Justice for the Damned (14 page)

The
law permitted a man to strike his wife, for cert, but there were limits.
Although some secular and religious men suggested there was merit in these
beatings, Eleanor knew of no rule requiring such cruel treatment. In any case,
she had known few men who did not honor their wives, even those they no longer
loved or perhaps never had. Compared to this woolmonger, godless beasts showed
more tenderness in their mating than he had to his wife.

Eleanor
suddenly realized that she had let the silence linger too long. "Your
generosity in sharing this gift from God is praiseworthy," she said,
looking up at the widow with a smile.

"You
are kind to grace us with a visit, my lady," Jhone whispered.

"I
could do no less. Your sister's husband was foully murdered outside the priory.
We all grieved to hear of this worthy man's death."

Jhone's
eyes shifted nervously from left to right. Her face flushed in uneven splotches
of pink. Clearing her throat, she raised her mazer of wine and drank deeply.

"Sister
Beatrice knew that the discovery of his body made the horrible blow twice as
painful to you. I have come to offer God's comfort and soothing prayer."

The
widow set her cup down on the table with excessive care but remained silent.

Eleanor
shook her head. "No one at the priory could imagine who could have hated
him so much, for the act was not one of common violence."

"The
ghost."

Eleanor
blinked at the hushed accusation. "Forgive me, but I do not
understand."

Her
color now a mottled crimson, the woman jumped up, grabbed the plate of food
from the table, and thrust it at the prioress. "Please have more!"

Eleanor
rescued the plate from the widow's shaking hands. "Surely his death was
caused by a mortal creature. Although I have heard of this spirit, I cannot
imagine what quarrel Queen Elfrida might have with Wulfstan."

"Master
Herbert believes the ghost is not the ancient queen but the wronged soul of his
dead wife, Eda. As evidence, he says witnesses claim the specter's crown is
made of glowing spikes, not gems or gold." The widow's usual pallor
returned. "He must be right."

Eleanor
raised her eyebrows with encouraging curiosity. "Did Mistress Eda have
reason to harm Wulfstan?"

"He
died for his sin in begetting such an evil son as Sayer, a man whom Satan most
surely favors."

Eleanor
noted that moisture now glistened on the woman's forehead. "Is this the
same man who repairs the priory roofs?"

Jhone's
eyes flashed with reflective anger. "The very one, my lady. As we all know
in Amesbury village, he is a rogue."

Eleanor
looked down at her hands. She was still holding the plate. "Wherein lies
his sin? If he is so evil, I must wonder why he is allowed to work within the
monastery walls," she asked, setting the serving dish back on the table.

The
widow licked her lips. "I believe my husband asked the same question, my
lady. He considered Sayer a worthless fellow in all respects, although one
deemed uncommon handsome. When my nephew was hired by the priory, my husband
joked that the nuns must have enjoyed seeing him up on the rooftops, near
naked..." The woman covered her mouth, her eyes widening with fearful
distress.

That
gesture must be an habitual one after many years of marriage to such an
evil-minded man, Eleanor concluded. What right did the woolmonger have to cast
any stones? Some nuns most certainly did sin in the heart but rarely willingly
and almost never with any joy. With difficulty she managed not to counter a
dead man's lewd accusation with the outrage she felt. It would serve no
purpose.

"Forgive
me, my lady, he said that only for my ears. I should not have repeated
it." She extended her hands as if begging for mercy. "My heart knew
differently."

"What
did Prioress Ida say when he spoke to her about this threat to religious
chastity?" Eleanor took care to ban indignation from her tone.

"He
did not do so, believing there was no purpose." Jhone quickly lowered her
head. "Women's minds are incapable of reason, he said, because their
bodies itch constantly for coupling."

