Читать книгу Highland Sinner - Hannah Howell - Страница 10

“Do ye intend to be my judge and executioner, Simon?”

Tormand watched as Simon struggled to gain some semblance of the calm and sanity he was so well known for. Despite how badly it stung to think that, even for one brief moment, Simon could believe that he could do such a thing to Clara, to any woman, Tormand could understand what prodded the man. Any man of honor would be horrified by what had been done to Clara and would ache to make someone pay for the crime. The brief insanity that could grip a man upon seeing such dark brutality easily explained why finding Tormand’s ring clutched in Clara’s hand would bring Simon to Tormand’s door in a blind fury. The fact that Simon had not immediately killed him told Tormand there was some doubt stirring behind Simon’s shock and fury.

“Why was she clutching your ring?” Simon demanded.

“I fear I have no answer for ye,” Tormand answered. “It was undoubtedly put there by the same one, or ones, who placed me in Clara’s bed.”

Simon stared at Tormand for a moment before sheathing his sword. He sat down, poured himself a tankard of ale, and drank it all down. A shudder went through his tall, almost too lean frame, and then he poured himself another tankard full of ale.

“Ye were there?” Simon finally asked in a much calmer tone of voice.

“Aye.”

Tormand drank some ale to prepare himself and told Simon everything he knew. He had not even finished his tale before he began to realize that he actually knew very little. All he could swear to was what he had seen—someone had killed Clara—and what he knew in his heart—that someone was not him. He did not know how he had been captured and taken to the room. He did not even know how Simon had become involved. It could have been simple bad luck, but Tormand’s instincts told him that it was much more than that. Although he had no proof of it, he felt certain it was all part of a plan. He just had to figure out what that plan was.

“Why did ye go to see Clara?” he asked Simon. “Did her husband return, find her body, and then send for you?”

“Nay. I received a summons I believed had come from Clara.” Simon shrugged. “It told me to arrive at her house with some of my men at a very precise time and to do so as furtively as possible.”

“And ye acted on that? Did ye ken Clara weel enough for such a summons to make ye hie to her side?”

“I didnae ken her as weel as ye did,” drawled Simon. “But, I did ken her weel enough. She was a cousin of mine.” He smiled faintly at the shock Tormand could not hide. “Dinnae fear that I will demand ye meet me at sword point to defend her honor. She had little left to defend. The woman had been lifting her skirts for the lads, any lad with a fair face, since not long after her first flux. She was ne’er sweet, rarely honest, and felt the world owed her homage simply because God had gifted her with a bonnie face. Nay, I did as she asked because I hoped she was about to give me proof of her husband’s many crimes, ones I have been looking into most carefully for months now. It was a faint hope as she benefited from his dealings, but I couldnae ignore it.”

“Do ye think he may have killed her?” Tormand began doubting that possibility even as he asked Simon the question.

“Nay. She was useful to him and, e’en if she had thought to betray him, she was cunning enough to keep him from discovering it, to make sure she could never be connected to that betrayal. As I said, I doubt she would e’er have betrayed the mon, for she fully enjoyed spending the coin he gained from all his crimes and lies. Yet, it can be no surprise that, upon seeing her butchered body, his was the first name that leapt to mind.”

“But then ye found my ring in her hand.”

“Aye.” Simon grimaced and dragged a hand through his thick black hair. “I couldnae believe it of ye and, yet, why was it there? And then I recalled that ye were once her lover. Jesu, I feared some madness had seized you and, like some rabid dog, ye needed to be cut down. I think a madness overcame me e’en to briefly consider that ye could do such a thing. ’Tis as if whoever did that to Clara left the stench of their insanity befouling that room and I breathed too deeply of it.”

Tormand nodded. “I ken exactly what ye mean. When I realized that Clara must have been alive during some of the horrors inflicted upon her, I did wonder if someone had tortured her because they thought she had some information they needed.”

“That is a possibility, although it doesnae explain why such an effort was made to make it look as if ye had committed the crime. There may be some cuckolded husbands who would like to see ye dead, but I cannae see why they would do something like this to strike out at you.”

