Justice for the Damned (7 page)

The
two fell silent as the May sun enfolded them with amiable warmth. To their
right, a row of yellow-cheeked Great Tit chicks, evenly spaced along a tree
branch, filled the air with raucous protest over an unacceptable parental delay
in their feeding.

Jhone's
lips curved into a brief smile at the sight.

"Very
well, I trouble you no longer with my pleas, although I trust that you will
tame your wayward Alys and keep her from following the ill-advised example of
her aunt."

"I
shall."

"And
teach your daughter how to serve a husband as you yourself did with your dear
spouse? That is not so much to ask in return for my devotion and the sharing of
my wealth."

"You
may count on it, sir."

"And
persuade her that convent vows are not for her?"

She
nodded.

"I
shall be most thankful to you for all of this and will demonstrate my gratitude
in a more tangible form as soon as the marriage takes place." His lips
smiled, but his eyes lacked the glow of comparable joy.

A
scream shattered the peaceful morning.

Jhone
picked up her robe and raced toward the river. The vintner was not far behind.

When
they reached the trembling Alys, the pair quickly saw the cause of her horror.
A dead body bobbed gently in the tangled growth at the edge of the Avon. Although each of them knew most of the townspeople of Amesbury, none could identify
whose body it might be.

The
corpse had quite lost its head.

Chapter
Eight

"He
is my father." Sayer stumbled backwards as if the pale, headless body had
pushed him away with spectral hand.

Thomas
put a comforting arm around the son's shoulders but quickly drew it back when
he saw Sayer's eyes narrow with anger.

"We
feared as much," replied Brother Infirmarian. "I recognized the
broken arm I had set some years ago. The bone had broken the skin just there.
Wulfstan was lucky to have survived that one."

"A
cruel kindness since he lived only to be murdered." The son's voice was
flat.

"The
deed was a most foul thing," Sister Anne said. Standing behind Thomas, she
frowned in thought. "To behead a man after killing him is a devilish
act."

Brother
Infirmarian shrugged, then gave her a sheepish look. "I treat the living
and leave the cause of death to God, but Sister Beatrice told me that you have
skill with both."

"Beheaded.
Stabbed. Pushed into the river to drown. What does any of that matter? My
father is dead. He should have gone to God as an old man with a cleansed soul
and whispers of love in his ears." Sayer stared at the body now fully
covered on the trestle table. Tears had yet to dampen his cheeks.

Thomas
felt a kindred sting in his own heart. He, too, was bereft of any final word
with the man who had sired him. "Your mother..." he began.

"She
will live."

"I
pray she will! My concern was.

"She
has a plot of land." Sayer's hands formed fists. "We need no
charity."

"Nor
did I think otherwise." Thomas' voice softened. "Does she not have
you?"

The
bright anger in Sayer's eyes faded, leaving only a muted but flickering glow.

"I
knew not if she had been told about your father's death." Thomas looked
first at the other monk, then at Sister Anne. "That was my question."

Brother
Infirmarian shook his head.

The
young man put his hands over his eyes, pressing his fingers into his brow as if
he suffered an intolerable pain. "Will you bury my father in sanctified
ground?"

"There
is no reason to do otherwise," Brother Infirmarian replied. "Although
he was not shrived before his death, we will surely pray for his soul. In that
you may find comfort.

"What
if the ghost killed him?" Sayer interrupted.

Brother
Infirmarian's eyes opened wide with horror. Clearly he had not thought about
this complication. "If Satan seized his soul..."

"Ghosts
do not kill," Thomas snapped.

"I
would not be so certain," the son replied, his voice as cold as the corpse
on the table. Then he turned his back on them all and strode out of the chapel.

"Not
Wulfstan!" Jhone put her hand to her mouth, her eyes round with shock.

"You
were acquainted with him?" Thomas asked as gently as he could.

Herbert
answered for the woman beside him. "He was married to Mistress Jhone's
sister."

"What
will Drifa do alone?" she whispered. "Their children!"

Realizing
it would be cruel to question a woman lost in the distress of both murder and
its consequences, Thomas turned to the tall, dark-haired man. "How could
this have happened?" he asked.

Herbert
shrugged. "Who knows? Our laws are lax, and evil men are everywhere. Any
one of them might have met this man on the road and killed him for some little
thing. Of the man himself, I can say little. He was free, of course, but a poor
creature with few skills, unless thievery..."

Thief?
Thomas blinked at the word.

"Even
if the tales were true, all that was many years ago!" Tears slipped down
Jhone's cheeks. "He had long been an honest man. I beg you to show
compassion!"

"I
did not mean to do otherwise, although I could never include him amongst those
I would call upright men."

"I
am not unmindful of this dreadful thing you have just seen," Thomas said,
"but if Wulfstan had enemies or was engaged in something outside the law,
please tell me now."

"Why?"
Herbert asked. "Surely this is a matter for secular law. The body was
found beyond the priory walls."

Thomas
cursed himself for not thinking before he spoke. Quickly he tried to cloak his
odd demand with some reason. "The sheriff is delayed. If you give me the
details now, I will pass them on to him when he arrives, and you will not be
troubled by questions from him." His mind raced. If Wulfstan had the
reputation for thievery, could he have been part of some band that planned to
steal the Amesbury Psalter? Had something gone wrong that had resulted in his
murder? Maybe not, but he had to know whether or not this was a possibility.

"As
Mistress Jhone has said, my comment dealt with events long ago." Herbert's
lips curled into a sneer. "I did not respect the man, but I know of no
crime he committed in recent years."

"Old
sins sometimes return to haunt." Anything, Thomas thought, just tell me
anything.

