One Corpse Too Many bc-2 Read online

  Against his own doubts, he had accepted Cadfael’s intuition, to the length of staking his life upon it. He leaned forward, and rolled something small and bright across the table, to clang softly against the king’s cup. The silence that had fallen was abrupt and profound. All round the high table heads craned to follow the flash of yellow brilliance that swayed irregularly over the board, limping on its broken setting, and then were raised to stare again at the young man who had launched it. The king picked up the topaz and turned it in his large hands, his face blank with incomprehension at first, and then wary and brooding. He, too, looked long at Hugh Beringar. Cadfael, picking his way between the lower tables, drew the puzzled boy after him and kept his eyes upon Adam Courcelle, who sat at his end of the table stiff and aware. He had command of his face, he looked no more astonished or curious than any of those about him; only the taut hand gripping his drinking-horn betrayed his consternation. Or was even that imagined, to fit in with an opinion already formed? Cadfael was no longer sure of his own judgment, a state he found distressing and infuriating.

  “You have bided your time to throw your thunderbolt,” said the king at length, and looked up darkly at Beringar from the stone he was turning in his hands.

  “I was loth to spoil your Grace’s supper, but neither would I put off what should not be put off. Your Grace’s justice is every honest man’s right.”

  “You will need to explain much. What is this thing?”

  “It is the tip of a dagger-hilt. The dagger to which it belongs is now by right the property of the lady Aline Siward, who has loyally brought all the resources of her house to your Grace’s support. It was formerly in the possession of her brother Giles, who was among those who garrisoned this castle against your Grace, and have paid the price for it. I say that it was taken from his dead body, an act not unknown among the common soldiery, but unworthy of knight or gentleman. That is the first offence. The second is murder — that murder of which your Grace was told by Brother Cadfael, of the Benedictine house here in Shrewsbury, after the count of the dead was made. Your Grace and those who carried out your orders were used as a shield for one who strangled a man from behind, as your Grace will well remember.”

  “I do remember,” said the king grimly. He was torn between displeasure at having to exert himself to listen and judge, when his natural indolence had wanted only a leisurely and thoughtless feast, and a mounting curiosity as to what lay behind all this. “What has this stone to do with that death?”

  “Your Grace, Brother Cadfael is also present here, and will testify that he found the place where this murder was committed, and found there, broken off in the struggle and trodden into the ground, this stone. He will take oath, as I do, that the man who stole the dagger is the same who killed Nicholas Faintree, and that he left behind him, unnoticed, this proof of his guilt.”

  Cadfael was drawing nearer by then, but they were so intent on the closed scene above that no one noticed his approach. Courcelle was sitting back, relaxed and brightly interested, in his place, but what did that mean? Doubtless he saw very well the flaw in this; no need to argue against the claim that whoever stole the dagger slew the man, since no once could trace possession to him. The thing was at the bottom of the Severn, lost for ever. The theory could be allowed to stand, the crime condemned and deplored, provided no one could furnish a name, and proof to back it. Or, on the other hand, this could far more simply be the detachment of an innocent man!

  “Therefore,” said Hugh Beringar relentlessly, “I repeat those charges I have made here before your Grace. I appeal one among us here in this hail of theft and murder, and I offer proof with my body, to uphold my claim in combat upon the body of Adam Courcelle.”

  He had turned at the end to face the man he accused, who was on his feet with a leap, startled and shaken, as well he might be. Shock burned rapidly into incredulous anger and scorn. Just so would any innocent man look, suddenly confronted with an accusation so mad as to be laughable.

  “Your Grace, this is either folly or villainy! How comes my name into such a diatribe? It may well be true that a dagger was stolen from a dead man, it may even be true that the same thief slew a man, and left this behind as witness. But as for how my name comes into such a tale, I leave it to Hugh Beringar to tell — if these are not simply the lies of an envious man. When did I ever see this supposed dagger? When was it ever in my possession? Where is it now? Has any ever seen me wear such a thing? Send, my lord, and search those soldier’s belongings I have here, and if such a thing is found in any ward or lodging of mine, let me know of it!”

