Chambers of Death (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The crackling branches spat out a merry warmth from the nearby hearth. Although he was a young man, Thomas was grateful for the heat that chased the dampness from his bones. He rose and walked closer to the fire, stretching his arms wide to embrace more of the comfort. A cup of watered wine would be welcome as well, he decided, especially if he must hear an admission of murder.

“Wine!” a voice shouted.

Thomas turned to see the steward limp into the hall.

From the shadows behind a pillar, a servant rushed off to obey.

Stevyn approached the hearth, rubbing his hand against his side.

“You have cut yourself,” Thomas said, seeing smears of blood on the robe when the man drew closer. “I should make a poultice for that wound before it festers.”

“Nay, Brother. You are kind, but it is a minor thing.” He scowled at his hand, as if it had offended him, and picked out what seemed to be splinters. “I tripped and scraped it against the rough wood of a wall, trying to keep balance. In my youth, I would have righted myself easily, but my legs buckled. Like my youngest son returning from his studies, my body often rebels against my wishes.”

Thomas smiled in response.

The servant arrived with a pitcher and two cups. Stevyn grunted and waved him away with the injured hand.

Thomas concluded the wound must be insignificant enough.

The pewter cup Stevyn handed him was of plain design but fine crafting and filled with a dark wine that turned out to be excellent. Thomas nodded with surprised pleasure.

“From Gascony,” the steward replied to the unspoken question. “Now, Brother, sit back and let me tell you a tale. Women like them to be filled with handsome knights and courtly love, but I fear this one is about a simpler fellow.”

Raising his cup, Thomas grinned. “As a monk from a priory near a seacoast village, I know more of that ilk than I do of knights, Master Stevyn.”

The steward raised one bushy eyebrow to express affable doubt, then settled into his chair, drank his wine, and began the story.

“Long ago, but near to this place, there dwelt a lad and a lass, both sinners by birth but as close to Eden’s innocence as youth can be. They fell in love, but he was a younger son of a landed knight, and his father had higher ambition for him than a merchant’s daughter. A worthy spouse with a little property was soon found for him, and the lovers were forced to part, innocent of lewdness but wounded in heart.”

He drained his own wine, glanced over at the monk’s cup, and replenished both before continuing. “The lad was now a man in possession of some earthly wealth. His new wife also owned a good soul. She prayed much, gave alms to the poor, tended to the sick, and dutifully bedded her husband for the sake of heirs. She bore one in great agony, then failed to quicken again. Indeed, bedding her husband grew so painful after that hard birthing that he took pity and ceased demanding payment of the marriage debt.”

Stevyn stopped and looked into his cup with a disappointed expression as if surprised not to find therein an answer to some question.

“He bore no fault for the pain his wife suffered,” Thomas said. “Sometimes God brings suffering to the good for reasons only He knows.” His heart always ached whenever he said this, and thus he used the argument as little as possible, but he suspected the steward would only take the words as rhetorical things.

In fact, the steward waved them aside. “There is more, Brother, much more.”

Thomas gestured for him to go on.

“Although the man did not love his wife, he honored her and sought remedies to heal her pain. When pilgrimages and trips to noted healers failed, he desperately turned to his former love. By this time, she had also married a good man at her parents’ behest and then gained some reputation as a woman skilled with herbs.”

He rose and paced without speaking, drained his cup, and refilled it. His hand visibly shaking, he spilled wine and muttered a mild curse. “Aye, a physician would have been the better choice, but the man’s wife had begged for a woman to attend her, confessing that her modesty had been offended enough by the questioning of one of the male healers.”

Thomas drank in silence.

“This desperate measure failed as well, and the man’s wife did not regain her health. As it turned out, it was a dangerous mistake. While the man’s wife prayed for relief, Satan found a fertile field in the hearts of the husband and his old love. At first they felt only comfort in each other’s company, then hellfire manifested as lust enflamed them beyond endurance. It was not long before they committed adultery, not just once but again and again.”

Although guilt colored the steward’s cheeks, Thomas briefly glimpsed something else in the man’s face. For just an instant, the wrinkles etched in his face smoothed and the brightness of youth flashed in his eyes. Did sin ever bring peace, the monk wondered before fear banished the blasphemous thought with just speed.

