Forsaken Soul

Chapter Forty

Hob wept.

With practiced gentleness, Thomas pulled the eyelids down over dead eyes. “His soul fled not all that long ago,” he said, touching the back of the dead man’s neck where the sun had not kept the skin warm. Although he spoke with calmness, anger honed an edge to his words.

“What killed him, Brother? Can you tell?” Ralf stood slightly apart as if understanding that his presence might not be appreciated by the blacksmith as he grieved over his dead brother.

“I would guess it was the same poison that killed both Martin and Ivetta.” The monk stretched out and picked up a small jar on the ground close by, then sniffed at it. He poured a few remaining drops into his hand. “See the seeds from the berries? Yew, or at least it looks enough like what Sister Anne showed us.” Carefully, he wiped his hand on the grass. “There he vomited.” He pointed. “From the stains on his clothes and the rank stench, I’d say his bowels loosened with great violence.”

Ralf scowled. “Who all knew he was here? Was it more than one?”

“Our prioress had the right of it, I think. It was but one person, and that over there should prove it, Crowner.” Thomas stood up and walked to pick up a forked root topped with dried, apple-like fruit from the ground nearby. “Mandrake. A remedy for impotence,” he said. “See where it’s cut? Methinks he was given a small bit and told to wash it down with the poisoned drink. If we looked, we might find more of it growing around, but that matters not. His killer could have brought it or even left the mandrake for Will to find. Arranging a meeting point within easy walking distance of the village would have been important. He must have been told to come here.”

Hob wailed in anguish. “While you baited him and harassed me, the murderer remained free!” He jumped up and shook his fist at Ralf. “Now my brother is dead, and you have still done nothing.”

“Nothing?” Ralf roared. “Take blame enough on yourselves for acting like dishonest men!”

Hob lunged at the crowner.

Thomas grabbed the blacksmith around the waist and tried to hold the struggling man from attacking. “You cannot bring Will’s soul back by striking a king’s man!”

“Will and I were honest enough with you,” Hob shouted. “Tell me where we lied.”

“Your brother fled. Men who do that are usually guilty. You claimed you did not know where he went, and, when I asked who might know, you named no one. Yet Tibia must have learned.” Ralf glowered.

Hob calmed, a shocked expression replacing his fury.

Thomas stepped back.

“Why did you not tell me they had spoken again just before he disappeared? I should have been told earlier by you that he promised he would find whatever she needed to cure his impotency. Mandrake is the plant. She must have told him where to find it and that she would meet him here. She knew. I did not.”

“In truth, I did not think his conversations with the old witch meant anything.” His anger now dampened by sorrow more profound than any insult, Hob turned around and fell back on his knees beside his brother’s body. “Now you must know that Will was innocent of any crime. For all his faults, he was my brother, and I loved him.”

“He was obsessed with shame at his failure with the whore as you well knew…”

Thomas raised a cautioning hand to the crowner.

Ralf nodded and fell silent, then glanced down at the scarred dog snuffling and whining at Hob’s feet. “Very well. He was innocent enough of killing Martin and Ivetta, at least,” he finally said.

“What man did this then? You said my brother was in danger. Now he’s dead. Who?”

Thomas looked up at Ralf, warning him with a small shake of the head to remain silent.

“She cannot have gone far, monk,” the crowner said.

“Be silent, Ralf!” Thomas hissed.

“She?” Hob’s eyes grew wide with horror as the truth finally broke through the walls of his grief. “That’s why you were looking for the herb woman, wasn’t it? Tibia is the killer!”

Ralf chose not to reply. Thomas could not.

To Hob, the cause of their silence was irrelevant. The fact of it was answer enough. With a cry of brute anguish, he jumped to his feet and tore off into the forest, his dog racing behind him.

Thomas turned to Ralf. “We must follow,” he urged. “You should not have spoken so plainly.”

“Let him go,” the crowner replied, not moving except to rest one hand on his sword. “I do not want him, and his grief has driven him wild for the moment. He will calm…”

“I did not mean to catch Hob, Crowner. I fear for Tibia,” Thomas cried out. “What if he comes across the old woman before we find her? She should be close to hand and we must get to her first!”

Ralf bent his head in the direction the blacksmith had disappeared. “There is no path through the forest where he went. Why would an old woman with a twisted back choose to walk home through vines and dense brush? Methinks she is hobbling down the path to the village.”

“We came that way and did not see her…” The monk stopped in mid-sentence. Perplexed, he studied his friend for a moment. “If Hob catches old Tibia, he may kill her. Surely you know that.”

Ralf shook his head.

“Come with me!” Thomas urged, his voice edged with frustration

“Not through the forest. We should go back along the road.”

“Then do that! I shall take my chances with the blacksmith alone,” Thomas angrily countered. He took a few steps toward the forest, and then turned around. “When you catch the herb woman, will you hang her?”

“Perhaps not,” Ralf looked around with an expression of uncharacteristic indecision.

Suddenly they heard a high-pitched scream.

The crowner sprang off in the direction of the sound.

Thomas was right behind him.