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The opening day of the tournament had been an endless drudge for Sir Francis. He was not one who enjoyed ceremonies and formal banquets at the best of times, let alone when the air was thick enough to cut from humidity and heat. Sweat trickled down Francis’ back under the knight’s leathers he’d worn for his first event—the swords. He’d won his bouts more through determination and long experience dealing with extreme temperatures than any real skill, and was making his way back to the castle in order to rest before the afternoon’s joust when his squire, Thomas Jopson, pulled him aside.
“Sir, Lord Franklin has requested you come meet him in the lower bailey on a matter of great urgence,” Jopson says, voice low despite the bustle of the crowd around them.
“Thomas,” Francis begins, but before he can even begin to complain of the heat, his exhaustion, or the aching head he has from the night of drinking at banquet, Jopson interrupts.
“Sir. There’s been a murder.”
*
The scene in the lower bailey is shocking, even for someone as battle worn as Francis. The man’s head is the only thing left in tact. His chest has been so thoroughly mutilated it looks as though it exploded somehow. Francis would blame gunpowder, but there’s none of the usual sulfur smell. Only the iron scent of blood and the putrefying scent of decay.
“Poor lad,” Baron Franklin clucks sadly, an herb-stuffed handkerchief pressed under his nose. “Lord Gore’s son, his second, I believe. What a pity.”
“What happened?” Francis asks, unable to fathom the sort of accident that could cause this much destruction. There was blood pooled everywhere, under the body, yes, but splashed on the walls, and in the divots between the stones through most of the courtyard. Yet Baron Franklin seemed utterly unconcerned.
“You’re quite the investigator, Francis, I hoped you’d help me figure that out.” Franklin pauses, watching Francis for a moment. “I expect, of course, there is some natural explanation for a man’s chest exploding?”
“Natural explanation?” Francis bursts out. “What ‘natural explanation’ could there be? The man’s chest has exploded! His intestines are rotting all across the courtyard! This is clear magic, and dark magic at that. Simply question your practitioners and you’ll soon be at the bottom of this.”
“Oh, no, we do not keep magic practitioners at Castle Erebus!” Franklin laughs, seeming almost merry before he recalls the corpse before him. “Certainly in this enlightened age we can agree that there is no such thing as magic!”
“Sir John!” a new voice calls, and Francis can’t entirely hide his sneer as handsome young James Fitzjames, late of Lord Barrow’s scouting company, arrives dressed in chain mail and white linen. “Is it true? We heard on the tournament fields, and I was sent to—oh.”
Fitzjames’ words cut off entirely as he takes in the gore around them.
“Ah, James! Perhaps you can keep Francis’ notions of magic in check. Anyone willing to help gather information is welcome, of course,” Franklin adds, smiling benevolently at Jopson.
Fitzjames looks like he’s having to try very hard not to be sick as he surveys the scene, the blood, the entrails, and Graham Gore’s head staring up at the sky blankly. The sun isn’t even at its peak and the smell of rotting flesh is already strong. Francis has been on many a battlefield with the same stench turning his stomach as he fights, but there’s something even more obscene about the smell here, in a perfectly ordinary bailey, in a safe castle that is neither under siege nor preparing an army.
Francis shakes himself, and steps over to Fitzjames, carefully avoiding the splatter of blood. “Lord Franklin,” Francis tries again, “it would be negligent and possibly dangerous to ignore the possibility of dark magic at play. After all, if there is any chance that a dark magician is near, we must be on high alert.”
“That is an interesting speculation,” Franklin says, considering. “I simply do not believe any of my friends and guests would practice any sort of dark art, especially while they’re here, under my roof. Even leaving aside the impossibility of magic doing any sort of harm, no one would dare risk being uncovered. In a busy tournament like this, someone is always watching, after all. No one would be able to avoid detection!”
“Then at least postpone the tournament,” Francis begs. “At least for a few days while we investigate this death. We cannot risk the people here, not with any kind of murderer on the loose, dark magician or not.”
“Francis I could not possibly stop the tournament!” Franklin protests.
“Baron Franklin, please,” Francis begins, but Franklin dismisses his protest before it’s even finished leaving his mouth.
“No. We will continue as planned. Of course, you will need to rely on agents to help with the investigation during your events, I expect your squires will do nicely, hmm? I’ll expect a report this evening, after the feast.” And with that, Franklin is gone, and the weight of death rests heavy on Francis’ shoulders.
*
Francis gathers himself, but not quickly enough to avoid Fitzjames’ eagerness.
“Shall we look about for clues?” Fitzjames asks, stepping gingerly over the nearest pool of blood and entrails.
“No, we won’t find much here,” Francis sighs. “Perhaps we should split up. See if we can find any helpful residents who might know of magic practitioners in the area?”