Eleanor
shut her eyes as she felt her face grow hot. This woman did not deserve her
wrath for repeating what a husband had said, and those cast down eyes spoke
eloquently enough of the widow's own shame at his words. Women sin, Eleanor
thought. We are mortal, but neither my aunt nor Prioress Ida is a fool. They
would not allow any man to behave in such a bawdy manner around the religious
of the priory. She took a deep breath. It calmed her.

"Queen
Elfrida's spirit might be angry with the roofer if Sayer tempted the religious
with unchaste imaginings. Of that, I can conceive. Why she would extend her
quarrel to the man who sired him is less clear to me." Eleanor's lips
turned up with a thin smile. "But perhaps a queen may have reasons we
cannot comprehend. Yet you say that the ghost is that of Mistress Eda. Why
would she murder Wulfstan for fathering a rogue?"

"For
the same reason King Edgar's spouse might have. You see, my husband told me
that Sayer had seduced Master Herbert's wife." A spasm began to throb in
Jhone's cheek. "I never accepted that Eda would have sinned with him, but
my husband believed she did. Thus he added his voice to those who said she must
have committed suicide from the pain of her tumor, although he thought she had
done so out of adulterous shame."

"He
proclaimed her adultery at the crowner's inquest?" Eleanor asked, noting
this one difference of opinion between the woolmonger and his meek spouse. She
wondered at what price Jhone had held it or if she had even voiced the thought
until now.

"Nay.
He said self-murder was a sin, whatever the reason for it, and refused to put
public horns on Master Herbert, a man he called
friend."

"Was
your husband a witness to the adultery?" As soon as the words were out of
her mouth, Eleanor knew she had erred. Lulled by the widow's brief show of
independence over Eda's virtue, she had forgotten how effectively this husband
had used terror to rule Jhone for so many years. The widow had been
well-trained to defend him. Casting doubt on his word so soon after his death
was most ill-advised.

As
expected, Mistress Jhone's back straightened like a stone pillar. "I would
never have questioned him on such a matter. I was ever a dutiful wife, my
lady." Her voice snapped with outrage.

Scornful
laughter shattered the brief silence between prioress and widow.

Startled,
Eleanor turned around.

Alys
stood in the doorway.

"How
dare you repeat such a loathsome tale, Mother? Have you forgotten how Mistress
Eda bathed your wounds after my father beat you until you almost died and the
babe you carried did? You may choose to set aside her benevolent acts, but I
will not forget the food she brought for me or the broth she helped you sip
when my father disappeared for days, drinking himself senseless at the inn. As
for my cousin Sayer, he would never have touched her any more than she would
have bedded with him!"

"Unnatural
child!" Jhone shouted at her. "Satan has bought your tongue and put
lies in your mouth about your dear father."

The
two women stared at each other with such great anger that they lost all power
of speech. Then Mistress Jhone wilted like a flower deprived of water and
turned away.

Alys
stepped back, shaking from the war of words with her mother. "I beg
forgiveness, my lady," she said to Eleanor. "After suffering the
shock of finding my uncle's body, I was blinded by my grief and failed to
recognize or honor you as the Prioress of Tyndal."

"There
is never disrespect in calling me
sister, z.
title all women share in
God's world."

"Even
if this holy lady forgives you for that rudeness, Alys, you have more
wickedness to repent. No child has the right to speak as you have just done
either to or about a parent." Jhone's words hissed like flames struck with
water.

Alys
slipped to her knees. "I have sinned, Mother. Strike me but forgive as
well. My heart honors you despite my harsh speech."

Jhone
raised her hand. The first slap snapped her daughter's head to the right, the
second to the left.

Eleanor
winced with each blow but dared not intervene.

Turning
from the sight of the red marks she had left on her daughter's cheeks, Jhone
grabbed the plate abandoned on the table and waved it around at arm's length as
if the offering would keep some malevolence at bay.

Eleanor
accepted a slice of fruit she did not want.

Alys
bent her head and said nothing.

"I
forgive you, daughter," Jhone whispered, now pulling the plate to her breast
as if it were a babe. The food fell to the floor. A small dog leapt up from one
corner of the room and chased after a rolling bit of cheese.