“I dinnae cuckold husbands. Nay knowingly.” Tormand hated the defensive note that entered his voice, but forced himself to ignore it. “Yet, I cannae shake the feeling that Clara was killed because of me, because she had once been my lover. It seems vain to think it—”

“Nay. Ye were set there to be blamed for it and thus it must have something to do with you.” Simon rested his forearms on the table and stared into his tankard of ale. “Her husband didnae do it and he would have been a good suspect to look to. I ken where he was, ye see, and I ken he couldnae have come home, slaughtered Clara, and then returned to his mistress’s house near to ten miles away. As to torturing her for information? Weel, the mon certainly has enemies and many competitors who might think a wife would ken something about her husband’s business, something that would make it easier to crush him. But, I doubt Clara would have held fast to any knowledge she had beyond the first threat to her face. After that would have come a swift death, a stab to the heart or a slash across the throat. And in neither instance would ye have been dragged into the matter.” He looked at Tormand. “Aye, I think this is about you. The question is why?”

“And who.”

“Once we ken the why we can begin to look for the who.”

Tormand felt sick. No woman deserved to die as Clara had simply because she had once shared his bed, or he hers. What sort of enemy was it that crept around slaughtering innocents in order to reach the one he truly wished to harm? It made no sense to Tormand. If a man wanted him dead but was too cowardly to do it himself, he could simply hire some other men to do his killing for him. Sadly, there were a lot that would take the job. If the plan was to blacken his name beyond fixing before he died, Tormand was certain that that too could be done without slaughtering a woman. This murder put his enemy at the risk of being caught and hanged, the very fate the man apparently wanted Tormand to suffer. But, then, what had been done to Clara carried the strong taint of madness and who could ever make sense of that?

“My sins come back to haunt me now,” Tormand muttered.

“Ye believe ye have sinned, do ye?” asked Simon, a faint smile curling his mouth.

“Gluttony be a sin,” said Walter.

“Thank ye, Walter,” drawled Tormand. “I believe I am aware of that.” He grimaced. “Aye, I have heard it said often enough from my mother, my sisters, my aunts, and near every other female in my clan.”

“And, I suspicion, a few of the men.” Simon smiled more broadly when Tormand scowled at him. “Weel, ye truly have been a wee bit, er, gluttonous.”

“I like frolicking about atween the sheets with a warm woman. What mon doesnae?”

“Most men at least attempt to be somewhat, weel, prudent? Fastidious? Particular in their choices?”

“All the lasses I have bedded have been bonnie and clean.” Mostly, he added to himself.

“Your problem has always been too many choices, too much offered too freely.”

“Aye,” agreed Walter. “The lasses do flock to the rogue.”

“And the rogue accepts most of that flock all too readily,” said Simon.

“I thought ye were my friend, Simon.” Tormand felt an odd mix of hurt and insult.

Simon laughed softly. “Och, I am that, more fool me, but that doesnae mean I must blindly approve of all ye do. Aye, and mayhap I feel the touch of envy now and then. Tell me, Tormand, did ye like Clara even a little bit?”

Tormand sighed. “Nay, but the lusting blinded me for a wee while. She was verra skilled.”

“I am nay surprised. As I said, she was but newly turned thirteen when she began her lessons in the art. Oh, I confess that I am nay so verra particular at times, but I do prefer to at least ken the lass I lie down with, to enjoy a wee bit more than her soft skin and womanly heat.”

It occurred to Tormand that he could not think of all that many of his lovers who met even Simon’s mild standards. He refused to think that he really was what his cousin Maura had once called him—a stallion too stupid to charge coin for his stud services. After all, as far as he knew he had sired no bastards and was not that the sole purpose of a stud? Unfortunately, the longer he considered the matter, the more he began to fear that he had become as mindlessly greedy as Simon implied. Over the last few years it appeared that his qualifications for a bedmate were little more than that she be attractive, relatively clean, and willing. Mostly willing. It was such an unsettling conclusion that he was actually glad to turn his thoughts back to the matter of Clara’s brutal murder.

