Justice for the Damned (20 page)

The
prioress pressed her fingers against her brow. Her courses may have ceased, but
a familiar dull ache was now starting over one eye. She must ask Anne to
prepare that feverfew potion which helped with the blinding headaches she often
suffered.

Suddenly,
she heard a noise and looked up.

A
crow hopped to a landing on the path in front of her.

If
this was the bird nesting near the library, the creature must feel more certain
of her brood to leave it unguarded. Or was it stealing just a few minutes away
from the high-pitched chirping of demanding and featherless infants? Eleanor
chuckled at the thought. The bird was no different from any other mother.

She
stood very still, rinding delight in watching the bird totter along the path as
if seeking the quiet to be found between rows of flowering bushes and budding
plants. Most called crows ungainly things, their rolling gait like that of
drunken men, their feathers askew as if they cared naught for appearances, but
Eleanor did not agree. This creature did not remind her of a drunkard or some
slovenly woman. Instead, it was like any young mother, stiff and pained from
birthing, with little time now for the preening of her maiden days.

Many
also hated these birds for their
sooty color,
calling them Deaths
servants or Satan's fowl, but Eleanor had always liked their clownish ways,
wondering if God had made them dark of hue to remind mortals that laughter must
be found in sadness. Or else, she suddenly thought with some irreverence, they
contained the souls of jesters condemned to Hell for telling bad jokes in the
king's court. She raised a hand to cover her laugh. The thought was impudent,
but she knew her aunt would enjoy the image as much as she.

Her
gesture caught the bird's attention. The crow turned and studied the Prioress
of Tyndal, its bright black eyes gleaming like tiny polished pebbles. With a
raucous and annoyed caw, it spread its wings and napped back in the direction
of the tree.

Eleanor
sighed with regret, raising a hand in apologetic farewell as if the bird had
been an acquaintance with whom she had shared a few pleasant words before
innocently saying something to offend. "At least it succeeded in turning
my thoughts from murder," she said, bending over a prickly evergreen shrub
with fragrant yellow blossoms.

How
delicate the petals, she noted, yet how fiercely protected by the sharpness of
the bush. She laid two fingertips on a flower with caution. Even soulless
plants defend their delicate offspring, she realized. What a miracle motherhood
was, turning simple shrubs and weak women into creatures capable of the most
remarkable feats.

Hadn't
Sister Beatrice just wrought a maternal miracle? Were it not for her aunt's
loving cleverness, Eleanor knew she might have succumbed to Death's charms out
of indifferent weariness. Yet she had gained strength in the last few days, no
longer falling asleep after dinner and requiring someone to wake her for
prayer. Look at how much she had walked today without losing breath or growing
numb with fatigue.

As
she continued along the path, listening to the soft whoosh of green leaves
rising and falling against each other in the sweet-smelling breeze, she
remembered thinking, after her fever broke, that those who approach death begin
to long for it even though they will leave loved ones. Eleanor had looked
forward to dying, deciding that Tyndal could do just as well under Sister Ruth
and grateful that she would be freed from the lust she suffered for Brother
Thomas. Yet Sister Beatrice had teased her spirit back to the earthly life with
ferocious determination. Like any good mother, her aunt knew well how to save a
child from danger.

In
the distance, the crow cawed loudly from her nest.

Eleanor
raised her hands to her mouth. "O slow-witted woman," she gasped.
"Surely God sent that crow as messenger, yet I have been standing here, so
absorbed by selfish thoughts of my wretched self that I was blind to the
insight He granted me."

Picking
up the hem of her robe, she ran from the cloister gardens.

The
priory bells rang out with joy for prayer.

Chapter
Twenty-Four

"Come
join me, monk!" Sayer sat on the library roof and waved his hammer.
"You will feel closer to God."

"Come
down to earth," Thomas countered, unable to hold back a grin. Then a heavy
darkness settled around his heart. "I want to talk to you."

"I
have work to do and what light remains is precious." He gestured for
Thomas to go inside. "There is a way to the roof up some stairs. At the
top you will find an opening that leads onto the scaffolding. Once there, I
will help you climb to a seat, and we can talk while I continue at my
task."

"I
have not your firm footing."

"Afraid
of dying, monk? What sins do you fear might send you to Hell if you fall
unshriven?" Sayer's smile suggested he was jesting, but his tone did not
match the look.

Thomas
recoiled from the blow to his honor. If the man was suggesting he was a coward,
he would prove otherwise. "Which stairs am I to climb?"

The
steps were steep, and the window through which he edged was small. Now as he
balanced himself on the narrow scaffolding and stared at the sharp angle of the
roof, Thomas asked himself whether a true monk would have surrendered his pride
and turned down Sayer's implied dare. How often did he betray his insincere
calling in just such ways?

Whatever
the roofer's intent, he showed gentle courtesy by helping the monk climb the
steep pitch to a safe place. Once settled in, Thomas gazed at the view and
understood why some envied soaring birds. From here he could see beyond the
walls and across the river to the strange mounds the monks mentioned only in
hushed tones. The village was also on the other side, quite tiny from this
great height and filled with bustling miniature people. Do we look that small
to God, he asked himself.

"You
have fallen silent, monk. I thought you wanted to talk with me." Sayer
raised his hammer with a flourish and whacked a new nail into the slate patch.

"I
wonder at what a man can observe when raised higher than he might otherwise be.
Now I see why angels have a far greater understanding of the earth from their
vantage point in Paradise." Or so Thomas decided he might have been
thinking if his eyes had not slipped from contemplating the heavens to Sayer's
muscular stomach. He looked away.

"A
most philosophical monk. Surely you did not wish to talk of angels with me, for
I shall confess I much prefer the feel of the earth than any angel's
breath." Sayer studied Thomas with mock gravity.

