Justice for the Damned (22 page)

"When
my husband told Prioress Ida that Sayer could offer many skills for the wages
of one man, she was pleased to hire him."

A
woman of modest speech and much caution, Eleanor noted. Like many wives who
have little time for chatter, Drifa's restraint was sired by thrift, not fear
as had been true of her sister, Jhone.

"To
have such a talented son must have given you and your husband much joy."

The
widow nodded.

"I
have heard that the son resembled his father in many ways." Eleanor
laughed to give her words a lighter meaning. "The two must have been very
close."

The
widow leaned back against a pillar.

"Yet
I believe they quarreled just before your husband died?"

"The
whole village seems to have heard the story, my lady."

"What
heavy grief that must bring you."

The
sharp intake of breath might have been a sigh or a sob.

Eleanor
reached out a comforting hand. "Each of us has sons, mistress. Although
you got yours from your husband, God gave me mine. In our Order, a prioress may
suffer as the Virgin did when she saw her child dying on the cross, yet strive
to see the purpose beyond the misery of mortal flesh. Although I endured no
physical pain in the bearing, God commands me to love all men under my rule as
if they were truly sons of my body. With that love, I suffer as much as any
mother when they fall ill or sin. You and I have some sorrows in common."

Sayer's
mother said nothing.

"Please
sit beside me," Eleanor said, her voice dropping into a soothing tone,
"and let me offer solace as one woman to another. Are men and boys not
foolish in their heated words over things that are fleeting? I, too, have
grieved deeply when my monks rage on and on about some petty matter. As you
yourself have done, I bear the blame when they strive one against another until
their humors cool, and peace comes slowly. Thus I understand how deeply you
mourn over this bitter quarrel."

Hot
tears burst from Drifa's eyes and rolled down her cheeks in a flood. As she
slid down onto the bench, Eleanor gently embraced her. The woman's sobs could
have not been more despairing if she had just seen her child tumble into Hell's
flaming maw. Stirred by the bleakness of Drifa's suffering, Eleanor herself
began to weep. For an unmeasured time in that smoke-stained room, the two women
clung together, finding a small amount of succor from worldly pain.

At
last Eleanor whispered: "Take comfort. In death our souls lose mortal
blindness and learn a more godly compassion. Your husband is wiser now and has
surely pardoned your son's errors."

Drifa
drew back, her red-rimmed eyes still haunted with inconsolable despair. "I
pray that he has, my lady, for he claimed the lad was the Devil's spawn."

"Surely
not for leading willing monks into the arms of tavern wenches? Your son
repented of that, and Prioress Ida had punished the men who strayed. The wall
was repaired. All that was in the past."

"Wicked
though that had been, it was not the reason my husband said our son was
cursed." The widow rubbed the corners of her eyes dry with the tips of two
fingers. Her cheeks still shone with dampness.

"What
was the cause?"

Drifa
covered her face.

The
prioress' touch on the widow's arm was gentle. "There is no sin Sayer
could have committed that God would not wash clean. We mortals are so quick to
condemn, but God is perfect love." Eleanor chanced a smile. "And I do
think He grants the Queen of Heaven, a mother herself, the right to bless other
mothers with some of that perfection, don't you?"

Drifa
dropped her hands and looked at Eleanor in amazement, before her eyes softened
with hope. "My son may have seen twenty summers, but he is still a boy, my
lady. Satan has made merry with him for cert, but he is not wicked. I told
Wulfstan that Sayer need only marry and earn a man's status to return to more
godly ways. I thought my husband had agreed but he only hid his anger!"

"Boys
do foolish things.

The
mother began to cough, her face turning scarlet as she tried to catch her
breath. "Wulfstan came home in a rage one night," she gasped.
"He had seen Sayer near the river. Another man was swyving him like a
whore."

Speechless
with shock, Eleanor could only nod.

"That
night I calmed him, but soon after he and Sayer got drunk at the inn. The
following morning, my husband confessed that he had told our son he would geld
him if he ever did such a thing again. My son had shouted that he would kill
him first."

As
the prioress prayed for words to soothe this woman, she begged God for an
understanding she herself lacked. She was not so unworldly as to think some
young monk at Tyndal might not suffer the same weakness, but she knew of none.
If presented with such a man, would she face him with a mother's love like
Drifa,
or would she curse him as Wulfstan had Sayer?

Her
thoughts raced on. Sodomy was a most unnatural vice, one akin to murder, or so
the Church taught. If Sayer was guilty of this sin, might he be equally capable
of killing his own father?

Eleanor
took a deep breath. There was one powerful argument against this conclusion.
Sister Beatrice was not a woman to suffer evil, or be deceived by it, and she
had shown much tolerance for the man. Did she not know that Sayer was a
sodomite? What if she did? Her head spun with bewilderment.

God
must have given her tongue comforting words despite her own swirling confusion.
Eleanor could not remember what she had said to Drifa, but the widow's gaze had
shone with weary peace when they parted.

As
she turned her steps back to the priory, Eleanor knew she would spend much time
tonight on her knees, begging for understanding from the Queen of Heaven.

Chapter
Twenty-Eight

The
smell of sizzling fat made Thomas' stomach growl. As his growing hunger began
to temper the anguish he had felt in the garden, he found himself amazed at the
resilience of a man's belly. God would surely punish him for his blasphemous
insolence in time. Of that, he had no doubts. Meanwhile, he accepted the gift
of a hot, dripping pastry from a tradesman. The first bite of that pie was a
joy.

