she pretty?”
“Nay.” Then he remembered her eyes, full of laughter and wonder, and her smile “Yes. Listen... I have to go.”
Will grabbed for his arm, but he pulled away. “I have to go,” he insisted as he bolted out the door.
* * *
“Can’t you dig any faster?” growled Roger Foliot to the two villeins, visible only from the shoulders up as they steadily deepened the hole.
Hugh Hest drew in a calming breath and let it out slowly. “Patience, Sir Roger,” soothed the reeve. “It won’t be much longer now.”
“Little bitch...” the fat knight muttered. He ceased his relentless pacing and flicked his horsewhip against his leg, his porcine eyes fixed on the block of stone inscribed with a cross and a single word: Constance. “Little bitch.”
His lapdog ran toward him, yipping and dancing about his heels. “Not you, Detinée,” he purred, gathering the ratlike creature in his arms. “Another little bitch.”
Drifting clouds shrouded the full moon, immersing the Cuxham churchyard in darkness. Hugh wished he had a lantern. He wished it weren’t so chilly. But most of all he wished he were anywhere— anywhere —than in this damn graveyard in the middle of the night, overseeing the exhumation of poor Constance’s body.
He’d thought Roger Foliot’s fixation with the girl would die when she did, but he’d been wrong. During the past few weeks, he’d become obsessed with her to the point of derangement, culminating in this determination to unearth her corpse. What point he hoped to prove was quite beyond Hugh’s ken. He prayed that the nasty business would be done with quickly, so that he could get home to Ella and his warm bed.
“Sir Roger,” said one of the villeins in a coarse English accent; Hugh recognized the voice of the larger of the two men, a slack-jawed giant named Frick. “This may be it.”
Hugh and his master approached the edge of the open grave as the moon emerged from cloud cover, illuminating a patch of unbleached linen peeking out from the dirt.
“Get out! Get out!” Sir Roger set Detinée down and whipped the two men frantically as they clambered out. The smaller one, Wiley, yanked the whip from his hand and raised it as if to strike him back. His hulking companion snatched it from him and tossed it aside, whispering a warning in English. Of the two men, Frick was by far the more obedient and hardworking. Little Wiley hadn’t ceased to cause trouble since his arrival in Cuxham the previous fall.
Roger Foliot, usually alert to any form of impertinence, seemed barely aware of the incident, so preoccupied was he with the task of lowering his vast bulk into the grave. Once there, he unsheathed his sharp little eating knife and began hacking away at the partially buried shroud. Frick and Wiley exchanged a look and, crossing themselves, backed away from the appalling sight.
“ Aha! ” Grabbing the linen in his meaty fists, Sir Roger ripped it open. “Look, Hugh! Look! I knew it! I knew it!”
Steeling himself, Hugh leaned over to inspect the contents of the shroud.
It was filled with straw.
“What... ?”
“I knew it!” Even in the shifting moonlight, Hugh could see Sir Roger’s face darken with fury, turning the color of an overripe plum. In a frenzy of rage, he stabbed at the straw-filled shroud, slicing it to ribbons. “You bitch! You little bitch! Make a fool out of me, will you?”
“But how... ?”
“She tricked me!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “She faked her death, the little strumpet! And I’ll wager she had help doing it.”
Ella had told Hugh that she’d been the one to bury Constance. She hadn’t, of course; she’d buried a sack of straw instead. She’d lied to him, then, but he found he could summon no ire over it. It was a clever plan, and it had almost worked.
“Who filled in this grave?” Sir Roger demanded, clutching two quivering fistfuls of straw.
Hugh would be damned if he’d point the finger at his own wife.
“Nay.” Then he remembered her eyes, full of laughter and wonder, and her smile “Yes. Listen... I have to go.”
Will grabbed for his arm, but he pulled away. “I have to go,” he insisted as he bolted out the door.
* * *
“Can’t you dig any faster?” growled Roger Foliot to the two villeins, visible only from the shoulders up as they steadily deepened the hole.
Hugh Hest drew in a calming breath and let it out slowly. “Patience, Sir Roger,” soothed the reeve. “It won’t be much longer now.”
“Little bitch...” the fat knight muttered. He ceased his relentless pacing and flicked his horsewhip against his leg, his porcine eyes fixed on the block of stone inscribed with a cross and a single word: Constance. “Little bitch.”
His lapdog ran toward him, yipping and dancing about his heels. “Not you, Detinée,” he purred, gathering the ratlike creature in his arms. “Another little bitch.”
Drifting clouds shrouded the full moon, immersing the Cuxham churchyard in darkness. Hugh wished he had a lantern. He wished it weren’t so chilly. But most of all he wished he were anywhere— anywhere —than in this damn graveyard in the middle of the night, overseeing the exhumation of poor Constance’s body.
He’d thought Roger Foliot’s fixation with the girl would die when she did, but he’d been wrong. During the past few weeks, he’d become obsessed with her to the point of derangement, culminating in this determination to unearth her corpse. What point he hoped to prove was quite beyond Hugh’s ken. He prayed that the nasty business would be done with quickly, so that he could get home to Ella and his warm bed.
“Sir Roger,” said one of the villeins in a coarse English accent; Hugh recognized the voice of the larger of the two men, a slack-jawed giant named Frick. “This may be it.”
Hugh and his master approached the edge of the open grave as the moon emerged from cloud cover, illuminating a patch of unbleached linen peeking out from the dirt.
“Get out! Get out!” Sir Roger set Detinée down and whipped the two men frantically as they clambered out. The smaller one, Wiley, yanked the whip from his hand and raised it as if to strike him back. His hulking companion snatched it from him and tossed it aside, whispering a warning in English. Of the two men, Frick was by far the more obedient and hardworking. Little Wiley hadn’t ceased to cause trouble since his arrival in Cuxham the previous fall.
Roger Foliot, usually alert to any form of impertinence, seemed barely aware of the incident, so preoccupied was he with the task of lowering his vast bulk into the grave. Once there, he unsheathed his sharp little eating knife and began hacking away at the partially buried shroud. Frick and Wiley exchanged a look and, crossing themselves, backed away from the appalling sight.
“ Aha! ” Grabbing the linen in his meaty fists, Sir Roger ripped it open. “Look, Hugh! Look! I knew it! I knew it!”
Steeling himself, Hugh leaned over to inspect the contents of the shroud.
It was filled with straw.
“What... ?”
“I knew it!” Even in the shifting moonlight, Hugh could see Sir Roger’s face darken with fury, turning the color of an overripe plum. In a frenzy of rage, he stabbed at the straw-filled shroud, slicing it to ribbons. “You bitch! You little bitch! Make a fool out of me, will you?”
“But how... ?”
“She tricked me!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “She faked her death, the little strumpet! And I’ll wager she had help doing it.”
Ella had told Hugh that she’d been the one to bury Constance. She hadn’t, of course; she’d buried a sack of straw instead. She’d lied to him, then, but he found he could summon no ire over it. It was a clever plan, and it had almost worked.
“Who filled in this grave?” Sir Roger demanded, clutching two quivering fistfuls of straw.
Hugh would be damned if he’d point the finger at his own wife.
Similar Books