  “Wait!” said the king imperiously, and looked from one face to the other with frowning brows. “This is indeed a matter that needs to be examined, and if these charges are made in malice there will be an account to pay. What Adam says is the nub of it. Is the monk indeed present? And does he confirm the finding of this broken ornament at the place where this killing befell? And that it came from that very dagger?”

  “I brought Brother Cadfael here with me tonight,” said the abbot, and looked about for him helplessly.

  “I am here, Father Abbot,” said Cadfael from below the dais, and advanced to be seen, his arms about the shoulders of the boy, now totally fascinated, all eyes and ears.

  “Do you bear out what Beringar says?” demanded King Stephen. “You found this stone where the man was slain?”

  “Yes, your Grace. Trampled into the earth, where plainly there had been a struggle, and two bodies rolling upon the ground.”

  “And whose word have we that it comes from a dagger once belonging to Mistress Siward’s brother? Though I grant you it should be easy enough to recognise, once known.”

  “The word of Lady Aline herself. It has been shown to her, and she has recognised it.”

  “That is fair witness enough,” said the king, “that whoever is the thief may well be the murderer, also. But why it should follow that either you or Beringar here suppose him to be Adam, that for my life I cannot see. There’s never a thread to join him to the dagger or the deed. You might as well cast round here among us, and pick on Bishop Robert of Salisbury, or any one of the squires down below there. Or prick your knife-point into a list of us with eyes closed. Where is the logic?”

  “I am glad,” said Courcelle, darkly red and forcing a strained laughter, “that your Grace puts so firm a finger on the crux of the matter. With goodwill I can go along with this good brother to condemn a mean theft and a furtive killing, but, Beringar, beware how you connect me with either, or any other honest man. Follow your thread from this stone, by all means, if thread there is, but until you can trace this dagger into my hands, be careful how you toss challenges to mortal combat about you, young man, for they may be taken up, to your great consternation.”

  “My gage is now lying upon the table,” said Hugh Beringar with implacable calm. “You have only to take it up. I have not withdrawn it.”

  “My lord king,” said Cadfael, raising his voice to ride over the partisan whisperings and murmurings that were running like conflicting winds about the high table, “it is not the case that there is no witness to connect the dagger with any person. And for proof positive that stone and dagger belong together, here is the very weapon itself. I ask your Grace to match the two with your own hands.”

  He held up the dagger, and Beringar at the edge of the dais took it from him, staring like a man in a dream, and handed it in awed silence to the king. The boy’s eyes followed it with possessive anxiety, Courcelle’s with stricken and unbelieving horror, as if a drowned victim had risen to haunt him. Stephen looked at the thing with an eye appreciative of its workmanship, slid out the blade with rising curiosity, and fitted the topaz in its silver claw to the jagged edge of the hilt.

  “No doubt but this belongs. You have all seen?” And he looked down at Cadfael. “Where, then, did you come by this?”

  “Speak up, child,” said Cadfael encouragingly, “and tell the king what you told to me.”

/>   The boy was rosy and shining with an excitement that had quite overridden his fear. He stood up and told his tale in a voice shrill with self-importance, but still in the simple words he had used to Cadfael, and there was no man there who could doubt he was telling the truth.

  ” … and I was by the bushes at the edge of the water, and he did not see me. But I saw him clearly. And as soon as he went away I dived in where it had fallen, and found it. I live by the river, I was born by it. My mother says I swam before I walked. I kept the knife, thinking no wrong, since he did not want it. And that is the very knife, my lord, and may I have it back when you are done?”

  The king was diverted for a moment from the gravity of the cause that now lay in his hands, to smile at the flushed and eager child with all the good-humour and charm his nature was meant to dispense, if he had not made an ambitious and hotly contested bid for a throne, and learned the rough ways that go with such contests.

  “So our fish tonight was gutted with a jewelled knife, was it, boy? Princely indeed! And it was good fish, too. Did you catch it, as well as dress it?”

  Bashfully the boy said that he had helped.

