Cathedral of Bones Page 8

  Widows and widowers were all around her. Alan Morse for one and the absent Richard Dawson for another. And they didn’t have an entourage of servants or even an extended family from the looks of it. They were forced to pick up the broken pieces of their lives and keep going all by themselves—or starve.

  Back inside the outer walls, Haughton and the jurors peeled away from their bedraggled group and headed for their own warm hearths. Ela led the guards back up the steep path into the castle, noting the need for more cinders to lend traction to its slippery surface.

  Back in the great hall, Ela’s mother was holding court from William’s chair. The children and dogs gathered around her, and Ela could see that she was dispensing gifts.

  “My darling, where have you been all morning!”

  “Investigating the circumstances of a murder.” Maintaining a lie would be too much effort.

  Her mother’s eyebrows shot up. “Whose murder?”

  “A young woman from a nearby farm.” It was a relief to be out of the drizzle and free of her heavy cloak. She took a cup of hot spiced wine and sat in a chair a servant placed near her mother’s. “Her body was found as we returned from the funeral. Sibel, can you summon Deschamps?”

  “Yes, my lady, but let me replace your wet veil, first.” Ela let the ever conscientious Sibel remove her damp veil and pin a fresh one in its place.

  “Sibel, what would I do without you?”

  “Manage perfectly fine, I expect. But luckily there’s no need for that.”

  Alianore looked a little scandalized to hear her daughter’s lady’s maid talking back to her.

  “What do you mean her body was found? Here in the castle?”

  “No, thank goodness.” She explained the circumstances, avoiding the unpleasant mistake of bringing the body to the armory, where the foul corpse odor still hung in the damp air like a warning.

  When Deschamps appeared, she asked him to arrange for the burial to take place early the next morning and—if that was acceptable to Bishop Poore—to notify Morse and the dead girl’s elderly father. It would be interesting to see if either of them bothered to show up.

  “My darling, you cannot trouble yourself with such awful matters. You’re still recovering from a horrible shock and the loss of your husband and protector.”

  “If anything, it’s helping me to get through the greater loss. I prefer to keep my mind and body occupied so I don’t have time to brood.” Ela petted the head of her favorite greyhound, Grayson, who had sweetly placed it in her lap. She leaned toward her mother and lowered her voice. “The poor dead girl had a difficult husband, who claims the baby in her belly wasn’t his.” She hoped none of the children overheard. She didn’t want the salacious details of the case being repeated.

  Her mother’s lips pursed. “You are riding around the countryside putting yourself in a path of a killer.”

  “I went out with two guards as well as the coroner and two jurors.”

  “This is still no job for a woman. Especially one with children to raise.”

  “Mother,” she attempted a stern gaze, which was hard since Alianore’s own look could freeze boiling water. “Please do not attempt to undermine my authority, especially in my own household.”

  Her mother looked affronted. She whipped out her embroidered linen handkerchief and flapped it about before dabbing at her nose with it. “I shall keep the unfortunate young woman in my prayers.”

  Ela wasn’t sure whether she meant the dead woman or herself. Both of them would no doubt benefit from any extra prayers sent their way.

  “Look what Grandma gave me!” Stephen brandished a small dagger, withdrawing it from its tooled leather hilt.

  “Goodness. Do be careful with it.”

  “You know I believe in giving useful gifts.” Alianore folded her handkerchief and slid it back into her sleeve.

  “She gave me a strip of fabric and all these colored threads,” said little Ellie uncertainly.

  “To make a bookmark for your prayer book, my dear.”

  “But I already have one.”

  “If God graces you with another prayer book you shall be ready with a bookmark for it,” said Alianore sharply, but with an indulgent smile. “Needlework is a useful skill as well as a fine pastime for a young noblewoman.” She turned to Ela. “Unlike, say, hunting a murderer.”

  “Can I join the hunt?” Stephen twirled his new dagger. Its blade caught the light through a high window.

  Ela lifted a brow at her mother. “No, my love. You’re far too young.”

