Sorrow Without End (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-four

“The purchase of Saint Skallagrim’s kneecap and thigh bone is a rare opportunity for Tyndal, my lady. If we do not buy now, the seller might go to Norwich with it. I beg you, make an immediate decision on this pressing matter!” Brother Matthew swayed like a sapling in a high wind.

Sister Ruth stared at him with unblinking eyes. Although most would conclude that her look suggested attentiveness, a few might wonder if it could be adoring.

Prioress Eleanor was not quite so wooed. “I was clear. We shall delay until we have a new prior.”

“A prior who must await confirmation from Anjou, as you yourself so wisely noted.” The monk smirked.

He has won that argument, the prioress conceded in silence. She nodded.

“Dare we hesitate so long? Think what prestige and coin other sacred bones have brought to blessed sites: Saint William to Norwich, Saint Thomas Becket at Canterbury.” His voice slipped into an awed whisper. “Saint Frideswide to Oxford! King Henry himself has gone there and given gifts. Perhaps the king might grace us with a visit if we had a wondrous relic of our own.”

Briefly closing her eyes, Eleanor imagined with horror the amount of work and expense required to receive a king.

“I do see God’s hand in this. How else can we explain this sudden discovery of Saint Skallagrim’s bones? How dare we turn ungrateful backs on this gracious gift?”

Sister Ruth blinked. “A whole thigh bone and kneecap! Think, my lady, what this would mean for Tyndal’s reputation. Our good brother is right in this matter.” There was none of the usual rasping malice in Sister Ruth’s voice. As she continued to gaze upon the leggy monk, her tone was soft, even sweet.

Eleanor clenched her teeth. And what would it mean if she were foolish enough to consent? The monk would spread the story of how his superior arguments had vanquished her weaker ones. With this show of strength, he would surely win more support, become prior, and even do so with some appearance that she blessed the decision. On the other hand, if she were to refuse to purchase it, others might switch their allegiance to Brother Matthew out of anger that she had cast aside such a purported treasure. A dull ache began over her left eye.

“Shall I have the relic seller come to you, my lady?” Brother Matthew ground one fist into the palm of his other hand.

Eleanor watched the gesture, knowing it was she who was being ground down. “Your diligence has been most impressive and duly noted. Nevertheless, I do not believe the time is auspicious for a quick decision.”

“I fear he may sell…”

“Norwich has its saint. A full body, I believe. Need I remind you that Tyndal is far from any major town, and there are no other religious houses or churches nearby that could afford an expensive relic. If your source is that eager to sell in this lonely area, he should be willing to wait a little longer.”

“Nevertheless…”

The two monastics were watching her like hawks might a field mouse. “Please excuse me, Brother. It is late and I have vowed to pray at this hour.” The pain above her eye was growing worse.

“My lady?” A look crossed Sister Ruth’s face that suggested she was weighing the merits of staying behind to plead further on behalf of the relic.

“Alone. You may both leave with my gratitude. Your concern for the reputation of Tyndal is laudable.” May the priory soon elect a man of sense, Eleanor prayed, for if Tyndal chose Brother Matthew, she might be forced to purchase these bones.

The two religious glanced at each other, rose in unison, and did obeisance.

As Eleanor watched them walk away, she caught herself muttering, “Why do they remind me of an old married couple, each having learned to read the mind of the other?” She took in a deep breath before turning to the ewer of ale on her table. Slowly she poured a cup and sipped. Her eyes burned. Her head hurt. Her heart? Ah, that.

A movement on the ground caught her eye. A cat with deep orange fur jumped up on the table. “Come, Arthur,” she said, picking up the rumbling creature. “Sit with me and bring the wise counsel of your noble namesake. I am much in need of it.”

She carried him to a chair, then sat. He circled briefly on her lap, then settled into the warmth of her woolen habit with feline contentment. As she rested her hand in the soft fur, Eleanor closed her eyes. The ache in her head eased ever so slightly. How she regretted not taking Anne’s advice to take feverfew in time to ease this growing affliction, but despite the throbbing, the cat’s happy purrs did soothe enough of the tension so she could think.

Although she had managed to deflect Brother Matthew and the issue of the relic for now, that difficulty would not go away, nor would the problem of Brother Thomas and the question of who killed the soldier. “What think you of this, Arthur? Could Brother Thomas be involved in a murder or am I so blinded by his beauty that I cannot see his evil nature?”

