For Love And Honor (10 page)

“A wise precaution,” remarked the elderly
noblewoman. “The kitchen folk will eat and drink everything if you
don’t watch them.”

“
Servants
are so untrustworthy,” said the plump woman on Alain’s other side.
Resting her hand on
his upper thigh, she continued, “I knew
a lady whose personal maid
stole her jewels. Can you imagine such a thing? Stole her jewels
right out of her bedchamber and ran away with them!”

“Shocking,” said the elderly lady.

Amused
and mildly diverted by t
hem, Alain
sipped his wine. He did not care for the taste of
it, but he thought he ought to drink it rather than insult Radulf
by leaving the cup nearly full. Radulf might be looking for an
excuse to start a quarrel with him. He’d be glad to get away from
Banningford Castle on the morrow. The atmosphere of the place set
his nerves on edge, or perhaps it was just his longing for Joanna.
Either way, he looked forward to the next day’s dawn. At least the
feasting was almost done.

He saw Crispin rise and leave the table, with
Piers following him to the outer door. Crispin was weaving a
little, as if he had taken too much wine. Piers looked around, met
Alain’s eyes, and tilted his head in a way that told Alain his
assistance was needed. Alain set his nearly empty wine cup on the
table and began to rise.

“
Forgive
me,” he said to his two companions, “but I must leave you. It looks
as if the bridegroom needs my help.” He found it hard to stand
upright. All at once his head began to spin and he was shaken by a
w
ave of nausea.

“You’ve had a bit too much yourself, I
think.” The elderly woman gave him a disapproving glance.

“Only two cups since the feast began,” Alain
reported.

It was a long way to the door, and he
traversed the distance with growing uncertainty. He was finding it
increasingly difficult to focus his eyes. He hung on to the wall,
hoping his dinner would stay in his stomach where it belonged until
he had found Piers and Crispin. Then, hearing Piers’s voice, he
followed the sound.

*
* * * *

Joanna
saw the three of them leave the great hall and shook her head in
exasperation. How foolish men were to drink too much when they must
know they would be
sick the next day. Or that
night, if they consumed enough. Poor
Crispin.

She
glanced around the hall. Her father sat alone for once, staring
down into his wine cup in gloomy contemplation. Farther down the
table, Father Ambrose was chatting with a nobleman and his lady.
Rohaise was, as usual, out of her seat and busy with the
servingwomen. The guests seemed to be enjoying the banquet, and no
one else looked more than routinely drunk. Piers, too, had appeared
to be sober. It was odd that only Crispin and
Alain should
be overcome by
wine. Leaving
her chair, Joanna followed the men into the entry hall, intending
to help them if she could. At the very least she could hold
Crispin’s head and wipe his face with a refreshing cool cloth after
he had finished bei
ng sick.

The entry hall was empty. Not even the
man-at-arms who should have been guarding the entry was in his
place, though she caught a quick glimpse of someone on the top step
outside the open door. Whoever it was had vanished, most likely
heading down the steps into the inner bailey. This outer door was
on her right; on her left the stone staircase wound upward to the
private rooms of the west tower. Beneath the curve of the
staircase, in the far corner of the entry hall, was a door leading
into a room where the men-at-arms who guarded the west tower could
gather between their watches, and where they could leave their
heavier battle gear, to have it nearby in case they needed it. The
door to this room stood partially open.

For the
convenience of the men-at-arms a small garderobe had been built
into the outer wall of the guards’ room, from where it could empty
directly into the moat. Joanna thought it likely that Crispin and
Alain had gone there, as the nearest place to relieve themselves. A
sound from
behind the
door appeared to confirm that impression. She hurried to
the door and pushed it
all the way open. She was inside the room before she fully
appreciated the horror of what she beheld.

That
Piers had just emerged in haste from the garderobe was
evident from the disorder of his
hose. He and Alain were supporting Crispin, who was
drenched in blood. A long hunting knife lay on the floor. There was
blood on the floor, too, and blood on Alain’s clothing – blood
everywhere – red – red – and Crispin ghostly pale, his head
lolling.