  “Oh.” He sheathed his dagger and jumped to his feet. “I’m going to go find some things to cut.”

  “Nothing alive or valuable, please,” she said, only half-joking. “Why don’t you go see if cook needs some things cut in the kitchen?”

  “Good idea.” He skipped off to the kitchen.

  “Where’s Will?” He wasn’t there. His energetic presence was always highly visible, as if he were surrounded by rays of gold like a painted saint, so his absence was noticeable as well.

  “Jean took him out hunting. You know they love the back of a horse better than the warmth of the fire.”

  “True. That’s how he spends most of his time.”

  “Marriage should settle him. And soon we’ll have a new baby to fuss over.”

  “God willing.” Ela didn’t take anything for granted lately.

  “Don’t worry, my dear. Your sweet Will is the late king’s grandson. His family would be fools to eschew such a match.”

  “I hope you’re right.” It was hard to predict what Idonea’s testy grandmother would do. Ela admired and emulated her salty independence, but she was anything but predictable.

  “Oh, their baby will be such a sweet little thing,” Alianore exclaimed. “They’re such an attractive couple. Idonea has blossomed into such a beauty.”

  “Looks aren’t everything.”

  “Look who’s talking! Your husband drew the gaze of every woman in Wiltshire.”

  “He was handsome, yes, but a handsome husband is not always the greatest benefit to a wife.” She regretted her words as soon as she’d said them. They felt treacherous.

  “All men take mistresses, my dear.” Her mother had the tact to whisper the words in her ear. “Just part of life’s rich tapestry.”

  “I know. You prepared me for it well.”

  “He loved you well.”

  “I know it. I do. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. But Will is wild and lusty and the thought of him stepping out on his wife when she’s barely more than a child does worry me.”

  Alianore sighed. “Boys will be boys. It’s nature’s way of ensuring their finer qualities pass on to the next generation. It’s a pity your father sired only you.”

  “I shall do my best to be enough,” she said wryly.

  “By becoming sole castellan and high sheriff?” Her mother’s imperious eyebrows lifted.

  Ela shrugged, a smile tugging at her mouth.

  “You are your father’s daughter, that’s for sure.”

  Ela felt a burst of pride. “I hope I can do my duty to his memory and to Salisbury.”

  “Speaking of that, and of life’s rich tapestry, my darling…” Alianore gestured at the wall behind them. “These tapestries are filthy. Can they not be cleaned?”

  Ela looked up and down the vast—and admittedly grimy—hunting scene that had hung on that wall as long as she could remember. “These tapestries are a hundred years old.” She paid no more attention to them than the stones they covered.

  “Maybe older. You could commission some new ones?”

  “That would be quite an extravagance. Have you noticed how large these walls are?” William had left large debts, some of them to the crown. His will had detailed exactly how his young wards’ fortunes should be used to pay them. Which meant keeping a tight hold on those fortunes now he was gone.

  “It’s part of your duty to make your home and castle an environment that reflects the imp
ortance of your family.”

  “Then how come you never changed them?”

  “I did have them cleaned.” Alianore surveyed the ones on the far side of the room. “They were given a good scrubbing and never looked quite the same again.”

  “Then perhaps the layers of soot are doing them a favor.”

  “There are some fine weavers in Normandy.” Her mother took out her handkerchief and blew her nose. “Very fine. You should see the walls of the great houses there.”

  “I have.” Ela had spent more time than she cared to recall in Normandy. She much preferred to be here at home, ancient sooty walls and all.

  “So like your father.” Alianore smiled. “I told him he should build a new wing with decorative turrets. But he always said that what served his forefathers could serve him as well. He never liked shiny new things. He thought them tacky. Serve him his dinner on a scarred plate with his father’s crest on it, by the light of a bent old silver candlestick, and he was happy as a pig in its sty.”

  Ela’s eyes rested on the rather crooked candlestick, unlit, that sat on a nearby table. “When you have perfectly good candlesticks, what’s the point of buying more?”

