Firebrand

The next morning, nobody brought the travellers breakfast. Instead, Martel and Eleanor ate some of their rations while discussing their next step. “I’ll need to talk to the priestess. Assuming she’s innocent, maybe she can clear up what the yeoman had in his jars and whether it killed him.”

“Do you require me to be present for that? I have a rabbit I need to skin and butcher before it starts to rot.”

“I can handle the questioning.” Martel tried not to feel like an inquisitor as the words left his mouth. “I need you to catch me an animal.”

“I have a dead rabbit you can have.”

“No, it has to be alive.”

She frowned. “That is a tougher request. I suppose the challenge will be interesting. Very well.” She leaned forward and gave him a kiss. “Enjoy playing the magistrate while I run ragged in the forest.”

While his companion went into the woods, Martel went over and knocked on the door to the shrine. The priestess opened soon after. “I was expecting you.”

He hefted the jars in his hands, one sealed by goat hide, the other by a cowskin. “What’s in these?”

She pointed at the first one. “That’s the remedy I made for Master Harold. When his heart gave him trouble, it would calm him down.” That was the empty pot, which made sense. On the fateful night, the yeoman must have felt his heart beating wildly and drunk his medicine; not that it had saved him. “The other?”

“I made that for his wife.”

“For what purpose?”

Sister Catherine pursed her lips. “That’s her business.”

“A man is dead, sister.”

“Not from drinking any of my remedies, whether for husband or wife. I swear that by Sol and Luna,” she declared.

A strong statement, but if she had already broken her vow never to do harm, Martel did not have much faith in this oath either. He could try to pressure the priestess further, but it would be better to have some manner of proof; he would wait until Eleanor returned. “Very well.”

Martel had barely stepped away before the door opened again; the yeoman’s wife slipped out, closing the door behind her. “Master mage,” she spoke with the voice of a mouse.

“Yes?”

“I don’t want you to think less of Sister Catherine for keeping my secrets. She’s a truly good person, who’s sheltered me for many fivedays now. She’s not hiding the truth because she has anything to hide – she’s just protective of me.”

Martel looked at the small woman, who seemed breathless, as if out of practice with speaking to others. Her face and demeanour matched her voice; given the bruise she currently wore, Martel wondered if the good sister’s protective instincts reached far enough to commit murder. “So what’s in the jar she made for you?” ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ novel·fire·net

The wife looked down at her feet. “She makes it for women who don’t want to become pregnant. My husband was upset at that – that’s probably why he brought it here, to confront her about it. But Sister Catherine would never harm anyone, she’s sworn a holy vow!”

“So I hear.” Martel gave her a scrutinising look. “Why are you in the village? Why take shelter with the sister?”

“Matters are – were not so good between me and Harold. He had a temper. Sometimes, I found it wisest to remove myself from the house until he had calmed down.”

He raised an eyebrow. “It took him several fivedays to calm down?”

She shifted her weight from one leg to another. “He showed up here some days ago, trying to drag me back. Yelled at Sister Catherine about making the remedy for me. He only gave up because I was able to run to the shrine and seek refuge by the altar.”

Martel figured that was when she had acquired the bruise. A picture was slowly forming before his inner mind, but he still felt uncertain; he would wait for Eleanor until he could gain more knowledge. “Thanks for telling me.”

She bowed her head almost into her chest. “Of course, master mage.”

Eleanor returned carrying a weasel by its hind legs. Hanging upside down had made the creature docile; it made no sound as she walked into the village with her prize.

“Throw it in here,” Martel told her. He had emptied a barrel of rainwater; between the well and the snow, the villagers were hardly likely to lack water anytime soon. Eleanor did as he suggested, giving him a curious look as he hauled the barrel, including the weasel, into the village hall.

“What exactly do you intend?” she asked, following him.

“Close the door.” Martel preferred no witnesses until he knew the result of his experiment, and the people had all stared curiously at Eleanor striding in with her captive.

“If I do so, will you tell me what is going on?”

With the door shut, Martel took out the empty jar with its goat hide sealing it. Although mostly bereft of its contents, a few drops remained in the bottom. Martel poured some water into a pot and swirled it around, letting the contents mingle until he had enough for a small sip.

“Will that not simply dilute it?”

“A little. But if it contained poison strong enough to kill a man of the yeoman’s size, even diluted it’ll make short work of your little friend.” Martel summoned his shield; no longer hanging upside down, the weasel had come alive and hissed, barring its teeth as Martel stuck a hand down into the barrel. He grabbed it by the neck and pulled it up before pouring the liquid in the jar into its mouth. The potential poison administered, Martel placed the creature back into its improvised cage.

Eleanor stared down into the barrel. “How long do we wait?”

“A poison that could kill so fast… probably not long.”

She sat down on a bench. “Alright. Did you learn anything interesting?”

“Not much. I questioned the villagers. None had anything good to say about the departed Master Harold. Everyone had quarrels with him, even the alderman and his wife.”

“Plenty of suspects.”

“Indeed.” Martel looked down at the weasel. Seeing him, it immediately showed fangs. “Well, the priestess didn’t kill him. At least not this way.”

“So… we have no proof that he was actually poisoned? He drank his remedy for his heart, but it was not sufficient to save his life,” Eleanor speculated. “You saw the discolouring of his tongue from the medicine meant to help him rather than any nefarious poison.”

Martel scratched the back of his head. “I suppose, except foxglove shouldn’t leave discolouration.” He looked at the jars, one of them open and empty. A thought occurred to him, and he unsealed the other.

“Why are you doing that?”

“We might as well gather what knowledge we can.” Summoning his shield again, Martel grabbed the weasel once more and fed it some drops from the remaining pot before releasing the animal again.

“But nobody has touched that. Why would you check whether it is poisonous?”

“It seemed prudent before I taste it myself.” Martel watched the angry critter in the barrel, still very much alive. “Alright. In case this is the only poison that only harms humans but not weasels, I’ll see you before the throne of Sol.” Steeling himself for just a moment, Martel took a small sip from the jar.

Eleanor stared at him. “You are a tad too comfortable drinking liquids belonging to a poisoned man.”

Martel shrugged. “The weasel is fine. As am I.”

She reached out and grabbed his arm. “This is not a jest. Do not be so callous.”

“Alright. I won’t be. I’m sorry. But it was a near certainty I’d be unharmed.”

“‘Near certainty’ is not good enough for me,” she muttered.

“You’re right. I won’t do such a reckless thing again.”

“Fine. Did you at least learn something?”

Martel licked his lips; the taste of foxglove lay on his tongue. “I think I know what happened, yes. Give me a moment to put it together.” He looked at the empty jars, sealed by different types of animal hides. The string that bound each skin to the pot. Each holding a remedy but for much different purposes. “Right. I think we can call the villagers together.”