"He
labored on priory lands," Herbert continued. "You must ask Prioress
Ida, or Sister Beatrice in her stead, about his service. For my part, I have
not heard any tales to suggest his work was not diligently done or that any of
his fellow laborers had issue with him."

"No
rumors? No suggestion of problems or worry?"

The
man folded his arms. "I will be happy to talk to the sheriff when he
returns."

Jhone
suddenly looked up at Herbert. "There was that one matter..." Her
voice was just above a whisper.

With
an abrupt gesture of his hand, Herbert interrupted her. "Nay, mistress, do
not even mention that petty thing. It would never have resulted in such a
brutal killing." He scowled at Thomas. "I fear our brother here
merely longs to satisfy some worldly interest in gossip, for he has no
authority in this matter. You and I shall talk further in private, once you
have recovered from your shock, and I will discuss what is needed with the
sheriff."

"I
meant only to save you distress," Thomas said through clenched teeth.

"And
have forgotten charity, a virtue all monks should both learn and practice? Perhaps
your intentions were benign, Brother, but your questions are impertinent and
inconsiderate. As you should see, Mistress Jhone is too upset to remain
here." Herbert waved at the monk with barely concealed contempt. "To
humor you, I will say this. Please listen carefully for I will not repeat
it." The merchant bent forward as if talking to a child and enunciated
each word slowly. "Neither of us knows any mortal who had such a wicked
hatred for the man that they would slay him in so foul a manner." He stepped
back. "Does that satisfy your small curiosity?"

Thomas
felt his face turn hot with humiliation. How dare the merchant speak to him in
this way? Bastard I might be, he shouted to himself, but I am no churl! In
thoughtless fury, he spun around and faced the pale Jhone. "You have no
idea who might have done this either?" he snapped.

The
woman looked up at the vintner with pleading eyes.

Herbert's
face darkened.

Instantly,
the monk regretted his action. Like a coward he had attacked a weak and
innocent person.

"For
a monk who claims to love compassion, Brother, you have a harsh enough tongue.
I think we have humored you enough." Herbert took the widow's arm with
tenderness. "Come, mistress. We have answered all we need of this monk's rude
queries." Firmly, he turned the woman away from Thomas, but not before
giving him a thin but triumphant smile.

The
monk denounced himself for his burst of temper that had allowed the merchant's
easy victory in this battle of wills.

When
the couple reached the entry door to the small chapel, however, Herbert
suddenly stopped. Looking back at the monk with a thoughtful expression, he
said in a tone that was almost conciliatory: "You might ask if the ghost
killed him, Brother, and if her spirit had some quarrel with him."

The
words were like cold water in Thomas' face, quenching all his fury in a trice.
As he watched the pair leave, he stared with growing uneasiness at the sunshine
streaming through the open door. If he hoped the brightness would present him
with a real killer instead of murderous ghosts, he was disappointed. The light
revealed only dust motes that drifted about with unruly grace.

Chapter
Nine

Leaning
back into her chair, Eleanor stared at Adam and Eve in the tapestry above the
chamber door and pondered the news of Wulfstan's murder.

Her
first reaction had been outrage. Not only was her beloved priory troubled with
this vile and unlawful act, but had she not come here to escape death? For the
last two years, she had been forced to deal with murders and had nearly died of
a fever herself. Could God not grant her some respite?

Quickly,
her indignation had turned to shame. A man had been slain like a criminal and
his wife and children left to grieve. He was a laborer. Would they have food
and shelter now that he was dead? How could she put her own selfish concerns
first?

For
this sin, she spent an hour in prayer, time she yearned to increase, but she
had grown too weak to concentrate longer on God.

Despite
her mortal frailty, He had been merciful, sending both understanding and the
calm of forgiveness. With the peace she felt descending on her, Eleanor became
convinced that God had no quarrel with her longing to escape worldly violence,
nor had He deemed Amesbury Priory worthy of this foul assault. Even her wish to
turn her back on Death's grinning arrogance was innocent enough.

Her
failure lay in not directing her anger against the Prince of Darkness. Death
had been a pawn of Satan in this murder.

Was
it not her duty to deny the dark angel his pleasure in wronging the innocent?
She should find a way to bring justice to the bereaved family. In so doing, she
could restore order to priory life as well. Surely God would grant her the
tranquility she herself prayed for later.

As she
had gripped the prie-dieu and painfully pulled herself from her knees, however,
she doubted her ability to do anything to resolve this issue. What a pitifully
weak creature she had become! Once seated, she shook her head in despair. Nay,
she did not have the strength to fight the Devil in this situation. Someone
else must do it.

Suddenly
her foot grazed something next to her chair and she glanced down. The object
was a woven basket, fitted with a smooth cushion that was coated with
brindle-colored hair. It belonged to the greyhound Prioress Ida kept as
companion, a dog she had taken with her on her journey.

Eleanor
studied the basket.

Her
own creature, a great orange cat left at Tyndal to protect the kitchens from
pillaging rodents, would never tolerate such a soft thing, she thought.
Ignoring snow or wild storms, he went out each day to hunt vermin. Had he been
born a man, he would have been the perfect knight, embracing any hardship in
the performance of whatever his liege lord might require.

"Dare
I be less dutiful than my cat?" she asked herself in a voice tinged with
both humor and self-mockery. "Here I sit, in the warm comfort of these
rooms, like a pampered pet. I should be ashamed!"

She
rose from her chair and walked with determination to the chamber window.
Leaning to her left, she could see just a bit of the River Avon now flowing
with enthusiasm, free from winter's icy grasp. The Saxon cross was invisible
from here, as were those strange hillocks across the river that she remembered
from her youth.