“But Lord Franklin said--”
“If nothing else it will eliminate magic as a possibility,” Francis snaps, and Fitzjames’ mouth shuts with an audible click. “Thomas, lad, you’ve the best chance of finding anything promising with the servants and villagers. Would you mind?”
“Not at all, sir,” Jopson says, and bows before leaving the bailey to begin his investigations.
“We should go back to the tournament,” Francis says, turning to Fitzjames. “Spread some gossip, let the other knights know to be on the lookout.”
“Right,” Fitzjames agrees, and follows Francis out of the bailey and back to the tourney grounds. They’ve just arrived when there’s a rush of screams and panicked voices.
Fitzjames snakes out an arm and catches someone Francis thinks is one of the castle guards rushing by.
“What is it, man? What’s happened?”
“Fairholme, sir!” the guard cries, clearly panicked. “He was jousting against Sir Tozer, and his chest--” the guard makes a choking sound before he can finally manage to say “—it exploded.”
Fitzjames lets the guard go, and turns to Francis. “Another one,” he murmurs. Francis nods. “Seems you’re right about the magic, after all.”
*
Fairholme’s remains look like nothing so much as a leather wine skin dropped from one of the castle battlements and splattered in every direction. Francis can’t even manage to pick out organs, or bones. It turns his stomach, and he can feel the remnants of last night’s drink trying to force it’s way up.
Fitzjames looks horrified and sickened as well, even as he helps to clear the tourney-goers away from the murder.
Francis has seen all he needs, and motions for the guards to begin clearing the remains. There’s no question now. This is dark magic at work. His eyes catch the Lady Sophia’s, and he makes his way to her perch in the stands.
“Please, milady,” Francis begs of her, quietly. “Help me convince your uncle to call off the tourney.”
“He won’t be convinced,” Sophia says softly. “You know he won’t. He won’t believe it’s dark magic until it’s his own chest bursting.” She smiles sadly. “It’s good to see you again, Francis. I hope you’re successful in your investigation. And good luck in the wrestling bouts this afternoon.”
Francis nods, and turns away. Fitzjames is waiting, looking pensive.
“Francis, what now?” he asks.
Francis frowns. “Now I have to go wrestle,” he says.
*
Jopson stays with Fitzjames, in the hope the two of them will be able to find some sort of similarity between the crime scenes.
Francis, meanwhile, is chest-to-chest with Edward Little, an up-and-coming knight from one of the lesser noble families. Francis has been keeping tabs on his rise, quite proud of the young man who used to serve with Francis on the borders. His physical prowess has improved tenfold, much to Francis’ delight and chagrin.
Francis isn’t focusing on the fight very well, much too preoccupied with thoughts of the bloody mess someone had made of Gore and Fairholme. Perhaps he can send word to Jopson to track down the local hedgewitch—he’d heard someone mention going to her for a charm for luck earlier. Hedgewitches were generally quite helpful when they heard someone was poking around the darker magics, as it gave honest practitioners bad reputations by even the barest of associations.
Little slams a shoulder into Francis’ ribs and Francis is jolted back to reality, wheezing and gasping. He swings a fist, and when Little dodges, Francis catches his elbow and pins Little with a grunt and more effort than it should actually take. Luckily it’s the only bout Francis has today, his previous reputation pitting him only against the top competition.
Sweating and covered in dirt from the wrestling ring, Francis makes his way back to the competitor’s tents. Fitzjames’ squire, Bridgens, is waiting with a basin of water and fresh hose and tunic. Francis is impressed, despite their relative strangeness to each other, Bridgens has provided more than adequately for Francis’ post-match needs. He allows Bridgens to tend him without protest.
“May I be of any further service, Sir?” Bridgens asks.
“Actually, yes,” Francis says. “Let Fitzjames know that there’s a local hedgewitch, we should consult her tomorrow. Will he be joining us at the banquet tonight?”
“He will, sir,” Bridgens nods.
Francis nods. “We shall speak tonight, then. Please let him know of my request.”
“Of course,” Bridgens nods, and withdraws to return to Fitzjames.
*
“Ah, Francis!”
Fitzjames looks resplendent in a rich blue doublet and hose, with gold accents. The double row of buttons down his chest glint in the light, and there’s gold thread shot through his clothes, making him look as if he’s radiating light in the dim hall. His smile is broad as he shrugs off several admirers and clasps Francis’ hand in greeting.
“Fitzjames,” Francis nods. “Do you have a moment?”
“Of course, Sir Francis!” Fitzjames links their arms, having never removed his hand from Francis’, then walks with him out toward the gardens. “I know a small alcove where we can speak privately.”
They stop in a curtained alcove, just far enough from the banquet hall that the din from the guests and servants fades to quiet background. James smiles winningly, even though they are the only two people around, and sighs softly. “I sometimes rue my popularity, but tonight I think it has been quite useful.”
