Chambers of Death (6 page)

Chapter Ten

Although night is the time when imps lewdly dance in the guise of shadows and the Prince of Darkness fills wicked souls with the desire to do evil unto other mortals, it is also the hour of dreams, often bitter but on occasion sweet.

Some claim that soft dreams are God’s way of reminding us that good may still rule during the season of Evil’s dominion. Others believe that such sweetness in the dark hours comes from Satan himself, cursed by the memory that he was once one of God’s most powerful angels.

Whatever the truth might be, the dreams of those mortals, safely surrounded by the walls of Master Stevyn’s manor, were gentle enough that following night.

Mariota fell into the deeper sleep of healing, her dreams perhaps reflective of hope that she might still live.

The Prioress of Tyndal remembered only one dream in which Mistress Maud, who had taken over the sick watch, slipped from the room. A dream it most certainly was, she decided, for the physician’s widow was sitting by Mariota’s bed when Eleanor woke for prayer.

As for Thomas, he fell asleep once again in the arms of Huet who seemed to hold him even closer than he had the night before. At some time in that night the young man left their mutual but chaste bed, and the monk awoke to regret the resultant chill. Then he too rose to chant the early Office and thank God that he had been blessed for once with no dreams at all.

And what were Tobye’s dreams that night, sleeping alone in the warm straw of the stable, before a figure crouched over him and slit his throat?

Chapter Eleven

Was it a scream that woke Eleanor, or the shouting from the courtyard?

She sat up and stared through the darkness of morning toward a flickering light. Someone was standing in the doorway.

“Have you heard, my lady?” Maud’s voice trembled.

“What has happened?” Eleanor slipped out of the linen cover on her mattress and quickly glanced at Mariota.

The girl turned over and mumbled but did not fully awaken.

“I’m not sure,” the widow continued in a low voice. “Yet I did hear a cry of
murder
and knew you must be told.” She pressed a hand to her throat and leaned back to look outside the door toward the stone stairs.

An old servant, puffing and red-faced even in the torch light, appeared at Maud’s side. “Stay within, for God’s sake,” she hissed. “There is evil about!”

“Wait!” Eleanor said, hurrying to the entrance. “Explain what evil you mean?”

“Tobye, the groom, is dead.”

The widow remained expressionless for a long moment, then gasped. “What cause? I noted no signs of illness when I saw him yesterday.”

“Murdered, my ladies, murdered.” With the promise of an interested audience, the servant began to elaborate, waving a dimpled hand in enthusiastic emphasis. “Blood splattered everywhere. Gutted like a deer, I’ve heard.” She bent forward, fingers cupped at her mouth as she whispered hoarsely: “Someone else said his privates were chopped…” Suddenly remembering that one of her listeners was a nun, the servant coughed, then finished her tale but omitted the other rumored details. “Master Stevyn had ordered horses for an early hunt. When they were not at the manor door, he went to the stable and found the body. Now, Sir Reimund is here with his men.”

“Then he shall want the hall made ready, with table and benches down and ale for his throat, so he can speak with us all,” Maud interrupted. “On what task were you sent?”

“To tell the mistress the news.”

“Do not forget to ask her what orders she has for preparing the hall downstairs.”

“She won’t…” The servant’s mouth puckered eloquently enough, but she fell silent as she looked sideways at Eleanor, perhaps fearing further speech would reveal a household secret to a stranger, even if the outsider was a religious.

“Then seek Mistress Constance.”

The woman grimaced.

“And if you cannot find her, come see me here.”

“That I shall,” the woman replied before scurrying off.

Eleanor and Maud retreated into the chamber and shut the door. “Methinks she will return soon enough for direction from you,” the prioress said, splashing icy water on her face, then reaching for her wimple.

From the courtyard, they could hear increasing commotion.

“I am an old friend of the family, known by the household servants even before Mistress Luce was born. Although I hold no authority here and do know my place…But you have met both Mistress Luce and Mistress Constance, thus most certainly understand the difficulty.”

The dilemma I do, even if the root cause remains hidden from me, Eleanor thought as she touched her face around the wimple to make sure both head and neck were properly covered. “The servants will need your guidance and counsel today. Mariota seems well enough to be left alone in my care. If you will instruct me on the dosage of her medicine and…”

“You are most kind, my lady, but I would be wise to remain here myself. In doing so, I may escape condemnation as a meddling creature but shall be where any servant, who needs advice, can find me swiftly.”

“Then I will seek those who may need God’s comfort in the face of this horrible and most unnatural deed,” the prioress replied, keeping her expression free of her appreciation for Maud’s clever ploy.

The widow looked away as if fearing her blunter views of the two women might be read in her eyes.

What was her true opinion of Mistress Luce? The steward’s wife had referred to Maud’s assumption of authority with sarcasm, albeit with a hint of respect compared to the blundering of Constance, but the widow had been reasonably cautious in her own comments about the true mistress of the household. Was Maud aware of the relationship between Tobye and the steward’s wife? If so, she must know how Luce would react to the news of her lover’s death.

