“You breathe, Crowner. Corpses cannot say the same. For that, you owe God much gratitude.” Brother Beorn skillfully applied a poultice to the back of Ralf’s head. “Stop squirming. Ponder instead why God has been merciful to a shameless sinner like you when others are more worthy of His kindness.”
Since boyhood and for reasons lost to memory, the two men acted like threatened hedgehogs raising their quills in defense whenever they met. Neither could point to any fresh argument over the subsequent years, but their querulous banter had become a matter of habit. So much so, in fact, that some suspected each had discovered an odd but companionable pleasure in tweaking the other.
Ralf grunted.
“I’m done with you.”
“Perhaps Sister Anne should check your work.”
A tall nun stepped into the crowner’s sight. “I have never found that necessary. Our brother is a skilled healer.”
Ralf flushed. “I beg pardon, Annie. I meant no ill.”
“Sister Anne,” the lay brother growled.
The sub-infirmarian smiled at Brother Beorn and nodded. He walked away without further word.
“You might have granted him a word of appreciation, Ralf. He took you out of turn when Cuthbert pointed to the black blood on your neck.” Sister Anne bent over and looked at the skin around the poultice. “I would have thought that becoming a father might have gentled you a little and taught you some courtesy.”
“Murder roughens me, but the sight of my daughter soothes the rawness like one of your salves.”
Anne sat down beside him. “I have heard you named her after your wife?”
“A woman who bequeathed much joy to me with the gift of this wondrous small creature, although she died from her beneficence.”
“You loved your wife for herself, not just her lands?” Anne asked softly.
Ralf stared at his clenched fists, then opened them as if in humble appeal. “I honored her with fidelity and courtesy, Annie, but felt no tenderness. Yet she was a good woman who deserved a far better husband than she got in me. I am not so rude a man that I did not understand that.”
They fell silent, and the nun started to reach out, as if give the crowner a consoling touch, but quickly drew her hand back. “I doubt not you were kind to her, Ralf, but do not be so fearful in loving. Let your daughter teach you that.”
He sighed. “Loving my child demands no effort from me. As for grown women, you well know the most grievous and festering wound my heart has suffered and why I have little hope of any affection from your sex.”
“Each of us is given what God deems best for us, Ralf. You alone know why we two could not have married, and why I have found sanctuary at Tyndal where my husband led me. And if you still believe you do not deserve a good woman as wife, remember you have a daughter now, one who deserves a loving mother. Do not wallow like some pig in rank selfishness!” Her voice was light and teasing. This time she did not hesitate to put her arm around his broad shoulders for just a moment, an act that would have brought her censure if observed but one that was no more sinful than compassion ever could be.
Despite the pain in his head, Ralf laughed. “As always, you have the right of it, Annie, but since you must continue to refuse me, show some mercy and reveal the name of this good woman to whom I must give my heart.”
“She will reveal herself to you—and prove her suitably meek nature by giving you no choice whatsoever about marrying her.” The sub-infirmarian stood and walked a short distance away, one deemed more appropriate to her calling. Turning around, she smiled and gestured at his head. “While we wait for that miracle to occur, tell me why this happened to you.”
“I had questions of Will and twisted his hand to force answers from him. When he cried out that I had broken it, Hob must have heard him and struck me. Cuthbert saw him running from the smithy, dragging his brother with him. I swear Will did not deserve such a defense, but I do not blame the brother for his loyalty. As the king’s man, I might seek vengeance, but I will not trouble Hob if he is otherwise innocent of murder.” He grinned weakly. “An old soldier who forgets his battle wisdom deserves what he gets.”
“Do you truly suspect the blacksmith of murder?” Anne asked, frowning.
Ralf shrugged.
“If not, why treat him so harshly? That is not like you.”
“He is a coward!” the crowner barked, then winced. “In truth, I do not think he killed either Martin or Ivetta. Will is too hot-tempered and more likely to swing his fists than poison anyone. Making a potion of yew requires planning and, as I have already said, more wit than the man owns.” The crowner cautiously shook his head. “My quarrel with him lies in his malicious attempt to divert suspicion from himself and bring it down on the head of Signy, the innkeeper’s niece. I also believe he knows who did kill the two but fears he will be blamed himself.”
“Or else the blacksmith was afraid he would be accused just because he and the cooper happened to quarrel that night.” She hesitated before asking, “Why do you set aside the possibility that Signy might have killed both Ivetta and Martin?”