“What did you learn, then?” Francis asks. Fitzjames has dropped Francis’ hand, and for some unexplained reason, Francis feels it’s loss keenly. His own hand feels naked without Fitzjames’ clasped around it.
“Well,” James begins, “of course we didn’t uncover much this afternoon without you, but your man, Thomas, was quite invaluable speaking with the servants and local villagers. Most of them counseled us, as you did, to speak with the hedgewitch, but a few mentioned a monster in the forest who might be attacking. I doubt if there is such a phantom it had anything to do with poor Fairholme--”
“But it might have gotten at Gore, yes,” Francis agrees, already calculating how to find such a creature.
“The more interesting and useful information, though,” James continues, excited, “is that no one has ever seen Sir Tozer’s squire before earlier this year.”
“That Hickey fellow?” Francis asks. “Surely he was somewhere before Tozer found him.”
“That’s what I said, too,” Fitzjames agrees, “but no one can remember him. And, if you look carefully, it seems Sir Tozer has a new talisman worn ‘round his neck. I couldn’t say for certain, but the rumor is that it’s arcane in nature.”
“We’ll have to investigate,” Francis agrees. “See if one of us can get a good look at the talisman before we talk to the hedgewitch. Maybe she’ll be able to identify it.”
“Wouldn’t you be able to tell?” Fitzjames asks. “I thought the arcane was a specialty of yours?” Francis frowns, but Fitzjames hurries to explain, “I’m not questioning your expertise, of course, I’m simply curious why you might not be able to identify the type of charm?”
“Charms and talismans are two separate things,” Francis says, “and while I might be able to identify if it were arcane or benevolent in nature, I would not be able to identify what the talisman was made for.”
“I see,” Fitzjames nods. “You’ll have to teach me how to tell them apart.”
Francis agrees without really thinking about it, sure that Fitzjames will have forgotten by the time they’re back to the banquet hall. “Shall we meet tomorrow after breakfast? We can try to get a look at the talisman, tend to our matches, then seek out the hedgewitch.”
“Lovely,” Fitzjames agrees. “Shall we rejoin the feast?”
“I intend to retire,” Francis says. “But go on. We’ll meet again in the morning.”
“Sleep well, then, Sir Francis,” Fitzjames says, smiling.
With an uncharitable grumble, Francis leaves Fitzjames alone and returns to his rooms. All the way he wonders if Fitzjames ever stops smiling; more confounding yet, he finds himself hoping the answer is “no.”
*
James is waiting outside Francis’ tent the following morning. Francis’ bouts are the first and last of the day today, going up against William Heather this morning and his friend Thomas Blanky late that afternoon.
“Can’t leave now,” Francis says by way of greeting. “Got to go up against Heather in the wrestling ring.”
“Of course,” James says, looking a little crestfallen, “I only wanted to confirm where to find you once your bouts are done.”
“Oh,” Francis frowns, then waves a hand. “Confer with Jopson, I’m sure he’ll know where would be best better than I.”
“He doesn’t seem to be within,” James shrugs. “Shall we say, the gatehouse around ten?”
“That’ll do fine,” Francis agrees. “I’ve got to get changed, I’ll see you at the gatehouse.”
*
The bout against Heather is more difficult than Francis anticipated. The man is solid as a boulder, his wide shoulders and bulky torso making it difficult for Francis to get a proper grasp to throw the man. Somehow, possibly on a point technicality although Francis isn’t sure, he manages to win—but only barely.
He’s filthy with sweat and mud afterward, and he can feel a bruise blossoming on his jaw from where he’d caught Heather’s elbow unexpectedly. Jopson has a basin of water and cleaning cloths waiting in the tent, so Francis cleans up as best he can and changes into new clothes. He chooses his preferred wool trousers and a plain tunic instead of a doublet. Jopson offers him a cloak and hood, which Francis takes but doesn’t put on yet, still too overheated from the wrestling bout. “Coming with us today, Thomas?”
“I’ve a few people to speak with in the kitchens, sir,” Jopson says. “Will you and Sir James be all right on your own?”
“We’ll make do,” Francis says, and pats Jopson on the back before he makes his way from the tents to the gatehouse.
Fitzjames is waiting for him, as promised, looking effortlessly put together, his velvet tunic and leather trousers simple but clearly well made and well fitted to Fitzjames’ exact proportions. Francis has never been able to get clothing to fit him so well, even when he has the money to pay for it. When he sees Francis, Fitzjames straightens and smiles, winningly. Francis feels it like electricity, and looks away until he’s sure he’s composed.
“Francis, lovely to see you,” Fitzjames drawls. Francis finds the affectation both irritating and charming at once.
“Fitzjames,” Francis nods. “All ready?”
“Indeed. Lead on!”
Francis shrugs on his cloak and hood, then sets off toward the treeline. The castle is surrounded on one side by farmland and meadows, and on the other the forest. According to Jopson, the hedgewitch lives in the forest, her home a small cabin deep in the thick of the trees.
