The Malevolent Tree

Blood Will Tell

Within the hour, the great hall was crowded with more knights and retainers than had attended the midday meal. Tavish stood in the center, jaw stiff as sweat dripped down the back of his neck. When the iron-studded oak door leading up from the basement rasped open, he nearly jumped.

The marshal scanned the room then motioned an underling to bring the half-dozen accused peasants into the room. At Prince Osgar's insistence, they'd been waiting in the dungeon since morning. Their hands were tied to the same long rope, so it took only one guard at the front and one at the rear to lead the moaning, quaking group into Lord Cullen's presence.

The young master rose from his chair. "Do we have the sickles?"

Another guard slid a heavy sack off his shoulder, untied the knot at the sack's neck and dumped out a clattering mass of farming implements.

Tavish shot Leith a nervous glance. She flashed him a quick smile.

Raising his chin, Tavish strode slowly toward the prisoners. The more fanfare he put into his wizard role, the more credence his conclusions would be given. He stopped halfway between the high table and the pile of possible murder weapons. "Lay them side-by-side."

Cullen nodded agreement, and his men began arranging the sickles.

"Make sure they're not touching," Tavish added. As he watched his conditions being met, his self-assurance sank. That none showed signs of blood was as he'd expected, but that all were soiled with mud and scraps of oat stalks was not. Had the murderer cunningly covered his tracks by resuming harvesting after attacking Hextilda? Or was the murder weapon not here?

Tavish had two options. He could explain the experiment he was about to perform. Everyone was familiar with flies and their attraction to icky things. He wouldn't have to go into details about the breakdown of red cells releasing unseen chemicals that flies could smell for those present to understand. If his exercise failed, they'd shrug. If it worked, they'd praise his good idea.

His other option was to put on even more of a wizard show than he had so far. If he succeeded, even Prince Osgar dare not speak against him. When Princess Agneta arrived, Tavish would introduce himself to her as a fellow practitioner of magic. In exchange for her knowledge of parallel dimensions, he would describe to her the wonders of the microscopic world.

But if his hocus-pocus failed, he'd be exposed as a fraud. He might get kicked out of the castle. Life was stingy with second chances—his life, anyway. No second chance when he'd lost his kid's show science gig so many years ago. So far, no second chance with his estranged wife. The smart thing would be not to raise expectations higher than he was willing to fall.

Tavish glanced at Leith. When she mouthed go on, he took a deep breath. To hell with the smart thing. 

"Milord, let us begin." Tavish took three ponderous steps toward the six sickles. He raised the jar of flies high above his head—just because. When his audience murmured, he shouted, "Silence! My minions must concentrate." 

Setting the clay pot on the floor, Tavish undid the bow that kept the twine in place. Careful not to dislodge the cheesecloth, he stepped back. Mentally, he ran through the repertoire of chants he'd wowed fairyland with in the past and chose his favorite.

"Dumbarton! Celtic! Heart of Midlothian! St. Bernard's! Rangers! Hibernian! Dundee! Third Lanark!" Memorizing the winning Scottish football clubs to impress his dad had earned many Saturday matinees when Tavish was a lad. Sometimes the periodic table of elements tripped him up in class lectures. He never forgot the names of Scotland's finest.

"Airdrieonians! Falkirk! Aberdeen!" He glanced around. Even the most hulking of the knights was staring at him with a mixture of fear and wonder. Abruptly, he leaned forward, swept aside the cheesecloth and tipped the jar, aiming the mouth at the row of sickles. One fly crawled to the lip then flew toward the ceiling. The rest followed.

Tavish's confidence plummeted. The flies were heading towards the high windows. Would light prove more enticing than decaying blood cells?

Then three flies lit on the second sickle from the left. Soon, more joined them. Within seconds, enough flies were strutting up and down the blade for Tavish to let out a heartfelt whoop.

He pointed to the mini-swarm. "The spirits of death cannot be fooled. There is your murder weapon."

Osgar's mouth hung open.

Cullen leaned forward. "Whose sickle is that?"

The peasants quaked. Then the youngest moaned. The man on either side pulled as far back as they could. In a whisper loud enough to be heard throughout the hall, the old man tied to the end of the rope blurted out, "Jock! That sickle is yours!"

Okay, Tavish thought. Now we have a reasonable suspect to question. If he's guilty, a stern glance will make him confess. If he's not, then he'll know who had access to his weapon.

Just as Tavish was about to step forward, Osgar shrieked, "Villain! You butchered my aunt!"

Grabbing his broadsword from beside his chair, the prince charged. 

Tavish fled to the opposite side of the trestle table. Looking back, he saw Jock stand frozen until the sword cracked down on his skull. Blood spurted onto Osgar's face and on everyone within ten feet. Tavish clapped his hands over his mouth as the doomed man writhed from side to side. A stray sword swipe cut the rope. The rest of the burly farmers yelped and scrabbled away. With room to operate, the prince slashed Jock's arms. The doomed man collapsed to his knees and toppled forward. Within seconds, the spray of blood weakened to a flow that spread through the rush matting under him.

Tavish stared. What have I done?

Falling upon his lifeless victim, Osgar hacked at the bloody mess that used to be a neck. Bone and sinew snapped. At last, grasping the head by the tangled, bloody hair, he held it aloft.

"Behold! Does Prince Osgar not exact justice for his kith and kin?"

His four brawny bodyguards raised their fists in the air and cheered as if they'd witnessed a winning field goal. "Osgar! Osgar! Osgar!"

Tavish gripped the edge of the table, willing himself not to be sick. When he peered sideways at Lord Cullen, he was relieved to see a look of horror. Darting his gaze around the great hall, Tavish was less pleased to see awe and admiration among some of the knights. The ill effects of today's brutality would last long after the Osgar and his leeches left the castle.

The prince strutted around the center of the great hall with the dripping head. Tavish averted his gaze.

Leith still stood at the back of the room. He hurried to her and squeezed her shoulder. "You should go. This is no place for—"

"A lady?" Leith's voice was low. "I'm nothing of the sort.""

Tavish dropped his hand.

"Ulf! Come!" The prince presented the head to his hulking giant of a second-in-command. "This is my standard. Place it above the gate. May it fly for the rest of my sojourn here."

Cullen grimaced. "And how—how long will that be?"

"The funeral can take place the day after Aunt Agneta arrives. Then we must sit in mourning—a fortnight at least."

Cullen passed a hand over his forehead.

Tavish's chin dropped to his chest. Two long weeks of catering to Prince Osgar's whims to avoid his temper. But at least he'd have time to learn Princess Agneta's magic—the magic he needed to get back home where justice was not wreaked at the end of a broadsword.