DOWSING THE DEMON
by Clayton Emery
© 1994 by Clayton Emery
Originally
appeared in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine November 1994
Used
with permission of the author. Do not copy without permission.
[Clayton
Emery is an American novelist and short story writer. Some of his non-Robin
Hood books include Card Master and some novels in the Magic:
The Gathering series.
His forays into the Robin Hood legend include
the 1988 novel, Tales of Robin Hood, and a series of "Robin and
Marian" mysteries that are published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine.
Among those mysteries are "Shriving the Scarecrow",
published in the September/October 1997 issue and "Flushing Scarlett" in
the March 1998 issue. His Tales of Robin Hood novel has been reissued under the title Beasts of Sherwood.
He
was writing a "Robin & Marian" mystery novel, Royal
Hunt. Also, he is working on another Robin Hood novel, The Bells of London and a screenplay of Beasts of Sherwood.]
You
can visit Clayton's web site at claytonemery.com.
Click here to read an interview with Clayton Emery.
"Murder! Help, for God's mercy! It's murder and witchcraft!
Help!"
Hammering on a door rang on and on. Robin scrambled off his
pallet,
fumbled for his bow and sword, found neither, settled for his hat.
Marian
scuffed on her shoes and combed fingers through her dark hair. The
outlaw
wrenched the bar from the inn door and they dashed outside.
The morning sun slanted long shadows down the sleepy streets of
Lincoln.
The faces and shuttered windows of one- and two-story houses were
etched
in darkness. April was already warm. Dew spiralled from the
trashy
street.
Four doors down from the inn, a young man pounded on the door of a
small
house.
His cries of "Murder and witchcraft!" had people congregating from
all
sides. His wails were infectious. One man shouted, "Open the
door
then,
by the rood!" Another yelled, "It's barred tight!"
Robin shoved through the crowd and jiggled the wooden latch,
thumped
the door with his shoulder. It bent at top and bottom but not the
middle.
Barred. As he smacked the door, smells spurted around the edges.
Brimstone.
And blood.
He whirled on the shrieking lad. "Hush! All of you! Whose
house
is
this?"
The youth plucked his thin beard with both hands. He wore a smock
of
rich blue with an embroidered collar, a belt with a silver-hilted
dagger,
yellow hose, good shoes of oxhide, a brimmed black hat. "It's the
house
of Jabin, my father, but something's plaguey wrong! The house stinks
of
blasphemy!"
Robin had to agree. The smell that wafted from inside was enough
to
knock a man flat. "Is there a back door?"
"No, only the window, and it shuttered! And the chimney!"
Though still befuddled by sleep, Robin felt hairs prickle along his
neck.
What devil's work had the occupants gotten up to?
"The door it is, then. You and you and you, come with me!"
From
the
crowd of workmen, wives, and idle children, Robin picked out a porter
with
a tump line and a pair of masons in stone-dusty aprons. While Marian
minded
the door, the four men hopped down the street to a house under
construction,
hoisted a square beam, and trotted back. Three lusty blows
at
the middle right cracked the door and bashed loose the inside bar.
The reek of brimstone made their eyes water, the smell of blood
gagged
them. Holding his breath, Robin slipped inside and fumbled open the
shutters
to the one window on the street.
Dawn's light filtered through a yellow haze. Revealed was a scene
from
some pardoner's chapbook of Hell.
The house was only one room. Four whitewashed walls, a worn wooden
floor,
smoke-stained rafters, a stone chimney, a saggy rope bed, a red
chest
against the wall, a table and two stools, a cabinet for a larder,
pegs
on the walls where hung clothing. Spare, dingy, but tidy. A
short
broom
of rushes stood propped against the fireplace.
On the floor lay an old man stringy and naked as a plucked chicken,
and
white as one. His throat had been hacked away, his belly from ribs
to
crotch
torn open, as if he'd been rooted to death by boars. His eyes were
wide
open, filmy and white as boiled eggs. By the bed, tangled in
blankets,
lay a goodwife in a pool of tacky blood, she stabbed so many
times
her skin and organs hung in shreds. The gore looked all the more
offensive
for having violated the woman's clean floorboards.