Stevyn sat back down and shook his head. “Unlike Huet, I tell tales badly, Brother. Let it be said, simply enough, that the wife learned of her husband’s sin and, like a true Christian, forgave him. God cursed him, however, and the good wife grew increasingly weak and finally died, leaving the husband so befouled with wickedness that he lost all reason. Blinded by the Devil, he turned selfish and took a young wife, whom he neither loved nor ever learned to respect, but whom he could swink at will like a boar in rut.” He closed his eyes, the illusion of story-telling grown as sheer as worn cloth.

“And when he learned that she was swyving another?”

Stevyn’s face turned a wine-red hue as he slammed his cup on the wooden table.

“Might he not have killed her because of the horns she put on his forehead? Many men have done just so and few have condemned them for it.”

“Someone else has done this, Brother. As I now think on it, the crime ought to have been done by me. For the sake of my honor, I confess I might even wish that it had been, but I have learned something from my sins toward my first wife. I…”

“…chose to forgive?” The question was dutifully asked, as his vocation demanded, but Thomas knew well enough what the reply would be.

Stevyn snorted. “Nay, I am not a man inclined to turn the other cheek, no matter how often our priest reminds us of that duty. I contemplated sending her to a convent for her sins, with a dowry large enough to guarantee acceptance and everlasting enclosure behind thick walls, but never did I want to kill her. And if you doubt me, Brother, as you most certainly have reason to do, I ask that you consider this. Why would I have publicly strung her up naked for all to see her shame, which is mine as well? That is an act of someone who must have had cause to wound both my wife and me.”

Thomas nodded. For a husband to stab an adulterous wife in bed with her lover, or to suffocate her without leaving plain evidence of killing, were more common methods. Yet he was puzzled about one thing. “When did you learn of the adultery? I have heard it continued for some time.”

“You are a young man, devoted to God. This may be difficult for you to understand.” The steward shifted uncomfortably, then reached for the pitcher and poured himself another full cup.

Thomas refused the offer of more. This was not the time for a wine-dulled mind.

“It became obvious to me that she bore my swyving as a despised duty.” He smiled, but his eyes closed from the shame of the admission. “She was a lusty young woman, but her body was as dry as a desert after I tried to please her. Even the Church says a husband must give his wife joy in bed, but I failed and, in truth, she soon began to bore me.” He tilted his head to one side, some pride returning to his look. “Isn’t it odd, Brother, that I should find more joy with a woman who is beyond child-bearing and can never give me sons? Yet I have, although no man ever has sons enough. My wife’s adultery came after I had left her bed for that of another. If I learned late of my wife’s betrayal, it was because I was lying in the arms of the woman I have loved for far too many years.”

“Is your beloved now free to marry?” Thomas asked, a chill shuddering through him despite the warmth in the hall. Was he wrong in thinking the murderer must be a man? Might it be a mistress who longed to take this man as lawful husband at the church door? Although the Church frowned on marriages between a man and his mistress, it was a prohibition ignored often enough amongst those of lesser rank.

“Aye, she is, but, before you ask the question, Brother, I swear to you that she did not kill my wife either. A gentle woman, she has told me that she is willing enough to remain my leman. I have found great peace, lying in her arms, and her company soothes my angers and renders me a kinder man. I do not understand how this is possible, considering our great sin. Perhaps you can explain it to me?”

The monk chose to ignore the question for the moment. “You believe this woman did not kill your wife, but did she have the opportunity to murder either Tobye or Mistress Luce?”

“I cannot address the night of Tobye’s death, because I had fallen into chaste enough sleep by my wife’s side. But the night of my wife’s murder, I was in my lady’s arms.” Scowling, he leaned forward, his arms resting on his thighs. “Surely the one who killed my groom also attacked Hilda and murdered my wife. Why would there be two—or three—such evil men at large?”

Thomas turned his head away. The question was valid, but could he believe the steward’s protestations of innocence? Inclined though he was to do so, he also knew how fortunate it was that the man and his leman should be together on the night of Mistress Luce’s murder. Neither would admit that the other was ever out of sight. Either or both together might have killed.