“Did ye find nothing that pointed the finger of guilt at someone besides me?” he asked Simon, ignoring the flash of amusement in Simon’s eyes that told him Simon was well aware of his attempt to turn the subject away from his love life.

“Nay,” replied Simon. “There was naught but your ring to show that anyone had been in that room with Clara. That and, of course, the simple fact that Clara could not have tied herself to that bed and then cut herself to pieces. Her servants heard and saw nothing.”

“How can that be? Clara would have shattered her fine windows with her screams at the first glimpse of a knife.”

“True, but I believe she was gagged. I saw the signs of it in what was left of her face.”

Tormand forced himself to recall carefully all that he had seen. “Aye, she had to have been. And, I begin to wonder if she was actually tortured elsewhere. Considering all the damage done to her I should have woken up lying in a pool of her blood. There was a lot and I do have the feeling she died in that bed, but now I feel sure it was not where all of that cutting was done.”

Simon nodded. “I believe the same. Even with a gag on her, someone should have heard something. It was evident that she violently fought against the bindings on her wrists and ankles. The bed would also have resounded with the struggles she made and yet her servants had not even thought she was home.”

“Then her killer knew how to slip in and out of her house without being seen.”

“Aye, which means they knew her, e’en if not weel.” Simon grimaced. “Considering all the many lovers Clara had, I doubt all the secret ways into her home were e’er really that secret. The servants would never have considered any noises coming from her bedchamber worthy of concern save for some bloodcurdling screams. So, they truly heard nothing as they claim. I shall return to Clara’s home and see if I can find any blood trail that will confirm that she was brought in after she was tortured.” He took another long drink of ale. “In a little while. I sent word to her husband and would rather not be there when he first sees what is left of his wife. He didnae love her and she didnae love him, but he did appreciate her beauty.”

“I didnae love her, either, but the sight of her body fair to made me sick.”

“And Ranald doesnae have the spine to hold fast as ye did. That isnae why I wish to avoid the mon for a wee while, however. Once he recovers, he will act the great, important laird and demand I find out who killed her. He will also spit out a lot of useless information, as weel as a few threats about what will happen to me if I dinnae find Clara’s killer. He always makes me wish to shake the arrogance out of him and, mayhap, take some of the bonnie out of his face.”

Tormand smiled briefly, but the seriousness of the situation severely dampened his usual ready sense of humor. It was good that Simon had so quickly accepted his innocence, if only because it revealed that his friend had not fully believed in his guilt despite his rage. It was not good that Simon had not found any clue save what was left for him to find. That meant they had no trail to follow to find the murderer. It left Clara’s killer free to kill again. If Tormand was right in thinking he was the real target, the killer would not be gaining what he sought this time. It was very possible that the man would kill again and could well continue to do so until Tormand was hanged.

Pouring himself some more ale, Tormand seriously considered getting blind drunk. It was a temptation he had to ignore and swore to himself that this would be his last drink for quite a while. He needed his wits to remain sharp, for it was a dangerous time. Someone out there wanted him disgraced and dead. The memory of Clara’s butchered body was more than enough to remind him of what lengths his enemy was willing to go to achieve that end. Tormand knew he did not deserve the guilt he felt, but it did not lessen it by much. In fact, if he and Simon did not stop this killer, Tormand suspected he could quickly reach the point where he would be willing to take the blame just to make the killing stop.

“I dinnae think Clara will be the only one,” Simon said.

Wincing at that echo of his own thoughts, Tormand nodded. “Nay, I fear not. If this was all to bring me to the scaffold then the failure of it to do so will make him try again. I will not be caught off guard as I was this time, however.”

“I think it would be verra wise if ye went nowhere alone.”

“That could be a problem.”

“Why?”

“Weel, there are some places and times where a companion could prove awkward.”

