Sorrow Without End (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-five

Walter stood at the opening to his master’s small room, arms spread as if to bar any entrance. “He did not do this thing!”

“Sister Christina said the face of her attacker had a purple cast. For one with indifferent vision, your master’s wound might well seem so.” Eleanor stood but a foot from the servant, her gray eyes hot with anger.

Walter gestured toward Thomas standing just behind the prioress. “Confirm my story with your monk. It was I who sought him out to help your injured nun, then readily answered all his questions. Surely I would not have done so had I thought my master the guilty one.” He snorted with contempt. “If my master had done this, we would have escaped long ago as any guilty party would. Why do you accuse us when we have behaved in all respects as innocent men?”

“Can you assure me that you were with your master at all times last night? Will you swear that he could not have left this space while you slept? Have you witnesses?”

“I sleep little, my lady, although I confess I did leave him once to attend a call of nature.”

“And when you returned?”

“He was lying as you see him now.” Walter stood aside and pointed to Sir Maurice lying on the straw bed. With his hands crossed over his chest and his eyes unblinking, the man resembled the corpse in the chapel, a mortal shell awaiting reunion with the dust whence it came.

“Sister Christina came to pray with your master last evening, did she not?”

“She came, knelt by his side, and offered prayers. I believe she prayed for him rather than with him. My master rarely speaks, even to me, and he has been especially silent after the crowner upset him so.”

“By his side? Do you not remember warning me to keep my distance from him?” Eleanor asked.

“With all due respect, my lady, I did not allow her to come any closer than I did you. I was in attendance at all times when Sister Christina was here to offer her healing orisons.” Walter looked away. In the dark it was difficult to tell, but a tear might have escaped his good eye and tumbled down his cheek. “My master did seem more alert and attentive after her visits. I had hoped that she was bringing him a slow but definite cure.”

“You have told me that your master is troubled by the presence of women. That, along with the color of his grievous wound, will explain why I must question you about the attack on my infirmarian.”

“He is innocent.”

“When did she leave your master last night?”

Walter shook his head. Either fatigue or weary impatience colored his voice. “I have no idea. She came. She prayed. She left. Perhaps you had best ask her, for I did not rush to take note of any moon or stars. I had no reason.”

“Was it shortly afterward that you left him?”

“I cannot say!” Walter’s voice rose with evident frustration.

“Nonetheless, you did leave him alone last night, however briefly, although you were aware that he often wanders as you yourself have said. Was there truly need to go to the garderobe when a pot has been provided for your needs?”

“Am I thus condemned for choosing where to piss?” he replied sharply, then gestured as if thrusting aside his rude speech. “Nay, I did leave my master but not alone. A man in monkish garb stood nearby. As you must remember, my lady, I did ask you for an attendant and thus assumed you had sent a lay brother.”

Eleanor looked back at Thomas.

“I know of no such lay brother, my lady,” he replied. “Sister Anne might have assigned someone while I was…while I was not here.”

“I shall ask.” Eleanor turned back to Walter. “Could you describe the man?”

“Were I able, I would have done so already.”

Eleanor gripped her arms hidden in the sleeves of her robe and prayed she would not show her anger at the man’s rough tone. She asked Thomas, “Was this man mentioned to you when the crime was reported?”

“I will answer for the good brother. I did not do so. There was no reason.”

“Was the man still here when you returned?”

Walter hesitated, then shook his head with a brief negative. “Not by the entrance, but I thought I saw him near the chapel. My master would not have been unattended long.”

A man in a monk’s robe near the chapel? Eleanor knew of no lay brother or monk with a face matching Sister Christina’s description. “Very well,” she continued. “You came back from the latrine, found your master lying on his bed, and the lay brother absent. What happened next?”

“I have told all to yon monk.”

“You shall repeat everything to me.”

Anger painted his face with high color. “Why? I owe nothing to your family, nor am I required, like your charges here, to follow the rule of Eve.”

