Forsaken Soul (15 page)

Chapter Thirty-One

“You breathe, Crowner. Corpses cannot say the same. For that, you owe God much gratitude.” Brother Beorn skillfully applied a poultice to the back of Ralf’s head. “Stop squirming. Ponder instead why God has been merciful to a shameless sinner like you when others are more worthy of His kindness.”

Since boyhood and for reasons lost to memory, the two men acted like threatened hedgehogs raising their quills in defense whenever they met. Neither could point to any fresh argument over the subsequent years, but their querulous banter had become a matter of habit. So much so, in fact, that some suspected each had discovered an odd but companionable pleasure in tweaking the other.

Ralf grunted.

“I’m done with you.”

“Perhaps Sister Anne should check your work.”

A tall nun stepped into the crowner’s sight. “I have never found that necessary. Our brother is a skilled healer.”

Ralf flushed. “I beg pardon, Annie. I meant no ill.”

“
Sister
Anne,” the lay brother growled.

The sub-infirmarian smiled at Brother Beorn and nodded. He walked away without further word.

“You might have granted him a word of appreciation, Ralf. He took you out of turn when Cuthbert pointed to the black blood on your neck.” Sister Anne bent over and looked at the skin around the poultice. “I would have thought that becoming a father might have gentled you a little and taught you some courtesy.”

“Murder roughens me, but the sight of my daughter soothes the rawness like one of your salves.”

Anne sat down beside him. “I have heard you named her after your wife?”

“A woman who bequeathed much joy to me with the gift of this wondrous small creature, although she died from her beneficence.”

“You loved your wife for herself, not just her lands?” Anne asked softly.

Ralf stared at his clenched fists, then opened them as if in humble appeal. “I honored her with fidelity and courtesy, Annie, but felt no tenderness. Yet she was a good woman who deserved a far better husband than she got in me. I am not so rude a man that I did not understand that.”

They fell silent, and the nun started to reach out, as if give the crowner a consoling touch, but quickly drew her hand back. “I doubt not you were kind to her, Ralf, but do not be so fearful in loving. Let your daughter teach you that.”

He sighed. “Loving my child demands no effort from me. As for grown women, you well know the most grievous and festering wound my heart has suffered and why I have little hope of any affection from your sex.”

“Each of us is given what God deems best for us, Ralf. You alone know why we two could not have married, and why I have found sanctuary at Tyndal where my husband led me. And if you still believe you do not deserve a good woman as wife, remember you have a daughter now, one who deserves a loving mother. Do not wallow like some pig in rank selfishness!” Her voice was light and teasing. This time she did not hesitate to put her arm around his broad shoulders for just a moment, an act that would have brought her censure if observed but one that was no more sinful than compassion ever could be.

Despite the pain in his head, Ralf laughed. “As always, you have the right of it, Annie, but since you must continue to refuse me, show some mercy and reveal the name of this good woman to whom I must give my heart.”

“She will reveal herself to you—and prove her suitably meek nature by giving you no choice whatsoever about marrying her.” The sub-infirmarian stood and walked a short distance away, one deemed more appropriate to her calling. Turning around, she smiled and gestured at his head. “While we wait for that miracle to occur, tell me why this happened to you.”

“I had questions of Will and twisted his hand to force answers from him. When he cried out that I had broken it, Hob must have heard him and struck me. Cuthbert saw him running from the smithy, dragging his brother with him. I swear Will did not deserve such a defense, but I do not blame the brother for his loyalty. As the king’s man, I might seek vengeance, but I will not trouble Hob if he is otherwise innocent of murder.” He grinned weakly. “An old soldier who forgets his battle wisdom deserves what he gets.”

“Do you truly suspect the blacksmith of murder?” Anne asked, frowning.

Ralf shrugged.

“If not, why treat him so harshly? That is not like you.”

“He is a coward!” the crowner barked, then winced. “In truth, I do not think he killed either Martin or Ivetta. Will is too hot-tempered and more likely to swing his fists than poison anyone. Making a potion of yew requires planning and, as I have already said, more wit than the man owns.” The crowner cautiously shook his head. “My quarrel with him lies in his malicious attempt to divert suspicion from himself and bring it down on the head of Signy, the innkeeper’s niece. I also believe he knows who did kill the two but fears he will be blamed himself.”

“Or else the blacksmith was afraid he would be accused just because he and the cooper happened to quarrel that night.” She hesitated before asking, “Why do you set aside the possibility that Signy might have killed both Ivetta and Martin?”

“It is not in her nature.”

Anne smiled at his quick defense. “Even the most virtuous may be vulnerable to Satan’s corruption given the right cause and temptation.”