“Keep an eye out,” Francis says. “There’s probably nothing to the monster rumors, but I’d rather not be surprised.”
“Of course,” Fitzjames agrees. “Although I don’t know how effective one small knife will be against a monster.”
Francis snorts, amused at the idea of the man taking on a hulking beast with a dinner knife, then represses it. “Hmph.” He glances behind him. “Should be able to stick to the footpath and find the cabin. Probably nothing more frightening than a rabbit or two for you to menace.”
They walk in silence for nearly a mile before a small clearing opens up. The path skirts the edge, but there’s a deer trail through the tall grass, and Francis pauses.
“One of us should check the trail,” Francis says. “I’ve a hunch the hedgewitch may have made her home at the end of it.”
“I’ve little experience with such trails,” Fitzjames admits. “You’re rumored to be quite the tracker. You go, I’ll wait here. If I haven’t seen you in a quarter hour, I’ll come after you.”
Francis nods, and turns off down the deer trail.
*
At the end of the trail, a five-minute walk from the footpath, a well-kept cabin sits nestled into the hollow of a hill. On the porch, a small woman waits, dark hair braided and long down her back. She nods solemnly to Francis. At her feet a large, furry shape is curled. Francis can’t tell what it is, exactly. It looks nothing like a wolf or dog, too large for either. Neither is it a prey animal of any sort. Something about the shape of the paw Francis can see suggests bear, but that seems implausible. He’s never heard of a white bear, not even in this part of the forest.
Francis clears his throat and stops his advance, scalp tingling as he watches the white furred creature. “Have I found the local hedgewitch?” he asks. She makes no reply, but quirks an eyebrow up and tilts her head as if to indicate yes.
“There have been deaths, at the castle,” Francis says, watching closely for any sign from the woman. She makes no move, not even to blink. “I believe they are the work of a dark magician.”
“Artificer,” the woman says softly, so softly Francis almost thinks he imagined it.
“Yes,” Francis agrees. “Can you help me? I saw a talisman that I couldn’t identify--”
She beckons him forward and points to a soft patch of dirt. Carefully, Francis sketches the crude shape of the amulet, and the symbol fixed to it.
“It’s made mostly of straw and twigs,” he says. “A black feather, here,” and Francis indicates where on his sketch, “and several small stone chips, here and here. In clusters.”
The woman nods. “Bad. Blood magic.” She makes a frustrated noise, then says, “I don’t know the word in English. Not a talisman, but a spell.”
Francis blinks. “Spell?”
The woman’s eyes widen. “You understand me?”
“I traveled far to the North,” Francis says. “The people I met there taught me their language.”
“This spell is powerful magic,” she warns. “Whoever created this working has much knowledge but little practical experience with this sort of magic. The magic does not trust them.”
Francis considers. “Do you know what the spell is for?”
“It controls the wearer, ensures their actions lead to triumph. Victory.” She frowns. “The artificer did not include death in the spell. Any deaths brought about by dark magic are most likely done in the heat of passion or anger.”
“Would a powerful artificer who had never had training be able to channel their rage into such a murder? Their heads and chests exploded, from what I could see.”
“That may be the case, yes,” she nods. “If you have the chance, drive the artificer and the one who wears the spell into the forest. We will deal with him from there.”
“Thank you,” Francis says, returning to English. “Your advice has been very helpful.”
The woman nods, and enters the house. Her familiar remains to guard the cabin from the small porch. It doesn’t move, but it still puts Francis’ hackles up, especially without the hedgewitch nearby. With a deep breath, Francis nods respectfully to it and makes his way back to the deer trail.
At the other end, Fitzjames is pacing worriedly, hands wringing.
“Francis, thank god!” Fitzjames clasps his arm as though they hadn’t seen each other for much longer than the few minutes Francis has been gone. “I went up and down the trail twice and was just about to go for help! What on earth happened to you?”
“What? How long have I been gone?”
“Nearly two hours! Have you lost all track of time?”
Francis shakes his head. “I was gone twenty minutes at most,” he says, frowning. “Come, if it truly was hours, then we need to be back for the afternoon matches. I shall explain on the way.”
*
“The most likely culprit is probably Tozer himself, sir,” Jopson says, buckling armor in place as Francis explains once again the hedgewitch’s information. “And barring that I’d put money on his squire.”
“Hmm,” Francis grunts. “It seems a bit obvious, but you're probably right. I don’t think I’d have put money on either of them being the actual artificer even a day ago.”
“That’s because you dislike the idea that any man might transgress the sacred pact of Knighthood,” Jopson huffs. “The rest of us are far less idealistic.”
Francis would like to deny it, but before he can the bell sounds signaling Francis to mount for the joust.
