Justice for the Damned (13 page)

Upon
first awakening, he had kept his eyes tightly shut while images from the
previous evening danced through his mind with the mocking gracelessness of
gangly imps. When he dared to squint at the sky, the sun's angle confirmed his
suspicion that he had missed several of the Offices. Briefly he considered
whether he might still join the other monastics for Sext if he hurried, but the
contents of his stomach pitched into his throat when he rose. Easing back down
on his hard bed, he closed his eyes and decided a quiet musing on his
transgressions might be wiser than running off to prayer. He would fast today
in expiation for his wrongdoings.

The
wine drunk last night was a small enough sin. When he had shed his monastic
robes and grown a beard to solve a problem in York last year, his thin-lipped
spy master had ordered but one full day of prayer for any sins he might have
committed on God's behalf. His cause last night was a godly one as well, and he
might even claim that visiting a place so full of tempting worldly pleasures
was a worthy test for his soul. Robert of Arbrissel, Fontevraud's founder, would
surely have approved the attempt.

Nor
had he merely indulged frail mortal curiosity when he listened to Master
Bernard's tales of Amesbury and the people who lived there. Fortunately, he had
remained sober enough in Bernard's company to remember the details of what he
was told. If nothing suggested anything of true merit now, it might later as he
thought more on the stories with a sober mind. One conclusion had become
apparent. If there were no strangers who had spent any time here or shown any
specific interest in the priory, the source of the proposed theft must be
local.

And
what of the ghost? He could be truthful enough about his failure to find Queen
Elfrida's spirit innocent of this most recent murder, but Prioress Eleanor
might see something of note in the villagers' belief that demons hid amongst
the stones on Salisbury Plain. She often saw things he could not, although time
and again she generously asked for his observations.

Thomas
rubbed at the grit in his eyes. His prioress was a rarity amongst women, a sex
many claimed was plagued by illogic and uncontrolled lust, yet the power of her
reason was surpassed by few, in his opinion, and only when she was angry had he
seen her gray eyes turn hot like glowing ash.

"In
this last, she is a better man than I," he muttered. He envied her ability
to stand apart from the sins common to most of Adam's progeny and maintain the
masculine balance in her humors while others suffered from their frailties,
joyfully selling their souls in exchange for relief from the relentless agony
of such weaknesses as lust. "I have not yet made a bargain with the Devil,
but I understand why some do," he groaned.

This
morning, when Thomas had risen from his grass bed, he had gone to the river and
washed himself. Had he not rinsed away the sweat of the night, he could not
have faced either Sister Anne or Sister Beatrice, both of whom had bedded men
often enough in their youth. He might explain the sourness of wine on his
breath, but he could not so easily dismiss the unchaste smell of sex. Therein
lay his greatest sin, the least forgivable one, from his evening at the inn.

While
the other monks of Amesbury had been singing the Morning Office, Thomas had
been deep in dreams. In the past, when Satan's incubus came to seduce him in
his sleep, it had always donned the shape of Giles. The caresses Thomas
exchanged with that image of his boyhood friend were founded in honorable love,
so when his flesh hardened, Thomas cursed the Lord of Fiends and did not
condemn himself in the morning for any greater wickedness than a common failing
of a man's sex.

Last
night, however, the Devil had introduced a disquieting variation in his cruel
sport. The incubus who drew the monk into his arms may have worn the body of
Giles, but the face was that of Sayer. When Thomas awakened, bursting out of
this dream with a rare orgasmic joy, he had lain on the ground, grateful for
the physical release of dammed-up seed but terrified by feelings he did not
understand.

Why
had he been cursed with this strange new affliction? Were his lonely walks
through the dark silence of the monk's cloister, when his sleepless nights gave
fetid birth to his black humors, not penance enough for the one act of sodomy
he had committed with Giles?

