“I had cause enough to kill my step-mother,” Huet said, leaning back against the stone wall. He sampled the wine and then pointed to his cup. “Congratulations on finding an honest wine merchant. In university, they gave us vinegar, although some claimed drinking it was intended to be a foretaste of Hell.”
“Why are you trying to put the hangman’s noose around your neck? You have no reason to kill anyone,” Stevyn snapped.
“If you were to ask Ranulf, or his pious wife, they would say that a mortal as stained with sin as I am must be capable of any foul crime. When the shepherd culls his flock, they declare the black sheep are slaughtered with more joy than the white ones, and that the Devil thinks the former taste better roasted on the spit. Never mind that white sheep are not so pure in hue, nor black ones as dark.” He shrugged.
“This is nothing to jest about!” The steward spun around to Thomas. “Don’t listen to him!”
“But he must,” Huet countered, winking at the monk. “Does our dear brother not have ears?”
“As do asses,” Thomas replied, “but I am a priest, not a sheriff, and thus prefer saving souls to hanging mortals.”
“And a priest who reads what truth there may be in any man’s smile, I think.” Huet produced a patently false grin.
Thomas gave Huet a look advising caution.
The steward uttered such a deep growl that one passing dog yelped, then skittered off with tail between its legs. “Do not be fooled by a tonsure, my son. I have never known any monk who would try to stop a condemned man from hanging.” Stevyn shook his finger at the young man. “Brother Thomas has been asking enough questions to suggest he wants a murderer hanged for the killings here, whatever his claimed interest in the cleansing of souls.”
“Will you forgive my sins, and then lead me by the hand to Sir Reimund, Brother?” Huet gazed at the monk over the edge of his mazer, a look that could be interpreted as playful—or carefully feigned innocence.
Thomas suddenly lost his own patience with Huet’s glib responses, although he suspected the son’s motive was less frivolous than a very sober attempt to turn suspicion away from his father. How long would it take before the son gave up the noble effort? He decided to test Huet and see what truths that method might reveal. “Explain your purpose in killing Mistress Luce.”
“How dare you!” The steward took a step toward the monk.
“Please, Father. Let me speak freely.”
“I have no wish to falsely entrap your son. If he is innocent, his words will prove it.”
“No matter what he says, he had no part in this violence,” Stevyn replied, then reluctantly nodded his permission for Huet to continue.
“My brother has always longed to buy a space in Heaven, and his wife will not even countenance lust long enough to produce heirs. In addition, most would conclude he is less capable of managing an estate than your prioress’ donkey is of winning a race against my father’s horse. As a second son, I might have hopes of inheriting my father’s position as steward, and the lands he holds in his own right, if the saintly Ranulf turns his back on the world and takes vows.”
“You should know better than to assume your brother would do so. He may have calluses on his knees, but he is no saint,” Stevyn muttered. “I never told his mother of the times I caught him pleasuring himself in full view of the laundry maids.”
Huet gave his cup to his father for more wine. “Even if Ranulf never forswears lust, he may die without issue unless his wife relents on her refusal to pay the marriage debt. As the second son, I would inherit.” He turned to Thomas. “As you have now learned, Brother, I may be my father’s son but Mistress Maud birthed me instead of a wedded wife. That fact, once I learned it, was reason enough to kill Mistress Luce to prevent any new and legitimate heir from displacing me.”
Thomas gestured at the fuming steward to remain silent. “Should Master Ranulf take vows as penance or die without issue, you would inherit over any son of Mistress Luce as long as the truth of your birth remains secret.”
“And if my bastardy is revealed now, or the truth is subsequently discovered, I would be stripped of the inheritance and Mistress Luce’s child would gain all. That is reason enough to kill her before she breeds.”
“You would never…you could not…you are not…” Stevyn’s eyes grew wider with each dismayed protestation.
“There is more to this,” Thomas replied. “All you have said is true, Huet, but you are not a foolish man. Being perceptive enough to think beyond the moment, you would not have waited until now to kill her. If you wanted to avoid losing any part of your inheritance, you would have murdered her shortly after the marriage and before there was any chance that she might grow big with child. Why wait until you returned home? By then, she had much opportunity to quicken in your absence.”
“But I did not learn of my true parentage until recently, Brother. Were this a simple matter of losing some minor inheritance because my father’s new wife bore sons, I would agree with your logic.”
Thomas smiled his concession of the point. “Yet men are often greedy beyond reason and will kill for a clipped penny as quickly as for a jeweled ring. Even if I agree with you on this, however, you must still explain why you stabbed Hilda. Did you not profess love for her and even defend her innocence before the entire manor? Why do so if she witnessed your foul deed and might be hanged for it instead of you?”
Huet began to argue further, but his shoulders hunched and he fell silent. The expression on his face declared that he had lost all taste for this dispute when asked to confess the stabbing of a woman he cared about.
Yet Thomas had seen how well this man took on the nature of others for the sake of entertainment. Dare he believe this particular show of emotion to be honest?
“Will you now end your foolishness, my son? If you are trying to save me by building a case for your own hanging, there is no reason to do so.” Stevyn stretched his hands toward the monk. They trembled with his pleading. “Tell him that you do not suspect me of killing my wife!”
For a moment, Thomas hesitated. Was he convinced of the steward’s innocence? Did he believe his story? Finally, he nodded agreement. “Your father was elsewhere the night Mistress Luce was killed, a story easily confirmed. As for Tobye, however, you might have had good reason to kill him. Surely you heard that he was swyving your stepmother?”
Some enigmatic emotion flickered in Huet’s eyes. “I might have beaten Tobye for taking that which did not belong to him, but kill him? Nay,” he whispered. “It was my stepmother who dishonored my father’s bed. The groom only took what was thrust at him. I might have killed her for the pain she gave my sire, had my attention not been redirected to the matter of my bastardy.” Sighing, he stood up, walked over to his father, and gently placed a hand on Stevyn’s shoulder. “Father, I do not condemn you, my mother, or your first wife in this matter of my birth. My true mother gave much love to me as a boy, and you gave me your favor. As for the woman who called herself my mother, she taught me the meaning of charity, even if I had to learn how she practiced it after her death.”
“Where were you while Mistress Luce was being murdered?” Thomas asked softly.
Master Stevyn looked up at his son. A rising of tears now glistened in his eyes.
Here was a man accustomed to facing many trials without flinching, Thomas thought. Now he quakes with fear for the safety of his beloved Huet. He hoped the ordeal would soon be over.
Huet squeezed his father’s shoulder in reassurance. “I was at Hilda’s side. Mistress Maud asked me to watch over her when a servant came to her door, calling her away. I did suspect you had summoned her and thus I promised to watch over our cook in case Death came for her and a priest should be called. That is where I was when I heard the hue and cry from the courtyard.” Turning to Thomas, he met his gaze without blinking. “I even prayed that she regain consciousness and name her attacker. Sadly, she did not.”
“Very well,” Thomas said after a moment. “If you both are innocent of sending unshriven souls to Hell, who might have done the deed?” He looked first to the steward, then to the son. “Surely you have suspicions.”
Stevyn sank into the bench and rubbed at his eyes.
Huet fell into a contemplative stance.
“Brother Thomas, I have finally found you!”
Startled, the monk turned to look behind him.
His prioress’ guard stood at the door.
“Prioress Eleanor begs you come immediately!” the man cried. “To the room where the cook lies. There has been a confession.”
Thomas set off at a run.
Huet snatched a dagger from the table, the blade flashing in the hearth firelight, and followed close behind.
The steward stared after them, his hands trembling as if a severe palsy had just struck. Then he threw his head back and cried out like a wounded animal alone in the forest.