The Cornish Princess by Tanya Anne Crosby
ChapterSixteen
The First Alderman’s body had been discovered behind the smelting house.
Gwendolyn stood quietly aside the dais, listening to the account as it was described to her father, and even as she listened, three men unrolled a heavy tarpaulin before the dais, revealing the mauled body of what was supposed to be First Alderman Bryok.
The man was scarcely recognizable. And Gwendolyn should have recognized him. Only two mornings ago he had been alive and well, speaking at her father’s Konsel.
She grimaced. Apparently, during last night’s ceremony, the First Alderman had taken a blow to the head—substantial enough that he’d never recovered his senses. But then, perhaps because the gates were left wide open to allow celebrants to come and go as they pleased, wolves somehow discovered and mutilated his body.
But wolves? Really?
As to the weapon of his demise, a blood-stained forger’s hammer was found not more than an arm’s length from the body. The assailant hadn’t even concerned himself with the hiding of evidence, which Alderman Aelwin was quick to point out as he held the hammer aloft, bespoke the blacksmith’s innocence. Clearly, no man guilty of such a crime would ever leave his own tool, marked with his name, covered in blood, to be discovered so readily.
Anyway, the blacksmith and the First Alderman were not known to be acquainted. Or, at least, they were not connected in any way that seemed notable. Both ran in different circles—Bryok with his colleagues, and the blacksmith with his own kind, two different classes of men who rarely broke bread together, except during a celebration such as the one that was held last night. “The armorer’s hut is never locked. Perhaps the assailant only availed himself of what was near,” suggested Alderman Aelwin.
It was difficult to say much else about the man’s death, considering the state of his body. And, regardless, the physician tried.
Judging by the stiffness of his remains, Mester Ciarán said he believed Bryok encountered his assailant before the Promise Ceremony, or perhaps during, whilst everyone else was otherwise occupied. With a cloth wrapped about his hand, to protect himself from the ill humors that manifested after death, he bent to test the dead man’s arm, then the leg, if only to demonstrate his point. “Typically, this rigidity would appear between two and four bells after his death.” He released the Alderman’s leg, letting it drop with an awkward thud. “Once it appears, a man’s body can remain this way for hours, else days. I am afraid there can be no way to note when he died. You would do well to inquire with those who saw him last.”
“I spoke with him yesterday morn,” said her father’s steward.
Alderman Aelwin lifted a wiry brow. “Where?” he asked with interest.
Yestin rubbed hard at his bearded chin. “Here, in the hall, I suppose, whilst I was deciphering my ledgers. He begged permission to employ the kitchen, but I refused.”
Alderman Aelwin placed the hand with the hammer behind his back. “And why, I wonder?”
Yestin appeared confused. “Why did I tell him nay? Or why did he wish to employ my kitchen?”
“The latter, of course,” said Aelwin, waving his free hand as though to dismiss the question. “Naturally, everyone understands well enough why you wouldst say nay.”
“Ah, yes. Well, so he claimed, he wished for Alyss to brew a medicinal.”
Mester Ciarán tugged thoughtfully at his beard. “Oh? Was the First Alderman ill? I cannot recall he ever requested anything of me.”
“Not that I know,” said Yestin. “He seemed hale enough to me.”
The physician lifted a finger, as though only just recalling something. “But yes, well, I do recall him asking some moons ago whether I believed hemlock could have a use for mania. However, this was put to me as though he were inquiring for another.”
The King glowered. “What other?”
Mester Ciarán shrugged. “I’m afraid he did not say who, Majesty.”
Certainly her father would wonder, as Gwendolyn did, what business any man had to inquire about hemlock. It was a deadly poison, and unless it was used precisely by someone who knew every aspect of the plant and its use, it could do more harm than good.
Alyss was trained in simples, but to ask such a thing of her during such an eventful time, whilst the cook’s house was otherwise occupied, was unthinkable. Whatever pots she might use for the brew would be laced with poison and thereafter would need to be thoroughly scrubbed. It was a lot of work to be done when no time or hands could be spared. Even Gwendolyn’s normal dosing had been temporarily discontinued.
Certainly, she wasn’t an alchemist, but she knew enough to know what herbs to mix for what and where. As it was with a tincture of yew, there was little to be accomplished by its application, except death. Gwendolyn knew more than she liked to know about such things, because she’d been ingesting a special concoction of poisons in minute doses since she was only a child—a measure against treason, since poison all too often was a traitor’s weapon of choice. In fact, so did the rest of the royal family—including her mother—and this was why their cook’s house was sometimes employed to make such brews.
However, whenever this was done, it was done under the strictest of supervision, by men who would die to defend them, and well they could if they ever turned a blind eye to a turn of the hand, because it was also those same guards who would be the tasters.
As it was, now that Gwendolyn was older and drinking the same brew her parents consumed, even the smallest dose to one who did not possess their resilience was lethal. Therefore, she hadn’t any clue why Bryok would have any interest in hemlock.
And neither was his wife manic.
“Well?” asked the King, his voice rising with interest. “Is there?”
“An application for mania?” The physician lifted a shoulder. “Betimes,” he said. “Betimes. With great care, as you must imagine. For any such medicinals, these plants must be harvested quite late. And yet, come to think of it, if he ingested hemlock, this might account for his inability to respond to…” He gestured roundly at the mutilated body. “This… hideousness.”