Marian bit a knuckle. Robin blocked the door with one brawny arm
as
the crowd pushed for a look. Yet the young merchant, the son who'd
raised
the alarm, squeezed between him and Marian with the strength of the
hysterical.
He flopped to his knees alongside the dead man. "Oh, father,
father!
Who's done this? Who?" Old Jabin didn't answer, only stared
wide-eyed
at his son as if in accusation. Unmindful of blood, the lad
touched
his father's face.
"Sir, wait!" piped Marian. "We needs look in his eyes!"
But the son clawed closed the thin eyelids. "I can't stand his
gaze.
As if it were my fault. Had I gotten here only an hour earlier --"
He
broke into tears, sobbing.
Robin rubbed his beard as he surveyed the room. Shocking though
this
macabre spectacle was, he'd seen worse, though not usually this early
in
the morning. And his famous curiousity, an itch he could never scratch,
prodded
him like an ox goad. His wife, too.
Marian lit a stick of candlewood at the smoldering hearth.
Gingerly,
she picked across the room, leaned over the dead mother. She
peered
deep into the woman's eyes.
"Anything?" Robin asked.
"No," Marian sighed. "Nothing. She must have closed her eyes
when
the
knife struck."
Robin grunted. Something by the fireplace had caught his eye.
He
stooped,
swirled his fingers through white grit, the only dirt in the room.
Streaks
of it pointed to the chimney. Feeling around, Robin tugged loose
a
stone big as a loaf. Behind it was a cool darkness. Squatting,
he
mumbled
to Marian, "There's a hole here big enough for my head. Nothing in
it,
though."
"The hole or the head?" Her lame jest was just something to break the
silence. Marian left the dead mother, put her hand on the red chest
against
the wall, tried to lift the lid. It clinked and stayed put.
"This
chest
is locked. My thumbs are pricking, Rob... And look here."
Robin's wife knelt at the fireplace, leaned low and sniffed, picked
out
some charred scraps of leather that stained her fingers yellow-brown.
"What
think you of that?"
"It's not something they had for supper. Let me see this door..."
Waving the crowd back, Robin shoved the battered door shut. It
groaned
in protest. Twin iron brackets had held the bar solidly across the
posts.
One bracket was broken, the fracture gray against blackened iron.
Behind
the door, the other bracket was twisted out of shape. The stout bar
trailed
from it to the floor. The door itself was oak, thick, and battened
so
neither wind nor knife blade could infiltrate. It was dark behind
the
door
but, bending, Robin found jots of yellow gunk smeared on the battens.
He
scraped them like old cheese with his fingernails. He sniffed, held
his
fingers
to Marian.
"Why, it's sweet! It's --"
The door slammed Robin in the face as it was kicked open. The
outlaw
hit the wall. A splinter nicked his nose and it bled.
"Stand fast, you thieving blackguard! Don't you move!"
Filling the splintered doorway was a sheriff of Lincoln in a red
smock
and gray hose, with a sword at his belt as badge of office. He
hefted
a long club with the head drilled and filled with lead, hoisted it
to
keep Robin on the defensive.
At his other hand, Marian shifted. The sheriff whirled on her,
then
froze when he spotted the bodies on the floor. "God's teeth and
fish!"
Behind the sheriff came a younger version of himself, a deputy,
obviously
his son. But the lad whirled and dashed into the street to puke.
The
crowd parted for him.
Still on bloody knees, the young merchant keened. "Witches and
demons
have descended, murdered my parents!" He waved his hands around the
room.
"Smell the brimstone from their passing? Satan's minions have
savaged
them and drunk their blood!"
The sheriff commanded the room with his presence, his club, and his
broad
belly, though his son's retching spoiled the effect somewhat. He
studied
the bodies calmly. "If that's so, they didn't drink much. You're
Peter,
ain't you, the wool merchant? This couple's son? Well, I'm
sorry,
lad."
He stretched his club and thumped Robin's breastbone. "And who are
you,
standing knee-deep in crime and picking lice out of your beard? I
never
saw you before. Think you to rob the dead?"
Robin's temper sparked. His hands clenched for the sword he didn't
have.
