A Killing Season (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Hugh rode slowly across the fragile, narrow strip joining island to the mainland. Although he understood the defensive merit, he had never liked this entrance to the castle, even in the summer season when the sea lapped at the land like a gentle hound drinking water. The rock may have been there for longer than any man’s life, but he always felt it vibrate when he was on it.

Looking down at his mare, he knew the creature shared his apprehension. She tugged at the reins as if urging a quick trot. With the road slippery with seawater and mud, Hugh refused to comply and demanded a continuation of their cautious pace.

A white wave rose over the side of the rock and broke across the path in front of him. The mare neighed in terror and drew back. Hugh stroked her neck and bent to whisper in her ear as he waited. The water quickly slid back into the sea, taking with it bits of earth as hostage.

The mare snorted with renewed impatience, and he realized without looking that the beast’s eyes were white with fear. Keeping a firm grip on the reins, he allowed her to move on with prudent speed.

He might share her dismay, Hugh thought, but knew not to let the mare sense his own uneasiness as they crossed the narrowest part of the road. To keep his thoughts from the jagged rocks on either side, he began to enumerate all the locations he had just searched on the island. Then he listed them all over again.

He was confident that he had not missed any of the secret places he had known as a boy. Over time, some of the covered ledges had collapsed into the sea and the shallow caves made inaccessible. In other places, the winds had gouged deeper hollows, making the caves better shelters for any living creature. Yet Raoul was in none of them, nor had Hugh found any evidence that a man had sought shelter there, however briefly.

Unlike the summers he recalled from his youth, there were no flowers bent with the weight of heavy bees and flashing radiant colors to delight him. The grim winter storms had blackened the island grass with salted mists and frozen shrubs into tortured shapes, bare of life or even a promise of it.

Had he not known that this would change in time, he would have believed that Hell had arrived on earth and bore no resemblance to the fiery furnace of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. Instead, it was as barren as the mountains of eternal ice those men, who had come to Outremer from the northern lands, often spoke about. These warriors had claimed that the ice rose so high a mortal could not see the summits, and he had found no cause to doubt them.

His mare stumbled, then quickly recovered. Hugh was startled back into the present, but the shock had chased away his gloomy thoughts. As he looked around, he felt relief. He was now on the mainland and approached the sparse forest that lay between the castle and the main road. Taking in a deep breath of sharp air, he looked over his shoulder.

The castle was almost invisible in the mist. After facing death so often in combat, he did not consider himself a man prone to womanish notions, but he shivered nonetheless. There was something unearthly about the place. “I should never have agreed to this journey,” he murmured to the mare.

It was one thing to endanger himself. He had no wife, his son was now well-placed, and his younger brother was a far worthier steward of family lands than he would ever be. To have led his sister, her healer, and Master Gamel into danger was another matter. He would never forgive himself if harm came to them. As for Brother Thomas, he could not grieve over his fate. If the monk died, Hugh was sure the Devil would rejoice when he took one of his own back to Hell.

“That is as I remember,” he whispered when he saw two thin trees with a narrow space between them. The branches of the two were intertwined, the one tree leaning against the other like a wounded soldier helped off the field by his comrade. Surely this was the way to the path that led down into the cove.

He urged his mount to pass through them.

When he found the path, he was surprised that it was still quite distinct. Twisting around in the saddle to look back along the length of the road, he decided that it had been used with some frequency. The earth was sodden, but deep ruts were visible, suggesting that heavy wagons had traveled this way. And quite recently, he thought. Some of the marks were clear despite the mud.

He rode on.

Within a few moments, he reached the crest of the cliff above the beach, and he directed his mare slowly down the treacherous incline. The trail seemed wider than he recalled, then concluded that his memory was in error.

Over time the earth may have slipped from the cliff, but that would have broken up the path, not widened it. And what reason would there have been to improve and maintain it? This track had only been a footpath in his youth, a means for young boys to reach the sandy beach for a swim in the heat of summer or the occasional fisherman who carried a small catch from his boat.

In spite of his cautious descent, Hugh quickly reached the cove. The tide had dragged the water back, forcing the sea to vent the full force of its wrath some distance away. Yet he knew just how close the foaming water came to where he was now standing.

