Chambers of Death (15 page)

Chapter Thirty

As Thomas walked through the busy courtyard, melancholy fell on his spirit with the weight of a pall over a corpse. He tossed his head like a horse bitten by a fly, as if that would free him of the malignant gloom, but the darkness only dug its claws more firmly into his soul.

“A lover could not be more faithful in attendance upon me,” he groaned, “or show greater jealousy over my joy in another.”

That
other
was the rare happiness he had experienced on this journey from Tyndal.

Melancholia had been the usual disorder in his humors since his imprisonment. It was briefly banished after some months at Tyndal, only to return during his journey to Amesbury Priory. The agonies he had then suffered grew so unbearable that he begged Prioress Eleanor to grant him permission to become a hermit, at least for a time, after the poisoning of Martin the Cooper last summer. She refused, ordering him instead to accompany her on this matter of priory land boundary disputes.

The journey was ill-advised due both to the pestilent season and harsh weather, but his prioress rejected all argument. Rarely had he seen her more adamant and never as unreasonable. When the company set out on a blustery day, the chill wind was only a foretaste of trouble to come. Oddly enough, an increase in his anguish had not been part of it.

He had found pleasure in unknotting legal issues and providing his prioress with options for equitable solutions. Her approval of his work had been most evident, and he had enjoyed the times when they took opposite sides of each argument to establish which solution might be best. Once the issues were resolved, and the party had begun their ride back to the priory, Thomas was shocked to find he had discovered contentment.

Then Mariota fell ill, and the storm had forced them all to seek shelter at this manor. Bedded down in the kitchen, Thomas easily fell back into a pattern of life he had lived as a child. His mother dead before he could even remember her, a cook had taken him on and raised him until she also died, just before his voice broke. Kitchens had always meant love and security. Hilda, the cook, reminded him much of the woman who reared him.

And now she was dying.

He cursed. She did not deserve this. Why did some grow corpulent in the service of corrupt men while those like Hilda suffered under the heavy boot of injustice? Why did God allow it? As bitterness soured his heart, he curled his hand into a fist and raised it to shake at the sky.

Something nudged his leg.

He looked down, his thoughts instantly pulled back from that chasm of irrevocable misery where Satan delighted in pushing him.

A brown dog of mixed breed was sitting in front of him, its expression expectant as if the creature had just asked a question.

“Where is your master?”

Seeing that it had gained the monk’s attention, the dog dropped the stick it held in his mouth at Thomas’ feet.

“Here, Brother.”

Thomas looked around and saw the speaker, a lad no older than nine summers, gaunt, with scabs and scars covering his face, neck, and hands. The boy was still recovering from a pox.

“How long have you had this fine creature?”

The boy grinned. “He was the gift promised if I lived, Brother.”

The monk nodded and his heart grieved at the roughness still evident in the boy’s voice.

“We came for your blessing, if you would be so kind.” The boy knelt and steepled his hands.

The dog looked hopeful.

If God has let this child live, Thomas thought, surely the boy was already under His safeguard. As for the dog, the monk suspected he had the same protection as any sparrow in God’s kingdom. He gave them both the peace of a blessing nonetheless.

“Are you training him?” the monk asked after the boy had risen from his knees.

“Only to fetch sticks,” was the wary reply. “My father says our master would not approve if he learned to hunt.”

A father who will nevertheless teach the beast to track down conies when the steward is abroad, the monk concluded. He picked up the proffered stick and threw it.

The dog spun around, scattering clumps of mud as he did, and raced after it, albeit with a limp and a hop. Now Thomas understood why this boy had been allowed to keep him. The beast was too lame to hunt.

“A clever creature?”

“He’s a good watchdog.”

“Barks, does he, when a stranger comes nigh?”

“Barks at Satan himself, Brother!”

Thomas raised his eyebrows in wide-eyed approval at such valor.

The boy misinterpreted the look. “Ask my father if you do not believe me.” His jaw set with resolute certainty.

“I did not doubt your word, lad, but now I must ask when this fine hound chased the Prince of Darkness away. I do love a good tale!” Thomas crouched on his heels so his eyes were on the same level as the boy’s.

