Justice for the Damned (8 page)

Were
the barrows sacred or profane? Opinions amongst adults were varied, but a
younger Eleanor and her childhood friends had loved frightening each other in
the dark with tales of pale spirits that danced on the mounds and longed to
capture a young Amesbury novice.

Did
they really believe in such phantoms, Eleanor now wondered, or was it mostly
pretense? "Maybe it was both," she said aloud, "for there seems
to be a place in all mortal souls that longs for ghosts even as we fear them or
logic dismisses them."

Now
she must seek the truth about wandering souls. Her aunt may have discounted the
current ghost as both playful and quite mortal earlier, but the murder of
Wulfstan had changed that. The spirit had been accused. It had ceased to be an
innocent thing.

Had
an angry soul escaped from Hell and killed Wulfstan? Or was the specter the
diabolical creation of a mortal who wished to hide behind engendered fear to
slay with greater ease? If she succeeded in discovering the truth, would she be
faced with a nightmarish sight so horrible that no human could survive it, or
with a craven killer deserving of the hangman's rope?

Her
grip on the window weakened. She turned away and went back to sit in the chair
placed near the fire. Leaning her head against the carved wood, she almost
slipped into sleep, then forced her eyes open. How could she engage in battle
against such foes when she could not even stay awake?

When
would she regain her strength? she asked God. Was she not a grown woman? It had
been many years since she had been a babe that needed a wet nurse to watch,
feed, and bathe her. She had suffered from too much frailty over the last many
months, not just as a result of her illness but from her sinful soul as well.

"And
I am tired of it," she declared. "Weary of it all!"

Without
doubt, her aunt was quite able to deal with the nature of the ghost without her
help. If anyone could get that sheriff to do his job and investigate whatever
lay behind the malicious acts, Sister Beatrice was the one. But Eleanor knew
full well why her aunt had fashioned the original plan with Sister Anne to
involve her in the investigation.

Even
as a girl, Eleanor had loved solving problems, and her aunt would have known
that this phantom was the very thing to strengthen her niece's hold on life.
"We may all yearn for heaven," the novice mistress had once said to
her, "but our hearts desire with equal passion to keep loved ones on
earth." By setting her this task, her aunt had hoped to bind Eleanor
firmly to the world she had almost abandoned.

Now
that the specter had turned deadly, however, her aunt might change her mind
about her niece's involvement, but that did not daunt Eleanor in the slightest.
Her resolve hardened, and she sat upright. She had a duty to honor.

Willing
herself to her feet, the prioress rose and looked toward the chamber door.
Rather than just sit and muse on ashes in the hearth, she would take her
sub-infirmarian's advice and start walking to improve the balance in her
humors.

"It
might be harder to regain health than lose it, as Anne so often says" she
said, stiffening her back, "but I am a Wynethorpe, a breed as
strong-willed as any of Angevin descent."

She
would walk.

As
the May sun warmed her face, Eleanor lost all doubt. The dead did not come back
to trouble the living. Raised on the works of Saint Augustine, Eleanor had
never quarreled with his logic. Even after she had attained enough education to
allow some disputation, she had found him persuasive in this matter. Because of
this, she was reasonably convinced that the spirit had a man's body.

Or a
woman's? Before the murder, she would have concluded that this sort of jape was
more likely a boy's game. Now she must ask what kind of a woman was capable of
killing a strong man like Wulfstan and beheading him. Had not the shape been
described as a queen or a local wife? "How very odd," she muttered.
It was difficult to imagine many women able to commit this particular crime—and
even harder to see how a man, one easily mistaken for a weak woman, could do so
either.

Maybe
she was wrong to assume the ghost and the murderer were the same. The specter
had been accused by both the dead man's son and those who had found the body,
but this charge might be based solely in shock and grief. Not to separate
phantom from killer might be a mistake and in defiance of reason. She needed
more facts.

Meanwhile,
Brother Thomas had been charged with identification of the ghost when she and her
aunt believed the creature was annoying but not threatening. Would he be in
danger now? A chill shook her. Her own decision to find an answer in this was
one thing, but she did not wish to put the monk in peril.

She
clenched her fist, once again cursing her weakness. Had she not given in and
brought the monk to Amesbury, this would not be a concern. She had not wanted
him here at all. After her fever had burned all lust from her body, she had
hoped to escape from the man, while she was still free of her sinful passions,
and seek the wise counsel she knew Sister Beatrice would give.

This
she would have done had she not had a visitor before she left Tyndal. It was a
man she had seen before, a priest who sometimes brought Thomas news of family
matters. The last time, he had summoned Thomas to a sick brother's bedside. On
this occasion, he had come with word that the monk's father had died at the
beginning of April.

How
had this priest managed to change her mind? Closing her eyes, she pictured the
man's concerned look as he told her the news, explaining that the monk would
not travel to be with his family for reasons that were never made quite clear.

"It
is such a pity that he cannot be distracted from his grief," the man said.
"A journey would bring him much benefit," he finished, his eyebrows
rising as if surprised that he had come up with the idea. Then the man's
expression changed, his eyes intense with a gaze much like that wolves used to
stun rabbits into stillness.

What
a strange image, she thought at the time, considering the man's priestly
vocation.

"Are
you not traveling to Amesbury, my lady?" he asked. "God would surely
be most pleased if you showered pity on our poor brother and took him with
you."

Having
suffered her own mother's death, Eleanor understood the sharpness of Thomas'
pain and suspected that his particular anguish might have been even bleaker due
to an estrangement. She may also have been so weakened from her illness that
she had little strength to argue against this reasonable request no matter how
much she wanted to refuse. Whatever the cause, she had agreed to the priest's
suggestion.

