Sorrow Without End (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

He listened with affection to the staggered, harsh breathing of the dying around him. How could the living hate and fear these so as if they were the enemy? The dead would understand his fondness for them. Few of the living ever would.

Was it a frightened man, then, who had screamed in the chapel where that gutted corpse lay? Nay, that was not the howl of fear, he replied in his soul’s silent place. That was the roar of rage. If God and Satan could bless one so wicked with hallowed death, then surely one who believed his sins might exceed those of the dead one could believe he deserved equal grace. Aye, it was fury in that voice, not fear. He, a coward that had led his beloved wife to slaughter, knew this to be so.

He rubbed his forehead, then studied a watery streak of blood on his hand and grieved. A contemptible creature, he still twitched on the earth. Not all the living were so loathsome perhaps. In some he saw a bright ember of pain at the edge of their souls. For those he prayed it would burst into a tower of flames and send them to death without memory. The rest? A few he pitied, for they had been blinded by conjured joy. Others were Satan’s spawn.

The praying nun was one. Unlike the tall one who had kindly found a quiet place for him to sit and listen to the sounds of dying men, this one babbled on and on, her voice grating like a rusty gate in his ears. How dare she jabber endlessly about the kindness of God? A God there might be, but He had neither ears nor eyes, yet she knelt with her hands raised and eyes closed, her body swaying as if she expected Him to notice.

Whore! Did she think to seduce Him with her soft body and piteous cries? “God was not seduced by my wife when she raised her hands, begging to be saved from rape and an inconceivable death,” he muttered. “Why should He listen to you?”

He began to sweat in the cold air, then snickered. Of course the nun might not know any better. She always shut her eyes while she whined her prayers. Thus she would fail to see God turn His face away. If she was to learn the lesson forced upon his wife, she must pry those lids apart and see all. His wife’s eyes were wide open when she died.

He blinked. Perhaps the nun was no woman at all. If she were a demon, she could not bear to look upon God. Perhaps Satan’s whore, the one he should have slain in the chapel, had sent her to him. Or had God Himself ordered a spirit to distract him from his desire for Hell?

Nay, she must be a demon. In her dress and manner, she resembled most her evil mistress. Besides, God mocked with silence, not with buzzing babble. Chattering was the Devil’s tool, but one he would no longer tolerate.

With eyes burning, he stared at the masonry in a wall. The cracks wiggled like worms as the pain in his head grew worse. Which should he send back to their dark master first, he asked himself, the false prioress or her feigned nun?

Chapter Twenty-nine

The day had dawned as dark as night. Eleanor rose before the call to Matins and knelt at her prie-dieu in reverential prayer. Despite the disloyalty of her body, her soul once again willingly pledged fealty to the God she had sworn to serve.

The air had been so chill with coming winter that she had very quickly splashed herself with water from the basin near her bed. Perhaps, she thought with grim humor, she should wash herself twice daily in the colder seasons if doing so numbed her body this well.

When the bells did ring for Matins, she joined the nuns for prayer, then led them to Chapter. Yesterday she had given them the tidings about the murder in the forest. Unlike their response to that killing the summer she had first arrived, her nuns did not greet this news with wide-eyed terror, and the monks had responded more with grief at worldly violence when the acting prior told the tale on the other side of the priory.

Today, her flock remained calm. No matter how grieved the religious might be over this latest tragic act, they had received the news with relief, feelings some might call selfish but which most mortals would share. In either case, they did have cause for gratitude. This time the murderer had not broached their gates. God had kept their walls strong against the violent storms of worldly sins. Armageddon was not yet coming. They were safe.

Or so Eleanor allowed them to believe. The possibility that the murderer might be hiding within their walls was not a suggestion she wanted to voice. Panic would help no one in this matter, but the success of her deliberate silence was dependent upon a quick resolution of the crime. With the crowner roaming the hospital and questioning all, Eleanor knew that her flock would surely realize, before another night had passed, that danger skulked in the shadows of their passageways.

Although she had full confidence in Ralf’s abilities, the crowner was not leader here nor was he ultimately responsible for the safety of the religious at Tyndal. Yesterday she had been unable to send her own wits as hounds to the hunt. After freeing Thomas, she had been summoned to see the cracked masonry in the parish church that threatened to fall on the faithful. By the time she had arranged for repairs, night had put an end to any questioning of men, mad or not. Today she would broach no further delay. After telling Gytha that all problems, except the most dire, should be directed to Sister Ruth, Eleanor took the path to the hospital.

Although the day was dismal and many shared the mood, Eleanor felt at peace. Her patient prayers last night had been rewarded with a balm of tranquility that had eased her into a soothing sleep. Thus she had risen quite refreshed. With some small degree of calm, she turned her thoughts back to Thomas.

