The Last Knight (6 page)

A path wound up the slope to the burying grove. A party of mourners emerged upon it as we spoke, four men carrying the shrouded corpse in its sling. The widow, a black shawl covering her head and shoulders, walked behind. Glancing about, I saw a fresh pile of earth with four shovels in it, and a sapling in a bucket beside. They were far enough off that we shouldn’t intrude on each other.

“I did oppose the marriage,” Sir Bertram continued. “Though I foresaw no tragedy such as this. ’Twas just…I thought him unwise to marry a woman so much younger than he, who must care only for his rank and wealth. My own Margery is dead five years.” He reached out and touched a tall sapling a few feet away. “But she gave me two fine sons, a daughter to gladden my heart, and many happy years. I miss her, always, but I’ve had more joy than most. Unlike poor Herbert. But as he said, if he wanted children he had to marry a younger woman. Mistress Ceciel was in her twenties, well old enough to know what she did.”

The mourners moved up the hill; the corpse carriers staggering as the path steepened.

“When was this, Sir? How long had they been married?”

“Hmm, let me think. It must be over eighteen years now, for Father had just died. Herbert sought out Mistress Agnes for some petty complaint and met her sister there. He praised her only moderately, but I knew his attraction, for every week he returned to the herbalist’s house. When he left for Craggan Keep, he took Ceciel with him, as his wife.”

“But why would she kill him after eighteen years of marriage?” Astonishment lifted my voice. It sounded loud in the quiet grove, and Sir Bertram glared at me.

“I know not, and neither do I care; all I want is to see the bitch pay for it. For years I begged him to put her off. He said they did well enough, but I could see there was no love between them.”

The mourners came toward us. They were close enough that I could see the widow now, fair and delicate, with a handkerchief pressed to her eyes. I felt a surge of anger at the woman who had forced that kind of grief on Sir Bertram.

“’Tis sad that no love came to them,” I agreed. “But surely that’s no cause to put off a wife of eighteen yea—”

“’Twas not for that,” Sir Bertram said indignantly. “I realize that few marriages are blessed as mine was. I told him to put her off when we discovered her lie—when Herbert told me she was Giftless and barren.”

“G
iftless and barren?” Sir Michael repeated.

Once again I felt an unwilling sympathy for Lady Ceciel. No wonder she’d been unwed in her twenties. It’s terrible when the Gift dies out of a line, as I should know—if my mother hadn’t been the Giftless daughter of another Giftless daughter, I might be Sir Michael’s equal instead of…well, what I am.

But inability to provide an heir for a man’s land is the ultimate curse among noblewomen. Even a commoner can put off his wife for it, if it’s proved the fault is in her and not him. Lady Ceciel could have been thrown out of her fancy keep with nothing but the dowry she’d brought to the marriage—motive enough for murder, and yet…

Sir Michael had seen it too. “Yet you say Sir Herbert
refused
to put her off?”

“Year after year.” Sir Bertram nodded. “Despite all my admonitions. I never understood it. And now he can’t explain.”

I listened to Sir Michael repeat his promise that he would bring Lady Ceciel back to justice. Though how he intended to go about it I couldn’t think; she could be anywhere by now.

The mourning party reached the grave and lowered the corpse. Two of the carriers wore black capes that marked them as the dead man’s sons, but the widow was young enough to be their sister—their younger sister. I could see why the old man had been tempted into a second marriage, for she’d a fine figure under all that black. I couldn’t make out much of her face, though. She kept patting a lacy handkerchief against her bone-dry eyes. Her gaze was appreciatively fixed on the back of one of the corpse carriers, now wielding a shovel. His doublet was short, his britches were tight, and he was not, thankfully, one of the stepsons—though he might have been one of their friends.

I smiled and wished the hussy luck. She’d probably earned it, and judging by the ages of her husband’s sons, nature had done her work instead of poison.

My attention came back to the conversation at hand when Sir Michael asked how he could find Mistress Agnes, the herbalist. The old man gave directions willingly—she lived just over the border of the next baron’s fief, half a day’s ride west.

I waited, in proper squirely silence, until we were riding away from Sir Bertram’s keep before I spoke. “You’re not, you
can’t
be, thinking of going there next?”

“Why not? Lady Ceciel’s family are the most likely to know where she might be.”

“And the least likely to tell you! What under two moons makes you think her own family is going to give her up?”

“I don’t say they’d reveal her hiding place, but they sound like honest folk, and they may speak of her nature and habits. If we learn these things, we may guess where she might have flown. Besides, Mistress Agnes is the one who found Sir Herbert had been poisoned, and I wish to learn more of this.”

I listened to this naive speech with growing irritation. Why should I have to instruct this noble fool in facts any city street urchin knows by the time he’s weaned? Because I’d been fool enough to get caught, that’s why. And until a chance to seize my freedom came along, I was stuck with him.