Protesting the pause in her attentions, Arthur pushed his head against her hand. “I do believe he is innocent,” she said, rubbing the proffered head. “Satan’s fire may have set my body aflame with lust, but the Evil One has not managed to reduce all my wits to ashes.”

The cat rolled over, one claw catching the fabric of her robe. She eased it out. “The good brother is a man of courage and loyalty. You remember the bravery he showed when he first came to Tyndal, and I know I told you how steadfast he was at Wynethorpe Castle last winter. Had he not been willing to do what was needed to unveil a killer, my brother would have been hanged. When a man has proven he loves justice, how can he be guilty of a crime as horrible as the death of this poor soldier?”

Arthur shifted, raising one front leg so his mistress could more thoroughly rub his chest.

She smiled. “And what better proof of his virtue than your acceptance! I have seen you running after him with your tail held high with joy. That you approve of him is most assuredly unassailable evidence that Brother Thomas is an honorable man!”

The cat opened one eye and purred louder.

“Whereas I do remember that you have scratched Brother Matthew on more than one occasion.”

Eleanor eased back into her chair. If the monk was innocent, as she did believe, what was he hiding? Did he know who the dead soldier was, and, if so, why did he refuse to identify him? She bit her lip. What if the dead man knew secrets about the monk’s past, secrets that involved women in whose arms he had known joy? By any standards, Thomas was handsome, and, although there had been no rumors that he had been unfaithful to his vow of chastity since his arrival at Tyndal, Eleanor suspected he must have been quite a different man in the world. Women there must have been, or at least one who might have won his heart.

“May God forgive me! I am thinking like a jealous wife,” she growled. What difference would it make if he had slept with every wife and daughter in London before he took vows? Since God would have forgiven that long ago, she should not be thinking on it. She willed her thoughts to another possibility.

Thomas did have family. Perhaps the secret he wished to keep involved them? She remembered that black-clad man of the Church who had arrived on a fine gray horse last spring and begged permission to take her monk away so he might care for his sick brother. Of course she had given it, then watched with aching heart as Thomas rode off with the messenger. At the time, she had thought it strange that Thomas’ expression suggested more anger than concern for his brother when she gave him the news and her blessing to leave. “What rift from his family caused him to react so, yet feel duty-bound to attend when called?”

The cat yawned.

“Have I bored you, sweet one?” She gently rubbed his neck. “Very well, then, I shall confront Brother Thomas with a mother’s stern face when I question him on behalf of that dead soldier’s soul. As his prioress, I have sworn to be a mother to my monks as Our Lady was to the beloved of Our Lord. He must tell me whatever is troubling him.”

Arthur slid one paw over his eyes with a show of some feline annoyance.

“What else might I do to discover the murderer in our midst? Ralf will question those who came by the same road where the killing took place. That is something he and his men can do more efficiently than I, and he will tell me those results as soon as he is done.”

Arthur raised his head, extended one paw, and rested it against her chin. Slipping one finger under that foot, she let him grip her playfully with his claws.

“What of the man who saw our good brother at the turn in the road? Ralf believes that man too frail to have done the murder himself. He also believes him to be mad—yet not mad.” Eleanor tried to remember if she had seen this witness, then shook her head. “Perhaps I should speak to Brother Beorn or Sister Anne about him. Our crowner may be correct in his conclusion that the man is but a witness and incapable of murder, but I do wonder how someone can be described as both mad and not so. If Brother Thomas, a man of proven honor, can be put into protective custody for what he may know, I do think we might consider whether a madman, who may not be mad, might have something to tell as well.”

Eleanor lifted the cat from her lap and set him on her bed in a warm, roughly woven nest of woolen cloth she had provided for him. Then she bent down and nuzzled his soft fur with her nose. “While I go off to the hospital, sweet sir,” she whispered, “dream of fat mice and…”

“My lady!”

Gytha stood in the open door.

Eleanor turned pale at the urgent tone. “What is wrong?”

“Please, my lady, you must come quickly! It is about Brother Thomas.”