  “Oh, indeed why?” said her mother in a teasing tone. “Perhaps William the Conqueror himself ate by the light of that very candlestick, a hundred and fifty years ago.”

  “No doubt he read the Domesday Book in its glow. Do you have no appreciation for history?”

  “I appreciate tradition. What would that William have thought of a female sheriff at Salisbury?”

  “I doubt he would have wasted his time worrying about the gender of his sheriff. I think he would be more concerned about whether peace and justice prevailed in this corner of his kingdom. Let me see how the cook is faring with our meal.”

  Ela hurried away to the kitchens. Was her mother warming to her plans? It was hard to tell. She loved her mother dearly but also found her draining.

  As expected the cook and her helpers were piling freshly baked rolls on platters and pouring out a big tureen of fish soup into a serving dish. A serving girl dotted butter onto a platter of carrots and leeks.

  “Fish and more fish,” muttered the cook. “New spring lambs can’t come soon enough.”

  “Or new spring greens,” sighed Ela. “Every winter seems longer, but that makes spring all the sweeter when it comes.”

  Servants carrying plates, napkins, cups and carafes followed her back through the hall, where the family gathered at the main table. Even Will and Jean were there, hose splattered with mud and faces red from the cold.

  “How was the hunting?”

  “Fine!” exclaimed Jean. “Young Will shot a fat boar in the woods to salt and save for Easter.”

  “I do hope you weren’t galloping too fast,” said Alianore to Will, arching a brow. “I know that your father always prided himself on the speed and power of his horses.”

  Ela felt a pang. William had loved a good gallop and challenged her to races like she were a man. In that instant she felt his loss like a missing limb.

  “How could I resist, my love?” retorted Jean. “When my brother-in-law devoted himself to breeding the finest horses in all of England and Normandy.”

  “Tall, powerful and fleet of foot.” Young Will quoted his father’s mantra. Ela, like many people, preferred a smaller horse that was easier to mount and dismount and less of a struggle to control. If Will could have harnessed a dragon, no doubt he would.

  “Papa said the horses in the Holy Land are some of the fastest he’d ever seen. He promised to bring some back and breed them with his mares and—” Will’s face, flushed from exercise, suddenly stilled. He too was hit by the realization that so many hopes and dreams would never come to fruition. Then his face brightened. “I suppose I’ll have to go there and get them myself.”

  “Good lad!” said Jean, raising his cup of wine. “I’ll raise a toast to young Will leading a successful expedition to Jerusalem and bringing home some fine horseflesh.”

  Ela lifted her cup rather reluctantly. She didn’t relish the prospect of Will heading overseas, especially on what seemed to be increasingly dangerous and fruitless missions to the far-flung Holy Land. She knew the true Holy Land was inside each of them and was found sooner through prayer than ocean voyages. But now wasn’t the time to crush his youthful fantasies.

  “Mother, I want to come with you when you ride out to interview suspects again.”

  Will’s change of subject took Ela by surprise. How did he even know where she’d been? Perhaps one of the grooms or guards had mentioned it. Now she felt guilty about riding out without even asking him. He was the future heir to all Salisbury.

  “I’d welcome your company. There’s a new wrinkle to the investigation.” She didn’t fancy discussing the woman’s potential infidelity in front of her younger children. “Which I shall explain later. Weather permitting we’ll ride out again tomorrow.”

  The porter approached. “My lady, Master St. Germain, the silversmith, has arrived. Shall I show him in?”

  “Please do.” She rose and looked around for her attendant and found her helping Petronella with her sewing. “Sibel, could you please fetch the drawing on top of the desk in my solar?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Sibel hurried away. Ela had sketched her plan for her new seal.

  St. Germain, a well-dressed man a few years her junior, swept in and bowed. “My deepest condolences on the loss of your husband.”

  “Your sympathies are appreciated.” She ushered for him to take a seat at a table away from the family. “I am taking on new responsibilities in the absence of my husband and need a new seal to—” She paused, not sure how to word it. To make sure I’m taken seriously was not something she could say out loud.

