Justice for the Damned (16 page)

Imps
so long in residence did not interest her. She gestured for him to go on.

"Some
lawless men as well, he said, but they rarely trouble local folk and may be
from the village itself. As for the priory, he told me it brought so much
custom to the town that anyone would be hard-pressed to find any enemy.
Standing as high as it does in the king's favor brings honor to Amesbury as
well as coin."

"What
had he to say about the ghost?" Eleanor asked.

Thomas
lowered his eyes to a silent study of his mazer. "The merchant discounted
the rumor that our ghost was Queen Elfrida since the priory has disciplined the
wayward monks."

Eleanor
saw his face turn red. Surely, she thought, he was not embarrassed by their
particular sins. After all, he could not have come as a virgin to the tonsure.
"Did he mention the other possible wandering spirit?"

"He
denied that tale as well. According to him, Mistress Eda, the vintner's wife,
was too charitable a soul on earth to be so cruel in death, even if she was in
Hell for her sins.
Sweet Eda,
he called her."

"Was
he kin to this woman?"

"I
fear I did not think of that question, my lady."

"His
words indicate some devotion. Perhaps he was in love with her before she
married?"

"I
do not know the lady's age, but the merchant is younger than I while the
vintner is much older."

Eleanor
turned pensive. "Disparate age does not always repel passion, even if the
woman is the elder."

Thomas
blinked.

"It
is a question worth answering, I think. From what you have reported, your
merchant seems doubtful that either alleged ghost truly drifts in the river
fog. Did he suggest any source or basis for these rumors?"

"Nay."

"Did
he mention the murder? In particular, was there any hint of rancor between
Wulfstan and a family here? Perhaps Mistress Eda's?"

"He
said that Wulfstan had no enemies and had had no part in the verdict condemning
the woman's body to burial in unholy earth." A look of confusion spread
over his face. "Forgive me, my lady, but I thought you did not want me to
ask anything about the man's death."

"Nor
did I, when I sent you out to seek gossip about phantoms, but now I have reason
to be curious about any tales that are abroad. Did you not tell me that
Mistress Jhone is related by marriage to Wulfstan?"

Thomas
nodded.

"I
had a most noteworthy conversation today with the woolmonger's widow and
learned that the vintner's wife was her close friend. Although she seemed quite
distressed by the idea, Mistress Jhone claims Mistress Eda was seduced by
Wulfstan's son. As a consequence, she believes that the woman's damned soul
must have murdered the father in revenge for her adultery with the son. Not a
logical conclusion, I freely admit, but an interesting accusation."

"The
son who works at the priory?" Anne asked as she passed a well-watered
mazer of wine to the prioress.

"Sayer,"
she replied. "Did you see him last night, Brother?"

Thomas
studied the rushes under his feet for a long moment. "Aye, but I could not
discuss anything with him. When he joined me, he was drunk and soon passed
out."

"I
wonder if he is working today, Brother. You would know best about this, but do
you think the effects of last night's bright joys might make him eager to speak
to a tonsured man on this day after?"

Anne
laughed. "Surely he would welcome any excuse to avoid hammering."

"I
doubt he will admit adultery with the vintner's wife, or perhaps he might, but
this story from Mistress Jhone is the only hint so far that there was some
possible quarrel connected with Wulfstan," Eleanor said. "Sayer might
say something that casts light on this matter."

"The
man was not on the library roof when I passed by earlier." Thomas took
some time replacing his untouched wine cup back on the table. "Shall I
return to seek him there?"

"I
think it is safe enough. It is daytime, and there should be monks enough
around. Do not press too hard for information, however, but, if you learn
anything of note, we can pass it on to the sheriff when he sees fit to return
from his hunt." Eleanor shifted in her chair. "One other question.
Your merchant. What was his name?"

"Master
Bernard. He is a glover."

Eleanors
eyes widened. "Indeed! You thought him an honest man?

"No
less than most in trade."

Eleanor
glanced over at Anne to see her reaction to this remark. Before the nun had
taken vows, she and her husband had owned an apothecary. Her expression was
benign.

"He
was very generous in sharing his wine and giving me coin for prayer..."
Thomas stopped and put his hand to his mouth. "Forgive me, my lady, but I
failed to mention one thing I did notice about the merchant. When he jested
about his grudge against the priory, I sensed no true rancor but did hear some
grief in his words. Perhaps I was mistaken..."

"You
are quite right in your observation, Brother. Young Alys, although she is to be
Master Herbert's wife, wants to marry this glover and has said she will take
vows rather than go against her heart. According to her, Master Bernard loves
her well in return, but Mistress Jhone claims he is both improvident and
greedy."