"Where
were you last night?" The monk cursed himself for such an unsubtle
question. He should tease the truth from this man, not bludgeon it.

"Surely
anything you might need me to do for you can be done tonight."

"I
am afraid to come to the inn. The ghost has struck again. We had a murder
here."

Sayer
froze, then dropped his hammer.

In
silence, the two men watched the tool tumble to the ground.

"Who
died?"

"Brother
Baeda."

"I
grieve." Sayer swiftly rubbed at his eyes. "He was a virtuous
man."

"You
knew him well, did you not? So well, in fact, that he told me with what delight
he had answered your many questions about the Psalter belonging to Prioress
Ida."

Shifting
his crouch, Sayer stared down at the distant ground.

"Your
interest both amazed and pleased him."

"I
may be unlettered, Brother, but I am not stupid."

"I
do not understand what you mean." Thomas cursed himself again. The tips of
his fingers burned to touch the man. He hid them in his sleeves.

"I
shall rephrase: I am no fool. Do you wish to cast suspicion on me?"

"I
meant no such thing! Surely you were elsewhere last night. At the inn? With
many witnesses?"

Sayer
rose and balanced himself with care. His face reddened. "I was enjoying
what you have foresworn, Thomas of Tyndal, and that is more than you need to
know."

"A
witness!"

"None
that I will name." He turned away and eased himself from the roof to the
scaffolding.

"Wait!"
Thomas called out. "I cannot get down from here."

"Find
your own way out of your predicament, monk. I shall not help you." The man
stood on the scaffolding and glared at Thomas, but his expression soon
softened. "Although I believe you have some reason for wanting to call me
Cain and mark me for his deed, I would not have you die here from your womanish
fears." He gestured with a mocking toss of his hand. "Slide on your
belly like a snake, and you will slip into the scaffolding like a birthing babe."

Thomas
reached out his hand, but Sayer had already left.

Chapter
Twenty-Five

Eleanor
sped through Amesbury at such a determined pace that her two attendants were
left some distance behind. In a dutifully courteous but clearly anguished tone,
one cried out a plea for her to wait. She stopped and, turning, saw a plump
young merchant emerge from a path between two houses.

"I
am Bernard the glover, my lady," he said in warm greeting. "Mistress
Alys told me what comfort you have been to her family after this tragic murder
of her uncle."

"Grief
is part of the human condition, good sir, but God never intended it to come
without His comfort." Eleanor's suspicion of the man was briefly tempered
with sympathy for young lovers. If he knew of that very recent visit, he and Alys
had managed to keep in contact despite Mistress Woolmonger's probable and
disapproving watchfulness.

"Are
you returning to visit Mistress Jhone?" he asked, folding one hand over
the other before resting both on his heart.

"Today
I go to Mistress Drifa's house." With some amusement, Eleanor noticed that
his gesture succeeded in showing off, to much advantage, the hand-stitching on
the back of his glove.

"Alas,
poor Wulfstan!"

His
words might have been spoken in a tone more appropriate to a monk in a holy day
pageant, but Eleanor sensed no hypocrisy. "Did you know him well?"
she asked, uncomfortably aware that something insistent had just bitten her
memory like a hungry flea.

"Since
he was Alys' uncle..." The man's concentration wavered. His eyes stared
into the distance.

Eleanor
suspected that distraction was caused only by the word
Alys.
"Thus
dear to her, I am sure, and a man quite without enemies?" To her dismay,
whatever the gnawing thing was, it had vanished like the ghosts haunting
Amesbury Priory.

Bernard
blinked. "I believe he had none." His eyes focused again on the
prioress.

"Although
I had understood he was a poor man who labored in the priory fields, I have
learned that his widow and children were left some land. What noteworthy good
fortune! Or was he possessed of a hidden but remarkable prudence?"

"Everything
he gained went to benefit his family, my lady. Whatever tales you may hear, let
me assure you that I believe, along with most in our village, that he repented any
sins long ago."

"No
ancient quarrels with former companions who might have held a grudge when
Wulfstan chose a different tune for his dance?"

Bernard
laughed. "Or else his sinful ways caused little harm to those in Amesbury,
as he himself claimed."

"And
does the village consider what his son has been doing harmless as well?"

The
glovers expression faded to one more vacant of meaning.

"I
ask only to understand what danger Wulfstan might have courted that could have
led to his death."

"I
am not sure of your meaning, my lady."

"Come,
Master Glover, I cannot imagine you have not heard that Sayer arranged for
agreeable women and strong drink for any monk who leapt the priory walls. This
is no boyish prank. It is against God's commandments. I must ask if Wulfstan
joined with his son in this particular and recent disregard for the law."

"God
is a far sterner sheriff than die man sent by the king, I fear. King Henry may
turn his thoughts from the demands of secular rule whenever the bells ring for
prayer, but our sheriff finds the cry of his hunting dogs more compelling.
Wulfstan feared God's justice more than the king's law and with good
reason."

"So
Wulfstan's sins were counter only to the king's edicts while his son's offended
only God?"

"Please,
my lady, I am a glover, not a man learned in the art of debate! All I can tell
you is that Wulfstan tried to honor the lords of both earth and heaven in his
last years. He may have associated with robbers, but, after his wife persuaded
him to reform, he lived within secular law. As for details of his past, the
village chose to know as little as possible should anyone ever be called to
testify. The merchants affected, you see, were never local men."

"If
Wulfstan's past sins have been cleansed and he has not fouled his soul with new
ones, I have no desire to delve into any links to lawless men. I do, however,
have both the right and duty to inquire into ghosts, creatures that plague
monastic peace for supposed sins against God and which may have turned to
killing. The priory has suffered two deaths. Wulfstan was a laborer on monastic
lands. Brother Baeda was a monk."