“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