Read Chapter 22: The Confrontation

The refectory had never felt so small. Thomas stood at the long oak table where the abbey's records were usually spread, and before him—pinned like specimens beneath his gaze—stood the steward, hands bound behind his back by Brother Mark's rope, and Abbot Fulke, still in his confining robes but stripped of his crozier.

Brother Mark held the steward's arm with a grip that would leave bruises. The novices had been cleared out. Only the senior monks remained, and their silence pressed against the walls.

"This man," Thomas said, loud enough for the back rows of brown wool, "is the baron's nephew by blood, but his deeds belong to the Devil."

The steward spat. It landed short of Thomas's feet, a wet spot on the flagstones. "You have no authority, monk. My uncle will have you flogged for touching me."

Your uncle is the baron, Thomas thought, but Godfrey is your master.

"Brother Anselm," Thomas said, "died with poison in his veins and a warning half-written on his lips. The poison came from the ink he was forced to use—the same ink Brother John mixed under blackmail, the same ink that killed the young scribes, the same ink you, Abbot Fulke, ordered him to produce in exchange for Godfrey's coin and your seat of power."

Fulke's face had gone the color of old tallow. "This is slander."

"The fragrance of your guilt is stronger than slander," Thomas said. He lifted the torn recipe fragment from his sleeve and read the final line aloud: "'And if the lead be not ground fine, the ink must be quickened with silver sublimate, for the hand that sells to haste will find the grave in good time.'" He turned the paper. "This is Anselm's hand. He wrote it because you forced him to perfect the poison. He recognized the symptoms in the first dead scribe. And so you had him silenced."

The steward laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. "You cannot prove any of that."

"I have the body. I have the ink. I have Brother John's confession, taken this morning before three witnesses." That was a lie—Brother John was still at his post in the cellar, waiting for Thomas to bring the canon—but the steward didn't know that. His eyes flickered.

"You claim the abbot is Godfrey's creature," the steward said, recovering. "What of me?"

Thomas drew the dagger from his belt. The steward's dagger. Its pommel bore the baron's wolf's head. "You were seen leaving the crypt after sealing it. You carried this on the night you dealt the blow that killed Brother Anselm. And you have been watching my cell these past nights, waiting for the moment to finish what you began."

The steward's face went white. His mouth opened, closed.

Then Fulke, who had been trembling, found his voice. "I did nothing. Godfrey threatened me. He threatened the abbey. This man," he pointed at the steward, "killed Anselm. I only paid for silence."

The refectory erupted. A dozen voices rose: accusations, denials, pleas. Brother Mark shoved the steward toward the door, but the man twisted, and his bound hands caught the edge of the table. For a moment, it seemed he might break free.

But half the brothers had already moved. Brother Francis seized the steward's arms. Brother Walter, the tallest among them, planted a fist in the steward's gut. The man folded like a wet sail.

"No!" the steward cried as he went down. "My uncle will see you all burned! You have touched a blood member of—"

The sound of boots on the cloister stones cut him off.

Six armed men in the sheriff's colors filled the refectory doorway. At their head stood William Chandler, the sheriff, a broad man with a gray-streaked beard and an unhurried manner. His eyes went to the bound steward, then to the abbot, and he nodded once.

"Brother Thomas." Chandler's voice was as deep as a bell. "Your message reached me before matins. It seems the abbey has need of justice."

The steward tried to rise, but Brother Francis kept him down. "This is a matter for the baron's court!"

Chandler drew a sealed parchment from his belt. "The baron's court has been petitioned by the bishop's canon. By order of the bishop, any crime touching the cloth falls under the Church's writ." He glanced at Fulke. "And you, Abbot, will answer to Rome."

Fulke swayed. Brother Walter caught him before he fell.

The sheriff's men moved with practiced ease. Chains clinked. The steward's protests shriveled to a thin whine as they hauled him upright. Fulke did not resist at all. His eyes were blank, fixed on some middle distance where the life he had built was crumbling to ash.

Chandler turned to Thomas. "You will give your account at the county seat within the week."

"I will."

The sheriff paused, studying Thomas with quiet appraisal. "The baron will not love this. He may press to have his nephew returned to his keeping."

"Then I will remind him," Thomas said, "that Brother Anselm's body is preserved in the crypt, with the poison still in his veins, and that the ink that killed him was sold by Godfrey's hand. The baron will need my evidence to secure Godfrey's estate after his execution."

Chandler's eyebrows rose. "You intend to hang the baron's own client."

"I intend," Thomas said, "to see justice done."

For a long moment, the sheriff held his gaze. Then, slowly, Chandler smiled—a thin, dry thing that never reached his eyes. "See that you bring that witness to the county seat. Alive."

The door closed behind them. The refectory fell into a stunned, hollow silence.

Brother Mark came to stand beside Thomas. His breath was still ragged with exertion. "Is it over?"

Thomas looked at the empty doorway where the sheriff's men had taken their prisoners. He thought of the land deed, still unresolved, still passing through Godfrey's hands toward whatever end the baron had planned for it. He thought of Godfrey himself, alive, somewhere beyond these walls, and of the last lines of the poison recipe, copied in Godfrey's ledger and sold to the highest bidder.

"No," Thomas said quietly. "It has only begun."