“All this is true, but you stand on ground consecrated to God, and I am prioress here. As you owe God fealty, so must you obey me while you accept His grace here.” Eleanor felt her own face blaze with rage. Were she wise, she thought, she would turn questioning over to Brother Thomas, who might get better answers from this man than she, but her insulted pride had just burned that logic to a crisp ash.

“Nor shall you leave until the crowner arrives,” she snapped, then softened her tone. “We do you a kindness. Has your master’s care so consumed you that you have forgotten what methods secular justice may use to obtain truth? To freely answer our questions is the wiser choice.”

Walter’s gaze shifted away.

Eleanor let him take as long as he needed to think this over.

When he finally turned back to her, his expression was most humble. “I spoke without thinking and beg your forgiveness.”

“Granted. Continue.”

“Since I was gone but briefly, I thought all was well with my master, then I came closer and saw that he was weeping.” Walter put his hands to his eyes, rubbing the missing one as if it pained him. “He sat up, whimpering, his eyes wide as if a ghost had visited. His fear and pain were so sharp I could not bear to let him suffer and hurried to find help, a lay brother with a potion, a draught, to give him ease.”

Surely he could not feign this caring, Eleanor thought. Could he?

“I passed by the chapel and looked in, hoping that someone, perhaps the man I thought had been sent to watch over my master, was there. It was then that I saw your nun…”

“Your hesitation is understandable. Her state has been described to me.”

“As your monk can attest, I came to seek help for her forthwith.”

“And left your master alone.”

Walter looked outraged, as if she had just slapped him. “The crime had been committed, and none other has occurred!” he roared, then dropped his voice. “Perhaps I was in error when I sought aid for your nun without thought of my own lord, but I cannot be condemned for leaving him alone when nothing else untoward happened.”

“Nor are you.” The raw outrage was palpable. Either his master was innocent of the attack against Sister Christina, Eleanor thought, or Walter was ignorant of Sir Maurice’s guilt. The former was possible, the latter unlikely, she decided.

But Walter was not done. “As to what may have happened between the time I went for a piss and returned to find Sir Maurice lying here, I humbly suggest that you look for the one who stood without when I left.”

“Or perhaps we should ask your master more of what happened this night.” Eleanor looked back at Thomas and nodded. “Brother Thomas would ask the questions, not I.”

Walter opened his mouth, but whether he intended to agree or protest was irrelevant.

A high-pitched wail shattered the air.

Sir Maurice stood, staring wildly into the blackness above. “Angel! Angel of Death!” he screamed, throwing wide his arms as if to embrace the creature. Then he fell to the ground, clawing at his chest as if something were trying to rip his heart out with its talons.

“Brother,” Walter cried out, gesturing in supplication to Thomas. “Save him from the demons!”

Chapter Thirty-six

As Eleanor walked into her public room, she halted so abruptly that Gytha trod on her heel. After the attack on Sister Christina and Sir Maurice’s demonic fit, the last thing the prioress needed to contend with was Brother Matthew.

That determined monk knelt beside Sister Ruth. Their eyes were tightly shut, and their lips moved with silent, indomitable intensity. Lying on the table in front of the praying pair was a rough-hewn box. The lid had been removed and set to one side. On a worn piece of discolored silk, placed at the very edge of the table for optimal viewing by the kneeling monastics, rested a chalky white thigh bone with kneecap attached.

Eleanor prayed for forgiveness to whomever the bones might belong. Whether saint or sinner, either would understand her frail impatience after such an eventful morning.

“I could not keep them out, my lady,” Gytha whispered to the prioress, then put the orange cat she had been holding down on the ground.

Arthur strode into the chambers as if he were lord of the manor.

“I fear even God might not have been able to bar the door to them,” Eleanor whispered back.

The cat jumped up on the table.

“It is not your fault,” Eleanor continued.

Arthur crouched, crept slowly up to the bones, and sniffed with some interest.

Looking for your dinner after a good day’s hunting, Eleanor thought with a smile. At least the cat had managed to improve her mood.

The praying pair had yet to notice that anyone had entered the room. As most people beyond supple youth were wont to do, Sister Ruth shifted back on her heels to give her knees some ease.