Thomas
snorted. "Both men may be beset with the sin of greed, my lady, but, of
the two, I did not like what I saw in Master Herbert. He may be well-favored,
but he struck me as a cunning man. The glover?" The monk shrugged.
"He is a dreamer, for cert, but I might pick Master Glover to be the more
trustworthy."

"I
have not met Master Bernard but did meet Master Herbert on my way to the
woolmonger's house. My own impression of the vintner is quite different from
yours, but I did not speak with him long."

"My
encounter was brief as well," Thomas conceded. "There was something
else that I may not have mentioned before. When I asked Mistress Jhone and the
vintner if Wulfstan had enemies, the widow suggested there might be something
relevant that had happened of late. Master Herbert quickly hushed her and
refused to let me speak further with her."

"A
kindness, I think, to a woman who was among those who discovered Wulfstan's
headless corpse and is a widow recently bereaved of her husband."

"Shall
I pursue the reason with her now, my lady?"

"I
will do that for I have cause to return to her house. I suspect that she may
have meant the seduction of Mistress Eda by Sayer. That would explain why the
vintner did not want her to speak of it. Surely he would not wish the story
repeated in public."

Thomas
did not look pleased.

"You
do not like the wine merchant, Brother. Surely the reason is founded in more
than his trade?"

"I
cannot say for sure, my lady. There are some that do good amongst their
fellows." He smiled at Anne. "Others reek of avarice. There is a sour
smell about this vintner."

"I
would never disregard your opinion and will think more on it. Nor have I met
the glover so cannot judge whether Mistress Jhone is correct in her judgement
of him. Should I meet Master Herbert again, I will keep your words in
mind."

"I
see one more troubling aspect to this murder," Anne said. "The
phantom remains accused of the act, and all witnesses have claimed the
apparition is one of two women: Queen Elfrida or Mistress Eda. Few women have
the strength to do what was done to that corpse. Yet how could a man be
mistaken as a woman's ghost?"

"An
excellent question and one to which I have no answer," Eleanor replied.
"Even though I dismiss the idea of ghosts, something has been troubling
the priory. Might a human murderer hide his deed behind the form of a damned
soul, casting all suspicion on a creature which cannot be brought to mortal
judgement, and thus escape justice?"

"Master
Herbert," Thomas said, almost under his breath.

"I
doubt it. Would you not agree that he would be more likely to kill Sayer, not
the father, if the son had seduced his wife? And why would he eagerly arrange a
marriage with the cousin? When he spoke of Alys and her mother, he expressed
great devotion. That is not the way of a man who has been wronged by a
family."

"I
agree, my lady." Thomas' voice suggested regret.

"We
need so much more information. I shall return to talk with Mistress Jhone and
her daughter. The house is near enough not to tax my strength. In the meantime,
I think you should seek out our lusty roofer."

Thomas
flushed. "If he is not to be found, do you have another task?"

"A
visit to Wulfstan's widow, Mistress Drifa. As a member of this Order, if not of
this community, Sister Beatrice would want you to bring her comfort. Perhaps
this widow will be the one to help untangle the dark knot."

"And
what of Master Bernard?" Anne asked.

"Brother
Thomas might have reason to meet with him again, although another visit to the
inn is not wise, especially at night." Eleanor smiled at the monk with
sympathy. "My aunt can find reason to send you out on market day."

"I
will do as you ask most willingly," Thomas said.

"And
I pray we learn the truth soon." Eleanor shivered as if some unseen thing
had just stroked an icy finger on the back of her neck. "I fear that Satan
is not yet done here."

Chapter
Eighteen

Thomas
chose to visit Wulfstan's widow first. He was purposely delaying any further
contact with the son but, with God's grace, hoped he might learn enough without
having to talk to Sayer at all. At the priory gate, he asked the porter for
directions to Drifa's dwelling, explaining that he had been sent by Sister
Beatrice to offer comfort.

The
place was easy enough to find. Thomas knew what to expect of a home where a
husband had been a laborer in the priory fields and one son a bit more skilled.
As a consequence, he was surprised to see a house larger than he imagined with
a flock of many healthy chickens, watched over by a large and bright-eyed cock
with his leg tethered to a stake, in the front of a round poultry hut.

A
woman's voice, raised with mild maternal irritation, caught his attention, and
he followed the sound around a corner to a freshly tilled garden. It was with
much relief that he did not see Sayer amongst the busily working brood, whom he
assumed must be the younger siblings.

"Mistress?"
Thomas asked with gentle courtesy. "I pray I have not come at a time
inconvenient for you."

The
woman he addressed was jabbing a sharpened stick into the ground while a lad of
about thirteen summers followed, carefully dropping and covering seeds.