Tormand did not need the looks his friends were giving him to know he was being an idiot. It was only good sense, good defense, not to be caught out alone again. He could not allow his enemy to catch him again. Next time he might not be so lucky as to wake up and slip away before someone caught him lying next to a dead woman.

He inwardly winced. That sounded callous, a selfish concern only for his own safety. Unfortunately, he had to be that cold despite his possible culpability in the death of Clara and any other woman who may yet follow her to her grave. If he ended up blamed for Clara’s murder or any that may follow, the real killer would slip away unpunished. Tormand was determined to make the man pay for what had been done to Clara and, he prayed, before the beast could do that to any other woman.

There was also a deep need within him to know why. Tormand knew a lot of that need was because of the guilt he could not shake. He might be able to ease some of it if he learned why this man hated him so much. And, Tormand thought, possibly hated the women he had bedded. Clara’s beauty had been utterly destroyed; even her lovely hair hacked off. There had been anger and hatred behind that attack, yet that made no sense. Sad to say, he could not think of any man, lover or husband, who had revealed any feelings for Clara that were so deep they would cause such an insane rage.

“Scowling like a stern father willnae change my mind,” said Simon. “Ye are nay a fool, Tormand. Ye ken verra weel the need to ne’er be alone until this madmon is caught and hanged.”

Yanked free of his thoughts by Simon’s words, Tormand sighed. “Aye, I see the wisdom of it, but that doesnae mean I must like it.”

“Celibacy willnae kill ye, but this enemy of yours will.”

“Celibacy?” Tormand had no intention of admitting that he had been celibate for several months, if only because he did not wish to study the reasons why too closely. “Jesu, I think I might prefer hanging.”

“Idiot.”

“Mayhap, but the need for a guard wasnae really why I was scowling. I suddenly thought that, weel, the way Clara was butchered seemed to reveal a fury, a hatred, and I could think of no one who felt so strongly about her. Sad to say. If the plan was to brand me a killer of women, such butchery wasnae really necessary.” When Simon just stared at him for several moments, Tormand actually shifted a little uneasily in his seat. “’Twas just a thought.”

“A good thought. One that I should have had myself.” Simon muttered a curse. “Aye, there was fury and hatred in that butchery, one that was aimed directly at all that made Clara beautiful and desirable.”

“It could still have been torture to gain information,” said Walter, although his expression revealed his own doubts about that.

Simon nodded. “It could be, but, truly, Clara would have told him, or them, anything about anyone at the first touch of the knife. Everything she knew would have tumbled from her lips after one lock of her hair was cut off. Clara was vain beyond words. Her beauty was all to her. And, I still believe she was gagged through it all, which just strengthens my belief that this was not done to get information.”

“So we still have nothing.” Tormand stared into his empty tankard and resisted the urge to fill it up again.

“Nay, we have a murder that someone was determined to blame on you,” Simon replied. “That appears to point toward some enemy of yours nay matter how often I study it.”

“Could it not also point to some enemy of Ranald’s? What could be more humiliating to a mon than to have it so publicly seen that his wife was bedded and then slaughtered in their marriage bed?”

“Clara was too weel kenned as a whore for that to matter. Aye, and Ranald’s mistress is weel kenned. Nay, all were aware that neither wife nor husband honored their vows in that marriage.” Simon stood up. “Are ye coming with me to see if we can find a blood trail?”

Tormand reluctantly stood up. Going back to the bloody scene of the crime was the very last thing he wanted to do, but he knew it could help them find at least some of the answers they needed. He just hoped Ranald was not around. Although the man had known that Tormand and Clara had been lovers, Ranald had barely hidden his dislike of Tormand. Tormand could never understand why he was treated so, when half of the men at court had also known Clara intimately. He did not care to see how that dislike might be displayed if he was forced to face Ranald in his own home while Clara’s mutilated body was undoubtedly being readied for burial.

“Weel, that was fun,” muttered Tormand an hour later, as he followed Simon into one of the tunnels Clara’s lovers had slipped through on far too many nights.