There was good reason to call this cove Lucifer’s Cauldron, he thought. When the tides came in higher than usual, the churning sea could pull a man far from shore and roll him under until he drowned. If the tides were that high, and the sea pushed hard by storms, the water swept in with such rapidity that a man could misjudge both power and speed. At those times, men often failed to outrun Death.

He would not remain here for long.

Hugh dismounted and led his mare to a piece of large driftwood. There he secured the creature by her reins.

“Despite that look in your eye,” he said, stroking her wet mane, “you will be safe enough until I get back.”

Glaring at him, she lifted her tail.

He laughed and walked away, not bothering to check the earth for clues. If Raoul had come here before the last tide, there would be little hope of finding fresh footprints in the sand.

But there should be a large cave just ahead, he thought. As he recalled it, the entry was wide enough for a couple of men to walk through, although the inside was sufficiently vast to give shelter to many. In addition, there were outcroppings of rocks from the cave walls. These were large enough to allow many boys to hide, leap down, and frighten latecomers to the place. The memories might have raised a smile had he not been on such a grim errand.

Looking around, he failed to see that opening. Had he forgotten where the entry was? Then he saw a large boulder resting near the place where he thought the gap should be.

He glanced up at the sheer precipice above and wondered if a rock had tumbled down when the weather eroded the cliff, but the angle of the stone against the cave did not support the conclusion. He could not think of a reason why the boulder might have been dragged here to block the entrance, unless someone had concluded the cave was too dangerous for young boys who might be trapped by the tides. He doubted this. All the lads had known the infernal nature of Lucifer’s Cauldron well enough.

As he approached, he saw a small space between rock and cave, still wide enough for a man to walk through. The hair rose on the back of his neck. Had he finally found Raoul’s hiding place?

Now he cursed himself for not thinking about the darkness inside. With no dry torch or any means to light one, he might not be able to see without moving the stone. He estimated the weight and knew he could not shift it further without help.

Slowly, he stuck his head inside. A weak beam of light flowed down from a hole on the other side of the cave. That had not been there when he was a boy, but he was grateful for it now. If he shut his eyes and let them adjust to the dark, he might be able to see with the extra light. Closing them now to speed the process, he squeezed himself inside.

After a moment, he blinked and looked around. He could see shadows. Should he call out? He hesitated and fingered the hilt of his sword. If Raoul was a killer, he would have no reason not to add another to a list of those he had already murdered.

He held his breath and listened. Only the sound of the wind outside reached his ears. His back pressed to the cave wall, he crept farther inside.

Looking up, he saw the remembered stony ledges where he and the other boys used to play. If Raoul was anywhere, he would be high up there and away from the incoming tides.

Then something caught his attention, and he moved away from the rock to look more carefully at the higher ledges. If he were not mistaken, there was a chest up there. He squinted. Not just one, several.

He grabbed hold of an outcropping of rock and pulled himself up, inching his way from toehold to toehold toward the objects. Why would anyone store so many chests in such a place?

When he got to the first ledge, he heaved himself over the top and sat, catching his breath. Then he crawled over to one chest and lifted the lid. There was nothing inside. Another was equally empty. In a third, he found part of a gold necklace, caught in a rough corner.

Suddenly he knew why the storage places were here, and he muttered a loud curse on his blindness.

Smuggling.

With care, he descended to the cave floor. Now that his eyes were accustomed to the dim light, he checked the walls of the cave and noted the water marks. These chests were stored high enough to be safe from most tides.

“Cunning,” he said. “Bring the goods in by boat. Either there are pulleys stored where I did not see them or the men use ladders to haul the goods up there. And all is hidden and protected until someone can come to take it away for sale,” he muttered. “Who is benefiting from all this?”

A sharp object pricked his back. Moisture trickled down his ribs. From the pain, he knew he was bleeding.

“If you came seeking a killer, Sir Hugh, you should have worn chain mail.”

A hand slipped the knight’s dagger out of its sheath.

“Loosen your sword belt and drop it. If you try to turn around, I shall kill you.”