A
spring crop of peas, Thomas concluded.

She
turned around and smiled. Lean, with nut-brown hair and an impish tilt to her
head, she much resembled the elder son she had borne. Although her skin was
roughened from exposure to sun, wind, and most likely her years in this world,
the widow's hazel eyes were bright with affable curiosity.

"You
are most welcome, Brother. A visit from the priory is never amiss." She
cast an affectionate look on the lad beside her. "Finish this work. You
know how well enough if you set your mind to it. And keep your sisters at their
tasks while I offer this holy monk some ale."

From
the expression on the boy's face, Thomas had no doubt that she would be
obeyed—and out of love, not fear.

As
the monk followed her through the open door into the dim and smoky house, he
noted how alike, yet how dissimilar, Mistress Jhone and her sister were. Their
height, coloring, and head shape might be the same, but there all resemblance
ceased. Jhone's eyes were dull. Wulfstan's widow had a sparkle yet in hers.
Both may have lost the support of husbands, he thought, but Drifa lacked the
scars that marked the face of the woolmonger's widow. Hard though this woman's
life may have been, Thomas doubted she would have thought her sister's
possessions worth the price.

"I
come to offer consolation on the death of your husband."

She
nodded, pulled a rough bench from against the wall, and gestured for the monk
to sit. A mottled cat yowled protest at the disruption in his nap and skittered
across the floor to the door, scattering straw as he ran.

"I
am called Drifa," she said, disappearing behind a partition.

Thomas
looked around him. The three small windows and open door let in little light,
but the footed pot over the fire, bubbling with a bean pottage, and lack of
animal stench suggested a well-run household. Bastard son of an earl though he
was, he had grown up with women of peasant birth. He was not surprised at what
a woman could do with little enough to aid her.

Hearing
the clunk of an earthen jug as Drifa poured ale, he also realized that he
expected her to cope with the death of her husband. Not all women of poor
families faced these things with grim determination any more than did all
widows of noblemen when their lords were killed and the enemy was at the gates,
but this place showed the touch of one who, no matter what her sorrow, believed
in the importance of feeding children, planting a garden, and milking that
nearby lowing cow. Mistress Drifa was not one who would fall into a whining
grief.

Unlike
her sister with her quivering meekness in the presence of the wine merchant?
Maybe he was being unfair to Mistress Jhone. She might have deeply loved her
husband and had worries enough to add lines to her face: a business to keep
prosperous and a strong-willed daughter to marry off. Perhaps Mistress Drifa
found more strength because she did not grieve as profoundly for her dead
Wulfstan.

The
widow was standing in front of him, a wooden cup filled with cool ale. Her hand
trembled briefly. When he accepted the drink with courteous thanks, she
abruptly turned away and went to stir the pottage.

"When
you return to the priory, would you please tell Sister Beatrice that I am
grateful for her kindness. She sent word that my husband may now be buried in
sanctified ground and that she will pray for his soul."

"She
wished to know if there was anything you might need..."

"My
eldest has employment there. A cooper has taken on my next, and the lad you saw
outside has his father's capable hand with the earth. As for my little girls, I
may have a mother's blindness, but I think they will be pretty enough to win
the hearts of worthy men." She gestured around the house. "As you
see, I have sufficient land for a garden, keep chickens for eggs, and I own
both a young cow and two goats for those who find their milk easier to digest.
God has been merciful to me, Brother. My living children have health. My sons
have wit enough to earn their own bread, and my daughters already show the
cleverness needed to make excellent wives. When I am old, one of them will care
for me."

"Yet
the death of your husband..."

"Shall
I weep until blind, Brother, or curse God because Wulfstan died, a fate that
must come to us all?" She stood and faced him, hands on hips.

"Surely
you grieve?"

"Aye.
I shall miss his snoring at night and his grumpiness in the morning." Her
lips curled into a trembling smile.

Thomas
remained silent.

"Forgive
me, Brother. I did not mean to speak with such discourtesy to one of your
chaste vocation." Drifa tapped one breast. "Seeing these sagging paps
and his headless body, you may not understand how Wulfstan and I did burn for
each other in our youth. I had almost carried Sayer to term when we married,
and I suffered the agonies of Mother Eve on his birth. Yet we continued to
couple without moderation, until lust burned out as must any raging fire. If a
couple is fortunate, the ash remains warm. If they are not, it turns bitter as
well as cold. My husband had his mortal failings, as do I, but we knew comfort
in each other beyond the payment of the marriage debt. He will always have the
heart he won when he was a smooth-skinned, handsome lad. I miss him and am
grateful that I need not marry another to feed my family."

Thomas
listened to the laughter and voices of the children outside. Considering the
range of their ages, he concluded that the ashes in her marriage must have
remained quite warm for some time.