Ranald had been nearly as bad as Tormand had feared. It was plain for anyone to see that the man was angry, perhaps even honestly grieving, and that he saw Tormand as a perfect target to aim that fury at. If not for Simon’s uncanny ability to interrupt and end such tense confrontations, Tormand suspected that he and Ranald would have been at sword point now, fighting in the great hall of the very house where Clara had died.

“I briefly wondered if he had actually loved Clara, but, nay, I think he but grieves the loss of her influence,” Simon said, as he walked along very slowly, holding a bright lantern as he studied the ground in front of him. “Whore she may have been, but she did have some influence. She also gained a lot of useful information from the men she took to her bed, the kind of information that helped Ranald a lot. He must also still suffer from the sight of what was once his beautiful wife. Still, I shall look harder at the possibility that he killed her.” Simon suddenly halted. “Aha, look at this,” he murmured as he crouched down.

Tormand crouched beside Simon and looked closely at the spot his friend studied so intently. “Blood?”

Simon lightly touched a finger to the spot, licked his finger and, ignoring Tormand’s grimace of distaste, nodded. “Definitely blood. We are in luck. The stone floor in this tunnel didnae allow it to sink into the ground and ’tis cool enough down here to keep it from hardening into nay more than a stain.” Simon stood up. “I think we have found our trail.”

His hope that a quick solution to this mystery might be found rose as Tormand followed Simon. The trail led them out of the passage into the back alley and continued north. It disappeared behind the stables run by the most popular inn in town where the constant traffic of people and horses had wiped it clean. Simon took nearly an hour searching in all directions to see if he could find the trail on his own before he went to get a dog. Tormand stayed close by his side, although his hope for a swift solution was beginning to fade away rapidly.

As soon as Simon’s dog Bonegnasher caught the scent they moved quickly and once again Tormand found his hopes rising. The race ended at a deserted hovel at the edge of town. Tormand could smell the blood as he and Simon stepped inside. He did not need Simon’s skills to know that they had found the place where Clara had been tortured. The killer had not bothered to clean up after butchering the woman. Tormand felt the sting of bile in the back of his throat, but forced himself to stay with Simon. The way Simon so calmly and carefully looked over the bloody scene made Tormand determined to overcome his own squeamishness.

He did not have the strong gifts so many of the women in his family possessed, especially since his branch of the clan was not actually blood related, but he did have a small skill at sensing emotion, at times almost scenting it in the air. It was not easy here where the air was so thick with the stench of blood, but Tormand closed his eyes and tried to reach out to the echoes of the feelings left behind by those who had been here before him. It was a trick one of his more gifted cousins had shown him and it did allow him to make the most use of his meager talent. The sharp tang of fear was no surprise, but once he pushed beyond that, Tormand sensed other things. Lingering in the air was the anger and hatred he had suspected was behind the mutilation. Those feelings were tainted with something he could only assume was madness.

“Get anything?” asked Simon.

Tormand opened his eyes, realizing that Simon had probably guessed that he had some little gift a long time ago. “Fear, anger, hatred. There is a coldness to the latter two. But, there is also something else. I think it is madness.”

“Most certainly.”

“Did ye find anything?” Tormand asked, as he followed Simon outside and took a deep breath in the hope of clearing the stench of death from his nose.

“Nay more than that this is where the crime was committed. By the time Clara was carried out of here she was already dying.” Simon held out his hand. “I also found this.”

Tormand frowned at the small hairpin Simon held. “Clara’s?”

“Nay, this is a common bone one. Clara would never wear such a thing.” Simon put it in his pocket. “It could have belonged to a woman who once lived here, but I will keep it all the same.”

“So we have failed.”

“Aye and nay. We havenae found the killer, true enough, but I didnae expect to. Nay, that will take time.”

“Another woman could die.”

“I fear so, but there is naught we can do about that.”

“We must just wait until it happens?”

“We cannae set a guard on every woman in the town, Tormand. Nay, we just keep hunting, my friend. Hunting until we catch and cage this bastard.”

And pray I dinnae hang first, Tormand silently added.