“Put him on the floor,” Piers said.

Joanna was there before they could lower him,
not caring if her fine silk gown was ruined, kneeling in the sticky
wetness to lift Crispin’s tunic and expose the dreadful wound that
would surely mean his death. She did not flinch from the blood. She
had seen enough blood in the few years since she had been old
enough to help Rohaise bind up the wounds of various men-at-arms
whenever there was an accident or a battle in or near the castle.
But never before had anyone who had been so intimately associated
with her been so grievously wounded.

“
Crispin!
Oh, my dear.” She gathered him into her arms, knowing there was
nothing she could do to help him. His wound was too terrible, the
loss of blo
od too great.

He was aware of her. His eyes were open and
he was looking at her. His lips moved.

“
Why?”
Crispin whispered. “He – he –
why?”

“Who did this to you?” Piers demanded,
kneeling beside the fallen man. “Crispin, tell us. We’ll see him
punished.”

“
Father,”
Crispin said, looking at Joanna and then at something over Piers’s
shoulder. “Father
…”

“
Piers,
move aside, please.” Father Ambrose was there. “Thank God I
followed Joanna to see what the trouble might be. Crispin, my
beloved
boy, can you hear me?”

Crispin drew a short, rasping breath. When he
exhaled the light went out of his eyes. Father Ambrose made the
sign of the cross over him.

“Time enough later to finish what I must do
for Crispin,” Father Ambrose said. “Crispin is dead, and my first
concern must be for the living.”

A low, heartrending moan issued from Joanna’s
throat. She still held Crispin’s body in her arms, his head on her
shoulder, rocking him as if he were a child.

“Hush, my dear,” Father Ambrose said, his
hand resting briefly on her bowed head before he straightened and
began to deal with the consequences of murder. “Try to postpone
your grieving for a little while yet, until I ask a few questions.
Joanna, did you see what happened?”

She could not speak. She tried, but the words
would not come. She was numb, all her emotions frozen. Knowing
Crispin was dead, but as yet unable to accept that fact, she was
barely able to shake her head. But she could see and hear with
unnatural clarity, and the events of the next hour seared her heart
and her memory so deeply that she could never forget them.

“Piers, tell me quickly: did you see who did
this?” Father Ambrose asked.

“I was behind the screen then, using the
garderobe,” Piers said. “I heard a noise, and Alain called to me,
and when I came out he was holding Crispin.”

“Alain.” Father Ambrose turned to him, and
Joanna looked at him too. Alain’s blue tunic and hose were soaked
with Crispin’s blood; his face was white and haggard. He looked as
if he might burst into tears at any moment. Father Ambrose put a
hand on his shoulder, steadying him. “I must ask you this, Alain,
because I recognize that hunting knife. It is yours. Did you stab
Crispin?”

“
I loved
him,” Alain choked. “I was sick
– still sick – head splitting—”

“Did you have your hunting knife in the great
hall?” Father Ambrose’s voice was sharp.

“
I
– I don’t know.” Alain rubbed
at his forehead, his bloodstained hand leaving a path across his
pale skin. “Can’t remember. Perhaps later.”

“There may be no later for you.” Father
Ambrose returned his attention to Piers. “Why are you not
sick?”

“
I don’t
know, unless it’s because I only ate a little roast beef and drank
but a sip of the wine. It tasted bitter to me, and since I ate and
dra
nk too
much last
night and felt the worse for it this morning, I resolved to be more
careful today.” Piers looked toward the door. “Where are the
men-at-arms? Why hasn’t anyone else come in here?”

“An excellent question,” said Father Ambrose,
walking to the door and closing it.

“There was no one on guard. And no one else
is ill.” Joanna spoke so suddenly that she surprised even herself.
The others stared at her; then Piers and Father Ambrose looked at
each other. Alain dropped to his knees beside her, his movements
clumsy.

“Crispin,” he said, stroking Crispin’s face.
Joanna pulled her husband closer to her breast.

“Don’t touch him!” she cried.