He
looked back at the widow. Her blunt tongue was comforting. After all, his own
mother had been a serving woman. When she had died, women like this had raised
him. As a girl, Drifa may have longed for pretty speeches and love songs, as
young women do, but there was little time for softness when babes came. Then
work was hard, and earthly grief built a permanent hovel in the heart.

"As
you say, death must come to us all," he said, proceeding with the same
frankness she had shown, "but your husband's soul was sent to God by some
mortal hand. I cannot help but wonder what man could have hated him so
much..."

Her
eyes narrowed. "Do not take common gossip to heart, Brother."

"I
would never do so, mistress," Thomas carefully replied. "Yet might
there not be some truth in the tales?"

"The
ghost has been blamed." Her tone was artificially light as if she hoped he
might believe this. Her look said that she herself most definitely did not.

"A
ghost with a man's hand, I fear." The ghost was clearly not the gossip he
was supposed to have heard. Thomas prayed he would not have to ask what the
stories were, for he suspected she might not tell him if he revealed his
ignorance.

Drifa's
shoulders sagged. "For all their differences, Sayer would never slay his
father. Nor is my son capable of beheading any man in that heinous fashion."

Thomas
felt his stomach clench. He controlled his voice with care as he continued.
"I did not think the rumors true, yet I could only wonder why anyone would
suggest he had."

Drifa
waved one hand as if swatting a fly. Color returned to her face. "You were
once a lad yourself, Brother. Do not all sons fight with their fathers when
they reach a certain age? Sayer is a reliable lad and a hard worker, but he has
his ways and Wulfstan had some quarrel with them. They cannot see how alike
they are, equally stubborn and wild in their youth. Nonetheless, both are good
men in their hearts."

Thomas
blinked at her poignant use of the present tense but continued. "Their
differences were well-known, of course." A safe enough observation, he
thought.

The
widow threw her hands up in a gesture of disgust. "Both had had more drink
than was right for any man, and they were fools to fight at the inn. When I
heard each one pissing outside the door that night as if he had hail in his
bladder, I knew Satan had had his fun with them even before they staggered
inside and passed out alongside the cow." A flash of loving amusement
passed over her face. "The next day, the innkeeper told me what had
occurred. I was horrified and begged Sayer to make peace with his father, and a
public one at that, for no son should ever threaten to kill his sire."

"Surely
your son was right to be angry," he continued, hoping his voice did not
betray either his ignorance of what had happened or his discomfort with what
she had just told him about the argument.

Drifa
offered the monk more ale. This time her hand was steady as she gave him the
filled cup. "He is a boy still and unsettled in his ways. I reminded my
husband that he had been engaged in enough questionable things himself as a
youth, situations that put his life in danger although they brought enough coin
to pay for this plot of land. Nor, I told him, had he changed until our third
child was born. Only then had he seen that working on priory land was a wiser way
to earn the bread we ate and a path less likely to lead him to a hanging. He
must show patience with Sayer, I said, since he himself had come so late to
manhood."

Thomas
decided he did not want to learn what Wulfstan had done since it was obviously
against the king's law. "Surely your husband must have seen that your son
had done nothing that different from what he had in his own time." Perhaps
this question would lead her into further explanations?

Drifa's
eyes widened and she exhaled, the act evoking relief rather than resignation.

What
had he said that was amiss? Silently, Thomas chastised himself. Hadn't he but
rephrased her own words?

"You
have the right of that," she said quickly. "My greatest grief is that
Sayer and his father did not make peace before my Wulfstan died. They would
have, you know, but there was not enough time for two such stiff necks to bend.
Not knowing what was to come, I laughed at how alike they were in that. Now I
weep, for they did most truly love each other."

From
the easy manner of Drifa's last words, Thomas knew she was either lying or
hiding some dark truth, but it mattered not which. The expression on the
widow's face told him that he would learn nothing more no matter what or how he
asked.

Chapter
Nineteen

With
two silent monastics trailing a respectful distance behind them, Sister
Beatrice and Prioress Eleanor walked along the path by the Avon.

The
novice mistress stopped, put her hand on her nieces shoulder, and bent her head
toward the opposite bank of the river.

Following
the direction of the gesture, Eleanor saw Mistress Jhone approach that muddy
and weed-infested burial ground reserved for corpses whose souls had been
damned by God.

"She
visits every day," Beatrice said to her niece.

The
widow walked to the far edge of the graveyard, fell to her knees, and covered
her eyes.

"Why?"

"That
is where Eda is buried. It matters not that some believe she is the ghost that
haunts this byway. The two were childhood friends and loved each other like
sisters."