And how convenient that Luce, the one able to provide the steward with a reason to be far from the stable the night of Tobye’s death should now be murdered also. As for the testimony of servants, they would never speak against the master either.

A movement caught the monk’s attention, and he looked up to see a man at the entrance to the hall.

“How much have you heard?” Stevyn called out to the figure, and then gestured for him to come forward.

“If you choose to recount any of this story, Father,” Huet said, “you had best tell all of it.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Maud wept.

Kneeling beside the physician’s widow, Eleanor embraced her, murmuring words she hoped would soothe, and regretted that she had so quickly sent her guard to bring Brother Thomas out of fear that what she was about to hear was a tale of murder. Maud had her own confessor for the comfort she truly required, but the monk was a gentle priest, a man known in Tyndal for his compassion when told of mortal failings. Perhaps it was wise that she had sent for him. He might well bring this woman immediate peace.

“Does Huet know he is your son?” she whispered.

Maud sat back on her heels, her sobs quieting, and rubbed her cheeks dry. “Not until his recent return home, my lady.”

“I am amazed that no one knew of this and must ask why the secret was necessary. Even if you needed to conceal the birth for your own reasons, your son could have been passed off as another woman’s child by the steward. Bastard sons are often brought into the father’s family.”

“Master Stevyn knew his wife could not bear another, and he loved the boy from the moment he heard of my quickening. He wanted him to have a legitimate son’s status, a deception that would harm but little. Huet was a younger son, thus taking a trivial inheritance from his wife’s beloved Ranulf and nothing the elder would resent.”

“Other wives may have taken on the care of a husband’s by-blow, but few have been so willing to pretend the child is of their own body. Why?”

“She was a saint in her forbearance and willingness to forgive. Her husband was very grateful for her unique charity in this matter, as was I.”

Eleanor understood charity but acting the mother to Huet so well that no one suspected his bastardy was an act most generous by any measure. Had the woman believed this unusual deed would bring her soul special merit? Indeed it should.

Noting the prioress’ reflective frown, Maud explained further. “She was a devout woman, my lady, although her reputation as a mother was based more on the piety she required of her offspring than celebrated for the affection she bestowed. Methinks she hoped to wrench Huet’s soul away from the Prince of Darkness and into God’s hand. Considering his birth, she must have believed that he would be more likely to follow evil ways if she did not intervene.”

As she considered both the steward’s sons, Eleanor hoped his first wife never witnessed how imperfectly they interpreted her instruction. The eldest might be pious enough in outward ways, but she found him brittle of heart. Huet, on the other hand, was quite unsuited to the vocation chosen for him. That said, Brother Thomas had probably taken his own vows with a less than ardent calling, but he honored his oaths more faithfully than many who claimed greater purpose. Might Huet eventually become a similar cleric?

“Does something trouble you, my lady?”

The prioress realized she had been lost in her thoughts too long. “The sons are so very different…”

“She favored Ranulf, of course. He took after her in his piety, and she showered him with praise, especially when he wailed over his sins. As for my Huet, he was not so inclined to prayer, being a boisterous lad much like his father, and thus he seldom found the comfort of a mother’s arms.”

How hard this must have been for Mistress Maud, Eleanor thought, hearing the woman’s pain as she described what maternal warmth each boy had received. “Then you saw your son on occasion?” she chose to ask.

“Before Huet’s birth, my husband and I were invited to join in feasts to celebrate God’s grace, or when sickness attacked the manor tenants. That practice continued afterward. If my husband had no immediate need of my services with herbs, Master Stevyn’s wife let me play with my son and did not take it ill when Huet ran to me when I opened my arms.”

And thus the steward’s wife did demonstrate an even more unusual kindness, Eleanor acknowledged. The lady knew she did not have room enough in her own arms for the little boy, but she did not prevent Mistress Maud from giving him what she could not. Many women would not have dealt with this situation so. “The deception seems to have been skillfully performed to remain secret, but how was the matter of Huet’s birth handled?”

“When I could no longer conceal my quickening, I moved away on the excuse that a far-away cousin required my care. Master Stevyn’s wife pretended a pregnancy at the same time and, when I sent news that my time had come, she took a short journey so that she might feign birthing some distance away. My babe was smuggled in by a loyal servant, her sole attendant, and thus became hers.”