“Guilty we each might be of lust, greed, gluttony, or all these things, but murder is the cruelest act. I cannot see Signy killing anyone.”

“Might you not suffer some blindness about her, Ralf?”

He hid his face in his hands.

“Speak truly.” She touched her heart. “Haven’t we known each other long and well enough to set aside petty things and all fear of shame?”

“Aye, we have,” he said, looking at her with affection. “Forgive me, Annie, and pray for my soul. I bedded the woman in lust, albeit with affection, then humiliated her, but without malice. As penance, my heart demands that I must find her innocent in these crimes.”

“Even if she is guilty?” Anne shook her head at the crowner’s mournful expression. “A poor jest, Ralf. I, myself, find it hard to imagine that she killed the two, although I agree she might have reason as well as opportunity most certainly—and is a woman, that creature you think most likely to use poison.”

Ralf snorted. “It is the weapon of the devious, the weak, or the fearful.”

“Woman may be weak by nature, thus fearful and often devious, but a man can be all that and especially the last by design. Nothing you mention disqualifies any man from poisoning another. Might Will have used poison to cast suspicion elsewhere or even because he was fearful of confronting Martin in a fair fight?”

“Our blacksmith is possessed of no subtlety. As for fear, he strikes first when enraged and thinks, if ever, later. Only then does he turn pale at the mention of a hangman.”

Anne pondered that. “I agree that he is not as clever as his younger brother, but Will speaks well enough when he so chooses or when he is sober enough. That aside, what do you think of Hob as a killer?”

“When we were all lads, especially after the murder of old Tibia’s son, I might have agreed, but Hob has become more of a man with the years. That experience changed him, and now I would doubt his guilt in this matter. Even Tostig claims he has grown almost somber.”

“I have heard that the crowner’s jury found the death accidental.”

“I did not mean that I questioned his involvement in the boy’s death, only that Hob seems to have repented of that sin.”

“Yet he struck you from behind at the smithy. Might that act suggest a man who does not wish to face another? He may have changed, as you claim, but he could still be the bully he was as a lad only in different guise.”

Ralf considered her words in silence and then shook his head.

“Teach me your reasoning, Ralf. What causes you to conclude that Will is more capable of killing than his brother?”

“Will once threw a young cur into the smithy fire because the creature barked, causing him to damage an object he was working on. Hob burned his own hands saving the animal. That is but one tale out of many I could mention.”

Anne grew pale at the story. “Is that the dog that follows Hob everywhere?”

“Aye, the one with scarred bald spots where the fur could not grow back.”

“I understand,” she said, her eyes narrowing with rare anger.

“Yet Hob has always been a loyal brother, loving Will more than the elder merits. Whatever evil Hob committed as a youth, he now works hard, complains little, and sins only in fighting for his brother’s honor and sometimes drinking more than he should.”

“And so he nearly killed you out of loyalty this day?”

“He might well have done so if he had wished it. Instead, he led Will off to safety so his temper could cool and left me to wake up when Cuthbert threw a bucket of water over my head. Some might say my suffering head was penance for the sin of almost breaking the smith’s hand, or else the near drowning I got with my sergeant’s tender concern.” He gingerly touched his neck where the poultice lay. “For this I should have cracked the blacksmith’s wrist in two!”

“You said you suspected Will of knowing something more than he is saying. Will you question him further?” Anne looked at the crowner with that stern expression common to mothers with troublesome sons. “Without breaking any part of him?”

The crowner’s grin was wicked enough to warm any imp’s heart. “Additional inquiry I may promise you, but I cannot say the blacksmith might not suffer a minor scratch or bruise!” Ralf’s expression shifted from jest to determination. “You have given me reason to ask Hob more questions as well, Annie. Perhaps he does have something to hide. Or, if he is such a loyal brother, he might know secrets belonging to his brother, matters he wishes to conceal as much as Will does. If he understands that telling me everything would keep Will from the hangman, he might speak up.”

“Then go,” Anne replied. “But you might do worse than remember Brother Beorn’s words about mercy.”

Perplexed, Ralf raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Should you forget your past principles and use untoward force as a method of inquiry again, God might not protect you the next time you forget to watch your back.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Had the sea turned the color of Prioress Eleanor’s eyes, sailors would be howling prayers for deliverance. Brother Thomas found himself wishing for some safe haven as well.

“I care not that Sister Juliana is an anchoress with a line of pilgrims at her window, no monk should spend time there. It is unseemly,” the prioress said. “After witnessing that matter in Amesbury last year, you, of all people, should know how quickly any priory may garner accusations of lewdness.”