He squelched his ire. He and Marian were in town to buy cloth, both
Lincoln
green and red, for spring clothes for the Sherwood band. Too, it
was
a holiday after a winter cooped up in the Greenwood. They wore
disguises
plucked from the common chests in their cave, red woolen smocks
and
hose and soft round hats, the garb of minor merchants. Robin felt
naked
without his sword and longbow, only a long Irish knife.
Robin showed the sheriff the top of his head, hang-dog and humble.
"I'm
Robert of Farnesfield, sir sheriff, near Ealden Byrgen. This is my
wife,
Matilda. She knows some herbalism. We thought we might help
if
someone
was hurt."
The sheriff glared, still suspicious. Behind him, in the doorway,
the
porter raised his voice. "He speaks true, Martin. He came out
of the
inn
and we all broke down the door. He couldn't have murdered no one,
and
he
was just looking around while she there checked them dead folk."
Watching Robin with one eye, Martin the Sheriff asked the porter,
"What
mean you, broke down the door? How could the door be barred if all
within
were murdered?"
"That's what I was wondering," Robin supplied. He wiped blood from
the
sting on his nose. The outlaw usually took every man as he met them,
without
prejudging, but this sheriff had two counts against him already.
"On
the backside of this door --"
"You belt up," the sheriff told him. "Keep out of the way and keep
still."
Robin leaned back against the wall. Marian, calm as a cloud,
seated
herself on the red chest.
The sheriff squatted over the dead man, prodded the wounds with his
club.
The young merchant, face stained with tears, raised bloody hands.
"Sheriff,
who could have done this? My father was a good, honest man!
He
had
no truck with necromancers! Yet he's been struck down by sorcery!
It
was
no man born of woman could have done this!"
The sheriff expelled a gust flavored with rye bread and beer. "I
don't
know, Peter. Wights and phantasms can't touch iron, but I'd say this
ungodly
mess was from a steel knife, or I'm a bugger for a Jew. Still..."
He
pointed his beard at the shattered door.
"Hoy!" called a voice from down the street. "Hoy! Come to save
the
day, I have!"
The crowd perked up. By now a hundred or more people crowded the
street,
all gawking at the sensation through the doorway and one window.
Most
had been quiet, as if at a funeral, but now giggles and whispers broke
out.
Robin peeked out the door over heads. Jogging and puffing their way
was
something the outlaw had seen only at fairs.
Skipping like a milk-fat puppy bounded a man burly and jowly as
Friar
Tuck. Wild red hair fluttered. A parti-colored smock, red on
one
side,
blue on the other, circled the man with a broad yellow girdle, and
one
hose was green and one black. Behind him scampered a dog brindled
and
golden
as a butterfly, but incomplete, being three-legged and one-eyed.
This
fat man -- or tournament marshal or mummer -- waved a dowsing stick
like
a giant wishbone.
Robin caught comments from the crowd. "Oh, Lord, look who's
coming."
"He'll know what to do." "Aye, collect his fee and run." "He
cured
my mother of the boils." "Boils go away on their own, fool."
"He'll
make
us laugh, if nothing else."
"Make way, make way!" The fat man puffed amidst them. "Denis
the
Dowser's
on the job! Let me through! I needs see -- Saint Benno's keys
and
fishes!"
His pop eyes bugged even farther at the sight of the ravaged
bodies.
Robin noted the man had soft skin, a weak chin, and little beard.
He
wondered if the dowser were a eunuch, and if that contributed to his
power
-- if any. The crippled dog stuck his head between the dowser's
knees
and drooled.
"Denis, you big bag of wind." The sheriff stood over the body,
club
hanging. His sheepish son had crept in behind him. "What are
you
doing
here with your infernal stick? I know you can find water with that
thing,
but there's no way you can track --"
"Ah, but I can, Martin! I can! By the tongue of Saint Genevieve
I
can!
I needs only wave my stick around the room and I'll track your
murderers
-- demonic or no -- to the ends of the earth! Shall I try?
Dare
you
I try?"
The sheriff slapped his heavy stick against his thigh. "And you'll
collect
a fee from the city if you're successful, I suppose."
The fat man smirked and spread his hands. "If you catch your
murderer,
what care you? Have you any clues to proceed from now?"
The sheriff blew through his mustache, surveyed the hearth, the
window,
the door. Then he swept his club towards the corpses. The crowd
buzzed.