The
weather for this market day was fine, a balm to the spirit, and the bounty in
the stalls was a miracle to behold. To his left was a mound of purple and white
carrots just picked from the garden. Fresh yellow onions, causing less torture
to sensitive stomachs than those stored over winter, lay next to cream-colored
turnips. Although the steam of hot fruit tarts spread a most appealing scent of
spice mixed with sweet, Thomas' hunger was now satisfied.

Something
brushed by his leg, and he glanced down to see a lean, red cat in pursuit of
something small and gray. The sight reminded Thomas that he had his own prey to
hunt, a man who had sent two souls to earlier deaths and greater torture than
they deserved. Even though he did not have the slightest idea where to start
looking, he felt spurred to the task. If he resolved these murders with speed,
God might even grant him a little mercy for his own wickedness.

As
he pushed his way through the crowd, a thought burst into his mind, the memory
of something he had ignored at the time and since forgotten. When his spy
master told him of his assignment regarding the Psalter theft, the man
mentioned that the Church had received warning about the danger to the
manuscript. Now Thomas asked himself who had raised this hue and cry. Was the
detail significant?

"I
should have had the wits to inquire," the monk muttered, stepping back to
avoid a rumbling cart filled with precariously stacked barrels. "But I
would have been told if the fact mattered to the quest." Men might be fair
sport for the priest, but surely that thin-lipped creature considered the
Psalter too valuable to deliberately hide crucial information. In any case,
Thomas had not asked, numbed as he was by grief over the news of his father's
death.

Important
or not to this undertaking, the identity of the informant was provoking his
curiosity. Might it be Sister Beatrice? That would not surprise him, and,
considering her inquisitive study of him earlier, he thought she suspected more
about him than she chose to reveal.

He
waited until a woman with two overfilled baskets passed by, several children
with lesser burdens in tow.

Since
the spy master seemed to view women as beings formed from a mere rib only to
serve Adam's sons, the priest might have judged her involvement not worth the
noting. A poor decision, Thomas thought. With pleasure he imagined the
expression on the man's face should he ever try matching wits with the
formidable novice mistress.

"Watch
your step!" a voice cried out.

Thomas
looked down.

A
legless man sat on a cart just in front of him. The man's hollow cheeks spoke
eloquently of starvation.

Thomas
found a coin meant for tongue-loosening ale, dropped it into the man's hand,
and walked on, forcing his thoughts back to the question. If Sister Beatrice
had been the one to alert some bishop that the Amesbury Psalter might be
stolen, would she not assume that someone would be sent to investigate? But if
she knew that, why had she not said anything?

Perhaps
she had been ordered to remain silent to prevent alerting the thief. He, too,
had been forbidden to speak to anyone about his role here. Nonetheless, she
might well have guessed that he was the one. Why else would she have set him on
this task of finding the ghost, allowing a monk she did not know to visit the
inn and wander about the town like some clerk?

A
loud crash made him jump. To his right, a butcher was cutting meat while a
spotted bitch with engorged teats danced and whined at his feet. The fellow
tossed the creature a bloody bit, and she raced away with her treasure.

Thomas
shook his head. Had the novice mistress said anything about her suspicions to
Prioress Eleanor? Although he might have preferred that, he doubted Sister
Beatrice would have broken a vowed silence even to a loved relative. She seemed
as much a woman of strong principles as her niece.

If
Sister Beatrice knew about the threat to the Psalter, then someone must have
told her. Was the source a man or woman, religious or townsman? How did this
person find out? Thomas cursed that his bound silence prevented him from asking
her the identity and that her own vow would stop her from answering even if he
did.

As
he paused to let men driving sheep go by, he looked over the passing flock and
discovered that his wanderings had led him back to the inn. He gritted his
teeth, trying to banish his dismay.

The
source of the tale was most likely a secular man, seated inside that inn and
listening to gossip and plots. Both women and monastics were less likely to
hear rumors about thievery. As he had already confirmed, men interrupted their
conversations to jest at monks in an inn. Serving wenches were an equal
distraction and cause for lewd remarks. Only a secular man, and a local one at
that, could remain unnoticed while men spoke together of secret things.
Although he was unsure how he would find the man out, he knew he had little
choice but to try.

Thomas
crossed the road to the inn door.

Chapter
Twenty-Nine

Eleanor
halted. As they walked through the market stalls, she had glanced behind and
caught the wistful expressions on the faces of her two young attendants. How
thoughtless she had been! They were probably hungry.

"Oh,
I do remember the delicious fish taken from the river while I was growing up at
this priory," she said. "That man over there has pies made from them.
Shall we honor God's bounty and eat one?"

When
the eyes of her attendants brightened, Prioress Eleanor gestured to the
merchant, who brought them a sampling of his wares. He might have given the
food as a gift to the benefit of his soul, but Tyndal's leader gave him both
blessing and coin.

While
her youthful religious chewed with undisguised pleasure, Eleanor turned her
attention to the surrounding crowds. Not far to her right, she recognized
Bernard and Alys, standing in front of his display of gloves. They were holding
hands and gazing at each other with undisguised rapture.

Hearing
a shout redolent with outrage, the prioress turned to see a scarlet-faced Jhone
elbowing a path through to the pair, their moment of delight now ended.

"How
dare you, sir?" the mother exclaimed. "And you, strumpet! Did I not
forbid you to come near this man?"

"I
wanted to look at his gloves, Mother. That is guiltless enough. Even you admit
that his work is of the best quality."

"He
had no need to fondle your hand. He had no reason to look upon you with such
undisguised lust..."

"Mistress,
I was but taking her hand to measure it for a glove. As for any intent to
dishonor, I am blameless!"

Eleanor
noticed the slight bulge in the man's robe. Innocence may have dwelt in the
glover's gaze, but elsewhere the virtue had departed.