How grieved might the master’s wife be? As the image of Brother Thomas came to mind, Eleanor knew that his death would shatter her heart. On the other hand, if Luce’s affair with the groom was simply a means to ease a throbbing between the legs…

She decided to change the subject and walked to the window. “Who is Sir Reimund?” she asked, gazing down at those milling about in the courtyard.

“The sheriff of this county.”

Hearing hesitancy in the widow’s voice, Eleanor was reminded of the ever-absent sheriff in her own land. The dead King Henry displayed many virtues in her opinion, but his sheriffs had grown notoriously corrupt during his reign. Raising an eyebrow, she turned around. “Forgive me, but might I ask if he is a man not known for his energy in pursuit of justice, or even one lacking in some honesty?”

Maud took a sudden interest in one broken thread in her sleeve. “He serves the needs of this manor well enough, my lady, for he knows to whom the land belongs. As for honesty, the sheriff has never taken a bribe to my knowledge.” She snapped the thread in two, then met the prioress’ gaze. “We have learned that his methods of investigation in any crime vary according to the rank of the aggrieved. For this killing, we may expect a swift resolution. He will look to the servants.”

The prioress glanced back into the courtyard, seeking the sheriff. None below was dressed with an eye to fashion or elegance, as might be expected of a man filled with ambition. Near the stable and standing by a fine black horse, however, there was one in close conversation with someone whose neck was respectfully bent. “Does he not have a crowner to assist him in his inquiries?”

“Aye, but I would not look to that one for any cleverness. This is no local gossip, for my late husband treated the man often enough for cuts and bruises. The crowner is best known for the amount of ale he drinks than any crime he has solved. I doubt you’ll find him in the company below. He’s rarely sober enough to mount a horse.”

But Eleanor’s attention was suddenly directed away from sheriffs and crowners. Down in the courtyard, to the left of the one she assumed was Sir Reimund, she saw Brother Thomas talking to another man. She might not be able to hear what was said, but the gestures were eloquent enough. The man had shoved her monk, and Thomas had just raised his fist.

The Prioress of Tyndal dashed from the room.

Chapter Twelve

Eleanor stood at the entrance to the manor house and tried to find some safe pathway through the turmoil.

A few paces from her, their piles of soiled linen stuffed into woven baskets, two laundry women chattered, pale faces close together.

To their right, several men argued, their gestures wild and their loud voices suggesting the disagreements were growing less than amicable.

Horses neighed. Babes cried.

And, somewhere in this madness of fear, a man’s unshriven soul had been sent to Hell.

The prioress shuddered, as if Satan himself had just brushed her cheek with impious touch.

“My lady!”

Startled, Eleanor turned to face the stranger who had appeared by her side.

“I am Ranulf, eldest son of Master Stevyn. You should not be in this profane place, even with proper attendance.” He scowled with evident disdain as he looked around. “Of which I see none.”

She stiffened at his presumptuous tone. How dare this man tell her where she should and should not be? On the other hand, she did not want to imagine what he would think if she told him she had come to stop her monk from getting into a fistfight. “A man has been unlawfully slaughtered,” she chose to say. “I wish to bring God’s comfort to his family.” After all, she had intended to seek them out.

“The Devil was his only kin.” He gestured at the crowd. “And here before you are many more the Evil One can claim as his own, vile creatures that should be frying in Hell’s fires.” His jabbing finger stopped to point at a plump, middle-aged woman, whose face was red with weeping as she clutched her fists to her heart.

What cause had this woman to mourn Tobye’s death, Eleanor asked herself, or were her tears born of shock and fear?

“Let me escort you from this obscene display.” Ranulf placed himself in front of the prioress as if intending to herd her backwards like some recalcitrant sheep. “A woman dedicated to God’s service rejects this evil world for good reason, and your presence here is most improper.”

A firestorm of anger at this impudence roared through her. “You are very kind to remind me of the corruption my soul may suffer,” she replied through clenched teeth, “but I…”

Like a prayer answered, the crowd parted and revealed the solution to her predicament. Over by the stable, the prioress saw that her monk was not rolling in the mud, trading blows with another man; he was still standing, albeit with fist firmly held prisoner by his other hand, and shouting. The object of his wrath had turned his back.

“Brother Thomas stands over there,” she said to Ranulf. “I would consider it an act of charity if you brought him to my side.”

Refusing to budge from his position in front of the prioress, he muttered, “I cannot leave you without protection here.”

She glared and folded her arms into her sleeves.

“Brother Thomas!” the man bellowed. The pitch was high enough to penetrate the crowd noise.

When the monk spun around and saw Eleanor, his expression shifted from anger to a thankful obedience.

She exhaled with relief and gestured for him to join her. “I owe you gratitude, Master Ranulf,” she said when Thomas was a few steps away. “I must no longer keep you from your more pressing duties. As you will agree, with a priest by my side, I now have suitable protection from the wickedness here.”

Ranulf hesitated longer than was proper, but he did finally bow and march off.

Thomas frowned as he watched the man leave.