Gimpy dog at his heels, Denis the Dowser minced inside, skirted
pools
of blood, positioned himself between the dead husband and wife.
Striking
a pose, the dowser dropped his head as if in prayer. He grasped
the
dowsing stick tight, thumbs pointed towards his chest. Robin noticed
a
red
thread tied around the fork as a charm against witches. He imagined
the
stick was rowan wood, mountain ash, probably cut under a full moon with
a
blade of copper or brass. Robin wasn't certain whether he believed
in
dowsing
or not. Certainly this clown --
Denis moaned. The rod's tip began to vibrate. People at door
and
window
gasped. The dowser's body vibrated along with the stick. He
crowed,
"By the stones of Saint Stephen, by the arrows of Saint Sebastian,
by
the flames of Saint Lawrence, show me the way, oh Lord, lead me to the
traitors
who've committed this dastardly act and spilled these innocents'
blood!"
Robin stared as the dowser howled, jerking his head back and forth
as
if struck by invisible blows, writhing as if trying to free his feet of
mud.
Meanwhile, the mangy dog limped around the room, sniffed at the
bodies,
lapped at blood, lifted his leg against the bed post. Evidently
the
mutt had seen it before.
Denis shivered, calling on every saint Robin knew and many he
didn't.
"By the cross of Saint Helen! By the visions of Saint Hildegard!
By
the monster of Saint Cuthbert! --" Louder he yelled, until people
outside
moaned in ecstacy with him. Even the dog barked, sharply, twice.
Denis snapped open his pop eyes, grimaced with horror and haunting.
Then
the dowsing stick lunged for the doorway like a spear and Denis was
towed
behind it. People squealed and shrilled and dodged. Denis,
his dog
hot
behind him, cantered off down the street, barely able to keep up with
his
own dowsing rod. "Saint Thomas `a Canterbury, send me grace!
Saint
Gregory,
send me wisdom! Saint Ambrose, --"
Sheriff Martin hollered to his son to guard the house, and took off
after
Denis. Marian hiked her skirts and followed. Robin grabbed
his
knife
hilt and ran along, with the young merchant right behind.
People stared as the dowser plunged by, head down and stumbling,
stick
outright as if it were an arrow and Denis tied to it. The crazy dog
skipped
along in its queer gait, first at one heel, then the other, until
Robin
wondered how the man didn't step on the poor creature. The crowd
would
have followed, but the sheriff waved them back with his club. When
Marian
drew alongside, skirts dancing and cheeks flushed, Sheriff Martin
waved
his club at her. But she flashed him a winning smile, lighting up
the
street, and he let her be. Robin trotted behind the sheriff, out
of
sight.
Magician he might be, but fat Denis was no marathon runner, and he
spent
what breath he had calling on saints, so it wasn't long before he
fell
to a trot, then a brisk walk. They neared the end of the street,
where
the houses were all two stories, homes of more properous merchants,
then
struck the marketplace. Dotted around the big square were stalls
of
winter
vegetables, sheaves of salt hay, paddocks with skinny horses and
oxen,
blacksmiths whanging on anvils, and tables and tables of bolts of
cloth,
including the fabled Lincoln green and red. Everyone interrupted
business
as the dowser entered the square.
Denis waggled the stick in a half-circle before him. He gabbled,
"Saint
Hugh, protect your people! Saint Wolfgang, heal our sorrow!"
Between
his heels, the dog sniffed the ground and drooled, began to cock
his
missing leg against his master's ankle and then recanted, jigged
sideways,
sat down.
"They make a good pair," Robin hissed to Marian, "both being
afflicted
with Saint Vitus's Dance."
His wife puffed her red cheeks. "Hush!"
Slowly, eeriely, Denis waved the stick around. The rod stopped as
if
arrested by an invisible hand. "Thanks be to Saint Norbert, and Gregory
the
Seventh! Thy wills be done!"
They were off. On the far side of the marketplace were the mills,
all
kinds, grinding, sawing, and many fulling mills, for here the River
Witham
took a right angle in the middle of town. Across a stone bridge
they
clattered, four people watching the dowser and the dowser watching the
stick
before him. With the dog skipping under his feet, Denis stumbled
off
the
bridge and down the embankment, to stop where the mucky bank dropped
into
the brown river. Rotten hulls and scraps of rope and trash dotted
the
mud.