“This servant…?”

“She was well rewarded but died of a fever many years ago. The pretense was successful.”

“Did no one question that a woman who was so frail might give birth to such a healthy child and suffer no further ill-effects herself?”

Maud’s lips turned into a sad smile. “She was most devout, and all assumed that God had performed a miracle, much as he did for the aged wife of Abraham, and blessed her with one last son.”

Eleanor nodded, unsure whether she should condemn such deceit or conclude that God had been kind to the babe by allowing him to stay with a father who loved him and a woman who was willing enough to show kindness if not love. “You had no further issue yourself?”

“God punished me for my sins, and I never bore another child during the years when I was able.”

“Were you not married at the time of Huet’s birth?”

Maud rose and walked over to the bed where Hilda lay. Gently she stroked the cook’s ashen cheek and sighed, a sound troubled enough to match the wounded woman’s rasping breath. “Aye. My husband was much older than I and a better man than I deserved, my lady, one for whom I felt much affection and gratitude even if my heart resided with another and my body sinned.”

“How could your husband not know of this? He was a physician and thus not easily fooled about such matters.”

“Did he know?’ She faced the prioress, her smile twisted with self-contempt. “As you suggested, he must have, but he never spoke of my long absence, nor did he question me about a cousin whom he had never before heard mentioned. When I returned home at long last, he greeted me at the entrance to our house, his bearing formal and proud, but his eyes filled with tears. My wretched heart broke, and I cried out to him. Before I could beg his forgiveness, he touched a finger to his lips, took my hand in his, and led me into the house. Once inside, I fell to my knees and wept, swearing I would never leave his side again, one promise I did faithfully keep. He never once spoke of that absence, nor did he condemn me for any sin.”

“And you were still married when Master Stevyn’s first wife died.” Eleanor’s remark was less a question than an observation.

“My husband did not die until after Master Stevyn had married Mistress Luce.”

“A young woman who could give him more sons,” Eleanor said. “Did you think he might confess Huet’s bastardy if he had other, legitimate issue?”

Maud’s cheeks flushed. “Our adulterous union might suggest we are faithless in honoring all oaths, but I did not doubt that Master Stevyn loved our son. When my husband and I visited the manor, I saw much evidence of Huet’s place in his father’s heart. He would never have cast our lad out.”

Eleanor joined the widow at Hilda’s side. Looking down, she observed a tinge of pink now coloring the cook’s cheeks and feared a fever had set in. She quickly offered a silent prayer for God’s mercy. “There are many tales about Mistress Luce’s infidelity. Some say she longed too much for a child, a babe her husband did not seed in her quickly enough, and thus played the whore,” she said, her thoughts returning to the current discussion. “What do you know of those rumors?”

“I have no right to give credence to any stories nor to criticize.”

The prioress shook her head. “I am not indulging in idle gossip; rather I seek reasons for why murder was committed. As for the pointing of self-righteous fingers, no mortal is so blameless that any have the right to cast stones. That said, observations lacking in malice are not sinful. Please tell me yours.”

“It was well-known that Mistress Luce and Tobye were lovers, yet he was unmarried and she…In truth, I can think of no one who has a greater motive for killing Mistress Luce than I.”

Eleanor raised her eyebrows.

Maud took a deep breath. “I was angry, bitter, and jealous when I learned that Master Stevyn had taken such a young woman to his bed, but after my worthy husband gave up his soul to God so suddenly that I could not send his spirit off with a final kiss, I knew He was punishing me for my sins. All my evil thoughts melted into grief while I mourned the loss of that honorable spouse.” She briefly covered her eyes. “Had I wished to kill Mistress Luce, my lady, I surely would have done so after the marriage, not waited until now. Master Stevyn has since regretted the choice of wife, and I have armored my soul against Satan’s pricking.”

“Why were you here when I arrived?” As much as Eleanor wished to believe this woman, there remained too many details, still inadequately explained, that troubled her.