Alys
remained on her knees. "My lady, I beg admission to the priory as a novice
in your Order."

Jhone
slammed the plate down on the table with such force that it might have cracked
had it not been pewter. "You most certainly do not!"

"I
do!"

"And
you will fall into mortal sin just like your aunt after she claimed she had a
true and holy vocation!" Jhone's voice rose with contempt. "That
randy youtb you want in your bed is no different from Wulfstan. Bernard will
mount you in the shadow of those holy walls and, like Drifa, you will lose all
calling to chastity..."

"That
is not true!"

"Did
Wulfstan not get my sister with child? Ask her, if you refuse to believe your
own mother. Only one full moon shone between the time they came to the church
door and the day she bore Sayer in much pain, a most worthy reminder of her
carnal sin." Jhone reached out to grasp her daughter's hand. "Listen
to me, child, please!"

Alys
rose and turned her back on the two women. "Bernard is not like my uncle
and would marry me first," she muttered, "although I see less sin in
conceiving a child in joy than out of loveless duty."

"Had
your aunt married as our parents wished, she would have been the wife of a
prosperous man. Instead, look at her! Is her face not lined with cares and have
you not seen her fingers bleed from hard work? Now that Wulfstan is dead, who
will earn the bread to feed her family? An eldest son, who may one day hang for
his evil ways, or the younger ones who have no skills except begging? If your
eyes are not blinded by the very Devil, you cannot deny the truth of what I
say. Honor the greater wisdom of your parents and you will prosper. Follow your
lust and you shall end up like my poor sister."

"My
aunt is a good woman," Alys replied. "You have never, until now, said
otherwise."

"I
love Drifa," Jhone said to Eleanor. "As my daughter says, she has been
a faithful wife and a blameless mother. Nonetheless, she went contrary to the
wishes of our parents and has paid in suffering for that offense."

Eleanor
nodded. "Perhaps your sister did not have a true calling, but your
daughter might..." She looked over at Alys with sympathy.

"My
lady, I long to keep my only remaining child nearby to comfort me in old age
and to close my eyes at death. I want grandchildren, and I want a secure future
for my family." Tears blanketed her cheeks as Jhone gestured weakly at
Eleanor. "Is that so much to ask of a daughter?"

Alys
put her arms around her mother. "Bernard and I would give you such a home
and, if God so blessed us, grandchildren enough." Then stubbornness once
again set her features, and she stepped back. "I cannot marry Master
Herbert."

If I
cannot stop this quarrel between these two, Eleanor decided, I might as well
attempt to guide it. "And this young man of whom you speak? Is he so
unacceptable?" The prioress put a soothing hand on the mother's arm.
"I only ask to better understand."

Jhone
shook her head. "He is like a fledgling, my lady, with but twenty years on
this earth..." She reached out and touched her child's hand.

"Twenty-one,
Mother," Alys replied but did not resist the widow's touch.

"And
a glover," Jhone sniffed. "He has nothing and will starve if God
destroys the crops or sends other plagues for our sins. At such times, men give
their spare coin to God, not glovers."

"And
Master Herbert?" Eleanor asked, observing that both mother and daughter
looked much alike when arguing.

"A
vintner, a man successful in his trade, and now a widower with whom my husband
became friends."

"At
the inn," Alys said in a low voice, "where, it seems, they serve
friendship along with ale."

Her mother
ignored her daughter's words. "My husband knew his health was failing. You
see, the strain of becoming such a successful woolmonger had aged him
much." The widow's pride in the achievements of her merchant husband gave
brightness to her tone.

Alys
rolled her eyes but said nothing.

Jhone
glared at the girl before continuing. "Since I failed to give him the son
he needed, my husband decided that the vintner should marry our only living
child and learn the wool trade from him. After which, Master Herbert could take
over the business. That plan suited the interests of them both."