"By Jonah!" he cried. "The dastards entered a boat!"
"Boat?" echoed the sheriff. He banged his club on an overturned
hull
in frustration. "Then we've lost them!"
"Not if," Denis panted, "we can get a boat too!"
"You can't follow them across water, can you?" asked Robin. He
still
wasn't sure if he believed in Denis's dowsing ability or not. Things
were
happening too fast.
"By the eyes of Samson, I can follow anywhere if we get a boat!"
The five of them looked down the river. Two men in a low skiff
heaped
with saplings were building a fish weir. Robin cupped his hands and
hollered,
"Fishermen! A crown for your trouble!" Digging in his purse
inside
his shirt, he held aloft a coin.
"What's a beggar like you," puffed the sheriff, "doing handing out
crowns
like they was groats? What'd you say your name was?"
"Robert." The outlaw looked him in the eye. "Of Barnesdale."
The sheriff's eyes narrowed. "You said Farnesfield before."
Robin blinked.
Marian put in, "I hail from Farnesfield, good sheriff. My family
lives
there. We're occupying their loft until we can buy a house.
But I
fear
my scalawag husband is too free with our coins. Would he were a
sensible
man like yourself, wise in the ways of the world and blessed with
an
exceptional memory." Her smile warmed the space under the bridge.
The sheriff shook his head in exasperation.
The boatmen had drawn close enough to catch the coin. Five
passengers
and one dog clambered aboard and perched on the sweet-cut
saplings.
The boatmen pushed back their hoods and poled into midstream.
Denis aimed his stick along the west bank, for the east was too
steep
to land a boat. Beside him, the dog teetered on his one back leg
and
drooled
overboard. The animal sniffed at the wind, bubbles in the water,
glooping
fish, flecks of drifting grass. As the trail grew colder, Denis
hollered
so his saints might better hear. "Saint Giles, be our friend!
Saint
Wenceslaus, the betrayed, guide us to the perpetrators of --"
Denis prattled on as the bank slid by. Robin realized he was
hungry.
He'd missed his porridge and beer. He heard Marian's stomach
rumble
and smiled at her. "Once this foolishness has run its course, we
can
--"
The dog barked, twice, sharp, interrupting his master's reverie.
Denis
shook his head, stood upright in the boat, almost tipping them all
into
the Witham. The stick quivered like a hunting dog's nose. "That
way,
by
Saint Paul! The heathens await!"
The boatmen stroked, bumped the muddy shore. Denis leapt out and
splashed
them all. His dog dove like a seal, shed water from matted fur,
scampered
up the bank leaving three muddy footprints. Robin hopped out,
wetting
his boots, caught a giggling Marian by her waist, and landed her
dryshod.
Peter and Sheriff Martin slopped along behind.
Here the streets were narrower, the houses more tumbledown. Denis
dilly-dallied
like a drunkard, his muddy dog at his heels. Priests and
fishwives
and masons, shabby and ragged, turned to watch the parade.
Around
corners and down alleys they went, till they threaded a twisted
shambles.
The entourage had to weave around garbage, ash heaps, bones, and
the
emptying of chamberpots. Robin noted people here lurked in doorways
and
peeked from windows to satisfy their curiousity.
All along the dowser wailed his litany of saints until he was
hoarse.
Robin figured he'd run out of breath soon, and they could drop
this
nonsense. It was obvious the sheriff's temper was fraying.
He'd
raised
his club for a halt when Denis stopped.
The house had once been large, with a solid stone lower floor, but
a
fire had gutted it and collapsed the roof. A rotten door leaned in
a
warped
frame.
Denis puffed, rested a hand on his dog's wet head, waved to
indicate
they'd arrived. The sheriff hoisted his heavy club and rapped the
crooked
door. Nothing happened, though Robin thought he heard a rustle
inside.
He realized they might suddenly come face-to-face with vicious
murderers,
and loosened his staghorn knife in its sheath.
The sheriff raised a big shoe and kicked the door flat.
