Justice for the Damned (21 page)

"Brother
Baeda?"

"Last
night he was found murdered in the library."

"God
forgive us all!" Bernard's cheeks blanched to a wan pink, and he staggered
back a step. "Disinclined to action or not, the sheriff must be summoned.
We have no other choice."

"He
has been delayed."

The
glover grimaced with apparent frustration. "This news does not surprise
me, but what else can we do?"

"You
may have answers to my concerns." She waited for a response, debating how
frank she should be in her questions. If he were involved, the direct approach
would gain her naught. The indirect, on the other hand...

Silently,
he nodded.

"Since
his father is innocent of offending God's law, I thought Sayer might have
followed his sire's example and longed to atone for his own evil ways. What
might you know of this?"

Bernard's
eyes narrowed. "Again I fail to understand your question, my lady."

"If
the spirits have turned murderous because of some offense committed against
God, the son's especial sinning may be connected to these deaths. If Sayer is
truly repentant, he might provide information that will protect the priory from
further violence."

"I
am not the one to ask about his thoughts, actions, or ability to do what you
seem to wish." He looked up at the sky, his expression a study in
reluctance. "You had best ask his mother or else Sayer himself, for I do
not know the man well."

"I
shall," she replied.

"I
fear I am late back to my shop."

"It
would be discourteous to detain you further."

Bernard
bowed abruptly and, without further word, quickly walked away.

The
man lies, Eleanor decided, although he may have fair reason. Her mind insisted
that his motive was malicious, but her heart was not as sure. Was he protecting
someone? If he loved Alys, he would wish to shift all suspicion from her
family, including Cousin Roofer. On the other hand, Bernard had not actually
defended Sayer as he had Wulfstan. He had claimed ignorance of Alys' cousin and
avoided direct response to any questions about the man.

Eleanor
frowned, as her mind chased itself in circles, but suddenly brightened as she
grasped the thing nibbling at her memory. Was it not yesterday, crossing the Avon after visiting Mistress Jhone, that she had seen the glover in merry conversation with
another man?

Treading
on the heels of that recognition was a chilling thought. Unless Bernard had
inherited a more profitable trade than would seem to be the case, he would not
have many apprentices and certainly not one of such long standing that he would
be of much the same age.

The
man walking beside Bernard was no fellow merchant, rather a laborer of some ilk
by his dress. Was he one of the glover's workmen? Nay, their easy manner with
each other made her doubt that. Could it have been Sayer, cousin to his beloved
Alys? If the latter, why did the glover deny knowing the man, and had the
reason anything to do with murder?

Chapter
Twenty-Six

Thomas
winced as Brother Infirmarian cleaned his bleeding hand with some stinging
liquid.

"I
won't ask why you were on the library roof, Brother, but I suggest that there
are easier places to talk to God."

Despite
the throbbing in his wound, the monk chuckled. "Sayer was showing me some
of the skills needed to repair the slate."

The
infirmarian raised an eyebrow. "Indeed," he said, resuming with an
application of salve. "Is your priory at Tyndal so poor that monks must be
trained to do such work?"

"We
have lay brothers enough, but, since Sayer is only rarely on the ground at this
priory, I had to climb closer to Paradise to offer consolation for his father's
death. He continued his labors while I did."

Brother
Infirmarian reached for a binding. "His grief must be sharp. A sad thing
to quarrel with your father and have him die before you can settle the
matter."

"Had
it caused so deep a rift between them?"

The
monk shrugged. "Sayer is a bit of a rogue, much like his father when he
was younger, but I think Mistress Drifa would have forced them to make
peace."

"Then
the dispute involved nothing that would cause either to harm the other?"

"Oh,
you heard that Sayer swore he would kill Wulfstan?" The infirmarian
laughed as he finished the binding and sat down beside Thomas. "I wouldn't
put much credence in that, Brother. I once told my father I would kill him and
he survived four score!"

"And
what was your disagreement about?"

The
man's eyes twinkled. "There was a girl I wanted to marry. My father was
opposed. It was then I threatened him."

"How
did you resolve the matter?"

"My
beloved died before we could wed, and I took the cowl. With a repentant heart,
my father cursed his obstinacy and begged forgiveness. I promised him daily
prayers, and we wept together in each other's arms. Fathers and sons have ways
of making peace. Had Wulfstan lived, I have no doubt that he and Sayer would
have done the same."

"Do
you know the cause of their quarrel? If so, I could use that knowledge to bring
a more effective comfort to the son."

"Although
I listen to gossip like any other wicked mortal, I put little faith in it. True
or not, the stories are often entertaining, but I do not repeat what I hear.
The Fiend loves those who spread scandal."

Thomas
hoped he hid his regret at the infirmarian's admirable restraint. "You are
wise not to repeat it," he said. "I grieve that many are not so
hesitant about telling tales and pray that no one has spread damaging lies
about Sayer and his father."

The
monk looked away.

The
gesture told Thomas that some story must be abroad. All he had to do was find a
man willing to tell him what it was.

As
he walked through the garden of the monks' cloister garth, despondency dropped
over Thomas like a sodden cloak even as questions raced through his mind. A
cawing distracted him. Looking up, he saw the dark shape of a crow. It circled
overhead before flying off, perhaps to the nest near the library.

Had
Sayer returned to his work? Even if he had, Thomas knew he would not seek him
out there. He could not. His face turned hot with an emotion he did not want to
name, and he forced his thoughts back to the recent discussion with his
prioress and Sister Beatrice.