Chapter Twenty-five

Brother Beorn glared at the crowner. “Sister Christina is praying with Sir Maurice, and his one-eyed servant refuses to leave him,” he snapped. “Although I will bring others to see your corpse, I shall not interrupt our infirmarian. The young man’s spirit is in pain, and if anyone can draw God’s healing beneficence to a troubled soul, she can. Question them when she is done.”

Ralf shrugged. Although he was suffering from a most contrary mood, he knew there was little merit in countermanding Beorn’s suggestion. The half-blind man and the youth with the shattered face could wait a while longer.

“Very well. Bring me other strangers who might have seen and remembered something.” The crowner hesitated. Had he seen just the briefest sparkle of malice in the lay brother’s eyes? “Barring the leper,” he quickly added. “Of course, I shall want to know which ones you have omitted and the reasons for doing so.” Both can play at that game, Ralf thought, not even trying to hide the spite in his voice.

Brother Beorn strode off without reply.

“I should not vex him so,” Ralf muttered. “He is a good man, and there are others more worthy of my bad temper.” Nonetheless, there was no one else at hand, and after all the pain and embarrassment he had suffered since the discovery of the corpse, the crowner was not in a charitable mood.

In fact, Brother Beorn should not be overly burdened, he reminded himself. Most villagers would have avoided the main road entirely and arrived at the priory gates by locally known shortcuts instead. These, and any strangers coming from the opposite direction, would not have any knowledge of the killing. Perhaps the man of rank and his one-eyed servant had also come from some other route and need not be troubled beyond asking which road they had traveled.

From Brother Beorn he had learned that the stout men of the king’s court had come from an unsuccessful journey to the Norwich shrine of Saint William and therefore would have seen nothing. Depending on his mood, he might question them anyway, more for his own amusement than information. Doing this would surely irk his brother, something the sheriff deserved for all the trouble his newly found concern was causing Ralf.

The crowner had also established that only local villagers, or else the dead, had left the hospital today. Those living he knew well enough: women with their children, a few elderly, none likely to commit murder. Nor would any have traveled that road. Ralf was confident that the killer had not yet left the priory. Although that might be good news, Ralf knew he had little time to waste. If the murderer had come here for shelter, he would not stay long.

He cursed. If Cuthbert had not been out hunting wandering sheep, he could have helped, thus allowing the innocent to return more quickly to their beds and thus suffer their mortal ills in peace. Then the crowner shook his head with frustration. Perhaps it would not matter that his sergeant was unavailable. Only so many could crowd around the corpse to stare. This viewing would take time, time that was becoming ever more precious.

***

As Ralf had expected, there was much shaking of heads from those travelers well enough to hobble into the chapel to see the dead man. Their failure to recognize the corpse seemed honest enough. Most did study the face with dutiful concentration, and the crowner had made sure the grisly wounds were well hidden to protect the sensitivities of the innocent. Many of these men would have gone with anticipatory pleasure to a hanging or a quartering, but few cared to see similar sights against their will.

Only once did Ralf feel hope that the victim might be recognized. An old man, barely able to walk, had spent some time looking at the face, then touched the lank hair with a trembling hand. When the crowner asked him, with as much gentleness as he could, whether he knew who lay on that cold trestle table, the man had merely shaken his head and said there was something about the man that reminded him of his long-dead brother.

“Very well,” Ralf said to Brother Beorn, as the last man was taken back to his straw bed. “We have eliminated most. Let us have your man with his one-eyed servant. Surely your infirmarian’s healing prayers are long over and the pair improved enough to come speedily.”

Brother Beorn cast a glance at the crowner that would have fried a lesser man, then turned abruptly on his leather heel and left the chapel. As he watched him leave, Ralf once again swore to limit his irreverent comments out of courtesy. He also knew that he most probably would not. Since boyhood, he and Beorn had always pricked each other.

***

The two men, who returned with the lay brother, did so without assistance. As he studied them, Ralf found it hard to believe that the younger was even alive, let alone able to walk. The sword blow that left such a deep scar from forehead to jaw would have killed most. Perhaps Sister Christina’s prayers had worked a miracle. He vowed to remember this should he survive the nun and she became a candidate for sainthood.

The crowner bowed, his gesture perfunctory. “My lord,” he said to the younger man. “I am Ralf, crowner for this shire…”

“I know.” The young man’s voice was deep, his eyes restless as a falcon’s, hungry for a killing.

“You are called…?”