She had believed his tale. How could she not? It was hardly a story a man would make up when the details could be so easily confirmed. At least by establishing both his innocence and ignorance of the crime, she had eliminated one unprofitable path to finding the killer.

Eleanor bent forward as a strong gust hit her. The raindrops stung her eyes and face. Should she have demanded more details of the crime that had placed Thomas in that brutal place, she asked herself? He had sworn it was neither a violent nor a political act, and she knew the Church must have forgiven him whatever sins he had committed. Last night she had decided the knowledge of that absolution must suffice for her as well.

Today, she was not so sure. Had her curiosity been idle, Eleanor would have set it aside. It was not, however. Unlike the other members of her priory, she had been given almost no information about Thomas’ background since his arrival at the priory. Nor had he been exactly forthcoming himself. Even Anne, with whom he worked most closely, knew little about him. Perhaps, she thought, her questions had less to do with Thomas’ past and more to do with why the abbess in Anjou had told her so little of this man.

She shook her head. This was not the time to worry over this. Whatever crimes Thomas may have committed, the Church had chosen to forgive him and accept his vows as a priest. Of equal importance, he had proven his worth to her many times over, but his melancholic moods and troubled sleep suggested that there was much in her monk’s past, details that were probably irrelevant at the moment. Nonetheless, she remained troubled that someone had decided she should be kept ignorant of it.

Eleanor slipped in the wet gravel, then caught herself. There was another reason to set aside these matters. By releasing Thomas, she had imperiled Ralf. Of course she could recount the tale her monk had confessed, thus proving his innocence, but she would not repeat what she had been told in confidence. Indeed, she had promised Thomas that she would say nothing of their conversation. On the other hand, she did not want the sheriff to replace Ralf because the elder brother decided the crowner was weak in dealing with suspicious behavior and had even allowed a woman to overrule him. Eleanor had no doubt that she had done the right thing in releasing her monk, but now the capture of the murderer was even more imperative.

***

“He weeps, my lady. He stares and weeps.” Sister Christina was wringing her hands as she stood outside the small cell. “Prayer had brought him some peace until Crowner Ralf treated him so cruelly. To force a man with such a troubled spirit to look on a dead man’s face was a brutal act! Shouldn’t that worldly man be hunting a killer and not troubling sick souls?”

Eleanor was surprised at the passion in her infirmarian’s voice. Usually she was possessed of a more saintly calm. “Our crowner should not be here much longer,” she replied, “but I gave him permission to question all travelers who came that day. We could do no less in view of this horrible death. Someone might have seen something of importance.”

Sister Christina bowed her head with appropriate meekness, but Eleanor suspected that the nun would never agree that Ralf had any reason to be in the priory at all. She decided to ignore what her infirmarian might be thinking and looked over the round nun’s head.

A screen provided some privacy, but the prioress could still glimpse the two men. Walter sat on a low stool, arms folded, eyelids shut as if asleep. Sir Maurice was stiffly upright on a simple straw mattress, staring intensely at nothing. Tears dripped from his jaw.

“What has been done for this man?” Eleanor asked softly.

“Sister Anne chose this secluded spot to give him some peace from the cries of the others being cared for here. The lay brother she sent to examine the young knight confirmed that he suffers from no open wound or fever, although the brother was amazed that the man still lived considering his past injuries. Later, I spoke with the servant about the signs Sir Maurice exhibits and do believe that the ill causing his distress lies solely with the young man’s soul. Prayer is the best cure.”

Eleanor nodded. “His man told me that the presence of a woman distresses his master. Have you sent one of our priests…?”

The plump sister was now looking heavenward, eyes shut, and her smooth skin glowed as she fell into spontaneous prayer. When at last she reopened her eyes, Sister Christina blinked as if she were amazed to find herself back on earth.

Eleanor waited for any revelation the infirmarian might have received.

“I believe Our Lord has called on me to pray for him,” the nun said in a firm voice. “Although godly men are right to fear the lusty daughters of Eve, there is a special strength in the prayers of women who have given up the flesh. If this young knight is troubled by imps in the guise of demon women, my prayers will have more power to send these creatures back to their evil master.”

“Then follow God’s guidance, Sister, but do approach Sir Maurice with caution. Were you to do otherwise, the imp might choose to defend her territory most zealously. I would not want either you or the knight injured from the assault.”

“God will protect us from such a thing, my lady. Nonetheless, I do beg that you keep the crowner away from this poor soul to whom he has already done much harm.”

Repressing a sigh, Eleanor reminded herself that this woman might well be on the path to sainthood, a path that she, herself, would never travel. “I will speak to him, but, in the meantime, do not forget that God once held the Evil One in high esteem and for good reason. Satan is clever. You would do well to arm yourself with God-inspired caution as well as prayer.”