“
Joanna –
please…”

“Piers,” Father Ambrose said, picking up both
the hunting knife and the cloak some careless man-at-arms had
tossed over a bench, “I want you to take Alain out of the castle.
Go now, before Radulf orders the gates closed.”

“I can’t leave.” Alain was still looking at
Joanna, who would not look back at him.

“
You
must
leave, and at once.” Father Ambrose lifted the younger man
to his feet and set the cloak about his shoulders, covering his
bloodstained tunic. “It’s your knife that killed Crispin. You are
drenched in his blood. Baron Radulf does not like you, in large
part because he is aware of your interest in Joanna. He will
welcome the chance to blame you for this murder. You must go
quickly. It is my duty to inform Radulf of what has happened, and I
cannot delay much longer, or someone may discover us and raise the
alarm.”

“He’s right, Alain.” Quick-witted Piers had
understood the danger at once. He took the hunting knife Father
Ambrose handed to him and stuck it into his belt. “Radulf will
never give you a chance to prove your innocence, Alain, especially
since you can’t remember what happened. Damn! If only I had stayed
out of the garderobe.”

“Don’t blame yourself. None of this is your
doing, of that I am certain. I’m depending on you, Piers,” said
Father Ambrose. “Get Alain safely away from here. I will not tell
you before Joanna what to do next, lest Radulf find a way to force
the information out of his daughter, but I believe you understand
my intent.”

“Yes,” said Piers, “I do understand. But even
for Joanna to hear this much could prevent our escaping to
safety.”

“I will give my father nothing!” The violence
in Joanna’s voice made all three men look at her again. “I will say
nothing to my father.”

“
Joanna…”
Alain began, reaching toward her.

“You cannot keep your promise to aid me,” she
said, still with that same barely repressed violence. “Go. Save
yourself from my father’s vengeance. Prove your innocence later if
you can. Leave me with my dead husband.”

“I swear,” Alain said, “that as soon as I
can, I will return. I’ll come back for you, Joanna.”

That much
she heard and remembered later, but she did not hear what else he
said. The storm of grief that had been building inside her broke
and the tears she had been fighting overwhelmed her. She did not
know it when Alain and Piers left, nor did she fee
l Father
Ambrose’s comforting hand on her shoulder while he waited,
hop
ing to give them time to
escape before he was forced to report Crispin’s murder. Too much
had been done to Joanna in the few days just passed; too many
people had demanded more of her than she could give. Too many
conflicting emotions had assaulted her. Now she could think of
nothing but her own pain and the loss of Crispin. She retreated far
inside herself, to a place where pain and loss no longer
mattered.

But she
could not complet
ely remove herself
from what was going on around her. She was aware
of the clamor of Radulf’s entrance into the guards’ room, with
Baird and a group of his men-at-arms behind him. She screamed and
fought the men when they tried to take Crispin’s body from her,
giving him up only into Father Ambrose’s caring hands. She heard
Rohaise’s voice, and knew it when Baird picked her up from the
floor and, holding her against his old brown tunic, carried her up
the stairs to the room she had shared with Crispin. It was Rohaise
who pulled off her blood-soaked gown and washed her arms and hands
and then her body, where Crispin’s blood had seeped through her
clothes. Rohaise tucked her into bed and put heated stones at her
feet to stop the shivering that racked her, and Rohaise gave her
herb-scented wine to drink. And then, mercifully, Joanna slept,
knowing nothing more.

*
* * * *

Below, in the great hall, Radulf was once
again arranging his daughter’s life.

“I have sent out search parties to locate
those two knaves,” he said to Father Ambrose. “When we find them
Alain and Piers will hang for what they’ve done.”

“You would do well to search elsewhere for
the killer,” Father Ambrose suggested.

“Why?” Radulf looked hard at the priest. “Do
you know of anyone else who wished harm to my son Crispin? Aye,
that’s how I think of him, as my son, for his fine character
endeared him to me as soon as I met him. And to my daughter. Poor
Joanna is completely undone by this tragedy.”