“I beg forgiveness, my lady. Never would I deliberately bring shame to you or this priory. If I have done so out of foolishness, no penance you demand of me could be more severe or painful than my own remorse.”

“What was your purpose in visiting her?”

Faced with his prioress’ wrath, Thomas began to wonder if it was truly God that had drawn him there. In any case, he was sure of one thing, even if it was his only certainty: “My intent was innocent,” he replied weakly.

“Indeed.”

The monk opened his mouth but no words came forth. He cleared his throat. “Without question, I have erred, but I swear to you that I was drawn to the window for the same reasons others have had. I wanted…” He hesitated. “I sought understanding.” How else could he explain it?

Eleanor folded her arms. Her look did not soften. “When I questioned our anchoress, she succeeded in providing more detail, declaring you came to debate questions of faith. That is an admirable activity in principle, Brother, but your wish for disputations of that nature are best satisfied with another monk or with your prior. Sister Juliana may pose what queries she has with her confessor.”

Lacking any response, he bowed.

“She might even properly seek my counsel.”

Thomas winced at her sharp rebuke and kept his eyes lowered. He could not quarrel with a thing his prioress was saying, yet something urged him to resist in this matter. Was it Satan? What of his vow to obey this woman without question?

The meeting between him and the anchoress had been chaste. Even if his wicked nature had wanted it otherwise, his manhood would have shriveled in Sister Juliana’s terrifying presence. And hadn’t her advice already brought him more peace than he had previously known? Where was the sin if she taught him how to pray? Were there not holy women who were blessed with God’s speech? Hadn’t abbots and bishops begged advice from many?

“That said, I have not forgotten that you have served both Tyndal and my family well in the past.”

Thomas blinked at the abrupt change of subject. Her comment might have pleased another, but uneasiness pricked him with an icy sting. Was she listing factors that would modify the severity of his penance, or was she about to pursue some new direction for reproach? His heart longed for the former. His mind feared the last. Opting to remain silent, he raised his eyes and hoped his demeanor revealed only a suitable meekness.

“For this reason, I should have no reason to doubt either your commitment to your vows or your fealty to me as head of this priory. Am I correct?”

“I may have been a most sinful man in years past, but I swear to you that I have not broken my vows since I took them.”

“Vows of both chastity and obedience? While you have been here?”

Had Death’s finger just caressed his heart or had that organ simply frozen with indefinable dread? Her questions were often deceptively simple, and he suspected this was one such occasion. Most monks wrestled with lust, but he had remained as chaste as most—and more than some, if truth be told. Other than in dreams, when he swyved imps dressed in mortal flesh, he had not broken any vow, even at Amesbury. “Aye, my lady,” he said with caution and hoped his simple reply had been adequate.

The prioress studied him in silence, her head tilted to one side and her eyes showing determined patience.

She is waiting for something more, he thought and knew he had not satisfied her. Who had accused him of lewdness? Or, he suddenly thought, who had questioned his obedience and why? Thomas met her eyes, allowing his bewilderment to show.

Eleanor turned away from him and walked toward the window. For a long time, she stared out at the priory grounds as if they might give her answers she was not getting from her monk. “What reason did you really have for visiting our anchoress, Brother?”

Although her voice had softened a bit, Thomas wondered why she would not be plainer in her concern. Had she mentioned obedience only because he had not sought permission to visit the anchoress? He considered his response.

“I do not wish some fine speech, but rather blunt honesty.” She turned around to face him. “Some time ago you confided a secret to me, a troubling admission I honored with silence. Did that not teach you that I respect frankness and do not abuse a confidence?”

“I hesitate only because I am not sure myself why or by what power I was drawn to Sister Juliana’s window, although my purpose was not lewd. In that, I am most certain. Have I been so accused?”

Eleanor’s sigh was heavy with weariness. “Nay, Brother, but as you well know, some might condemn if they witnessed you there. I must ask if our anchoress said or did anything that might be construed as sinful, whether or not you think it justified.” She raised a finger. “Be as forthright as your vows require. I will decide the meaning of what you tell me, praying that I do so with the fairness God demands.”

“A few may blame her for welcoming the sleepless at her window. I have seen an increasing number of those troubled ones during the weeks I have been assigned to the sick of our village, as well as on nights I have sought the chapel.”

Eleanor nodded more thoughtfully and with less anger evident in her expression.

“Rarely have I seen men waiting in the shadows, and, if my experience is common, she is most likely to strike fear into their hearts. That is a most powerful antidote to lust, my lady.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, and then the prioress smiled.

She is amused, Thomas thought with relief. “Although there are those who will most certainly condemn her for allowing any man to approach her window at night, I doubt Sister Juliana has longed for anything but the anchorage. