Justice for the Damned (11 page)

"For
cert! The presence of such an ancient place of faith should be the reason the
village is little disturbed by evil, even if your sheriff is lax. The prayers
of so many monks and nuns would surely save you from all demons."

As
the monk had hoped, Bernard's expression turned gloomy. "One would think
so, yet a strange spirit now troubles us."

Thomas
leaned back, gazing at the glover with expectant curiosity.

Bernard
bent across the wooden table, his voice lowered as if he feared someone would
overhear. "Some weeks ago, men first reported seeing a ghost near the
River Avon, just around dusk or early dawn. Soon after, a few monks claimed
that the phantom had drifted within the walls of the priory as well."
Bernard sat back, drank deeply from his cup, and stared in silence at a spot
over Thomas' shoulder. "This morning a man's body was found, beheaded. Now
men say that this ghost must be a most vengeful spirit for it has turned
murderous."

"Why
has this hellish thing come to Amesbury? What sin could the village or, God
forbid, the priory have committed that Satan would let loose this creature from
his domain?" Thomas shook his head. "Pardon my questions but I am
filled with wonder at your story!"

Bernard
gave him a thin smile. "Forgive me if my words offend, Brother, but some from
the priory came to this inn to satisfy worldly longings. Did you note the
reaction to your presence? I hope no one approached you with base intent?"

"I
fear I might not understand their meaning if they did, Master Glover, for I
came to my vocation as a youth..." Thomas lowered his head to suggest
modest innocence while praying that the lie that should have shone in his eyes
would remain hidden.

Bernard
straightened his back. "The lapse in monastic chastity was but a momentary
one! Since the grandfather of our current king cast the sinful Benedictines out
and invited those of your Order to take their place, this priory has been
steadfast in God's service. If He was offended by the weakness of a few, He
would have been pleased when Prioress Ida swiftly made amends and chased the
Devil back to Hell. I do believe, if Queen Elfrida's spirit was the one loosed
by Satan as some have claimed, that she would have returned to Purgatory by now
and not slain this man."

"You
do not believe a ghost killed him?"

"There
is another spirit that might be abroad, that of a local merchant's wife. She
drowned in the Avon. Although some believe she committed self-murder, others
think she was unfairly condemned by the crowner's jury to be buried in
unsanctified ground as a suicide."

"So
her ghost might blame both village and priory for her place in Hell."
Thomas rested his chin on folded hands. "Was the murdered man the one who
brought witness against this dead woman?"

"He
had no part in the verdict," Bernard snapped. "I do not know why she
should have any quarrel with him."

Thomas
sipped more wine, unsure of where he should go from here. "Might the
killer be mortal?" he asked at last, deciding that the direct question
might not seem strange.

"Wulfstan
had no enemies."

How
can a man be slaughtered so brutally, yet have no foe? Thomas wondered.
"Then he must have been killed by this heinous phantom of a woman."

The
man's knuckles turned white as he gripped his cup. "Eda was ever a
virtuous creature. Although no mortal can live without sin, she came near
enough in her devotion to God's commandments. I cannot believe she would ever
commit such a crime, even after suffering the tortures of Hell."

Thomas
blinked at the sharpness in tone. The boyishness had fled and left behind an
angry man.

The
glover silently filled the monk's cup and poured a modest amount of wine for
himself. His hand was steady.

The
man is quite calm, Thomas thought, almost too calm.

Suddenly,
Bernard slammed the cup down on the table and covered his face with his hands.
"Cursed be that priory! It brings grief to mortal men."

Stunned
at the outburst, Thomas sat back. What contradictory views of the priory! After
what he had overheard between Bernard and Sayer, he wondered if some wish for
vengeance was the cause of this passionate cry. Might a clue to the identity of
the ghost be found in it or even something about the Psalter theft? He reached
out and touched the man's arm in sympathy but said nothing. Silence was the
better tool for bringing truth to a man's lips.

"Ah,
forgive me, Brother," Bernard said at last, his now exposed eyes wet with
tears. "I should not burden you with minor woes. You asked about ghosts,
but I cannot imagine who would stalk innocent men and kill them so cruelly. I can
only suggest that it could not be sweet Eda."

Sincerity
colors that speech, Thomas decided. "Are there any strangers in town or at
the priory, Master Bernard? Might the phantom be found amongst them?"

"Our
town is known for hospitality, else we would not have this well-stocked inn,
nor is the priory ungenerous to travelers. There are always strangers here, but
they come and go. A few in their late years have made accommodation with the
priory for care in exchange for lands or other wealth, but I cannot see any
silver-haired man or his hunched dame playing a cruel spirit that beheads
innocent men."

"No
younger strangers who have shown a special interest in the priory?"

"Other
than you, Brother? Nay."

"And
I but long to learn more of the Evil One's devious ways!" The monk folded
his hands and lowered his eyes. "Does anyone local have a quarrel with the
monks and nuns there?"

Bernard
snorted and quickly swallowed his cup of wine. "You are looking at the
only man who might."

Thomas'
eyes widened with hope.

Chapter
Thirteen

The
glover rose hastily from his seat. "I have grown too merry, Brother, and
must seek my bed. Morning comes early for those of us who live by trade, and
gloves need a steady hand at stitching if they are to please a woman's critical
eye."

"Nay,
not yet!" Thomas reached out in genuine supplication. "Your words
have struck fear in my heart. If this priory has brought grief to mortals, I
question whether I dare approach the gates without meeting with evil
spirits."

"Do
not be alarmed. My remark was but a common complaint amongst men who have no
wives but see so many eligible women encloistered. Take my words as the poor
jests they were. The wine made me forget that becoming a nun is a holier choice
than wedding a man like me."

"I
hope one of those who chose God did not betray your hopes..."

The
glover shoved the nearly full wine pitcher toward Thomas. "I will not
offend your ears with the meaningless speech of a sinful man, Brother. Please
finish this and remember me in your prayers." With that, he dropped a coin
into the monk's hand, bowed, and disappeared through the crowd.

Thomas
hit the table with clenched fist. "I have let myself be fooled by a boyish
face," he growled. "I should have pressed him harder. Surely this glover
has some quarrel with the priory. Does it involve a woman?" He stared at
the coin the man had donated to him. It was not the meager offering of those
given to the token gestures of superficial faith. "No one who fears for
his soul, like this man may, plans to steal a nun for his bed. Nay, if Master
Bernard and Sayer have some plot together, it must mean profit for them both.
After all, the glover is a merchant and the roofer is a rogue."

Growing
gloomy with frustration, the monk tilted the pitcher and contemplated the large
quantity of wine remaining. Quickly, he downed what was in his cup, poured
another, and listened to the raucous joyfulness that filled Amesbury's best
hostel.

Had
Thomas been possessed of a more selfish nature, he might have viewed such merry
crowds with envy. Were he a man of greater faith, he would have leapt upon this
table and screamed abuse at the people, describing how they would look as they
tottered on the maw of Hell. He was neither, however, and all he could feel was
distance from any kind of happiness, a profound melancholy that he blamed only
on himself.

"I
have failed," he muttered, finishing the wine he had just poured and
replenishing his cup. Now that the glover had escaped him, he felt defeated and
did not know what he should do next. Without a clear purpose to occupy his
thoughts, Thomas grew increasingly uneasy sitting in the inn. "I should
never have come here," he said to his crudely wrought mazer.

In
his days as a clerk, he had often partaken of an inn's particular joys. The
darkness of his prison may have dimmed the shimmering lure of enjoyable ale and
willing women, but Thomas would never pretend his past had been other than what
it was or that he had become a monk as penance. Perhaps, he thought with some
bitterness, he was too sober to find the women here as attractive as they had
seemed when he and Giles had shared them.

He
finished the cup, poured another, then another, and tried to force such
memories away. He did not succeed. With the energy of some dark will, the past
roared back into his soul. Even his normally quiescent flesh had inexplicably
hardened, mocking his long impotence.

Thomas
summoned the serving wench. With only a brief glance at the coin in his open
hand, she put another pitcher in front of him. He drank deeply.

A
voice began to hiss in his ear. Was it his dead father? "No son of mine
would ever release his seed in another man's body," it echoed with
contempt. Thomas shook his head and the voice faded, replaced by laughter.
Surely that belonged to the Prince of Darkness.

"We
haven't seen any of your vocation for some time, Brother."

Thomas
looked up.

The
innkeeper stood over him. As the man bent his head in the direction of a woman
beside him, his grin seemed unnaturally wide.

Thomas
turned his head carefully from one side to the other. "I am a monk,"
he enunciated carefully.

The
pair disappeared.

He
finished his cup and poured more from the new pitcher. A soft wall was slowly
surrounding him, and the noise of the inn began to fade. The wine was acting
like a balm on the deep bruises in his soul. He closed his eyes. When he opened
them, the world was muted, blessedly so.

Thomas
looked into his cup. He should not be drinking like this. Did he think he was
still some boyish clerk, unburdened by a man's responsibility? Whatever his
pain, honor was at stake. Both his prioress and his spy master had set him
tasks, and he had given his word that he would carry them out. Maybe he had
learned nothing from Master Bernard, but surely there were other men here with
looser tongues. He shoved the pitcher away and focused his aching eyes on the
figures in front of him.

Many
in the crowd had grown quite cheerful with drink. In one corner, several sang
with ragged harmony. Despite the press of bodies, with little room for privacy,
two men sat nearby, heads almost touching as they spoke with some apparent
urgency.

What
were they talking about? Women? Thievery? Crops? Were any of them plotting to
steal the Amesbury Psalter?

Thomas
sat forward and pretended to sip his wine. Could he ease himself toward the
pair and listen in on what they were saying? If he heard something of interest,
how could he join them?

He
swore under his breath. Even if he posed as a wayward monk, and a drunken one
at that, he would learn nothing. Like the red-faced man who had mocked him when
he first arrived, these men would never treat him like a fellow. Instead, they
would surround him, taunting with ribald jests, pressing and grabbing at him,
jabbing their fingers...

"God
save me!" he gasped as reawakened pain and humiliation raged through his
soul like flames shot from Hell. Grabbing the pitcher, he threw back his head
and gulped the wine, praying that would extinguish the inferno, but the fire
seemed unquenchable. He set the empty jug down and, trembling, covered his face
with his hands.

He
knew he must leave, but he could not move. Satan had stunned his will. Thomas
tilted the pitcher back once more. It was empty. He dropped it. In despair, he
tried to pray, but his charred soul had grown numb with tortured memories.

A
hand pushed a tankard of ale toward him, and a man slid onto the bench beside
him.

"I
am pleased to see you here, Brother, and quite admire your cleverness in
discovering a way out of the priory." Sayer's face was red, his look
unfocused.

God
had most assuredly forsaken him. "Nor am I surprised to find you,"
Thomas replied softly.

The
young man gestured at a nearby serving wench. "You can do better than that
one," he said. "Every man has her."

"She
does not interest me." Thomas had not even noticed her.

"A
monk who is particular about how he breaks his vows?"

"Most
are not?" A cold spot of sobriety was emerging just behind his eyes.

"Contrary
to common jest, few of your monks ever leapt over the wall, and most of those
were so shocked when their feet touched profane earth that their manhood
wilted." Sayer put his hand on Thomas' shoulder. "The others jumped
on any willing woman, after which they ran back to the priory, cupping
themselves as if their sex might fall off from the sinning." His words
slurred.