a calmness she was far from feeling, ‘This healer, then, must have had access to the body.’

‘She did.’ Lady Richenza’s voice had the light, whispery tone of a girl. ‘She came with Mistress Gifford, to lay him out. That’s when she did it!’ The sudden vindictiveness came as a shock.

With a sense of foreboding, Caliste said, ‘Who do you accuse, my lady?’

‘She’s called Meggie,’ Lady Richenza said. Her veil, it appeared, was annoying her, for suddenly she flung it back, revealing a beautiful, perfectly featured, oval face. Two spots of colour burned in her pale cheeks. ‘We’ve heard tell she’s known here, at the abbey, and we’ve come to apprehend her and make her answer for her crime. We—’

‘We wish to question her only, at this stage,’ Sebastian Garrique interrupted. He shot a glance at his mistress, which, even from where Caliste sat, it was clear meant
be quiet.
‘It is not, of course, for us to take the law into our own hands, and we intend to refer the matter to Gervase de Gifford.’

‘The sheriff will act in this,’ Lady Richenza said, nodding as if to emphasize the words.

‘We are acquainted with de Gifford,’ Sebastian put in. ‘And, as we have said, with his wife, who—’

‘My husband will be avenged!’ Lady Richenza shouted.

The echoes of her last words rang in the little room. When they died, Sebastian looked down at the abbess and said mildly, ‘Is the healer woman here, my lady?’

Caliste’s mind had been working furiously. Now, with total honesty, she replied, ‘Meggie has been lodging with us, yes. She has been helping with the care of one of our elderly patients. At present, however, she isn’t here.’

‘Where is she, then?’ Lady Richenza demanded.

The truth was that Meggie was out with one of the groups searching for Lilas. To say that, however, would be to admit that the vulnerable old woman had been abducted, and Caliste felt instinctively that this was not something to share with outsiders. Particularly ones who came with terrible accusations against someone she loved …

‘I cannot say, my lady,’ Caliste said quietly. ‘Meggie is a herbalist, and much of her work involves endless and sometimes arduous searching for the plants she uses.’ Little in the way of fresh ingredients was to be had in November, she reflected, but then hopefully her visitors probably would not know that.

‘But she
must
be found!’ Lady Richenza cried. ‘We
have
to see her!’

‘I cannot manufacture her for you out of thin air,’ the abbess said stiffly. The young woman was both irritating her and worrying her, for there was surely something unreasoned in her wild remarks. ‘When she returns, I shall tell her what you have said.’

Lady Richenza’s lovely face grew taut with anger.
Was it really anger?
Caliste wondered suddenly.
Could it be fear?
‘You mustn’t
warn
her,’ she cried, ‘or she’ll run away!’

Abbess Caliste glared at her. ‘In my experience, my lady, only the guilty run away.’
Or
, she added silently,
those who fear they are to be accused of a crime they did not commit, with small hope of persuading their accusers that they are wrong
…

‘She
is
guilty,’ Lady Richenza said firmly.

‘How can you be so sure?’ Caliste countered swiftly. ‘I have had long experience of Meggie’s healing skills, and I have never known her make a mistake.’

Lady Richenza leaned forward, her hands on Caliste’s table. Putting her face close to Caliste’s, she said, ‘They say she’s one of the forest people – she was born there, you know, and spent her childhood out in the wilds. She hides away alone, and she is unmarried. Who knows what sort of a life she leads?’ She stood up, smiling smugly, as if she had just delivered irrefutable proof of Meggie’s guilt.