He may have been clever enough to find Raoul, Hugh thought, but he had been a fool to let himself be so easily captured.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Thomas descended the stairs from the keep and entered the turmoil of the bailey grounds. The muck stank and the air bit at his flesh, but he was too distracted by his conversation with Prioress Eleanor to notice either. She had asked his advice, telling him of the talks she had had with Lady Margaret. Surely there was a significant detail in all they had seen and heard. Nothing came to mind, and he had been of little help to her.

“She likes you, Brother!”

Startled, Thomas spun around and found he was being scrutinized by large brown eyes framed with silken lashes. Their beauty was such that he could almost ignore the narrow face with long nose and big ears, the gangly body and spindly legs. He laughed. No matter that many disagreed with him, he had always been partial to goats.

The female goat sniffed tentatively at the sleeve of his robe.

Gently, he withdrew the temptation. “A fine creature,” he replied to the goatherd.

“She may give the best milk, and my wife has made some excellent cheeses from it, yet this one’s a brazen thing. Sorry if she’s troubled you.” The man’s expression was polite, but hints of laughter lurked in his words. A symbol of lust, a goat chancing on a celibate religious was an encounter rife with lewd implications.

“May the tale of this meeting between beast and monk bring you pots of warming ale on these cold nights.” Thomas winked, then gave his blessing.

Slapping the creature on the rump to send her off, the goatherd bowed with sincere respect and left to tend his beasts.

The goat cast Thomas a flirtatious look before pushing her way into the midst of her fellows.

The monk stepped back and let the rank and raucous herd pass by. Now that he was pulled out of his musings, Thomas felt the insidious damp and began to shiver with its chill, but his mirth over the goat had chased away much of his melancholy.

Some evil in this place had truly cast spells on them all. He himself had gotten into a fight with Sir Hugh, a violence he regretted. Not once, until now, had he struck another in anger since becoming a monk. A man with other allegiances would have been justified in defending his honor, but Thomas served God. Although his faith was a lesser thing, he had still vowed service to Him. When he returned to the priory, he would beg severe penance from Brother John.

The last goat bounded past him. As he watched the shaggy beasts move toward the gate, Thomas saw a solitary horseman emerge from the nearby stables. It was the baron’s nephew, edging his horse through the crowd of milling people and animals. He was alone. That is puzzling, the monk thought.

Hadn’t the knight told Prioress Eleanor that he would take a party of soldiers with him to find Sir Hugh? The monk saw no armed men. Where was the promised protection in case Raoul was cornered and turned violent? Or was the nephew going elsewhere?

Uneasy, Thomas pushed his way through the crowd. The press of men’s bodies against the horse had slowed the rider, but the monk was able to weave through them and close enough to see that the knight was dressed in chain mail. He also carried a small crossbow along with sword and dagger. The man’s purpose must be to find Raoul. He was too well prepared for a fight.

Once more, the monk glanced over his shoulder toward the stables. No other soldiers, mounted or not, were visible. Thomas doubted Leonel had sent them ahead. There had not been enough time to summon a company and also give orders.

Turning around again, he saw that the knight was approaching the gate that led to that rocky finger of land linking castle to coast. The monk decided to follow. Amidst the throng of merchants, servants, and craftsmen, Thomas found an orderly line of people headed to the gate as well, and he joined them.

Sir Leonel was a man of much beauty and great charm, Thomas thought, yet he was curiously unmoved by either. Not entirely, he reminded himself, but his lust had been as brief as a lightning flash. Although he might never be free of his yearning to lie in another man’s arms, the incident last summer involving the young man named Simon was too fresh. The memory was like ice on his groin. He sighed with bitterness and relief in equal measure. In truth, he disliked Sir Leonel.

As he continued to follow the knight over the drawbridge, Thomas forced his mind to honesty and asked if his aversion had been formed out of thwarted desire more than reason and experience. As he well knew, men often draped their coarser lusts with the soft cloth of moral rectitude.

Thomas stared at the rider now some distance ahead of him, then shook his head. Other men, since he had come to Tyndal, had tempted him more than this knight, yet their memories brought him the occasional dream of comfort and release. Looking at Sir Leonel, he felt only disgust.