“The steward’s eldest son,” Eleanor explained, her eyes following Ranulf’s progress across the courtyard.

“A grim face,” Thomas said. “When I heard him shout, I first thought someone had stepped on a goat’s teat.”

The prioress swiftly covered her mouth to keep laughter back, but the monk had seen the smile and grinned with companionable amusement.

“For this lack of charity, we must both do penance, Brother,” Eleanor replied, recognizing that she had failed to color her words with proper sternness. Ranulf might have been rude, but he had only meant to offer her protection and an escort away from harm. It was cruel to mock the steward’s son. After all, she was a nun and had no obvious cause to be in this place. If she were to point her finger at the greatest sin in this brief encounter, she would have to choose her own puffed-up pride.

“I have met his wife,” Thomas said.

“As have I.”

The two glanced at each other.

“Methinks he merits our prayers, Brother,” Eleanor replied.

The monk nodded, having the grace to turn away and hide this grin. “What may I do to serve you, my lady?”

“The reason I am here, thus causing Master Ranulf such distress, was something I saw from that window.” She tilted her head. “Please explain why you were about to strike that man?”

“I beg forgiveness…”

“When we return to our priory, I am sure Brother John will provide his usual wise counsel and remind you that it is the meek who shall inherit the earth. However, even though no monk, especially a religious of Tyndal, should ever trade blows with another mortal, I must hear the cause for your singular behavior today.”

“You have been told that a man was murdered?”

“One who worked in the stables: Tobye.”

“When I heard the commotion, I rushed into the courtyard and learned that his body had been found in the stable. Then I saw the sheriff’s men pulling the corpse outside.” He gestured toward the stable door. “I feared evidence had been destroyed by that thoughtless act and tried to explain my concerns to one of the men involved.”

“Perhaps Sir Reimund had already examined the site before he ordered the body removed.”

“I do not believe so. According to the cur I questioned, the sheriff did not want Master Stevyn offended by the splattered gore when he came to identify the body. Thus he ordered the wound covered and the corpse dragged over there.”

As she looked in the direction the monk was indicating, Eleanor realized that Ranulf had not left the courtyard. Instead, he was standing next to the man with the black horse and seemed to be discussing something with great passion. Nearby, the dead body lay in the mud.

“As you see, Tobye’s corpse still lies like some slaughtered animal for anyone to stare at. When I asked that the body be handled with greater respect at the very least, I was mocked. I fear I lost my temper.”

“We can do little about evidence which is no real concern of ours, Brother, but I shall ask that the dead man be taken away so his body may be properly prepared for burial.”

He bowed his head. A muscle twitched in his cheek.

Eleanor realized her tone had been dismissive, yet she did understand just how angry her monk was. Without doubt, she shared the feeling and felt a prick of irritation over the carelessness shown. Their own Crowner Ralf would never have been so lax about searching for evidence. But the crime was not theirs to solve, and thus they had no right to intervene.

That acknowledged, she thought, no one should show such callous disregard for any man’s dead body. God treated all souls equally, whatever their rank on earth, and the soul would seek to reclaim its body at the resurrection. To mistreat Tobye’s corpse, as the sheriff was doing, touched on the blasphemous. She shut her eyes, trying to calm her growing outrage. Surely the man would not take his obvious disdain for the lower ranks so far as to defile…

She spun around and faced the monk. “I have some information that I should probably share with Sir Reimund,” she said, keeping her voice low.

“Indeed, my lady?” Anger was still evident in the high color of his cheeks.

“I have cause to suspect that Tobye was committing adultery with Master Stevyn’s wife.”

His head shot up, but he was too shocked to speak.

“I saw them together just before the steward and his men returned to the manor. Their behavior was such that no reasonable man would say their relationship was solely that of servant and mistress.”

“Then Master Stevyn must be a suspect in this murder,” he whispered back.

“I fear so, yet this sheriff may not share that belief.”

“Surely he cannot ignore what you witnessed. Stranger though you may be here, you are still the Prioress of Tyndal.”

“And one who is no stranger to this manor has told me that Sir Reimund will do his best to avoid troubling the powerful. If the Earl of Lincoln holds Master Stevyn in high regard…”

“…the sheriff will seek some way to discount any suggestion of his guilt.”

“Thus I question the wisdom of revealing what I saw.” Eleanor gave Thomas an inquiring look. “At least until I can weigh the measure of Sir Reimund for myself and see how this matter proceeds.”

“In the meantime, what do you want me to do?” The monk’s eyes sparkled with anticipation.

How I do love this man, Eleanor exclaimed to herself as she watched eagerness paint his face with a boy’s excitement. But when she spoke to him, her words betrayed nothing but calm purpose. “Accompany me to the sheriff, then step away and I shall play a game or two with him. The very least we should be able to accomplish is proper treatment of the corpse. Perhaps I shall also learn that Sir Reimund is more amenable to a just resolution of this crime than rumor suggests is likely.”

“My lady, I am most eager to do whatever you wish!”

Eleanor was grateful that Brother Thomas had bowed for her cheeks had grown too hot with pleasure at those words.