The Murderer's Tale by Murderer's Tale The

Author:Murderer's Tale The [The, Murderer's Tale]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Nothing but his intent and his necessity. And for both of those he had will enough to see him through what little had to be done. He realized he was smiling to himself in the darkness and moved cat-footed toward the stairs up to the chapel.

He made no betraying sound as he went. He had taken time that afternoon, when there was no one to notice him, to ascend and descend the stairs twice, to count them and how many paces it was from their head to the chapel door on the likelihood it would be shut, leaving him no light to go by.

He had been right about that, he found. He ascended into darkness, but, sure of his going, paused only at the head of the stairs to listen to the slight smother of laughter from behind the door of the priest’s room. It lay to his right, opposite the chapel, and the lamplight at its bottom and low voices from inside meant the two priests—Sire Benedict and the nuns’ large oaf—were sitting up late, probably over wafers and wine of a better sort than what they gave at the altar. Priests did well for themselves, and house priests better than most, though if he had been reduced to priesthood, his choice would have been to be a nunnery’s priest, with easy living and a plenitude of women to hand.

He silently laughed at himself, standing there thinking about women and priests, for Christ’s sake, when he had something better than either to deal with just now.

The chapel door gave to his careful push. He eased in, paused to be sure he was not heeded and that Lionel and Martyn were exactly as he had expected them to be, kneeling at the altar, their backs to him, then closed the door without sound and slid along the wall into the nearest corner’s deep shadows.

Lionel was nearer to the altar, Martyn a little behind him and to his left. Lionel’s knees must be callused by now from all his useless praying. And Martyn? Giles grinned to himself. Whatever Martyn had, he was sure to go straight to hell for his hours spent in this pretense of prayer and for his fawning on a damned man. Straight to hell.

Even from where he stood, Giles saw the difference in Lionel’s stillness when it came as utterly as if life had gone out of him. In the same moment Martyn raised his head, and in the next, as Lionel’s body shuddered and his head jerked back, then forward, Martyn was on his feet, taking hold of him, but he could not stop the wild twist of Lionel’s body. It crashed them both to the floor and only Martyn’s hand ready under Lionel’s head saved his skull from a bruising blow. Martyn scrambled into balance on his knees again, not letting go of Lionel, but, mind gone and body thrashing, Lionel writhed and grunted, his legs and arms battering the floor, his head flinging from side to side.

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