As he thought more on it, he realized that the most likely cause was found in the knight’s treatment of Prioress Eleanor just a short while ago. Going over the details of that encounter, he remained convinced that Sir Leonel’s speech to her was filled with a mix of sweet honey and the musk of seduction. How dare he treat a woman of her rank and vocation with such dishonor!

Realizing that he had clenched his fists in anger, Thomas stepped out of the moving crowd, shut his eyes, and took a deep breath to calm himself.

The cold air ached in his chest and shocked his wits back into balance. He opened his eyes, fearing he had lost sight of Leonel, but the knight was not far ahead, still riding along the narrow road, his pace slowed by carts coming into the castle. Thomas hurried after him.

Something else about the encounter between his prioress and the knight bothered him. Unlike that meeting with the sheriff at Master Stevyn’s manor over a year ago, she did not greet Leonel’s shameful behavior with indignation. Instead, she had become timid, an attitude he had never before seen in her. Although she sometimes exhibited feminine humility in the company of powerful men, he had learned that this particular meekness was always accompanied by a tightening of her jaw. Unless the matter was inconsequential to her, she never brooked any obstruction to her will.

Had she actually been tempted by this imp in mortal dress?

From his first meeting with Prioress Eleanor, he had concluded she was a woman fiercely dedicated to God’s service. Unlike some who took vows, she neither feared the world nor, despite her youth, was she much tempted by it. He also knew she was a woman of honorable passions, fiercely loyal to family, friends, and her priory. She had shown flashes of anger, directed against those who violated God’s law, and often sorrow, when cruelty wounded mortals beyond healing. He had never known her to lust after a man.

Horrified by the thought, he skidded to a stop so abruptly that a merchant ran into him.

The fellow cursed loudly, then realized he had struck a monk. Appalled by his offense, the man stuttered a rambling plea for pardon.

Waving him off with distracted forgiveness, Thomas forced himself to consider the shocking possibility that this woman of masculine mind and iron will might have betrayed the spirit of her vows. Then compassion slowly numbed the sting of his astonishment.

All mortals are weak, he reminded himself, and women deemed the most fragile. Yet he was a man, possessed of reason, and he had committed the same sin—and more than once. What right had he to cast any stone of condemnation against her? Although his vows had been made with no true vocation, he respected them. Since she had come to God with a purer heart, she would surely fight against temptation far more forcefully than he. And if anyone could send the Devil howling back to Hell, clutching his wounded genitals, it would be Prioress Eleanor.

He grinned.

Or, as was also possible, she had not lusted at all but was infected with that strange enchantment that seemed to plague them all in this place. He had lashed out at Sir Hugh. Even Sister Anne, who always retained both a merry heart and sound reason, had grown distracted and moody. With forced charity, Thomas assumed that his prioress’ brother was a kinder man by nature. Only Master Gamel seemed untouched, but then the monk did not know him well enough to judge.

Thomas realized he had been standing distracted on the road for too long. Leonel had disappeared into the sea mist that swirled over the narrow ridge.

He walked on as swiftly as he dared in the slippery mud. Ignoring the crashing waves on either side of him and the stinging mist enveloping him, Thomas willed himself to continue across the narrowest part of the land bridge in pursuit of the baron’s nephew.

When he told Prioress Eleanor that they might not recognize the face of the Prince of Darkness because they had been blinded by his beauty, he had meant it as a metaphor to explain their inability to find the murderer. Now that he thought more on it, he wondered if he had been more astute than he had realized. Did Leonel own those dazzling features of Satan?

Perhaps the man did not dance naked in the winter storms with fork-tailed creatures owning hooves and hairy buttocks, but that did not mean the knight was uninvolved in worldly wickedness. Not only was there murder to explain, Thomas thought, but that troubling matter of the lights in the cove remained unexplored.

Raoul was the most likely suspect in the murder of his brothers, but Sir Leonel might be guilty of some other plotting, the exact nature of which remained unclear. The two might also be linked in some wrongdoing. Whatever the answers, Thomas was growing more inclined to point at least one cold finger of accusation at the baron’s nephew.

“May God keep me charitable,” he muttered, “lest I be no wiser than many other men and send curses down upon an innocent man merely because he has angered me.”

Wrapping his cloak tighter against his body, he hurried into the icy fog, searching for a pale horse and a well-armed rider.