“Your bracer, sir,” Jopson protests, yanking the bracer into place before Francis escapes him. Francis grunts again, fondly this time, and exits the tent. Outside, his horse waits for him. He’s a large, bay warhorse, highly useful in both battle and to pull carts from place to place. Placid, calm, unbothered, the horse won’t budge an inch while children climb on him, ladies cling to his back, or any other manner of indignities are visited upon him. But when Francis mounts the creature, his armor clanking in that familiar way, the horse knows there’s work to be done. Now, the horse side-steps and shimmies, nearly unseating Francis for a moment before he manages to hook his feet into the stirrups and settle.
“Hush, lad,” Francis murmurs to the horse. “’Tis only Blanky we’re up against, and no real fight.”
The horse calms, and Francis pats his neck affectionately. For all that Francis never gave him a name, the horse is as dear a companion to him as his squire.
“Your lance,” Jopson says, and hands up the weapon. Francis takes it, closes the visor on his helmet, and nudges the horse toward the jousting pitch.
Blanky is waiting for him at the other end, his own black steed in high spirits, tossing his mane and whinnying. Francis frowns. Perhaps he should simply forfeit. He could signal Blanky, they could both forfeit the match. Something feels off, and Francis can only trust his gut that things will go wrong.
Before he has the chance to signal, though, or send word via one of the servants waiting on the sidelines, the horn is blown, and Blanky spurs his horse forward. Francis follows suit, letting the horse do it’s job. He lowers his lance as the horse gathers speed, but just before their lances make contact with each others’ shields, the horses shy and rear. Francis is thrown clear—or more accurately, he falls straight backward as his horse launches forward. Distantly he can hear Blanky screaming, the horses shrieking, the crowd a mix of gasps and horrified cries.
It takes a long moment for Francis to gather himself, and even longer for him to struggle up against the armor that shifted out of place in the fall. Once he’s up, all he can see is blood.
*
Blanky isn’t dead, thank every power Francis can think of. A leg is missing, and he’s bruised all up and down his body, but he’ll survive, assuming the shock and the blood loss don’t kill him. He’s been grumbling at nurses all afternoon, so Francis assumes he’ll be fine, if not quite the same.
Francis can’t stay long once he’s ascertained Blanky won’t immediately die. His begging hadn’t budged Sir John on keeping the tournament going despite the obvious danger. He refuses to cancel so much as a single event he and Lady Jane had planned. Francis isn’t even allowed to withdraw from the tournament to focus on finding the killer. All he can do is solve this as quickly as possible.
Which is why he’s let himself be dressed in his finest, midnight blue hose and doublet, a plain black domino tied across his face. He’s seen neither Tozer nor his squire, although his ability to pick out familiar faces and silhouettes is hampered by the masks and costumes. He also hasn’t seen his own squire, Jopson. He’s supposed to be here, but he’d promised to be hard to find, both in order to tease Francis and to make it easier for him to keep an ear open for rumors and news of the murders.
Most annoyingly, he keeps looking for Fitzjames, the man’s height alone should make him obvious to find, but Francis has seen no one of the right size and shape. No one is flocking around a tall, charming figure with broad, beguiling smiles. He’s just about to give up , chalking his disappointment up to having wanted to continue work on the case when a murmur runs through the hall.
Francis turns, and at the entrance to the hall stands a woman dressed in a white kirtle, the gown over it is a saffron yellow with gold embroidery. She’s radiant, glowing, with her hair swept up in braids and woven with baby’s breath and silk ribbons, framing her face like the halo behind a saint in a stained glass window, or an angel Francis saw as a child in an illuminated manuscript. Francis breathes in, refusing for a moment to believe what his eyes tell him.
It’s James.
The plaster mask across James’ face is painted to match his kirtle and gown, and the combined effect of gown and hood masterfully hide his muscular frame and emphasize the curve from breast to hip instead of the broadness of his shoulders as the previous night’s doublet had done. The woman—James—searches the crowd for a moment, then smiles mysteriously and begins to make her way toward Francis.
“May I be so bold, milord, as to ask the next dance?” James asks, voice low and intimate. Francis nods mutely, his voice lost to the wonder of James, looking like this, speaking to him.
They end up leading the next quadrille, and Francis counts himself lucky he knows the steps, as he’d never have been able to keep up without prior practice. James whirls and steps so lightly and gracefully it’s as if he was born to dance the part.
*
It seems James barely takes a breath the whole time they dance. Francis can’t keep his eyes off the man, somehow both beautiful and handsome at once. He wants to treat James as a proper lady, to court him and flirt and play all the politicking games he’s usually so terrible at. Perhaps he could learn them for James. Perhaps he would fail. But suddenly he wants to try. He hasn’t felt such things since Sophia led him ‘round the back of the castle and lured him into a rather unfortunate pond one hot summer several years past. Usually Francis shudders at those memories, but now they seem like a story he might tell to amuse James.