Since Sister Christina’s eyes were once again closed, the prioress was unsure that her advice had been heard, let alone heeded. If Sir Maurice had been so upset by the sight of the corpse, however, perhaps she should ask why. The madman could wait a bit longer, Eleanor decided, and gently pushed the screen aside.

***

Walter was not asleep. His eyelids shot open the moment he heard her soft step. As he rose and bowed in silence, Eleanor studied his face. The empty eye socket and gray streaking in his hair she had noted before, but now she wondered if he might be ill himself. Although he was deeply tanned, pallor lurked beneath the high color.

“We are grateful for your hospitality, my lady,” he said. “Our journey has been a long one from shrine to shrine. I feared we would not have the strength to travel farther without some care for,” he looked sadly at the man sitting on the bed, “my master.” His voice was heavy with fatigue.

“Perhaps your master has family to whom I could forward word of his presence here? If so, they might send men to help…”

“None.”

Was it anger or fear that she saw? “The lay brother, who examined your master, said he suffered no physical ill…”

“I have already told you that I wish repairs for my master’s sick soul, not the clay that imprisons it.”

Eleanor felt anger explode inside her. His demeanor might be modest enough, but his bold speech and the mockery twitching at his thin lips were both rude and arrogant.

“With God’s help, then, we shall seek the same,” was her icy reply.

Walter dropped his head, falling into a study of his hands. He turned them over to look at his palms, then turned them back as if to see how the hair grew. The odd silence continued.

“What do you believe is the source of your master’s ill?” she asked at last.

“Being mortal, my lady.”

“We are all that, yet not all mortal men seek out Tyndal.”

The man’s one dark eye turned cold. “You are both mortal and far from home, yet you have come to Tyndal as well.”

“I fear I do not know you, sir. Have we met in the distant past?”

“Nay, my lady.” His expression softened. “Forgive me for being so rough of speech. It has been long since I had occasion to speak with gentle ladies.”

“You and your master have both suffered grievous wounds. Have you been in battle?”

“A hunting accident.” Walter pointed to his eye. “My master…”

Eleanor looked over at Sir Maurice. The young man stared at her, then turned his back. He had been a handsome man, she thought. With that God-given beauty, the angry scar that divided his face was a double outrage.

“Caring for my lord has been arduous, and I have lost the skill of hiding it. I do beg your patience,” he said with a grimace.

Was he in pain, she wondered, or had some unhappy thought just struck him? Eleanor waited for him to continue, but the man said nothing more, bowing his head so she could learn nothing from his look.

It was obvious that he wished to avoid any further answer to her question. Despite this and his rudeness, she did not sense any real malice in the man, only a genuine concern for the man he called
master
. Tending him was clearly an onerous task, yet he performed it with gentle devotion.

“You are easily forgiven, but do say how else we may help your master. Prayers we do offer and potions as well; but, if there is something else, speak, so we may address it.”

The man lifted his head, his look much softened with an obvious sorrow. “On my master’s behalf, my lady, I am most grateful for your kind attention and that of Sister Christina.”

“I have been told that Crowner Ralf caused your master much grief.”

Walter said nothing.

“Was there something about the sight of the corpse that especially disturbed his spirit?”

“Does the sight of a butchered man give pleasure to any mortal?”

It was Eleanor’s turn to fall silent.

“Very well, my lady, I will grant you that a dead enemy might give joy to a man’s soul. In this case, my master did scream, but no one would claim it was a joyous sound.”

And thus you read my next question and answered it, Eleanor thought. This Walter was a clever man for cert. “I feared that the sound of the dying would trouble your master since the sight of a corpse caused this much pain.”

The servant nodded. “I would beg of you a separate place to rest, my lady, for Sir Maurice is troubled by evil dreams. On some nights, his howls would waken all. On others, he paces.”

Eleanor gestured around the small space. “I fear this small, screened cell is all we have. We do not yet have guesthouses for those, like your master, who require them. The monks’ dormitory would not be an adequate alternative either. From what you have told me, his cries and nocturnal pacing would disrupt the monks’ sleep.”

“Might you assign a lay brother to watch over him while I sleep?” The man staggered, his deep weariness now so very obvious. “Meanwhile, Sister Christina’s prayers seem to be the balm my master needs as long as the crowner leaves him in peace. I tried to warn the man what would happen but he would not hear me.”

“I shall do my best to find someone,” she replied, knowing full well that she had few men to spare. “Of course Sister Christina will come for prayer, and I shall talk to Crowner Ralf about that unfortunate incident.” She studied Walter in silence for a moment, wanting to ask more questions but deciding she would get little from a man so tired he was almost asleep on his feet.

Perhaps Ralf had already questioned Walter by now. After Sir Maurice reacted so strongly to the dead man, he must have. Thus she might be wise to talk to the crowner and find out what he had learned. It was, after all, the madman he had dismissed, not these men.