The older, one-eyed man stepped forward. “Sir Maurice of Carel is my master. I am Walter.”

“I addressed Sir Maurice.” The man might lack an eye, Ralf thought, but there was enough insolence in his look for two.

“I speak for him.”

Ralf looked back at the scarred face. The young man’s gaze was now frozen as if his eyes had turned to ice.

“You will understand why I do,” the servant continued.

Surely this man must have known his place better when his master had had his wits about him, Ralf thought. The not-so-quiet arrogance in the older man’s manner vexed him, yet he knew the servant probably spoke the truth. No matter how strong the master’s voice might sound, his eyes reflected a hollowed-out man.

“I wish you to look upon a corpse,” the crowner said to Walter. “Perhaps you have seen him.”

The man shrugged. “We have not seen any dead men.”

“Alive perhaps?”

“What reason would we have to remember if we had?”

The crowner’s patience was diminishing with celerity. “I could ask the innkeeper whether you rested the night there and which direction you took when you left…”

“There is no need,” Walter replied. “We did stay at the inn and traveled to Tyndal by the main road.”

Ralf decided there was a steadiness of truth in the man’s voice. “The dead man was found on that road you traveled yesterday. You may have seen him and perhaps any companions he might have had. We seek his identity.”

“And who killed him.”

“I did not say he had been murdered.”

“You did not have to, Crowner. Your interest in this does not suggest the man died from old age.”

Ralf raised one eyebrow. “I investigate any unexplained death, not just murders.”

“Unless he bears an untoward wound, crowner, I doubt you would order this pilgrimage of the sick to view him.”

This Walter showed too much boldness for a man who had supposedly spent his life serving the whims of the mighty. Whatever his bond to the man he called
master
, Ralf doubted Walter was any servant. “You have the right of that,” he said with a mollifying tone. If their true relationship became significant in his investigation, he would question them further. If not, he would let them keep their secrets in the shadow. “Come with me, then. I would have you see the corpse.”

Walter hesitated. “I will do so gladly, Crowner, but I beg you excuse my master.”

“Why?”

“He is unwell.”

“Others have been sick or wounded, yet they have come.” Ralf gestured for the pair to follow him.

“I cannot allow…”

“Allow? Then I order it. In the king’s name.”

Walter reddened. “Do you know who my master is?”

“A knight home from the crusades, if I might guess, although neither of you wears the crusader’s badge,” the crowner snapped. “From the brown color of your faces, I would say that you have both recently spent much time in sunnier lands than England.” Ralf watched the man’s look grow guarded and wondered what he feared.

Then Walter shrugged, his gesture suggesting that any man with a full complement of wits could see that Sir Maurice was not a crusader. “A man who is close to Prince Edward,” he answered, as if Ralf had asked.

“Not from Outremer, then?”

“We have traveled to the continent for my master’s health. As even you must know, there are shrines there.”

“And are you suggesting that your master has friends currently at court, not just the Lord Edward who is far from England, friends that this rough-edged country crowner might not wish to offend?”

“You show some astuteness, Crowner.”

“More than you would be advised to ignore, Walter of wherever-you-are-from. Lest you blunder further in this badly stitched guise of a servant, I would suggest that you bring your master now. A good servant would not hesitate to do so at the command of a man standing for our king. Thus, out of kindness, I teach you how to play this strange game and leave you to hope that I do not press for any explanations about why you have chosen these ill-fitting robes.”

The older man blinked, then looked over at the man he claimed to serve. A look of pity softened his features and, for just a moment, Ralf thought he saw tears rise in his sighted eye.

“I beg pardon for my rude manner, Crowner. I wished only to protect my master from grief. As you must realize, he suffers profoundly.”

“The visage of death is not strange to any of us.” Ralf gestured toward the chapel. “It should not disturb him more than any other man.”

“When we leave our mother’s womb, we may all come dressed with the flesh of mortality, but Death’s features shine with an especially fierce light for some,” Walter replied, taking Sir Maurice’s elbow and leading him forward. “For these, the light may be both unbearable and blinding.”

“He has you to aid him.” Ralf walked to the corpse and laid one hand on the sheet covering the head. “Do you wish to view the man first?”

Walter shook his head. “We traveled together, Sir Maurice and I. What one saw, the other did as well.”

Ralf whipped the sheet off.

Sir Maurice screamed.