  “Indeed, my lady. I quite understand.” He sat and pulled out a small leaf of parchment from his bag. “Do you have particular iconography in mind?”

  “I do.” She looked around for Sibel, who hadn’t returned. “It shall show me standing, facing head on, flanked by lion cubs to represent the lions of Longespée.”

  “Excellent.”

  “My dress should be natural. Just as I am dressed now, with a simple fillet and veil and no unnecessary ornamentation.” She didn’t want to look like a merry widow. “Ah, here’s Sybil with my sketch.”

  Sibel placed it in front of her, and she swiveled it around to face St. Germain. “Here’s the pose I like. A bird in my left hand and my right hand raised in greeting or offering.”

  The silversmith surveyed it and looked up at her with amusement. “Your drawing is most accomplished.”

  “It’s mean and unskilled but hopefully provides a starting point.” She inhaled. Why did men often look amused around her? It was irksome to the extreme. Why was a woman taking charge of her existence so entertaining? “It should have the Longespée coat of arms on the back.”

  “Of course.” Again he looked up at her with an infuriating twinkle in his eye. “Is the bird a dove of peace or a falcon?”

  “A falcon.” Ready to hunt down the truth and bring it back home to her. “The seal should have a cross on it somewhere and it should say, Ela, Countess of Salisbury, around the image. The rest of the details I leave up to your skill and experience.”

  He was busy sketching even while she talked and soon turned his drawing around to face her. It showed a sketch a lozenge-shaped seal featuring a tall elegant woman dressed in a simple gown and cloak in exactly the pose she’d imagined. He’d placed a hexagonal platform under her feet and a cross above her head.

  “I’m not sure I’m that tall.”

  “You are most certainly that tall.” He held her gaze, defying her to argue. Had she been fishing for compliments? She fervently hoped not.

  “If you insist, then that looks fine. How long until it’s ready?”

  “I can deliver it by next week.”

  Ela wanted to protest that tomorrow would be better, but he was a busy man for a good reason so she held h
er tongue.

  “God go with you, Master St. Germain.”

  “And with you, my lady.” He rose and bowed before taking his leave. He’d left her drawing sitting on the table. It looked foolish there so she folded it up and tucked it in her sleeve. “Anyone for a game of Alquerque?”

  Chapter 7

  Katherine Morse was buried shortly after dawn in the grounds of the new cathedral. Ela attended the cathedral service partly to offer prayers for the poor girl’s soul—and that of her unfortunate baby—and partly to make sure her seven pounds were put to good use. Also to see if Katherine’s husband turned up—or if anyone else did.

  As expected, Katie’s blind father was there, head in hands, in the front row. Ela offered her condolences and he thanked her profusely for paying for his daughter’s funeral, with many apologies about his own grinding poverty and misery. Again, Ela silently resolved to make sure he was provided with alms and to check on him regularly. Old age and its wisdom should be a blessing, despite the inevitable infirmities, not a trial to be endured in poverty and solitude.

  Katherine’s husband was nowhere to be seen, which Ela noted as another black mark against his character. No one else was there, either.

  After the funeral, Ela offered to escort the old man back to his smithy, but he politely refused, saying that it was far too mean and humble, and also that it was so close by he was almost home.

  She’d intended to bring Will, but he’d been fast asleep when she went to rouse him. No doubt from staying up half the night entertaining their guests. Like his father he was a warm host where she preferred the solitude of her chamber and the solace of her prie-dieu.

  She visited the stonemason who was charged with making the effigy for William’s tomb. He’d been interred with a plain lid to allow time to make a likeness befitting a great man.

  The stone yard was dusty and busy, filled with the clanging of hammers on chisels as carvers worked on details for the new cathedral.

  “My lady.” The master stonemason hurried forward and bowed. “I’ve sourced an excellent piece of stone large enough for your lord’s tomb. It was no mean feat since it wasn’t just his sword that was long.”