  “Well, you have done your part very fitly. And now, did you know this man who threw away the knife?”

  “No, my lord, I don’t know his name. But I know him well enough when I see him.”

  “And do you see him? Here in this hail with us now?”

  “Yes, my lord,” said the child readily, and pointed a finger straight at Adam Courcelle. “That was the man.”

  All eyes turned upon Courcelle, the king’s most dourly and thoughtfully of all, and there was a silence that lasted no more than a long-drawn breath, but seemed to shake the foundations of the hall, and stop every heart within its walls. Then Courcelle said, with arduous and angry calm:

  “Your Grace, this is utterly false. I never had the dagger, I could not well toss it into the river. I deny that ever I had the thing in my possession, or ever saw it until now.”

  “Are you saying,” asked the king drily, “that the child lies? At whose instigation? Not Beringar’s — it seems to me that he was as taken aback by this witness as I myself, or you. Am I to think the Benedictine order has procured the boy to put up such a story? And for what end?”

  “I am saying, your Grace, that this is a foolish error. The boy may have seen what he says he saw, and got the dagger as he claims he got it, but he is mistaken in saying he saw me. I am not the man. I deny all that has been said against me.”

  “And I maintain it,” said Hugh Beringar. “And I ask that it be put to the proof.”

  The king crashed a fist upon the table so that the boards danced, and cups rocked and spilled wine. “There is something here to be probed, and I cannot let it pass now without probing it.” He turned again to the boy, and reined in his exasperation to ask more gently: “Think and look carefully, now, and say again: are you certain this is the man you saw? If you have any doubt, say so. It is no sin to be mistaken. You may have seen some other man of like build or colour. But if you are sure, say that also, without fear.”

  “I am sure,” said the boy, trembling but adamant. “I know what I saw.”

  The king leaned back in his great chair, and thumped his closed fists on the arms, and pondered. He looked at Hugh Beringar with grim displeasure: “It seems you have hung a millstone round my neck, when most I need to be free and to move fast. I cannot now wipe out what has been said, I must delve deeper. Either this case goes to the long processes of court law — no, not for you nor any will I now delay my going one day beyond the morrow’s morrow! I have made my plans, I cannot afford to change them.”

  “There need be no delay,” said Beringar, “if your Grace countenances trial by combat. I have appealed Adam Courcelle of murder, I repeat that charge. If he accepts, I am ready to meet him without any ceremony or preparations. Your Grace may see the outcome tomorrow, and march on the following day, freed of this burden.”

  Cadfael, during these exchanges, had not taken his eyes from Courcelle’s face, and marked with foreboding the signs of gradually recovered assurance. The faint sweat that had broken on his lip and brow dried, the stare of desperation cooled into calculation; he even began to smile. Since he was now cornered, and there were two ways out, one by long examination and questioning, one by simple battle, he was beginning to see in this alternative his own salvation. Cadfael could follow the measuring, narrowed glance that studied Hugh Beringar from head to foot, and understood the thoughts behind the eyes. Here was a younger man, lighter in weight, half a head shorter, much less in reach, inexperienced, over-confident, an easy victim. It should not be any problem to put him out of the world; and that done, Courcelle had nothing to fear. The judgment of heaven would have spoken, no one thereafter would point a finger at him, and Aline would be still within his reach, innocent of his dealings with her brother, and effectively separated from a too-engaging rival, without any blame to Courcelle, the wrongly accused. Oh, no, it was not so grim a situation, after all. It should work out very well.

  He reached out along the table, picked up the topaz, and rolled it contemptuously back towards Beringar, to be retrieved and retained.

  “Let it be so, your Grace. I accept battle, tomorrow, without formality, without need for practice. Your Grace shall march the following day,” And I with you, his confident countenance completed.

  “So be it!” said the king grimly. “Since you’re bent on robbing me of one good man, between you, I suppose I may as well find and keep the better of the two. Tomorrow, then, at nine of the clock, after Mass. Not here within the wards, but in the open — the meadow outside the town gate, between road and river, will do well. Prestcote, you and Willem marshal the lists. See to it! And we’ll have no horses put at risk,” he said practically. “On foot, and with swords!”