“You have reason to ask that question, my lady. Not long ago, Mistress Luce’s behavior changed and she grew quite erratic. As I learned, she would be melancholic and refuse to share a bed with her husband one night, but the next might swell with wild lust and beg to couple with him most wantonly. Master Stevyn feared illness, perhaps even possession or madness. When he questioned her during one of her calmer moments, she claimed to have quickened. He begged me to attend her for the sake of her health as well as that of any child.”

The prioress gave her a look so incredulous that it needed no other statement.

Maud nodded. “Of course, I knew I should not come, but my husband had been the only physician nearby and he had died. Under his guidance, I have gained some small reputation as a healer and had often acted as midwife. For all his faults, Master Stevyn is not a cruel man and wished each of his wives to receive the best care possible. Thus I did agree to attend Mistress Luce, but only after I told him that my own door would be firmly barred at night.”

“An oath you kept?” Eleanor’s look was skeptical.

Her cheeks reddened. “Despite the firm resolve with which I locked that door, I silenced my conscience one evening and welcomed him to share wine and then my bed. Master Stevyn and I may no longer have youthful bodies, but we should have realized that aging flesh may still spark with lust. Leading us into temptation was easy enough labor for the Devil.”

Eleanor shook her head but refused to be distracted from the direction of her inquiry. “When you examined Mistress Luce, what did you find?”

“She refused to submit to an examination. Had a physician met with her, he would have asked her questions only and thus she might have kept her secret longer. Like any competent midwife, I would have discovered the truth the moment my hand felt her womb. That, she knew. Of course, I quickly suspected she was not pregnant, and I had heard whisperings of her affair with the groom. Just before she was killed, I told her that I believed she was not with child and must cease all deception with her husband. My phrasing was ill-spoken for she thought I was speaking of her adultery.”

“Was that when she abused you in the courtyard and ordered you to leave this place?”

“I fear you were not the only one who overheard that conversation.”

“Including Master Stevyn? If he did not hear the argument, he was surely told of it.”

The woman stiffened. “My lady, I know you must suspect him of murder as well, but he did not kill his wife. We may be guilty of adultery, deception, and foolishness, all evil enough, but they are the worst of our sins. Aye, he was unwise to bring me here, and I was imprudent to agree. After that first night, we often slept quite chastely in each other’s arms, as we did the night his wife was killed. Lust we do feel, but the burning in our loins is more temperate than when I could bear children, and satisfaction of our longings gives us a different contentment. It is not a passion that spawns murder.”

Eleanor turned away, not out of contempt for the woman’s admission, but from need to think without distraction. Was Maud lying to her, assuming that an older woman could easily fool a younger one, especially a prioress who had forsworn carnal love? Her own passion for Brother Thomas was achingly hot and most certainly did not resemble such tranquil longings described by the widow. Eleanor could find nothing in her own lust that might instruct her in the truth of theirs.

Yet as she thought more on that, she remembered Sister Beatrice’s premise that mortal love may have many manifestations. Hadn’t the time spent with her monk during this unfortunate journey been both chaste and sweet? Had she not found as much joy in that as she did agony in her lust? The realization gave her pause.

Making a swift decision, she faced the widow once again. “Sir Reimund will not want to point an accusing finger in your direction even if you each did have cause to kill Mistress Luce and colluded in her death,” the prioress said.

“My lady! Master Stevyn would never commit such a vile…”

She gestured that she had not finished her thought. “My observation about the sheriff is little different from a remark you recently made to me. Nonetheless, I believe you both to be innocent.” Silently she prayed that such a conclusion was not badly mistaken, but the woman’s unselfish attempt to defend the steward’s innocence before that of her own suggested a heart that held goodness in it.

Maud looked as if she had just been given a reprieve from the hangman.

“If not the two of you, tell me who else might have had cause to murder? Surely the deaths of Tobye and Master Stevyn’s wife, as well as the attack on poor Hilda, are connected. You know the people here well. I must have your opinion.”

“Not my Huet!” Maud whispered, her voice mixed with both fresh relief and reborn fear.

“Although I choose not to condemn the deception of his birth, others might decide otherwise. For that reason I must ask if anyone, including Mistress Luce, Hilda, or the groom, knew Huet’s secret.” If any did, Eleanor thought, he might well have had cause enough to kill.