“Last night!” The boy puffed his chest out on his dog’s behalf.

“Verily?”

“See that hut over there?”

Thomas looked in the direction the lad was pointing. It was a crudely built hut near the storage shed where Hilda had been held. “Oh, yes,” he whispered.

“My scabs were itching too much to sleep, and I tried not to wake my parents while I scratched. I could hear the rain had stopped and, through that window, I saw the clouds had broken. The crescent moon was just there.” He pointed to a place in the sky that suggested a time perhaps an hour before dawn.

“Aye? Aye?” As his hopes increased that this demon might turn out to be a mortal killer, Thomas lost any need to feign interest in this story.

The boy reached down and stroked his dog, now resting his head against the lad’s leg and panting with the effort of retrieving the stick. “Suddenly, Rabbit began to howl in such a way that my parents awoke. My mother began to whimper and even my father moaned. A lost soul was passing, they said.”

Thomas had fallen into thought, calculating how long before the sheriff arrived that this had happened. If the boy was right about the position of the moon, there would have been time enough to attack the cook and escape before most were awake, but not so long that Hilda would have died from her wounds.

All of a sudden he realized the boy had grown silent and was looking at him as if expecting some reaction. “But it was not a soul, was it?” He rested his chin in his hand and concentrated on what might be said next.

“Nay, Brother. My father gestured for me to be quiet, which I obeyed, but I did roll toward the window and look out with due caution. The Devil was outside!”

“You were a brave lad. How did you recognize the Fiend?”

The boy cocked his head and took a man’s stance with legs apart and fists on his waist. That the limbs were like twigs and the fists no bigger than apples made the gesture even more poignant. “Wasn’t our master’s cook slain by Satan himself? That’s what I heard this morning, and I did see the Devil unbar the door to the shed where she was and disappear inside. My parents told me to say nothing lest the Evil One seek revenge on anyone who saw him.” The boy glanced up at the monk with a troubling look. “But it is safe to tell a monk, isn’t it?”

Thomas rose and reached over to grasp the boy by the shoulder. “Nothing sends the Devil dancing away faster than the protection of someone in God’s service.” He painted a cross on the lad’s forehead. “You are wise to listen to your parents and should not tell anyone else of what you saw, but this mark will keep Satan’s hand from harming you for what you have told me.”

The boy grinned.

“Did you note any details about this Evil One? He takes on various shapes, you know, and sometimes the likeness of someone we have met.” The question was worth asking, even if the boy had seen nothing more.

Shaking his head, the lad first denied seeing anything unusual, then frowned. His face suddenly brightened with one thought: “He was the darkest shadow I have ever seen, Brother! But the Devil would be, wouldn’t he?”

Thomas ruffled the boy’s hair and sent him back to the game with his dog. As he watched the pair walk away, Thomas almost danced for joy.

Although his discovery of the knife in the stable had proven of little value, he now had a sighting of the killer and a time when the deed was done. All he had to do was learn the names of the few who were abroad at that bleak hour, winnow out those with legitimate cause to be so, and question the chaff.

Chapter Thirty-One

Eleanor was impatient for a walk by herself but knew propriety forbade it. A prioress, being of high rank, might bend rules if she did so with probity and reason, but the border between acceptance and condemnation was always narrow for any woman, whether she was bound to God or some mortal man.

When she insisted on traveling across a courtyard, filled with men, to the hut where Hilda was found, she had already challenged that boundary. The shock of seeing her determined march through their midst had caused those rough-mannered men to lean away from her like the waves of the Red Sea when Moses led the Israelites to safety, but she dared not chance censure again just because she was restless. Sighing, she longed for the freedom she possessed behind the walls of Tyndal Priory.

Eleanor looked over her shoulder and saw that her devoted shadow was standing a courteous distance behind her. Just a few feet beyond, the door to Mariota’s room remained open, and the servant woman could be seen embroidering a simple pattern on a cloth held taut within a small wooden frame.

The man leaned against the wall and bowed his head, thus indicating his thoughts were elsewhere and that she could assume greater privacy than his presence would otherwise suggest.