Other
monks, when they suffered similar dark longings, took the flail to their backs
to keep their souls from falling into Hell. That he knew. Some fasted until
their manhood was too weak to sin. Nothing, however, had ever spared Thomas
from his dreams, even when he was in prison, after he was raped, and when he
once beat his back bloody.

He
stopped, uncomfortably aware that he stood near the library walls. Cautiously
he looked up. Sayer was not there. At least God had been kind enough to grant
him that reprieve. The roofer was one he did not want to see again for a very
long time.

He
slammed his fist against his chest.

The
smaller limbs of the tree above him moved gently in the breeze.

"If
You scorn me, why give me any peace? If You do not, why scourge me with this
new and fiendish apparition?"

Thomas
leaned his head against the bark, but the only thing he heard was the pounding
in his head. "Very well," he said, pushing away from the tree,
"since God deigns no answer now, but I feel no hot breath of Hell on my
cheek, I shall see to the Amesbury Psalter."

The
library was tiny and combined with the scriptorium. Although there were books
stacked neatly in a wood-lined recess near the door, and others presumably
stored in the wooden chest nearby, Thomas saw only two tonsured heads bent over
their work, their left hands holding the parchment flat while they labored to
create the text with their right.

Amesbury
Priory was not renowned for illuminated work, but the monastery had wealthy
patrons whose educated daughters, and sometimes widows, came here as nuns.
These were women who prayed with more piety in the presence of God-inspired
beauty, and the priory would set any talented monk to the task of filling such a
need. It was a pity, he thought, that there were only two.

As
he wandered over to look at the books in the recess, he recognized some that
Sister Beatrice had loaned Prioress Eleanor, works that Sister Anne had
described to him in detail. Both of them had been amazed at what their prioress
read. After meeting the formidable Sister Beatrice, they wondered no longer
where their leader had gotten her taste in everything from the works of the
sainted Augustine to
La Mort le Roi Artu.

Here
was an herbal he had seen, a work not elaborately illustrated but done
adequately enough. When their prioress had loaned it to them, he and Sister
Anne had soon memorized the details but nonetheless regretted returning the
book itself to Amesbury.

Thomas
walked back and stopped to look over the shoulder of one monk. The man was so
deep in prayerful concentration on his illuminated letter that he was unaware
anyone stood so close. His work was not skillful, but the robes of the
archangel were folded with a certain grace even if the colors were muddy.

"May
I help you, Brother?"

Thomas
turned to see an elderly monk standing next to him.

"I
am called Brother Baeda, the librarian. By your garb I know you belong to this
Order, yet I do not know your name. You are from...?"

"Tyndal,
Brother. My prioress has traveled here to see her aunt, Sister Beatrice, and I
accompanied her. My name is Thomas."

The
man's toothless grin was warm. "You came with Prioress Eleanor? I knew her
when she was just a novice. A thoughtful, devout, and clever girl, she was.
Surely our noble King Henry was inspired by God when he sent her to your
priory."

Thomas
bowed his concurrence. "I have heard about your famous Psalter and was
told that Prioress Ida sent it here for repair."

The
monk studied Thomas with interest. "Then you are the one to do the work? I
thought it would be done by an older man who was not of this Order..."

"Nay,
I am not skilled in such artistry. I came only to look
at it.

"It
is a fine manuscript, but how did you learn of it?"

"Prioress
Eleanor suggested I take the opportunity to see it while I was here."

"Ah,
she would remember the Psalter, wouldn't she? Come," Brother Baeda said
and gestured for Thomas to follow him.

Thomas'
eyes opened in awe when he saw the beauty of the Psalter. Although the book
looked too heavy to hold comfortably in two hands, it had obviously been much
used, most probably by the prioresses of Amesbury as it rested on the prie-dieu
in their chamber. One corner on the right side of a page was smudged, and the
edges were wearing thin. The tear in the upper left was the object of the
intended repair.

What
troubled him was the placement of the book on a table where anyone could
quickly grab it. Other prized works had been stored carefully away. Why was
this one left out?