The interior stayed dark. The fallen door raised dust at the foot
of
-- a pale maiden in a ragged gown. Barefoot, she crept closer to
the
light
as if it pained her. Under her stringy hair, her face was lined and
strained.
The sheriff barked. "Mary? Ach! Where's your good-for-nothing
brother
--"
A roar like a lion's drowned him out. Flashing from the dark came
a
larger dark. A huge form shaggy as a werewolf bowled the pale girl
aside
and
leaped full in the sheriff's face. The official's club was slapped
aside.
Steel flashed and the sheriff dropped with a howl, stabbed and
spraying
blood. The monster raised his bloodied knife to stab overhand.
Robin stiff-armed Marian so hard she bounced in the road a dozen
feet
away. Lacking time to draw his own knife, Robin simply jumped at
the
attacker.
The blooded steel scythed down at him, but he ducked under the
blow.
The monster's arm slammed on his shoulder hard enough to break the
elbow.
The knife clattered into the street.
Hampered by the stinking body, half-tripping over the prostrate
sheriff,
Robin could only ram a fist into the monster's belly. The mighty
frame
shook, but then a shoulder smashed his jaw. He slammed on his back,
the
monster atop him. Two mighty hands found his windpipe.
With a shock the outlaw realized this wasn't a monster. It was a
man
-- dirty, hairy, with a wild beard and tangled dark hair, in clothes so
filthy
they looked black. But the biggest shock came with another roar,
a
windy
gabble. Staring down the man's throat, Robin saw his tongue was
gone,
cut out, leaving a waggling stump. He kicked to get free, swung at
the
man's ears, in vain. His vision tinged with blackness...
A shadow above blacked out more light. The monster gasped, gargled
blood
that splashed on Robin's face. The outlaw pushed free of the
collapsing
form and struggled up, rubbing his throat.
The monster, the man, was dead, pierced through the heart by a
silver-hilted
dagger. Peter stood above him, pale as if he'd been
strangled
himself. His sheath was empty, his hands slack.
Marian bent over the dark man, looked to her husband, then tended
the
sheriff. His forearm had been skinned to the bone.
"I should have known it'd be Nicholas, our town wastral," the
official
growled. Marian cut strips off his smock for bandages. "He's
served
enough time in the stocks and at the wheel for robbing and beating
folks.
It was a circuit judge ordered his tongue cut out when the swine
cursed
him to his face. I'll probably get blood poisoning! Christ!"
He barked at the slim girl cowering in the doorway. "Mary, you
damned
slut! You're as guilty as him! You'll pay for this!"
"Hush," Marian tied off a rude bandage and made the man wince.
"The
poor thing's scared witless. A beast like that would terrify Saint
Columba.
You know this girl and her travails, you're wise enough to see
her
sorrows, aren't you?"
She addressed the trembling girl. "Pray, fetch what your brother
brought
home and we'll depart. We shan't harm you. I give my word."
The girl disappeared, like a ghost in the sunlight, and reappeared
lugging
an iron strongbox. She set it on the threshold and prised open the
lid.
Inside was a handful of silver coins and several dozen copper. "I
didn't
know," the girl squeaked. "I didn't know what he'd done. I
-- I
didn't
-- know." Marian laid a hand on her arm to shush her.
Leaning against the doorframe, the sheriff groused, "That stinking
changeling
bastard butchered those old folks for this paltry sum? Damned
little
for two lives."
"Three," said Marian. "How's your throat, Rob?"
Robin massaged his Adam's apple and waved. Every swallow burned,
but
he could breathe better than the monster Nicholas. He moved to pick
up
the
strongbox.
"I thought your name was Robert," the sheriff grunted.
The outlaw rasped. "I go by many names. Sometimes I get confused
myself."
The sheriff sniffed. "You saved my life, too. I won't forget
that."
Robin nodded. "And Peter saved mine." The boy didn't look up.
He
stood
facing up the alleyway, eager to be off.
Through all this, Denis the Doswer had stood to one side, his fat
frame
like a haystack, his lopsided dog panting between his feet. To him,
Robin
said, "You've shown your skill, dowser. Your --" he gestured, "--
stick
led us true. No doubt you'll fetch a reward from the town elders."
