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Garron nodded. He had to face the fact that there were a great many people now within Wareham’s walls he did not know. And the twenty men who’d come back with them? It made the most sense. “Question them, Sir Lyle.”
“Aye, my lord. But I do not understand how the murderer got himself into the granary to kill the two men.”
Garron said, “There are two keys. Aleric had one, I had the other. When we went to the granary, he could not find his key. He believes it was taken from his jerkin.”
“He has no idea who would have taken it from him?”
Garron shook his head. “He is speaking to Pali, Hobbs, and Gilpin. I am hoping that one of them saw something. He is furious, both with himself and with the traitor. I have also asked Tupper and Miggins to canvass all our people while you and Aleric are questioning all the new men.”
“Aleric’s carelessness could lead to your death, my lord.”
“Aye, that is so,” Burnell said. “We must find out the man’s identity, else I will return to my blessed king with a black wart on my conscience.”
Garron said to Sir Lyle, “I wish you to speak to your men as well, see if they witnessed anyone going to the granary, if they have heard anything suspicious.”
Sir Lyle gave him a short bow, turned on his booted heel, and strode back to his table. Garron saw that Merry was watching every step he took.
Garron and Burnell drank in silence from the new mugs Merry had purchased in Winthorpe from a miserly old woman who, truth be told, had outmaneuvered her. The ale was rich and ripe, and Burnell continued to drink, staring down into his mug, that magnificent brain of his sifting facts, considering possibilities. He said to Garron, “I don’t like this at all. No man’s face comes to my mind.”
He emptied his mug. Garron was surprised, for he knew Burnell rarely drank.
Burnell saw his surprise. “My head is harder than the writing calluses on my fingers, but you are right, my lord, I am succumbing to a weak man’s crutch. It is not assisting my thoughts to reveal themselves in a logical manner. I do hope Sir Lyle is not the villain. If he is, it is possible my dear king will have me beheaded for my blindness. I deserve any punishment he wishes to mete out.” He paused a moment. “Our executioner, Dalfo, can see great distances, his eyes sharp as a hawk on the wing, but up close, looking down at a man’s neck, he told me all is a blur, a good thing, withal, since a man’s neck has buckets of blood and gore in it. Still, he admitted there are drawbacks, since often it requires him to swing his axe several times to detach a man’s head from his neck. If it is to be my own neck on the block, I might grab the axe from him and cut off my own head.”
Burnell shuddered. “I need more ale, to quiet my mind from these awful visions.” He poured from the ale flagon into his mug. He immediately set the mug away from him. “Nay, I must determine who is the traitor within Wareham’s walls. Hmmm. I believe my brain is too sodden to wring itself out. Tell me again what happened.”
20
Garron picked up his knife, tested the sharpness of its tip. He said, as he looked at the small drop of blood that appeared on his fingertip, “The attack came quickly. There was not that much time to plan it. The three men who attacked me and Merry weren’t efficient. Merry saved herself, as I told you.”
“A fortunate accident for the girl, nothing more,” Burnell said. “Ah, Arthur’s silver coins, it teases my brain, it always comes back to the silver coins, and this Black Demon.”
Burnell set down his mug, sighed, and sniffed at the newly cut wood that made up three more trestle tables and benches, raw and fresh in the air. It was a smell he remembered from childhood, a smell that brought to mind his mother, and her broom, and why was that? He drank again.
Merry marched up to the trestle table where the two men sat. “Sir,” she said to Burnell, “you will have a real bed to sleep in tonight.”
“That is good,” Burnell said, and gave her a brooding look.
She looked down at the chancellor’s empty mug, at the near empty flagon beside that mug. “I will find you an infusion to chase the Devil from your head when you awaken tomorrow morning.”
Burnell thought about that a moment, and nodded. “Mayhap it is not a bad thing you can read. Garron told me about his purchase of the Leech Book of Bald. I would like to see it,” and he poured the remainder of the ale from the flagon into his mug and drank deep. He looked up again at the young girl, standing not a foot from him, her hands on her hips, disapproval coming off her in waves. He said to Garron, never taking his eyes off her, “She offers me a healer’s potion, all kindness she is, but I wager she really believes we are both lackwits since we cannot determine who murdered your prisoners, and betrayed you to the Black Demon. Aye, she believes we are pitiful drunkards. This is not right, Garron. She is only a priest’s get, a holy brother who suffered a momentary loss of virtue and look what happened. No, this is not right. You will do something.”
Garron wanted to laugh, but instead he looked at her over the rim of his mug. Burnell was right. She looked disapproving as an abbess, a look that didn’t suit her at all, and so he poured oil on the coals. He cocked an eyebrow, waving her away. “She is just a woman, sir, ignore her.”
Just a woman? “The wine has drowned your memory, my lord. I brought down a man all by myself, not a bit of assistance from you. You said I was a warrior. You said I was a hero. Listen to me, the two of you should be planning how to discover the traitor who sits here in the great hall, eating our food and laughing at us behind his hand.”
Garron knew she wanted to shout her distrust of Sir Lyle to Burnell, her thoughts were so clear on her face. He took another drink of his ale, watched her expressions change and shift. She obviously believed they had done nothing but drink. Beside him, Burnell belched behind his hand and weaved a bit.
She wasn’t far wrong.
Garron poured some more oil. “You make lists, you bargain—except for the ale—and you buy mugs, more than enough mugs for two towns because you fell for the wiles of the old woman who sold them to you.” He wished he had a lord’s chair so he could lounge back, and sneer, all arrogant, maybe swinging his leg, and goad her until she spit. He said, “Hold your tongue, wench, and fetch us another flagon of ale.”
He watched her face turn nearly as red as those clever little hidden braids, from the neck of her pale gray gown to her hairline. It was an amazing sight. She was thumping with fury. She opened her mouth to spew forth insults, saw Burnell was frowning at her, and swallowed her words. She wasn’t a dolt. He watched her turn on her heel and stomp away. He was pleased at her restraint, and smiled after her.
Then she whirled back and shouted, “Do you know, the jakes are newly limed? My father demanded I find him a recipe that would render the jakes sweet-smelling. Once I discovered the secret, my father was very pleased because he enjoyed sitting in the jakes when they didn’t knock him unconscious with the smell, stewing over some problem. He told me the knottiest problem unraveled when contemplating all its various aspects whilst he was hunkered down in the jakes. Mayhap the two of you could sit side by side and ponder together, for I have used the same recipe. Or mayhap not—you might fall over since you have drunk so much.” Merry strode away, like a young man, stiff in the shoulders.
Sitting in the jakes pondering problems? He couldn’t imagine doing such a thing. Garron smiled. She had a fluent tongue. He saw his people leaving the great hall to go back to work, jostling each other, laughing, arguing, a wonderful sight. He wondered idly if it would rain.
