“Old Titus’ll be wanting his dinner soon, greedy bugger.”
“An’ his ale. Old abbot sent poor Useless off for getting drunk, but he don’t know the half of what Titus topes when he ain’t looking. Could drink Useless under the table any day, Titus could.”
“Look at old James potterin’ about. Bet he’s talking to hisself. Mad as a weasel, James is, an’ nasty with it when he’s roused.”
Will nudged Adelia. “Bet you don’t know as why Brother Aelwyn di’n’t want you and the darky messin’ about in the graveyard.”
“No. Why?”
“ ’Cos he’s got two babies buried in it.”
“Babies?”
Will smirked. “Babies. Oh, there was carryin’s-on with women in the old days, so they say, for all them monks was supposed to be virgins, an one of ’em had twins an’ old Aelwyn give ’em to her. Left ’em on the abbey’s doorstep, she did. There was a right to-do about it. Had to bury ’em in the monks’ own graveyard.”
“Dear God, how did the babies die?”
Will, with some reluctance, admitted that as far as was known, the twins had met a natural death.
Listening to them, Adelia began to see the fire’s great scar spread over the abbey as a stain representing human frailty and misery.
There was, however, nothing but good words for Abbot Sigward. “Wasn’t no carryin’s – on after he were elected,” Will told her. “Not a bad old boy, for a monk.”
“Fancy leavin’ a rich living so’s you got to say prayers all day,” Toki said incredulously.
“Did it for to remember his son as died fighting the bloody Saracens,” Alf said. “Right upset about that, Sigward was. ’S a wonder he never sent to have the body brought back. Sir Gervase over at Street, he was brought back and put in Street Church with his legs crossed and his sword an’ all.”
“Cut up too bad by them black bastards p’raps, nothin’ left to bring back. Or maybe he never had no friends to carry him home. Might’ve died a hero but didn’t live like one. Weedy little bugger he was. Hilda never reckoned him much, said he was a milksop, always blubberin’ an’ saying he was cold.”
“Crusades suited him, then,” Will said. “Hot out them parts, ain’ it?”
“About as hot as here,” Adelia told him. She picked a dock leaf to protect her bare head from sunstroke and another to brush the flies away from the sweat on her face. “Aren’t those blasted men ever going to go in to dinner?”
“S’pose the darky proves Useless di’n’t do it, an’ we can bury the poor bugger,” Toki said to Will. “Where we going to throw his knife?”
“In the river, acourse.”
“Which one?”
Will shrugged. “The Brue, I reckon. Liked fishin’ in the Brue, Useless did. ’F you ask me, that’s where King Arthur threw Excalibur like as not. Useless’d want his old knife to go the same.”
“You’re throwing his knife into the river?” Adelia inquired.
“Got to,” Will said, shortly.
“Why?”
“ ’Cos it’s got to go back.”
She was interested. In her beloved fens, fishermen were often getting their lines caught in rusting weapons, then, carefully and with a prayer, throwing them once again into the waters, obeying a time-fogged legend, almost an instinct, that held that a great warrior’s sword or shield, however valuable, must be returned to the mystery that had given it its power. Her foster father, on his travels, had found the custom everywhere in the east. “A very ancient ritual,” he’d told her, “an offering to the gods on behalf of the soul of the dead owner.”
Of course-now she remembered-she’d heard Rhys singing of Excalibur being returned to the lake from which a lady’s arm had once proffered it.
So the custom persisted. Pagan but, still, beautiful.
At last the abbey grounds emptied. The tithing moved down the hill, still keeping to cover, and approached what remained of the abbey wall.
Will pointed to an area of blackened rubble. “Tha’s where Useless’d go under the wall, look, only you can’t see the hole now acause the fire brought the stones down on it.”
“Then remove them,” Adelia told him. “The lord doctor wishes to see the actual burrow.”
And Adelia realized that for once she need not command through Mansur; these men belonged to a level of society so low that its women had to work at jobs other than that of a wife in order for their families to survive, holding a place of their own as fellow laborers in the fields, as ale brewers, laundresses, market sellers, maybe even as thieves, bringing in money that earned them a position of their own. Only the upper classes, where ladies were dependent on their lords, could afford to regard women as inferior. Now that she, Adelia, was accepted by the tithing as trustworthy, it was not unnatural for its members to have decisions made by a female.
Still, it was better to stick to the pretense; one of them might give her away.
With some effort, the stones were cleared to reveal a curve in the ground that once had allowed the late Eustace to creep under the wall. “Like this, see.” Alf fell flat, prepared to give demonstration in case the lord Mansur and his interpreter didn’t understand the burrowing procedure.
Adelia stopped him. “Don’t. The doctor believes there’s a trap on the other side.”
“Gor, old Useless didn’t have no trouble with traps.”
“I think he had trouble with this one,” Adelia said. She pushed Alf aside and took his place. “Get me a stick.”
A stick was brought and Adelia, crouching in the depression, extended it gingerly so that she could use it to sift through the cinders and newly grown weeds on the abbey side of the wall.
Something clinked.
And there it was. Not a noose such as tightened around the neck or leg of vermin but a spring trap, now buckled by heat yet still recognizable as the terrible thing it was, and still with the chain that had been riveted to one of the stones in the wall.
Brother Christopher had become exasperated by the nighttime human rabbit that kept nibbling away at the abbey’s stores, and, ignoring the command that the Church must not shed blood, he’d made sure he caught it this time.
The tithing was shocked. “I’ll kill that there monkish bastard when he gets back,” Will said.
“What he want to do that for?” Alf wanted to know. “Useless din’t do no harm, just a sip o’ wine to keep him happy, odd turnip or lettuce here or there. Bugger it, richest abbey in the world could afford a bit o’charity, cou’n’t it?”
But Brother Christopher had not thought so; he’d laid in the grass outside Eustace’s burrow a mechanism consisting of a pair of steel jaws triggered by a spring and welded it into place, so that Eustace, pulling himself out of the burrow, had put a hand on the base, causing the trap’s teeth to jump together in a wicked bite on his fingers.
It wasn’t a mantrap such as the one Adelia had once seen-and still tried not to remember-holding someone else in its jaws; this was smaller but, in its way, had proved just as fatal.
In her mind, she heard the snap as it closed, saw Eustace struggling without effect to dislodge it from its fastening…
“But that don’t prove nothing,” Will said, having given it thought. “They’ll say as how he got in some other way, set the fire, an’ was trapped comin’ out.”
“The doctor doesn’t think so,” Adelia said, nodding at Mansur, who nodded back. “Eustace used his own knife to cut off his own fingers; he wouldn’t have done that unless his life depended on it, would he?”
The tithing shook its head. A man didn’t deliberately lose the use of his right hand unless he was in extremis. Eustace would have waited until somebody released him and taken his punishment, which, under a compassionate abbot, might not have been too severe.
“No,” Adelia went on, “Eustace had to free himself. He was coming in through the burrow ready to do his thieving. Look…” She used the stick again to stir through the weeds and found the proof she knew had to be there, and nearly collapsed with relief that it was. “Look.” She exposed three knobbles of charred bone. “Those are his fingers.”