Somber for the first time, the magician mumbled, "Would the saints
could
raise up the dead and erase this day. Then would we all be paid."
Marian caught Robin's eye, nodded towards his middle. Without
letting
the sheriff see, the outlaw tossed some silver pennies into the
depths
of the ruined house.
Limping, grumbling, cradling their wounds, the party and the dog
tottered
towards the river. They left the dead murderer where he lay, and
his
sister weeping over him.
Rather than hunt up a boat, they threaded the mucky streets and
crossed
the bridge, filtered through the marketplace. Robin caught his
wife's
elbow and spoke low. "There's much left unexplained. I can
guess
how
he closed the door and barred it, but how did he open it?"
"He didn't, but it opened," Marian whispered. "I've figured that
out.
But how he closed it --"
"Well, I can -- he didn't open it but it opened?"
"Hush. You'll see."
The house came in view, with the sheriff's son deputy and curious
crowd
before it. With them was an exasperated priest eager to deliver a
prayer
for the dead, but the boy obviously feared the wrath of his father
more
than the wrath of God. The boy looked relieved to see his father,
then
dismayed at his bandaged arm and cross expression.
As they stopped before the house, Robin said. "My curiousity may
kill
me yet, but I can vouchsafe some answers. I know how the door was
barred."
The sheriff raised his hand to rub his chin and winced. "Get on
with
it, then. I needs get drunk soon. This wound burns like the
pit."
Robin shoved the door open. The bodies remained undisturbed.
Flies
buzzed around their dead faces. The outlaw plucked the bar from
behind
the door and brought it out into the sunlight. He pointed to
yellowish
smears dotted down one side. "Beeswax. Someone kneaded lumps
of
it,
pressed them against the battens, stuck the bar to them. When the
door
was
banged shut, the shock dropped the bar into the iron brackets. So
the
murderer
left the house locked behind him."
The sheriff frowned and thumped his club in the street. "P'raps.
May
be. I don't think Nicholas were clever enough to think on it, and
I
can't
see why he'd bother. And how'd he open the door in the first place?"
"He didn't," Marian said. "I can explain that. Rob, step inside
and
bar the door, please."
"The brackets are broken."
Marian smiled sweetly at her husband. "Pretend to bar it, then.
Dear."
Shrugging, Robin stepped into the charnel house and closed the
door.
He was alone with corpses and flies. Shuddering, he propped the bar
against
the cracked door and called, "Right! It's barred! Now what?"
Marian's voice came through the window. "Oh, Rob. I forgot
something.
Come out again, please."
Mentally scratching his head, Robin took down the bar and opened
the
door. "What is it now, Marian?"
The sheriff scowled. "Not Matilda?"
The wife only smiled. "Notice I got the door open. All I did
was
ask."
"But..." said most of the men. The sheriff grumbled, "Jabin
wouldn't
open the door for a stranger. And Nicholas couldn't talk anyway.
He
had no tongue."
"Exactly," said Marian. "Somebody else --"
"Catch him!" shouted Robin. He jumped but was too late.
Peter pelted down the street and careened around a corner.
"Them alleys are all twisty!" shouted the sheriff. "He can go a
hundred
different ways! Get after him, Berthold! Use your legs!"
Robin snagged the piebald sleeve of Denis the Dowser. "Come on,
man!
You needs track like you never tracked before!" Surprised by the
sudden
turn of events, gulping for air, Denis was tugged along, his dog
treading
under his feet. The sheriff's son tromped ahead of them.
Robin took the corner Peter had passed, stumbled up a short alley
towing
Denis like a barge, and came to a crossing. Peter would know these
alleys,
he realized, but he didn't have a clue. The trashy floor was
impossible
to read. The deputy Berthold took off down one alley, but Robin
wouldn't
risk running blind. "Denis! Find his trail!"
Manfully, Denis hoisted his dowsing stick before him. "By Saint
Germain,
the hunter, find this felon --"
Robin slapped the dowsing stick out of his hands. "Balls to that,
you
fat fraud! Get moving!" And he half-flung Denis before him.
Denis sighed and then whistled. "Come, Turk, track him, boy!"
The dog barked twice and took off skittering down an alley as if
shot
from a catapult. Robin was hard put to keep up with him, crippled
or
not.