“Sir, no one is going to tell the man who wants to hang their sister
anything
. They’re not going to like you, no matter how nice you are. Sir Bertram was hard enough to face.” (Though I would remember how Sir Michael’s honest contrition had disarmed him, if I ever got myself caught again.) “These people are going to hate you. Unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Well, if you told them Lord Dorian sent you to investigate because he has doubts about her guilt, then they might be willing to talk.”

Sir Michael hesitated for all of three seconds before declaring, “No, that would be dishonorable.”

“But it might succeed! Which might help us find Lady Ceciel, which would get you out of trouble with the law—not to mention your father.”

Sir Michael sighed. “My father would be the first to say I shouldn’t lie. In fact, that’s the only thing I ever did…Never mind. Truth always serves best in the long run.”

The only thing I ever did right? That lived up to his standards?

“All the more reason to thwart the old tyrant,” I told him.

The journey would have been tedious if we hadn’t spent most of it arguing.

Over an early dinner at a small tavern only ten minutes’ ride from Mistress Agnes’s home, we reached a compromise of sorts. Sir Michael agreed to refrain from telling her the whole truth the moment he introduced himself, though he refused to lie if she asked him. I figured “Why do you want to know?” would be the first question she asked, but it was his redemption. I was just along for the ride.

Mistress Agnes’s house was an overgrown cottage, timbered and thatched, with windows made of the old glass rounds that are impossible to cut and nearly impossible to break. They gleamed like gems in the afternoon light, making the cottage look quite appealing until you remembered that mice and rats adore thatched roofs. Perhaps she kept cats.

Mistress Agnes came to the door when she heard our horses, wiping her hands on her apron as if we’d interrupted her preparation of dinner, or perhaps some more arcane brewing. Plump and still pretty, she looked like a woman who might keep cats. The soft curls beneath her cap were threaded with gray. She examined us with a critical, healer’s eye, and something in the directness of her gaze told me not to underestimate the woman, for all her warm, feather-bolster appearance.

“Good afternoon, good sirs. What may I do for you?”

Sir Michael dismounted. “We do not seek your services, Mistress. I’m here in search of information.”

Mistress Agnes smiled. “I welcome a chance to share my craft lore. If you ask more than a few questions, I’ll have to charge for lessons, though I keep the price as low as I can.”

It was a simple mistake, and possibly a useful one. If Sir Michael would spend twenty minutes asking about herbal mixtures, he could then steer the topic to Sir Herbert’s poisoning and all manner of information might slip out. So I was exasperated, if not surprised, when Sir Michael said, “I’m sorry, Mistress, but I haven’t come to ask about your craft. I need to learn more of your sister.”

Mistress Agnes’s face turned hostile faster than flipping a griddle cake. “Why do you want to know about Ceciel?”

See, Michael, I told you. Perhaps he’d paid more attention than I thought, for he hesitated a moment.

“I need to know more of your sister, because I’m interested in justice.”

“Justice for her?” Mistress Agnes asked shrewdly. “Or for old Herbert?”

“Justice for whoever deserves it,” said Sir Michael. “I only want the truth.”

Honesty shone from him like a cursed lamp. Only the truly sincere or the very best con artists could pull off that look, and I felt a sting of jealousy as I watched Mistress Agnes crumble before it.

She summoned a boy to take our horses and here was the first surprise, for even without the flattish face, the blank, constant smile would have proclaimed him one of the simple ones. Most people avoid them, though they’re usually gentle, because their foolishness makes them difficult to deal with. And those who are magica can be dangerous if they’re thwarted.

In humans magic takes unpredictable forms, and the simple ones are too slow-witted to understand what they do when, in fear or temper, they destroy or maim or kill. It’s not their fault that they’re born thus, and while many people loathe them, I feel an uncomfortable mixture of wariness and pity. Pity generally wins out, for their lives are often miserable, and those who are magica never live long.

So I smiled at the boy when he took Tipple’s reins, and he beamed back at me. It was good of Mistress Agnes to take him in. Man must look after man since no god watches out for us—and that includes the simple ones.

Mistress Agnes led us into the cottage. The scent of roasting goose and onions fought with medicinal herbs and lost. The big front room was the herbarium—every rafter hung with bunches of leaves. Pots and bottles filled the shelves and tables, jostling against mortars, braziers, cooling jars, and page after page of notes and recipes, both loose and bound. There was even a distillery in one corner.

Mistress Agnes swept notes, pots, and the wired-together bones of a human hand off three stools and seated herself.

“I don’t believe for one minute that my sister killed her husband,” she announced. “He was a stuffy old goat, but he’d kept their bargain and she was content with it. She had no reason! None! But Sir Bertram
insists
that she was the only one who could have, because she’s a skilled herb-mixer. Well, sirs, so am I and so are many others—that isn’t enough to condemn her!”

