Page 47 of The Cornish Princess
However, whenever this was done, it was done under the strictest of supervision, by men who would die to defend them, and well they could if they ever turned a blind eye to a turn of the hand, because it was also those same guards who would be the tasters.
As it was, now that Gwendolyn was older and drinking the same brew her parents consumed, even the smallest dose to one who did not possess their resilience was lethal. Therefore, she hadn’t any clue why Bryok would have any interest in hemlock.
And neither was his wife manic.
“Well?” asked the King, his voice rising with interest. “Is there?”
“An application for mania?” The physician lifted a shoulder. “Betimes,” he said. “Betimes. With great care, as you must imagine. For any such medicinals, these plants must be harvested quite late. And yet, come to think of it, if he ingested hemlock, this might account for his inability to respond to…” He gestured roundly at the mutilated body. “This… hideousness.”
“Are you saying he could have been alive?”
The physician nodded gravely. “’Tis possible,” he said, and everyone’s faces twisted grotesquely, as they no doubt imagined such a horror.
“And yet, the lack of blood makes me feel he must have already been dead long hours before the wolves discovered him. Perhaps the dose was intentional?”
It was true. There wasn’t much blood—at least not on the tarpaulin—even though his wounds were gaping. The thought of this man lying insensate through such a mauling was horrific.
“Intentional?” Her father lifted both brows. He waved a hand at Alderman Aelwin, at the blood-stained weapon he was still holding. “I don’t understand. If the hammer did not kill him, why is it stained with his blood? Indeed, why should anyone bother to beat a man if he’s already dead?”
Once again, the physician tugged at his beard. “Majesty, ’tis impossible to say who, or what, killed this man. There is no device known to us—aside from a scrying stone—that can accurately reveal such things, and we have not known a good seer in an age.
“To make matters worse,” he continued, seeming to forget himself as he rolled the body over with his boot, inspecting him further.
With his staff, he brushed aside a lock of the First Alderman’s bloodied head, then probed the wound with the pointy end of his staff. But it didn’t bleed, merely oozed, and Gwendolyn felt bile rise at the back of her throat.
“Yes, yes… just as I suspected, there will be no cruentation for this poor soul, lest you find what wolves have mauled him.” To prove his point, he handed his staff to Alderman Eirwyn and bade Eirwyn to provoke the wound. Reluctant though he was, the Mester Alderman did as he was asked, tapping the end of the physician’s staff against the back of Bryok’s head. Gwendolyn covered her mouth but refrained from turning her head.
The discussion over cruentation was fascinating. Known as the ordeal of the bier, Gwendolyn wasn’t entirely familiar with how it worked, but it was a supernatural method of finding evidence against a suspected murderer. The opinion was that the body of a victim would bleed in the presence of his murderer.
“That is enough,” said her father, lifting his hand in front of his face. “Get this man to the chamberlain and give him a proper rest!”
At once, the same three servants who’d hauled in the Alderman now leapt forward to roll him back up into the tarpaulin, before whisking him away.
Regrettably, they could not take the horrid scent, nor the memory of his oozing wounds. Gwendolyn placed the back of her hand to her nostrils as she continued to listen.
“What I believe is that he must have died during last night’s Promise Ceremony,” concluded Alderman Eirwyn.
“Is there anyone unaccounted for during this time?” asked her sire.
It was Yestin who answered. “I do not know, Majesty, but I will inquire at once.”
“See you do,” demanded her father.
The Mester Alderman returned the staff and cleared his throat. “Majesty, I am certainallofmyaldermen were accounted for yestereve,” he said. “This must have happened after Bryok’s shift.”
“All were accounted for?” asked the King, with a note of reproach to his voice.
“Except Bryok,” allowed the Mester Alderman, red-faced.
“Was he supposed to have been on duty?” asked her father, with narrowed eyes.
“No, Majesty,” said Eirwyn. “He was not. Although he may have intended to join the celebration for a while, it was his time to change his schedule and he was supposed to have taken a shift at first light. Thus, he was apprised not to imbibe.”
“I see,” said the King. “And was he inclined to drink?”
“Alas, Majesty, I do not know him well enough to say,” interjected Alderman Aelwin.
“And his wife?”