"Forgive
me, Brother," he said at last. "I have been rendered speechless by
the beauty of this work. The blue of the Virgin's robe is as bright as a jewel,
and the angels above her head show a divine grace." The fact that the
nursing baby at Mary's breast was red-haired had much caught Thomas' attention
and he did wonder at the illuminator's intent. Would Jesus have had such
coloring? He looked closer. Maybe the tint was more of a brown.

"Let
me show you other examples of its wonders." The monk turned over another
page and pointed out a mermaid playing a stringed instrument, carefully
incorporated into the "U" in Psalm 94.

Thomas
raised an appreciative eyebrow. Now that was a figure Brother John at Tyndal
might enjoy as much as he since they both loved music.

"And
this! It is very different from anything else you will see." The
librarians face glowed with enthusiasm.

The
figure was a birdlike human, but unlike most sirens, it bore a man's head, covered
by a round and spiked Jewish cap.

The
creature strangely reminded Thomas of Sayer. He cleared his throat.

"You
are familiar with the work of the Sarum Master?"

"Nay,
Brother Baeda."

The
man's face brightened at the prospect of telling a newcomer what others here
had most probably been told all too often. "Look at the folds in the
robes, how graceful and soft. He was known for this in all his works and was
the envy of other illuminators in England and elsewhere."

"He
is a local man?'

"Salisbury. This work was done about twenty ago and was the prized possession of a nun in
our Order. See here how he portrayed her."

Thomas
studied the small figure of a woman in plain robes kneeling at a gold lectern
on which a book rested, open to a page inscribed with a red "B" for
Beatus.

"Forgive
me if I misunderstood, but I thought this treasure was here for repair and that
few visitors came to see it. I do wonder why the Psalter is left exposed where
it might suffer more damage."

The
monk shook his head. "You did not misinterpret my words, Brother, but I
have chosen not to move the manuscript more than need be, and, over the last
few days, the work has drawn interest. You are the second who has asked to see
it."

"Second?"
Thomas' heart beat faster.

"Aye,
young Sayer has visited twice and begged to view it. At first, I thought it odd
that Wulfstan's son should care so much about religious works like this, but he
had many good questions about it. I was pleased to answer them."

Thomas
might not have been so well pleased, but he was also not quite as surprised as
Brother Baeda.

Chapter
Sixteen

Mistress
Jhone poured a dark red wine into a plain pewter cup and handed it to the
Prioress of Tyndal.

On
the nearby table a servant had placed a generously filled plate of thickly cut
apples, so carefully preserved that their skins were still brightly splashed
with red and green; a huge wedge of green-veined orange cheese; and a large
loaf of grainy bread, hot from the baking. In a tone suggesting that the
welfare of her soul depended upon the nun's assent, the widow begged the
prioress to sample everything.

Eleanor
voiced courteous appreciation for the bounty presented to her, then carefully
selected a slice of cheese, one of apple, and positioned each on top of the
fragrant bread according to some obscure plan. In this manner, she disguised
her scrutiny of the woman before her.

Jhone's
face and hands were as devoid of color as her robe. A narrow scar, shining
white, sliced through the woman's upper lip; another cut through her left
eyebrow. Tiny wrinkles crossed her forehead, and the looseness around her neck
suggested that she should be two decades older than her undimmed brown hair and
her daughters sixteen years would support. Only the corners of her eyes and the
skin around her mouth lacked any mark, an absence Eleanor found distressing.
Had the woman never laughed?

Alys
may not have exaggerated in the tale about her father, Eleanor concluded. The
signs of grief gouged into the face of this widow might well be explained by
the death of a husband, but she saw no evidence that any joy for his life had
preceded it. As the prioress glanced at the widow's pale eyes, she wondered how
Mistress Jhone could lament the death of such a spouse. Newly freed of a
brutish mate, the widow remained subdued as if afraid any speech might still
invite pain.