“Milady,” Francis says, as the final form of the dance ends and the observers and other dancers clap for the performance, “might we adjourn to somewhere a bit more quiet? I have questions about your investigations this morning and I doubt such conversation would be appropriate in such a large company.”
James looks thrilled. Francis wonders if he knows Francis has recognized him. The man hesitates, and Francis can’t resist a gentle tease. “If I have spoken out of turn, do forgive me, James, but I had thought--”
“Yes!” James gasps. “Yes, of course, I—I apologize, I was—never mind, it’s not important. Let us retire to the gardens, of course, I agree that would be the best--”
“James,” Francis says with a mischievous twist of his mouth. “Come.” He offers up his arm, and when James accepts with a chagrined smile, Francis leads him out into the gardens.
Franklin’s gardens are, while perhaps not the prettiest Francis has seen, certainly quite well maintained. In the daytime they’re manicured into careful beds with gravel paths through them. Now, at night, they’re dimly lit by torches, and filled with trellises draped with the banners of the competing knights and flowering vines in matching colors, making a plethora of alcoves and grottoes all scented with the fragrance of roses and lilac.
A surprising number of the spaces are already filled with couples having secret liaisons. Francis is sure this whole garden aesthetic was Lady Jane’s idea, as Lord Franklin would never have even thought about the young people at the tourney wishing for some private place for liaisons.
Eventually Francis finds an unoccupied corner, and ushers James into it, where they can stand close together in the shadows. James is looking at him, breathless and flushed from the dance, soft tendrils curling down from his hair and blowing delicately in the breeze. Francis wants very much to press his luck, to kiss James’ mouth, and then perhaps kiss more than just his mouth.
“Have you heard anything about--” James starts, but Francis quickly loses the thread of what James is saying. He can’t focus on anything but the shape of James’ mouth. And then before he can even register that he’s moving, he’s kissing James.
There’s half a moment where James sighs, melts into Francis as if he’s simply been waiting for a chance, their bodies fitting together like two halves made whole. He gives himself up to the kiss, all the charm and passion from his daily life on display for Francis and Francis alone.
Then it seems James remembers himself. He straightens, turns his face away. “Francis, I can’t,” he whispers, fingers carefully touching his mouth, as if he’ll find the remnants of their kiss there. “I’m no lady, I’m not even high-born, all my success was hard won through work and I’m not even particularly good at what I do—I’m a fake--”
He might have gone on, but Francis leans in again and kisses him once more, this time a hard, quick kiss that says “Hush now,” without words. “If you do not wish to kiss me, of course I won’t force you,” Francis promises, a bit sheepishly as he’s just done that exact thing.
“It isn’t that,” James admits. “I’d like to kiss you very much. It’s only that I’m the one in the dress, I’m the one who will be seen to be corrupting one of the King’s own knights. My reputation couldn’t stand that.”
“That’s what the darkness is for, James,” Francis says patiently. “Besides, I’ve neither seen nor heard a single useful thing all night thus far, and since you arrived tonight I’ve had a mind to throw investigations to the wind for once, and do something irresponsible and selfish.”
James starts to answer, but another couple comes by, whispers and laughter carrying to their isolated little corner on the night air. When the couple has passed, James nods. “Kiss me again, Francis?” he asks.
Francis is more than willing to comply.
*
At sunrise, the few revelers still awake are startled to hear bloodcurdling screams from the Lord’s solarium. Francis has barely been able to close his eyes when he hears the screams begin, and lurches back up out of his bed. There’s hubbub below, in the upper bailey, but Francis decides to fetch Sir John first. He finds the solarium door wide open, Lady Jane sobbing in her dressing gown, Sophia comforting her calmly.
“Sir John?” Francis gasps.
Sophia shakes her head, and glances furtively behind her.
In Sir John’s place in the otherwise tidy bed is a single, severed leg. It wears Sir John’s slipper on it’s foot.
“Where?” Francis asks, feeling his gorge rise at the sight of the leg.
Sophia can only shake her head. Lady Jane is unable to answer.
*
Francis finds James at the edge of the forest. There’s a bloody trail leading inside, shuffling marks that could be man or beast dragging a corpse behind it. James is staring with big, empty eyes at the blood, and as Francis approaches, he drops to his knees.
“I couldn’t save him,” James says, looking pleadingly up at Francis.
“Did you see what happened?”
“Something—something was dragging him. He was alive—I thought he was alive anyway.” James looks back toward the blood, then quickly away.
“If I’m right, had you caught the bastard you would have died too,” Francis says. “Don’t blame yourself, James.”
“What—” James’ voice breaks and he has to swallow several times before he can finally ask, “What do we do now?”
“I’ll talk to the Lady Sophia. Perhaps we can cancel this damned tournament at last,” Francis says. Would you come with me? Francis wonders. Instead he says, “Go change into something else, James. I’ll find you, or send Jopson for you if I need you.”