Her
decision had delighted Sister Anne, who held the same opinion that a change of
scenery might chase away some of the monk's dark sorrow. Although Eleanor
feared that his presence would only add to her grave weariness, she reminded
herself that she would not have to see him at all after their arrival until the
time came for their return to Tyndal. Not at all, that is, until the appearance
of this cursed Amesbury ghost...

A
hand, gentle but firm, came to rest on her arm.

"You
should let me know when you are going to take exercise." Sister Anne's
expression was troubled.

Lost
in her musings, Eleanor had not realized she had walked all the way into the
cloister garth. Fatigue made her feel momentarily faint, and her comfortable
chair seemed so very far away. "I am not a child's plaything," she
snapped.

"Some
toys may be unbreakable. You are not. Have you forgotten how close you came to
death last winter? Nor have you recovered either your strength or customary
weight. None of this can be ignored without risk." Anne shook her head to
silence her prioress' expected protest. "Would you not chastise any
sub-infirmarian who disregarded these details with another patient?"

Eleanor
looked down at the hand on her arm. It was the same one that had held her head
so she could sip broth and drink watered wine, a hand that had soothed her
feverish brow for weeks to keep her in this world. She looked up at her friend
with deep affection. "I would that."

Anne's
expression softened as she saw a healthy color return to her friend's cheeks.
"You promised to show me some of your favorite places at the priory. If
they are not far, would you take my arm and guide me to them?"

In
companionable silence, the two nuns started walking slowly toward the parish
church.

"Has
Brother Thomas told you much about his father's death?" Anne suddenly
asked. That their thoughts were often in accord might be one of the comforts of
their friendship, but a slight tremor in her friend's hand made Anne look down
with concern.

Eleanor's
face betrayed nothing. "Nay," she replied, pausing to point out a
lush bed of mint that had been carefully enclosed to prevent any undisciplined
spread in the monastic garden. "I hoped he might have confided in
you."

"He
has not. Although he has grown gaunt with grief, he refuses to speak of it. It
was not until he was asked to investigate this ghost that he brightened for the
first time."

With
a thoughtful frown, Eleanor gently disengaged herself and walked toward the
mint, bending to pick a leaf. "I was told that his father died near St. Albans," she said, inhaling the bracing scent.

"I
had not heard that. Our brother told me only that he prayed his father had been
shriven in time."

Eleanor
put the mint leaf into her mouth and chewed it with evident enjoyment. "He
did not ask leave to spend any time with his family, either then or when we
passed nearby on our way here."

"Maybe
they are no longer in St. Albans?"

Eleanor
nodded. "My aunt told me that Richard of Almayne died near there as well.
What a sad coincidence. I wonder if Brother Thomas' father was in the service
of our king's most noble brother?"

With
that question, the two women fell silent, for both knew that the absence of
Thomas from any ceremony to honor his father might well be proof that he not
only merited a bar sinister but had somehow lost favor with his sire.

"There
it is!" Eleanor said in a low voice as they entered the parish church.
With a show of strength that both amazed and pleased the sub-infirmarian, the
prioress pulled her friend toward a corner and pointed out a much worn stone.
"This part is so ancient that some believe it dates to Queen Guinevere's
death. Others say Queen Elfrida ordered it set as the cornerstone of her new
abbey when she presented the relics of Saint Melor. It is his feast day we
shall celebrate.

Suddenly
she fell silent, gesturing to Anne to do the same.

At
the nearby altar, a young woman knelt, sobbing as if her heart had been
shattered with grief.

Chapter
Ten

"My
name is Alys," the girl said, wiping her cheeks dry with her fingers.
"I live with my widowed mother in Amesbury village, just beyond the bridge
in a house near the inn."

"Come
walk in the nearby garden," Eleanor said. "Your prayers must have
drawn us to you. Speaking of your sadness might give you some ease."

Although
her look lacked any disdain, Alys' expression reflected much doubt.

Eleanor
read the look well. "No cloister ever put a wall around a woman's heart,
and surely I have been on this earth only a few summers longer than you. I
might understand your plight." Her laughter was soft with caring.

The
young woman had the grace to blush. "I meant no discourtesy, Sister."

"Nor
did I think otherwise. This is Sister Anne. I am called Eleanor. We are both
members of this Order but not of this priory, rather visitors from another
daughter house on the coast near Norwich." She gestured in the direction
of the priory gates. "Anything you wish to say leaves Amesbury with
us."

"Your
words are sweet like balm on a wound, Sister Eleanor, but the cause of my grief
is well known." Another tear crested in the corner of the young woman's
eye. "You have not heard the news, methinks, but a man was found murdered
outside this priory." With firm determination, she tossed her head to
chase any tears back. "The man so cruelly slaughtered was my uncle,
Wulfstan. I was the one to discover his body."

"God
grant you solace! I heard the story, although not your name until now. We were
horrified. No one in the priory could imagine who might have so hated your
uncle that he was driven to do such a terrible thing."

"It
must have been Satan's imp. My uncle has no enemies, or rather no more than any
man does who has reached his age. Although my mother claims he is a rude man,
he is always sweet-natured to me."

Eleanor
noted the young woman's use of the present tense. How we do cling to our loved
ones even as Death drags their souls away, she thought.

Tears
resumed their course down Alys' cheeks. "I weep for his son, my cousin, as
well. Sayer must be bitter with grief for he had quarreled with his father just
the other night. My uncle is quick to anger but does not stay so for
long." She sobbed, then resolutely faced what had happened. "The time
was too short, and they were never able to make peace!"