Suddenly Arthur gave the kneecap a mighty swat. The bone tumbled off the edge, right into Sister Ruth’s lap.

“Praise the Lord!” the sub-prioress screamed, grabbing the relic and clutching it to her bosom. “It is a sign!”

Arthur scuttled off the table and disappeared into the safety of the prioress’ private chamber.

Gytha ran from the room, her face scarlet with barely controlled laughter.

Eleanor prayed she could control her own.

Brother Matthew opened his eyes, looked at the ecstatic nun cradling the bone, then realized his prioress stood nearby. He raised his hands to heaven. “Without a doubt, Saint Skallagrim has signified that Tyndal must be home to his sacred relic. See how he has thrown himself on the mercy of our dear sister!”

“So it seems,” Eleanor said.

The monk rose to his feet, his lanky body straightened to full height. “Seems?” He glared down at his tiny prioress.

“Seems, Brother Matthew. Seems. I have never heard of Saint Skallagrim. Perhaps you can enlighten me.”

Brother Matthew did not hesitate. “A local saint. Not being of this place yourself, my lady, I suspect you would have no reason to know of him.”

“Not yet canonized?” Eleanor was chary of these local saints. England was full of former but much beloved pagan spirits who had been converted, as it were, by their former worshippers to the true faith. Thus the deities’ ancient and established powers would not be lost, nor their anger provoked by rejection. Eleanor preferred to wait for the Church to decide whether these spirits had been truly persuaded to change allegiance.

“It is just a matter of time. If we were wise enough to recognize his sanctity first, he would surely grace us with many miracles.”

“And he was such a sweet boy,” Sister Ruth cooed, still cuddling the bone.

“Boy?” Eleanor raised one questioning eyebrow as she stared at the bone. She stepped closer for a better look.

“Any man could tell it was the bone of a child, my lady. Look at its size.”

“It is small, Brother.” She stepped back and frowned. “Were you not raised at Norwich in a family noted for their skill as goldsmiths?”

Brother Matthew sniffed as if detecting a foul odor. “My rank in the world may not be the equivalent of yours, but I remind you that Robert of Arbrissel did not allow these distinctions within our Order. You and I must be accorded the same respect in our sacred vocation and our opinions given equal hearing.”

“You do well to remind me of that. Wisdom and knowledge must always rule, not family status. In that I do agree.” Eleanor smiled.

Brother Matthew bowed. He did not even try to hide the smirk twisting his mouth.

“Therefore, I will allow this bone to remain at Tyndal in the care of Sister Ruth…”

The nun looked at her prioress with a beatific glow that all but removed the deeply ingrained signs of her many bitter years on this earth.

“…until you can bring me the required proofs of authenticity as well as the man who is so willing to sell us this fine relic. Am I correct in remembering that both were available, Brother?”

Matthew blinked, then replied with indignation. “Of course, my lady. The holy man would have come himself with these sainted bones, but he feared he would not receive a welcome reception.” He stared at Eleanor in silence, which was both meaningful and lengthy. “Fortunately, he trusted my, rather,
our
honesty at the priory and released this sacred item so your doubts might be destroyed with a revelation of its power and desire to rest at Tyndal.”

All done by the grace of one orange cat, Eleanor thought with irreverence, but perhaps Saint Skallagrim had been fond of the furry creatures when he was on earth.

Brother Matthew glanced down at Sister Ruth with tender esteem. “A sign which our most modest and worthy sister has been granted and you have been honored to witness.”

“Do arrange for a meeting, good brother, and we will greet your seller of relics with a reception proper to the significance of what he has brought us.”

Satisfied with his victory in this matter, Brother Matthew gently raised Sister Ruth from her knees, and they turned to leave.

As the two monastics walked away, the nun following the lanky monk, Eleanor watched Sister Ruth holding the reliquary with so much love and awe. We should all savor those precious moments of pure happiness that God grants us, the prioress thought. When life turns cruel, their memory must comfort us.

Then, despite all that had happened that day, she caught herself chuckling with much merriment as she went into her private chambers. Arthur would have an especially fine piece of fowl for his midday dinner, she decided.