Fulke said nothing as he grasped the cup close to his chest. He was visibly shivering.
“I’ll not geld you in your sleep,” Ralf said, grabbing a handful of fowl from the platter. “You have my word.”
Shaking his head, the sheriff noisily sucked his cup dry and reached for the jug.
With great deliberation, Ralf tore off bits of flesh from the wing and stuffed them into his mouth.
“I’m scared.” Fulke’s words were almost inaudible.
The crowner grinned.
“Not of you.”
Ralf shrugged.
“I did not kill him.”
“You had cause enough.”
“I just affirmed my innocence.”
“God was gracious and I never met the man in my short time at court. From tales I’ve heard of him, perhaps you should have slit his throat.” Ralf tossed the denuded bird bones at the sheriff’s feet. “As for questioning your honesty, you would question mine were our situations reversed. Tell me why I must conclude you are telling the truth.”
“Be careful how you continue. If I hang, remember that Odo would get the land to use as he defines God’s work, sweet brother. You would gain little except, perhaps, the responsibility of caring for my widow.”
“You have been too long amongst devious men, Fulke. If I had longed for either title or inheritance, I could have killed you when we were boys and disguised the deed well enough as an accident. Why wait until now?”
Reaching across the table, Fulke clutched his brother’s arm. “If you don’t believe me, I will swear on any holy relic of your choosing! I did not kill Baron Otes, although you know well enough I might wish to.”
Ralf looked down with disgust at the sheriff’s hand. “Swear not. I think you’d lie to God Himself.”
“Why do you hate me?” Fulke sat back. Even with his expression disguised by shadows, he looked defeated.
“You never gave me reason to love.”
The older brother shook his head as if amazed.
“If you cannot recall the tauntings or the cruel jests when we were boys, then I have no wish, as a man, to remind you. As long as we stay far apart, Fulke, we shall remain peaceful enough brothers.”
“We are kin.”
“Saying that only means you want something from me.”
“Find the man who killed Baron Otes, do so quickly, and keep all suspicion from ever falling on me.”
“You are the sheriff of this land. I am only your lowly crowner and the brother for whom you show little respect.”
“Did I not take you into my home when you fled this place? Did I not find you a woman with land?”
“It was your spouse who welcomed me with kindness in my grief. You greeted me once, then spoke only when it suited your purpose. As for the wife you gave me, she gifted me with a daughter who has brought the taste of honey back to my life. I cherish the child far more than the land.”
“You owe me.”
“As I have said already, I have repaid that debt.”
Fulke leaned forward, his teeth clenched in fury.
Shoving his drunken brother backwards, Ralf filled his own mazer and drank deeply. “If you agree to a few simple conditions, I’ll do as you ask.”
The sheriff lowered his head.
Ralf walked over to the wall where his sword hung on a peg and returned with the weapon in hand. “As this represents the cross on which our Lord was crucified, I ask that you put your hand on the hilt and swear you will agree to my demands and never turn traitor to your word.”
Fulke rested one palm on the hilt and grunted.
“Good.” Laying the weapon down on the table, he turned back to his brother. “My conditions are simple. First, stay out of my way until the killer is found. Later, you can preen like a capon all you like and lie to your friends at court about how clever you were in trapping the murderer. I swear to support your tale if required. The last conditions are that you cease to plan any further marriage propositions for me and that you return to kneel at the king’s feet, leaving me forever in peace.”
Fulke did nod, but his head had grown too heavy to hold up. His eyes closed, and he slid off the bench onto the floor.
Ralf walked around the table and looked down at the man, dressed in robes of finely woven cloth, sprawled on an earthen floor. Did he believe Fulke’s assertion of innocence in this murder? Whether or not he did, he knew he must confirm the truth either way and then decide what to do if his brother had lied.
The sheriff began to snore.
“God has cursed me with such brothers,” the crowner muttered. Then he grabbed Fulke by the armpits and dragged him to a pile of straw where the head of the family could sleep off his drunken stupor.
Chapter Seventeen
The early morning light dancing on the pond did not bring the usual joy to Thomas. He was too weary to feel anything except the weight of fatigue, and his eyes burned as if dusted with grit.
Terrified by his reaction to his visitor last night, he had slept little. At least his flesh had calmed with the sleepless hours. He yawned.
With eyelids half closed, he looked over at Simon.
The young man was sitting on the bank, gazing at the stream flowing toward the priory mill, and peeling the bark off a broken limb.
Once admitted to the hermitage, Simon had eaten and drunk with fine appetite without expressing any appreciation for the hospitality. After kneeling at the small altar, he accepted the offer to take Thomas’ bed, again with no thanks, and slept deeply all night. The monk lay down on his rough bench to endure the dark hours until dawn.
A discourteous heart belies the boy’s beautiful face, Thomas said to himself. With relief, he realized Simon no longer tempted him. Now he grew impatient to send the lad on his way. “When you arrived, you told me you were in search of understanding, my son,” he called out. “You have said nothing more of this longing since yesterday.”
Simon ran his fingernail down the moist and tender wood, gouged a hole in it, and then tossed it aside.
“If I knew what troubles you, I could offer direction, if not answers.” There was something about this visit that unsettled Thomas, apart from his brief lust and the intrusion on his solitude. If only his mind were not so dulled by lack of sleep. He could not grasp the reason.
“I thought holy men could read souls.”
Even though the words were insolent, Thomas chose not to reply in kind. Despite Simon’s tone, the furrows cutting into the youth’s forehead did suggest honest concern. “If you seek a saint, you had best travel elsewhere” the monk said at last. “My sins stink like those of other men. Whatever advice I offer comes from mortal failure, not sanctity.”
Simon looked oddly relieved. “I am grateful for those words,” he said. “I feared my grave faults would horrify you.”
“Cruelty does,” the monk replied. “Little else.”
Simon fell silent, picked up a rock, and skipped it across the flowing stream. “What is cruelty?” He did not look at Thomas as he spoke.
“What have you done to ask that question?”
He answered with a shrug.
“Lain with a woman against her will?” That suggestion was an easy enough presumption considering the boy’s youth, the monk thought.
“You do understand a soul’s secrets!” Simon picked up another rock, this time hurling it at a shrub from which an invisible bird chirped. “Your question does contain a false assertion. Women may claim they resist and thus remain innocent of what a man does, but Satan blinds them to the truth. It is their nature to seduce men into sinning. It is they who destroy our will to be virtuous and we who are unfairly abused.”
“Some might agree with you, although that contention is flawed. Are there not laws against rape? The fact suggests some women may be forced into forbidden copulation by men.”
Simon looked uneasy. “I have swyved virgins. Base-born wenches only. One did howl like a bitch afterward, claiming she had been unwilling. She lied.”