“Yet you were the one who examined Sir Herbert. Is it certain, Mistress, that he died of poison?”

Mistress Agnes gnawed her lower lip, desire to defend her sister warring visibly with her habit of telling the truth.

“It’s certain,” she admitted. “And poisoned with magic too. You know that usually all magic does is increase the natural effects of healing herbs? It can be sensed, faintly, for a few hours to a few days, depending on the herb, the dosage, and, oh, all manner of things. And it doesn’t linger in the body except under very unusual circumstances.”

This was a point in Ceciel’s favor. Anyone who can read or memorize the formulas can mix herbs into potions, but an herb-talker, who locates and deals with magica plants,
must
have the sensing Gift. And according to Sir Bertram, Ceciel didn’t. She could have purchased magica herbs, but then there would be a witness.

Sir Michael was frowning. “I understood that you examined him many days after his death and still sensed magic.”

She nodded grimly. “In his liver, his kidneys, his teeth, and his genitals, so intense there it felt like it would burn the skin from my palm. I’ve never seen anything like that—especially not in a human body.”

Sir Michael was nodding, as if this told him something, but I was grateful when she went on, “It was the magic built up in his kidneys that killed him, for they were…deforming. The only way to get such a concentration of magic in particular organs would be to take magica potions—regularly, often, and for a long period of time.” Her hands twisted in her apron, but her voice was steady. “I know that makes it look like Cece, but why would she do such a thing? She and Sir Herbert had struck a bargain and she was content with it. She would
never
—”

“Forgive me, Mistress, but can you say for certain what she might do if her husband thought to put her off? I’ve heard—”

“Faugh! You’ve been listening to that old goat Bertram. They were as content together as most, and he’d no wish to put her aside.”

There was a moment of silence while Sir Michael frowned over the conflicting stories. He and Mistress Agnes were so intent on each other that the sound of horses coming into the yard disturbed neither of them. I looked out the window, but the glass was so thickly distorted that all I could see was that four men had ridden into the yard and dismounted.

“But suppose, Mistress, that his anger at your sister’s deceit had grown over the years. Suppose he—”

Mistress Agnes’s brows snapped together. “What deceit?” she demanded, in a voice that would have warned a sensible man.

Sir Michael continued, “I refer to her not telling Sir Herbert that she was Giftless and—”

“Be hanged to Sir Bertram if he told you that!” Mistress Agnes rose to her feet, hissing like a boiling kettle. “I know Bertram didn’t like her, but I never thought he’d
lie.
It was in this very room, in my presence, that she told Sir Herbert that her line was Gifted, but that she wasn’t. And why not? Gifts have been known to skip a generation and go on strong as before. Sir Herbert had no—”

The hall door slammed open with a force that made the bottles rattle, and all three of us jumped. One of the four stocky men who entered bore a strong resemblance to Mistress Agnes, except for his furious glower.

“Don’t you say one more word to this bastard, Aggie. He’s going to bring Cece back to be hanged!”

Rumor travels amazingly fast in the countryside.
In the city, I’ve seen it leap from house to house like a wildfire, but in the country villages are hours, even days, apart, so how—

“Not to be hanged.” Sir Michael rose to his feet. “To be tried by the law and assigned whatever redemption the judicars deem fit. If she killed her husband, she has to answer for it—surely you understand that. If she’s innocent—”

I didn’t think they had to understand anything of the kind and neither did they. The brother’s face was red with anger and pain…mostly anger.

“She’d not have a chance in Lord Dorian’s court if she was innocent as a babe!” The brother—a woodworker, I recalled—stalked around the table, and even Sir Michael had sufficient sense to back away. His arms were as big as most men’s thighs.

“Lord Dorian’s rule is just, and I should know. My father is his liegeman, and I was raised—”

“Yeah, we know all about him and your father and you. Do you get shares in the money he’s going to make off Cory Port if he hangs my sister?”

“What!” Sir Michael stopped backing away. I could have told him this was a mistake, but I was hiding behind the distillery in the corner. In a four-on-one fight, I
never
bet against the odds.

“What port? What are you—”

The brother pushed Sir Michael into the wall. It didn’t look like he was trying very hard, but the bottles rattled again and Sir Michael had to shake his head to clear it.

“Cory Port—as if you didn’t know.” The hulk grabbed Sir Michael’s collar and pitched him out of the herbarium into the hall, where he hit another wall. This time Sir Michael came up fighting. Unfortunately, the three journeymen who’d ridden in with the brother were ready to grab him.

Perhaps out of consideration for his sister’s furniture, they took the brawl into the yard, but they bounced off the wall a few times on the way out, and one journeyman’s head connected loudly with a tall oak chest.