They tore down a short alley and then around a corner, down another
straightaway
where the houses almost touched, and on. Robin let his legs
stretch
and ran full out. He splashed in puddles, slipped in garbage and
manure,
ducked jutting beams and drying laundry.
They rounded a corner. Ahead he glimpsed the fleeing Peter.
"Halloo, the fox!" The outlaw put on a burst of speed. Within
five
heartbeats he caught up to the winded boy, and five paces beyond that,
crashed
full into him. The two tumbled headlong down the filthy alley.
Robin
scrambled up first, shedding dirt and debris, and smashed both knees
onto
the lad's back. With a sob, Peter crumbled. The dog cocked
his head,
happy
and confused.
As Robin jerked him upright, the boy began to cry. Robin only
shoved
him down the alley. He panted, "It's about time -- you cried.
I've
no
doubt -- your parents -- cried over you -- many a time."
Back in the main street, the first thing he saw was Marian, her
eyes
shining.
It wasn't long before the sobbing boy was trussed and guarded. The
deputy
strapped the door bar across his shoulders and tied his hands to it
--
an appropriate punishment, Robin thought. He asked, "What will happen
to
him?"
The sheriff hiccuped. He'd been plying himself with brandy from
the
inn for his wound. "He'll needs tell us where he's hid the rest of
Jabin's
money, for one. What Nicholas had in the strongbox probably wasn't
a
tenth of the old man's wealth. Then... usually we hang murderers.
But
this
one's killed his own parents like some cold-blooded viper. Probably
he'll
burn." The boy, pale and pained, gave a moan and fainted.
"But there are still some things I don't understand," the sheriff
added.
The others agreed, but together they figured it out.
The sheriff offered, "Peter must'a gotten tired of working for his
skiving
father, who wouldn't give a groat to the Pope. He lived in this
hovel
next to a strongbox bursting with silver. He must'a decided to
collect
his inheritance early and hired Nicholas to do the killin'. In the
dead
of night, he called his father to unbar the door. Nicholas hacked
the
parents
to pieces."
Marian took over. "Peter went straight to the chimney and
extracted
the strongbox. Robin found grit on the floor. The thief had
to
know
its hiding place, for the red chest was locked. A stranger would
have
breached
it first. And I suspicioned Peter when he rushed into the room
and
closed his dead father's eyes. Everyone knows the image of the
murderer
lingers in the victim's eyes. Peter feared his own image would be
etched
there, rather than Nicholas's."
Robin added, "He chucked a leather bag full of brimstone on the
fire
to release the stench of witchcraft. Then he affixed the beeswax
so
the
bar would fall when he closed the door. Thus only a supernal being
could
have exited. But the wax was stickier than he thought. When
Peter
returned
in the morning, he found the door open -- the wax still held the
bar.
So he banged the door to crack the wax and drop the bar. He woke
the
street
with his pounding and shouting."
The sheriff commented, "He was quick to backstab Nicholas too, once
he
was cornered."
"But," Robin finished, "we never would have found him without the
aid
of Denis the Dowser. Sir Fraud of Lincoln."
The fat magician aped a pained expression. Without his dowsing
stick
to play with, he fiddled with his fingers. "Not so much a fraud.
Half
a fraud, perhaps. I did take you straight to Nicholas's door."
"You did no such thing!" Robin retorted, but he smiled to draw the
sting.
He patted the dog on his scruffy head. "T'was your hound did all
the
work! Your foolish howling to the saints and dancing like a March
hare
was
nothing but a blind to keep people watching you and not that animal!
It's
true, you've trained your dog to track a scent from behind you rather
than
in front, and you watch him between your feet, but still -- what's the
point
of all that foolishness?"
Denis gave him a pitying look, then shook his head of wild hair.
"I
see you know nothing of magic, Sir Robin of Wherever You Hie From.
A
man
with a trained dog is just a clever man. Or a clever dog. But
a
dowser
-- ah!"
ROBIN HOOD AND THE BEASTS OF SHERWOOD by Clayton
Emery (formerly published as The Tales of Robin Hood). New adventures
of Robin Hood, with much use of magic and English folklore.
Buy it on Amazon.com
Buy
it on Amazon.co.uk
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