I took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from my eyes. Gillian said quietly, “This conduct does merit an explanation, Mr. LaCrosse.”
“And it’ll get one,” I said, “as soon as all the players are here.” By now Medraft would know someone had broken through his lines bearing a coffin, and he’d have to come check it out. Then I could finish this.
A hand the size of a dinner plate grabbed my shoulder and spun me around, and again I found myself face- to-chest with Marcus Drake. He glared down at me like a storm cloud about to spit forth lightning. “I really don’t have the time or the patience for showboating today, Mr. LaCrosse. I’m facing an insurrection.”
I slapped his hand away. “You better have time for it.” I stood on tiptoe, leaned close, and spoke so softly only he could hear. “I know about Kindermord.”
Even in the tent’s dim light I saw him turn red, then white. He stepped away from me without a word.
Jennifer put one hand gingerly on the coffin. The manacle chain scraped lightly against the wood. “Is Elliot in there?” she asked me, her voice shaking. “Is that what you told Marc? Please, I have to know.”
“Not unless we cut him off at the knees to make him fit,” I said. It was cruel, but I was out of patience.
One of the knights standing guard called, “Someone’s coming, sire!”
Kay peeked outside. “Medraft,” he spat.
Cheers from the direction of the mercenaries grew louder. Armored horses approached and rattled to a halt outside. The tent flap was flung aside and two mercenaries entered, their eyes darting around to scope out any threat. They wore reasonably clean clothes and their hair was slicked down and neatly parted, like children forced to attend a civic function. It didn’t make them look any friendlier.
They stepped to either side of the opening. One held the flap while the other gestured for someone outside to enter.
It was “Dread Ted” Medraft. He wore his Double Tarn knight show armor and stood stiff and proud. A boy carried the end of his bloodred cape so it wouldn’t drag on the ground. Two more spit-polished mercenaries followed him in; the four soldiers took up positions at each of the corners.
Medraft frowned a bit at the coffin, but only momentarily. “Queen Jennifer, Sir Thomas,” he said coolly. His gaze finally settled on Marcus. “King Marcus.” No bowing or kneeling, not even a nod. “Or rather, Uncle Marc.”
Marcus said nothing. Gillian stepped between the two men and said, “General Medraft, you’re a traitor to your kingdom, and possibly to me. I challenge you to defend yourself.”
He swung a glove to slap the younger man, but Medraft blocked it with his forearm. “Don’t be an idiot, Tommy. I don’t know for sure if I’m your bastard or not, but this is not between you and I. It’s about our lovely queen, and her attempted murder of one of our fellow knights. I’m here to see a trial by combat. Now where, I wonder, is the queen’s champion?”
“Not so fast,” I said, loud enough to get everyone’s attention. This was the crowd I’d been waiting for. “Before anybody challenges anybody to anything, I have a story to tell you. You all know pieces of it, but only one person here knows it all.”
“You, I suppose,” Queen Jennifer said scornfully.
“Actually, no. But someone here does.”
Then I spun, pulled my sword, and grabbed the boy who’d been holding Medraft’s cape. I yanked him into the open, kicked his feet out from under him, and put the tip of my sword beneath his chin. I bent back his wrist to immobilize him. He lay still, flat on his back.
In drawing my sword I’d inadvertently slashed the tent’s roof. A shaft of sunlight fell on the boy’s face. I saw no fear, only rage and frustration.
“I think,” I said coolly, “you should introduce yourself.”
THIRTY-ONE
The tavern had grown chilly as I told my story. No one had stoked the fire, and it had died to almost nothing. My mouth was dry from all the talking, and my winter-chapped lips were starting to crack. I picked up my mug.
The crowd leaned in closer as if I might whisper the next part of the story. In the dead silence I heard the wind whistling outside. I’d never had so many eager faces turned my way, and it was kind of funny. The last of my ale bit at the raw spots on my lips, but it felt great going down my parched throat.
“And?” Gary finally prompted. I could see his breath.
“Yeah,” Sharky added. “Who was the boy? Is he Kindermord?”
I held up my hand. “I’ll get to it.”
The room groaned its collective disapproval. Even Liz rolled her eyes. I winked at her and grinned. “Somebody better get the fire going again before we all freeze to death,” I added.
“So did you know then who did it, Mr. LaCrosse?” Sharky’s daughter Minnow asked.
“Who did what?” said Emmett the fur trader. “Is this still about that knight who died?”
“That’s the thing, it never really was,” I assured him. “And I didn’t know everything, but I knew most of it. By the time I got to the tent, I knew who did it, and why, and how. Although there was still one big surprise left.”
“What was the secret Kern told you?” asked Mrs. Talbot, my landlady. She knitted winter tunics on the side, and her current project had grown considerably since I started my story.
“How did Marcus and Medraft really die?” Drucker the gambler demanded. “I mean, I know they did die that day, all the songs say so. Right?”
“And who is Kindermord?” Sharky said, sticking tenaciously to his question.
“I’ll get to it all, I promise.” Angelina put my fresh drink down on the counter so hard a third of it bounced up and splattered the wood. I picked it up and sipped it before adding, “So… has anyone figured it out yet?”
“Figured out what?” Gary demanded.
“Would it help if I told you I already met both the murderer of Sam Patrice and the mastermind of everything else before I left Nodlon Castle to go to Blithe Ward?” I said.
“What?” Callie said. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Because I didn’t know it myself at the time.”
“The ballads all say it was Ted Medraft,” she insisted. “He killed Marcus because he couldn’t have Jennifer, but Marcus gave him a moral blow before he died.”
“You mean a mortal blow, honey,” Liz gently corrected.
“ I bet it was that girl Iris,” Angelina said.
“No, I will say that,” I said, unable to keep the sadness from my voice. “It wasn’t Iris.”
“What gave it away?” Ralph demanded.
“The one absolutely impossible thing that happened,” I said.
“Finding two identical Jennifers?” Gary guessed.
“No. That was unlikely, but it wasn’t impossible.”
Liz snapped her fingers and said, “Your hand healing so fast?”
“No. Although that was a clue. But it wasn’t impossible.”
“That stupid Lord Huckleberry thing actually working?” Angelina said.
I laughed. “I can see why you’d think so, but no.”
Their eager faces now looked blank, and they exchanged puzzled glances.
“So the woman you called Dark Jenny is who’s in the coffin outside,” Angelina said without her usual disdain. Even she was now caught up in my story.
“No, don’t jump ahead of me.” I stood to stretch, and hands grabbed me to hold me in place, along with cries of protest.
“Hey, hey,” Liz said, slapping the hands away. “Don’t be rude, now. He’ll finish it.” She smiled at me the way a crocodile smiles at a calf drinking from the river. “Or at least he will if he knows what’s good for him.”
“I will, I promise. I just need to go upstairs for a minute and look at my notes again. This was complicated, and I want to make sure I get it all correct. It’ll give everyone a chance to get fresh drinks. Not on me this time, though.”
They grudgingly parted to let me visit my office. This time Liz followed, and I didn’t protest. She closed the outer door after I lit the lamp and said, “You don’t need to check your notes.”