As the prioress sat down on the bench near the window, her heart softened toward the young man. He had been both sympathetic and respectful in his attendance, while remaining obedient to the orders of Sir Reimund.

She put a hand over her mouth to hide a smile. Indeed, the guard had taken those commands more literally than the sheriff had intended, diligently keeping her from harm while allowing her some freedom to do as she willed. Had he done otherwise, she feared she might well have made him suffer for it. It would have been wicked of her, and most unwomanly to rebel against his purported protection, but her tolerance for interference had become brittle of late.

Perhaps she should write Sister Beatrice for advice on how to thwart this growing obstinacy, for her aunt was a woman who also shared the attribute but had conquered it with penance by taking a far lesser position at Amesbury Priory than her abilities would have allowed. On the other hand, as Eleanor recalled her aunt’s adamant refusal to change her mind about taking on the leadership of that ancient priory, she did wonder, albeit with much affection, if her aunt had truly subjugated her stubbornness or just reframed the definition.

The breeze surging through the window felt chill and damp with the promise of yet another storm. Looking outside, she watched clouds layer one upon another, like wispy veils in several shades of gray, as they scudded across the sky from the sea not that many miles away. A small patch of blue sky did peek out to the west, but the brief view only taunted the earth with hints of the warmer seasons. Indeed, as the days grew darker, icy gales would become relentless.

Eleanor shivered.

In contrast, crusaders, returned from Outremer, had told her tales of the merciless sun that blistered their skin, although the nights could be so chill that soldiers had died of the cold. Some of these men, now home and faced with autumns like this, longed to go back to such brightness. Others thanked God that they had escaped Hell. What would her brother, Hugh, think whenever he returned? Eleanor closed her eyes and offered a brief prayer for her eldest brother, a man who had grown strangely silent since the new king had left Acre.

Prayer for her brother had calmed her, and she leaned against the damp stone. Walking abroad when the air would soon grow misty with rain was ill-advised for many reasons. She would be wiser to remember that these troubling events had prevented her from honoring many Offices. A walk to the chapel would be in order.

As she rose, Eleanor glanced down on the courtyard. In one corner, she saw Brother Thomas tossing a stick for a crippled dog. Next to him was a small boy whose laughter was merry enough to cut through the activity around them. She rested her chin on her hand and watched the monk crouch down and talk with the boy who seemed quite pleased to be telling him some tale. Then the pair parted, and her monk walked briskly toward the manor house.

What a good man he was, she thought, and what pleasure she had had in his company during this journey. Although she had not been able to banish lust entirely, she had found some chaste joy in his wit and clever arguments when they debated together. Shared jests had been common, and the laughter they enjoyed seemed as effective in chasing away Satan’s temptations as lying on a cold floor for an hour of prayer.

She most certainly had cause enough to bemoan this trip, and looked forward to seeing the entrance gate of Tyndal, but she would also regret trading his sweet companionship for that of accounting rolls, which were possessed of far less wit than her monk whatever their other estimable qualities.

Musing on this, she began to turn away from the window when something below abruptly drew her attention back.

Side by side, Mistress Luce and the physician’s widow were walking past the hut where Hilda had been kept. The way they gestured and talked, one might almost conclude they were boon companions. Yet the prioress knew well enough, from a brief encounter with them together and several remarks made by each, that there was a dearth of affection between them.

But could she trust that conclusion? Hadn’t she been proven wrong about much—or at least hadn’t many of her opinions been placed in doubt?

She had erred in her judgment of Mistress Maud. The woman had seemed competent and possessed of balanced humors. After what Mariota had witnessed, however, that good impression was shattered.

Was Maud the woman seen pleading with Tobye that night? Might she have killed him because he knew of her lust for the master’s younger son and either threatened to expose her as leman to a man who should be a priest, or else demanded payment for not doing so? Did the physician’s widow stab Hilda because the cook knew of the affair or could name Maud as a possible suspect in the groom’s murder?