“Are you saying he could have been alive?”
The physician nodded gravely. “’Tis possible,” he said, and everyone’s faces twisted grotesquely, as they no doubt imagined such a horror.
“And yet, the lack of blood makes me feel he must have already been dead long hours before the wolves discovered him. Perhaps the dose was intentional?”
It was true. There wasn’t much blood—at least not on the tarpaulin—even though his wounds were gaping. The thought of this man lying insensate through such a mauling was horrific.
“Intentional?” Her father lifted both brows. He waved a hand at Alderman Aelwin, at the blood-stained weapon he was still holding. “I don’t understand. If the hammer did not kill him, why is it stained with his blood? Indeed, why should anyone bother to beat a man if he’s already dead?”
Once again, the physician tugged at his beard. “Majesty, ’tis impossible to say who, or what, killed this man. There is no device known to us—aside from a scrying stone—that can accurately reveal such things, and we have not known a good seer in an age.
“To make matters worse,” he continued, seeming to forget himself as he rolled the body over with his boot, inspecting him further.
With his staff, he brushed aside a lock of the First Alderman’s bloodied head, then probed the wound with the pointy end of his staff. But it didn’t bleed, merely oozed, and Gwendolyn felt bile rise at the back of her throat.
“Yes, yes… just as I suspected, there will be no cruentation for this poor soul, lest you find what wolves have mauled him.” To prove his point, he handed his staff to Alderman Eirwyn and bade Eirwyn to provoke the wound. Reluctant though he was, the Mester Alderman did as he was asked, tapping the end of the physician’s staff against the back of Bryok’s head. Gwendolyn covered her mouth but refrained from turning her head.
The discussion over cruentation was fascinating. Known as the ordeal of the bier, Gwendolyn wasn’t entirely familiar with how it worked, but it was a supernatural method of finding evidence against a suspected murderer. The opinion was that the body of a victim would bleed in the presence of his murderer.
“That is enough,” said her father, lifting his hand in front of his face. “Get this man to the chamberlain and give him a proper rest!”
At once, the same three servants who’d hauled in the Alderman now leapt forward to roll him back up into the tarpaulin, before whisking him away.
Regrettably, they could not take the horrid scent, nor the memory of his oozing wounds. Gwendolyn placed the back of her hand to her nostrils as she continued to listen.
“What I believe is that he must have died during last night’s Promise Ceremony,” concluded Alderman Eirwyn.
“Is there anyone unaccounted for during this time?” asked her sire.
It was Yestin who answered. “I do not know, Majesty, but I will inquire at once.”
“See you do,” demanded her father.
The Mester Alderman returned the staff and cleared his throat. “Majesty, I am certain all of my aldermen were accounted for yestereve,” he said. “This must have happened after Bryok’s shift.”
“All were accounted for?” asked the King, with a note of reproach to his voice.
“Except Bryok,” allowed the Mester Alderman, red-faced.
“Was he supposed to have been on duty?” asked her father, with narrowed eyes.
“No, Majesty,” said Eirwyn. “He was not. Although he may have intended to join the celebration for a while, it was his time to change his schedule and he was supposed to have taken a shift at first light. Thus, he was apprised not to imbibe.”
“I see,” said the King. “And was he inclined to drink?”
“Alas, Majesty, I do not know him well enough to say,” interjected Alderman Aelwin.
“And his wife?”
“I am told she left him, Majesty,” offered Alderman Eirwyn.
“Left him?”
“Aye, Majesty.” The Alderman nodded soberly. “She took her children—so I am told—to visit family in Chysauster.” He gave the King a meaningful look. “Indefinitely.”
“And who told you this?”
The Mester Alderman shrugged, then peered about the room and said, “I believe it was Alderman Aelwin.”
“Aelwin?”
“Not I, Majesty.” Aelwin shook his head vehemently. “I did not know him well enough, I fear.”
For a moment, the Mester Alderman glowered, then he shrugged, and said, “Ah, well, I suppose it could have been anyone. He’s been quite despondent since she left.” He cleared his throat. “To be the wife of an alderman is not suitable for all.”
“In such a case, might we presume the hemlock was for his own consumption?” asked Mester Ciarán.
“Perhaps,” said Alderman Eirwyn with another shrug.
“I ask,” said the physician. “Because… were it not for the blow to his head, and the hammer, I might rule this a natural death, insomuch as it must be when a man falls prey to his own vices, and thereafter the perils of nature.”
Gwendolyn furrowed her brow. Did the poor fool truly mean to poison himself? Or was it someone else he meant the poison for?
There were easier ways to die than to suffer the effects of hemlock. He would have choked to death in the end, although not before foaming at his mouth and spewing his meal.
Gwendolyn found she had questions, and she longed to voice them aloud, but suddenly catching her father’s eye, he inclined his head toward the door, and ordered her out from the hall.
Sensing his mood, Gwendolyn obeyed at once. She found Ely outside, still waiting for her, twirling her thumbs. Gwendolyn took her aside and told her everything she’d heard.
“Foul play?” said Ely, and Gwendolyn shrugged, though she shared the sentiment.
At the instant, there were more questions than answers, and now that she was privy to so many facts, she found she didn’t wish to leave the investigation to others.
Wretched as it might seem, the First Alderman’s death was a welcome distraction—from what, she dared not confess.
Not even to herself.