He
hoped he had not betrayed his shock when Prioress Eleanor suggested that
someone might be trying to steal the Amesbury Psalter, yet he had also felt
relief at her joining the pieces in that way. Even though he could not speak of
his own commission from the Church in this matter, he could now count on her
cleverness and support as he had longed to do. Of course, he was pleased that
he had won this small victory over his spy master. He might owe the man
gratitude for saving his life, but he did not always respect his judgement and
resented the power the man wielded over him.

His
small pleasure quickly soured. Was Sayer the thief Thomas had been sent to
catch? Was Drifa's deft-witted son a brutal killer? His heart still rebelled
against any conclusion that Sayer might be involved, even though he knew there
was cause enough to believe it. A man's reason ordered him to acknowledge that
the roofer was implicated in the crime. In this they had all agreed, but
another emotion, devoid of logic, shouted otherwise to him.

For
Thomas, the world had turned upside down since that night at the inn. Sister
Beatrice and Prioress Eleanor bore women's bodies, but their souls housed a
man's solid reason. He was afflicted with a woman's perceptions. That these had
served him well in the past did not soothe him now. Indeed, he cursed them.
When had the Prince of Darkness stolen his manhood and given him a woman's
soul? If men became women and women men, he snarled, the end of the world must
be close to hand.

Nay,
it was his soul that was in disarray, not the world. The novice mistress and
her niece were holy women, given strengths beyond their sex by their vocations.
On the other hand, God had surely given him to Satan for his plaything.

Even
Sayer had taunted him about suffering womanly fear when he sat on the roof.
Womanly, was he? The monk uttered an oath. Yet he had reached out for the
roofer's hand like some maiden begging a knight to save her from distress.
Thomas' stomach roiled with disgust at himself.

That
his logic was weak and he had shown cowardice at that great height were less
terrifying than the betrayal of his body. He could argue that an incubus had
put on Sayer's features when he had swyved the roofer in his dream, but Thomas
could not ignore how he trembled on the roof like a virgin on her wedding
night, longing for the embrace while fearing the loss of her maidenhead.

"I
am no man at all," he cried out. "I am a creature made in the image
of Satan with a man's sex and a woman's breasts!"

Amidst
the bursting buds and flowering shrubs of that silent monastic garden, he fell
to his knees, bent his forehead to the earth, and wept. His howls of pain were
as sharp as the wailings of one damned beyond any hope of forgiveness, and he
beat his head against the ground as if one torment could numb the other.

At
last the roaring in his soul diminished and his sobbing subsided. Gulping air
like a man who has almost drowned, he sat back on his heels and swiped angrily
at his damp cheeks. "Why have You done this to me?" Thomas raised his
eyes heavenward.

The
light became too bright for his reddened eyes. He covered them.

"You
cannot deny it," he whispered angrily into his hands. "The Prince of
Darkness may have sent this cruel affliction, but You allowed it. Did You not
let Satan plague Job, jesting that he would never turn his face from You no
matter what he suffered? Perhaps Job did not do so, but I am not he. I curse
You for this!"

Thomas
uncovered his eyes and bent down to touch the uneven particles of earth while
he waited for God's hot wrath to destroy him. Terror of eternal torture for his
blasphemy numbed him, but he could not retract his words.

A
hush in the gentle wind and a silence that held neither condemnation nor peace
were all that greeted him.

Thomas
looked up. He was alone in the gardens.

"Torment
me as You will then," he said in soft voice, "but surely You cannot
hate me more than the one who murdered two innocent men, two unshriven souls
howling for justice."

That
said, Thomas rose unsteadily to his feet and set off in the direction of the
village.

Chapter
Twenty-Seven

A
small shadow edged across the garden to the place where Drifa knelt, pulling
young weeds from the dark earth. She jumped to her feet.

"My
lady!"

"I
did not mean to frighten you," Eleanor replied. Was the pallor of the
widow's face the result of grief, or was another visit from the priory cause
for fear?

Drifa
rubbed the soil from her fingers as color returned to her cheeks. "Forgive
me, but my thoughts had fled elsewhere. Your visit is most welcome."

There
was gratitude in her tone. Looking around and seeing no one else about, Eleanor
guessed the reason. Solitude was often a traitorous fellow, eager enough to
open Heart's gate
to
the cruel assault of Sorrow.

"Please
come away from the sun. The season may be spring, but the light can be
harsh." The woman gestured toward the door of the house. "I have but
modest fare to offer you..."

"Brother
Thomas praised your ale, mistress," the prioress replied.

"Your
monk is kind and a man of austere tastes, my lady."

The
two women studied each other for a moment, and when their expressions had shown
satisfaction in what each had concluded about the other, they turned toward the
dwelling.

At
least Bernard had told the truth about one thing, Eleanor concluded as she
stepped over the threshold. Wulfstan had spent whatever coin he might have
earned from lawless men on items that would benefit his family, not on
luxuries. Many squawking chickens were outside, and a hairy goat had greeted
her with impudent gaze, one green weed drooping from the side of its mouth. The
house was quite large, with three windows, but inside she saw little difference
between this place and the home of any other poor man.

As
Drifa poured amber liquid into a crudely carved wooden cup, Eleanor noted the
freshly laid rushes on the earthen floor as well as the absence of clutter.
Whatever his faults, Wulfstan had won himself a diligent wife and one who
seemed to have loved him.

"You
have been blessed with a large family," Eleanor said conversationally
after expressing appreciation for the sharp-tasting but refreshing ale.

"Most
of our children have lived and flourished." The widow fell silent.

"Your
eldest works most diligently at whatever the priory requires."