If so, the woman dissembled well. Eleanor could not call to mind one gesture, look, or word that suggested any dismay in Maud’s heart over the prospect that Hilda could live to give witness against her. She had given the cook her own pallet on which to lie, had tended to her with the utmost tenderness, and had wept at the idea of the woman’s probable death. Was there anything in this behavior to suggest a killer?

On the reverse of that argument, Maud was well-positioned to ease Hilda into God’s hands without anyone thinking twice about it. She was often alone with her and had already expressed her expert opinion that the cook would most likely die. Knowing the cook would never live to point an accusing finger at her might allow Maud to feign the innocence of grief she did not feel.

Eleanor tapped her fingers against the wall in frustration at the extent to which she had been misguided. Surely this proved how vile her arrogance was, interfering in the sheriff’s business when she had no cause? Why did she think she was ordained by God to render judgments on guilt or innocence? Wasn’t she but a mere woman, a flawed vessel?

Taking a deep breath, Eleanor again tried to regain calm and objectivity. Whatever her imperfections, her greatest failing in this situation had actually been the inability to distinguish between facts and conjectures.

I may have been most foolish, she thought, but I doubt God is offended because I care about justice in this matter. Surely He disapproves when mortals conclude that their worldly ambitions are best served by letting the innocent suffer or offering them up as a sacrifice. Nay, God has never shown offence when I interfered in other crimes, and, if I have grown bloated with conceit over past accomplishments, I shall do penance.

She resettled on the bench and considered what to do next. The wisest approach would be to reassess what she had learned and not allow herself to be blinded by womanish impulse when logic must rule.

“Below are two women, walking toward the manor house.” She whispered to herself with that determined simplicity a novice mistress might use to explain a new concept to an obtuse student. “Mistress Luce was Tobye’s lover and is Huet’s stepmother. Those are facts. Mistress Maud may be Huet’s lover. That is most likely a fact but must still be counted conjecture. Although they were discovered in each other’s arms, there might be some other explanation for it.”

She watched Luce and Maud stop and turn toward each other. The physician’s widow abruptly folded her arms and tucked in her chin as if angry or offended. The steward’s wife spun around and walked off alone.

And what of Mistress Luce’s conduct toward her stepson, she asked herself, that evening Huet entertained them all? Was it a fair observation to think the behavior was seductive? It most certainly was not maternal! To conclude that a stepmother would flirt with her stepson, albeit one of similar enough age, was an uncomfortable one, but Eleanor could not dismiss the possibility. If Maud learned of it, might she not be jealous? That might also mean that Mistress Luce was in danger, assuming the widow was the one who killed Tobye, if the wife let the widow know she had discovered the affair.

Eleanor now saw Maud pick up the front of her robe and run to catch up with the steward’s wife. The pair met again just below the window where the prioress sat.

Eleanor leaned over to better see what was happening, praying as she did that they would not look up and see her. Their gestures suggested a heated discussion.

The surrounding commotion, normal in any courtyard, made it difficult to hear what the women were saying. In any case, no one else seemed to pay much attention to the pair. The prioress began to suspect this was such common behavior between the two that it was no longer entertaining to watch.

Suddenly, Luce raised her hand as if to strike.

Maud grimaced in anticipation of the blow.

Luce lowered her fist and drew back.

The widow hurried away. Although she did glance once over her shoulder, her expression was unreadable.

“You have dared to rise above your station,” the steward’s wife shouted after her. “Leave this manor and never show your face here again!”

This time, several women did turn their heads to stare at their master’s wife. A man lowered his axe and then shook his head in disgust before returning to his labor of wood chopping.

Eleanor quickly looked at her guard to see if he had overheard, but he was still leaning against the wall, his eyes shut as if lost in some pleasant dream.

In Mariota’s room, the servant continued to stitch.

The prioress turned back to see Maud’s reaction. Surely the woman had heard Mistress Luce’s words, but the widow neither replied nor stopped before disappearing around the side of the stable.

Glancing down, Eleanor saw Mistress Luce cover her eyes with one hand as if struck with a headache. The gesture lasted but a moment before she quickly lifted the hem of her robe out of the mud and climbed the stairs leading to the manor house entrance.

Eleanor decided to meet her at the door.