James nods and rises slowly, brushing the dust from his knees. “All right,” he agrees. They walk back to the castle together, breaking apart when Francis takes the turn for the solarium stairs and James continues on straight.
Lady Sophia is still there, directing the servants in cleaning the mess.
“Francis,” she says, beckoning him to come in, “did you find him?”
Francis shakes his head. “My condolences, Lady Sophia,” he says. “Perhaps now we might speak about canceling what remains of this tourney?”
Sophia, to her credit, considers. “What do you think the motive for the murders is, Francis?”
“A day ago I would have said winning the tournament,” Francis says. “Now, I’m not so sure.”
After a moment, Sophia nods. “I believe we should continue. Your strongest suspect, as I understand it, is either Sir Tozer or his squire. If we cancel the tournament, they can get away and try the same at a new tournament in a place less well prepared—and without you, Francis, to investigate.”
Francis wants to protest, but also sees the logic.
“Take part as normal. Tell anyone who asks Sir John is indisposed. Lady Jane shall stay away, but I’ll come down and take up the ceremonial duties. Do your best to stop this all. Today.”
“I don’t like it, milady,” Francis says, “but I see your point. If we’re to participate as planned, I need to leave now. Send word to Jopson if you hear anything useful.”
“And you do the same,” Sophia says. Francis agrees.
*
All day, Tozer wins every match, every bout. He comes from behind, he dominates the entire fight, whatever the odds, he wins. Francis has two matches against him today—wrestling and jousting. James is also winning all his bouts, despite how shaken he’d been that morning. Francis loses in the joust, and decides he doesn’t care. Tournaments, jousting, it’s all a young man’s game, and Francis is nearly a decade too old for the traveling circuits. He used to love the excitement, but now he’s just tired in a way that aches to the bone.
James wins yet again, beating Edward Little in the joust handily.
Now, Francis squares up against Tozer in the wrestling ring. To his surprise, the spell amulet isn’t tucked under Tozer’s shirt but hanging free. Francis could get it off him, if he can get close enough to it, and assuming Tozer doesn’t simply bowl him down at the first grapple.
They come together with a grunt, and Francis misses the amulet as he gets his arms around Tozer but he manages to stay upright, and does his best to throw him. They strain against one another, Tozer growling in Francis’ ear as they grapple. Francis isn’t surprised when Tozer throws him to the ground. He is surprised at how hard the fall is, and how long it takes to get his wind back.
Despite that, Francis rolls back onto his feet before his time runs out, charging at Tozer with a shout.
“You can’t beat me, Francis,” Tozer grunts. “I need this, and you don’t.”
“You’re cheating,” Francis huffs, and shoulders Tozer back several feet. “And you or someone near you is killing people.”
“That’s not me,” Tozer denies. “We aren’t killing anyone.”
“Then how do you explain the deaths?” Francis lets himself be pushed back toward the edge of the ring, then twists and pushes Tozer toward the line. “How do you explain what happened to Thomas Blanky?”
“He wasn’t supposed to get hurt,” Tozer growls. “No one was supposed to die! That shouldn’t be happening. I told him--”
“But it is,” Francis interrupts, driving his shoulder into Tozer’s chest and knocking him back. “It is, and you’re well aware of who’s behind it all.”
As Tozer rushes at him with a shout, Francis crouches, waits, and twists, grabbing at the amulet and yanking.
It comes away from Tozer, who immediately stumbles, falls, and comes to a stop with one hand outside the ring. Francis gasps in relief, and holds the amulet above his head.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Solomon Tozer has been using dark magic to win this tournament,” Francis shouts, holding the amulet over his head. “Fitzjames, gather a few trusted men and search his tent and his room in the castle. Whoever his accomplice is cannot be allowed to escape! That person has been responsible for the deaths and accidents that have plagued us this week!”
James, who has been watching from the back of the crowd, grabs Jopson and his own man, Bridgens, and gives them instructions as Francis watches. The crowd around them grows annoyed, nearing hostile.
“Sir Edward—Edward Little! Take this man and have him locked in the castle dungeons. What he knows or does not know will determine his ultimate fate, not this crowd,” Francis shouts.
“Yes, sir!” Edward agrees, and takes the dazed Tozer by the arm.
“You, Heather! Run and fetch Lady Sophia from the castle. She’ll want to know about this.”
“Not Sir John, sir?” Heather asks.
“Sir John, I believe, is the most recent victim,” Francis admits, voice low. “Hurry, now.”
Heather nods, and heads for the castle. As he’s walking, he stumbles, clutching his head in pain and confusion.
The explosion happens with no noise, no signal. Heather’s head simply vaporizes, leaving nothing but red mist and an obscenely untouched body.