  Hugh Beringar bowed acquiescence. Courcelle said:

  “Agreed!” and smiled, thinking how much longer a reach and stronger a wrist he had for sword-play.

  “A l’outrance!” said the king with a vicious snap, and rose from the table to put an end to a sullied evening’s entertainment.

  Chapter Twelve

  On the way back through the streets of the town, dark but not quite silent, somehow uneasily astir as if rats ran in a deserted house, Hugh Beringar on his rawboned grey drew alongside Brother Cadfael and walked his mount for some few minutes at their foot-pace, ignoring Brother Jerome’s close proximity and attentive ears as though they had not existed. In front, Abbot Heribert and Prior Robert conversed in low and harried tones, concerned for one life at stake, but unable to intervene. Two young men at bitter enmity had declared for a death. Once both contestants had accepted the odds, there was no retreating; he who lost had been judged by heaven. If he survived the sword, the gallows waited for him.

  “You may call me every kind of fool,” said Beringar accommodatingly, “if it will give you any ease.” His voice had still its light, teasing intonation, but Cadfael was not deceived.

  “It is not for me, of all men,” he said, “to blame, or pity — or even regret what you have done.”

  “As a monk?” asked the mild voice, the smile in it perceptible to an attentive ear.

  “As a man! Devil take you!”

  “Brother Cadfael,” said Hugh heartily, “I do love you. You know very well you would have done the same in my place.”

  “I would not! Not on the mere guess of an old fool I hardly knew! How if I had been wrong?”

  “Ah, but you were not wrong! He is the man — doubly a murderer, for he delivered her poor coward brother to his death just as vilely as he throttled Faintree. Mind, never a word to Aline about this until all’s over — one way or the other.”

  “Never a word, unless she speak the first. Do you think the news is not blown abroad all through this town by now?”

  “I know it is, but I pray she is deep asleep long ago, and will not go forth to hear this or any news until she goes to High Mass at ten. By
which time, who knows, we may have the answer to everything.”

  “And you,” said Brother Cadfael acidly, because of the pain he felt, that must have some outlet, “will you now spend the night on your knees in vigil, and wear yourself out before ever you draw in the field?”

  “I am not such a fool as all that,” said Hugh reprovingly, and shook a finger at his friend. “For shame, Cadfael! You are a monk, and cannot trust God to see right done? I shall go to bed and sleep well, and rise fresh to the trial. And now I suppose you will insist on being my deputy and advocate to heaven?”

  “No,” said Cadfael grudgingly, “I shall sleep, and get up only when the bell rings for me. Am I to have less faith than an impudent heathen like you?”

  “That’s my Cadfael! Still,” conceded Beringar, “you may whisper a word or two to God on my behalf at Matins and Lauds, if you’ll be so kind. If he turns a deaf ear to you, small use the rest of us wearing out our knee-bones.” And he leaned from his tall horse to lay a light hand for an instant on Cadfael’s broad tonsure, like a playful benediction, and then set spurs to his horse and trotted ahead, passing the abbot with a respectful reverence, to vanish into the curving descent of the Wyle.

  Brother Cadfael presented himself before the abbot immediately after Prime. It did not seem that Heribert was much surprised to see him, or to hear the request he put forward.

  “Father Abbot, I stand with this young man Hugh Beringar in this cause. The probing that brought to light the evidence on which his charge rests, that was my doing. And even if he has chosen to take the cause into his own hands, refusing me any perilous part in it, I am not absolved. I pray leave to go and stand trial with him as best I may. Whether I am of help to him or not, I must be there. I cannot turn my back at this pass on my friend who has spoken for me.”

  “I am much exercised in mind, also,” admitted the abbot, sighing. “In spite of what the king has said, I can only pray that this trial need not be pressed to the death.” And I, thought Cadfael ruefully, dare not even pray for that, since the whole object of this wager is to stop a mouth for ever. “Tell me,” said Heribert, “is it certain that the man Courcelle killed that poor lad we have buried in the church?”