“It is not in her nature.”
Anne smiled at his quick defense. “Even the most virtuous may be vulnerable to Satan’s corruption given the right cause and temptation.”
“Guilty we each might be of lust, greed, gluttony, or all these things, but murder is the cruelest act. I cannot see Signy killing anyone.”
“Might you not suffer some blindness about her, Ralf?”
He hid his face in his hands.
“Speak truly.” She touched her heart. “Haven’t we known each other long and well enough to set aside petty things and all fear of shame?”
“Aye, we have,” he said, looking at her with affection. “Forgive me, Annie, and pray for my soul. I bedded the woman in lust, albeit with affection, then humiliated her, but without malice. As penance, my heart demands that I must find her innocent in these crimes.”
“Even if she is guilty?” Anne shook her head at the crowner’s mournful expression. “A poor jest, Ralf. I, myself, find it hard to imagine that she killed the two, although I agree she might have reason as well as opportunity most certainly—and is a woman, that creature you think most likely to use poison.”
Ralf snorted. “It is the weapon of the devious, the weak, or the fearful.”
“Woman may be weak by nature, thus fearful and often devious, but a man can be all that and especially the last by design. Nothing you mention disqualifies any man from poisoning another. Might Will have used poison to cast suspicion elsewhere or even because he was fearful of confronting Martin in a fair fight?”
“Our blacksmith is possessed of no subtlety. As for fear, he strikes first when enraged and thinks, if ever, later. Only then does he turn pale at the mention of a hangman.”
Anne pondered that. “I agree that he is not as clever as his younger brother, but Will speaks well enough when he so chooses or when he is sober enough. That aside, what do you think of Hob as a killer?”
“When we were all lads, especially after the murder of old Tibia’s son, I might have agreed, but Hob has become more of a man with the years. That experience changed him, and now I would doubt his guilt in this matter. Even Tostig claims he has grown almost somber.”
“I have heard that the crowner’s jury found the death accidental.”
“I did not mean that I questioned his involvement in the boy’s death, only that Hob seems to have repented of that sin.”
“Yet he struck you from behind at the smithy. Might that act suggest a man who does not wish to face another? He may have changed, as you claim, but he could still be the bully he was as a lad only in different guise.”
Ralf considered her words in silence and then shook his head.
“Teach me your reasoning, Ralf. What causes you to conclude that Will is more capable of killing than his brother?”
“Will once threw a young cur into the smithy fire because the creature barked, causing him to damage an object he was working on. Hob burned his own hands saving the animal. That is but one tale out of many I could mention.”
Anne grew pale at the story. “Is that the dog that follows Hob everywhere?”
“Aye, the one with scarred bald spots where the fur could not grow back.”
“I understand,” she said, her eyes narrowing with rare anger.
“Yet Hob has always been a loyal brother, loving Will more than the elder merits. Whatever evil Hob committed as a youth, he now works hard, complains little, and sins only in fighting for his brother’s honor and sometimes drinking more than he should.”
“And so he nearly killed you out of loyalty this day?”
“He might well have done so if he had wished it. Instead, he led Will off to safety so his temper could cool and left me to wake up when Cuthbert threw a bucket of water over my head. Some might say my suffering head was penance for the sin of almost breaking the smith’s hand, or else the near drowning I got with my sergeant’s tender concern.” He gingerly touched his neck where the poultice lay. “For this I should have cracked the blacksmith’s wrist in two!”
“You said you suspected Will of knowing something more than he is saying. Will you question him further?” Anne looked at the crowner with that stern expression common to mothers with troublesome sons. “Without breaking any part of him?”
The crowner’s grin was wicked enough to warm any imp’s heart. “Additional inquiry I may promise you, but I cannot say the blacksmith might not suffer a minor scratch or bruise!” Ralf’s expression shifted from jest to determination. “You have given me reason to ask Hob more questions as well, Annie. Perhaps he does have something to hide. Or, if he is such a loyal brother, he might know secrets belonging to his brother, matters he wishes to conceal as much as Will does. If he understands that telling me everything would keep Will from the hangman, he might speak up.”
“Then go,” Anne replied. “But you might do worse than remember Brother Beorn’s words about mercy.”
Perplexed, Ralf raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Should you forget your past principles and use untoward force as a method of inquiry again, God might not protect you the next time you forget to watch your back.”