Someone screams, and Francis thinks it might be Tozer. Instead of trying to deal with the new carnage, he takes off running toward the competitor’s tents. He arrives to Tozer’s tent to see James prone on the ground, Bridgens attending to him, and Jopson and Tozer’s squire, Hickey, in the middle of a fight, rolling on the ground and growling at each other.
With a roar, Jopson drives his elbow into Hickey’s throat, making the smaller man choke and gasp, an ugly gurgle coming from his mouth before he manages to cough and suck in a breath. It’s too late for Hickey, though. Jopson is up, standing with his foot on Hickey’s chest.
“I told you,” he says, grinning ferally and wiping blood from his mouth. “I’ve felled bigger hawks than you, Cornelius.”
Hickey catches sight of Francis, and spits toward him. “You can’t destroy me—not while that amulet still exists!” he says.
“Easy enough to fix,” Francis says, and crushes the amulet in his hand.
“No, wait!” Jopson shouts, and at the same time a surge of magic rises around them, coalescing in front of Hickey. There’s a scent of blood and sulfur in the air, clogging Francis’ throat and making his eyes water.
Hickey laughs, a weird sound that seems almost inhuman. He lurches up, easily tossing Jopson aside. “Fools. I’d thought you were a worthy opponent, Sir Francis. How disappointing.”
Francis can’t answer, the foul scent too much. With a choking gasp, he remembers the hedgewitch. Hickey turns and strides away, his body seeming to glow with the power the amulet unleashed. “Wait!” Francis coughs, stumbling forward to try and get out of range of the spell’s stench. Perhaps he can beat Hickey at his own game. “Wait, whatever you do, don’t go toward the forest! There’s a great beast who stalks there!”
He can see Hickey decide that he’ll do exactly that, the defiance changing his posture. There’s a moment’s hesitation as Hickey gauges whether Francis will chase after him, then he’s sprinting for the forest’s border. As he hits the treeline, a huge, white shape appears.
The hulking form is somehow blurred, so that Francis can’t quite understand what it is he’s looking at. It’s also huge, the shape reaching up past the lowest branches of the trees.
Hickey runs toward it, still laughing. “Are you here for me?” he whoops.
He’s in range before he even registers that the creature isn’t friendly. One large paw comes down, and that’s all it takes. Hickey is dead before he even hits the ground. The giant shape scoops up what remains of the man and carries him back into the forest, leaving only the slim shape of the hedgewitch. Solemnly, she nods to Francis, then returns to the forest after her familiar.
Francis has the distinct feeling he won’t see her or the beast again.
*
James is quite put out he was unconscious for the appearance of the monster. After Francis fills him in, the four of them limp back toward the castle. As they go, the spectators and other knights fall in step with them, eager to understand what on earth they’d just seen. Sophia meets them at the gates.
“The tournament is finished,” she announces. “As one of the contestants was found to be cheating, and in light of the murders of several knights and our own dear Sir John, no prize money shall be awarded. Instead, the prize money will be given to the families.”
There’s a half-hearted cheer at that, and the little crowd begins to break up when no further information is forthcoming.
“What’s to happen to Tozer, then?” Francis asks.
“He’ll be imprisoned here until he can be transported to one of the penal colonies,” Sophia says. “As dreadful as his actions were, I believe he truly didn’t know that deaths would be the result.”
Francis nods. “For the best, I’m sure,” he says. Personally, he suspects if Tozer goes anywhere near the forest a similar fate to Hickey waits for him, but perhaps he’ll get lucky. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Actually,” she says, “I was hoping you could distribute the prize money to the families of Heather, Gore, and Fairholme? I trust you not to dip into the funds, and I can provide some money for tolls and room and board at roadside inns.”
“I would be honored, milady,” Francis agrees. From the corner of his eye, he sees James, hands fluttering nervously. “I wonder if I might beg company from Fitzjames? He was quite invaluable to my investigations, and would help me to clear up questions the families might have.”
Sophia nods. “Of course. I’ll see to the arrangements. You can leave the day after tomorrow, if you like?”
“That will do nicely,” Francis agrees. “James?”
“Indeed,” James nods. “I too would be honored.”
“Very well,” Sophia says. “I must comfort Lady Jane, but do not hesitate to ask if there is anything my servants can help you with.”
*
“So,” James asks, as they sit together in front of the small fireplace in Francis’ bedroom, squeezed onto the single chair together. “Once we’ve delivered the money and the sad news, what are your plans for the future?”
“Retirement,” Francis says. “Somewhere calm and away from both kings and tourneys.”
“Oh,” James says, sounding disappointed.
“Why?” Francis asks. “Did you have something else in mind?’
“I thought perhaps you might take on a role as my—my—oh I don’t know what to call it. But help me, show me your wrestling tricks? Teach me how you managed to fall off a horse without getting hurt? That sort of thing. Of course, that would bring you near tourneys and kings . . .”
“Well,” Francis says, pretending to consider, “perhaps I could be persuaded.”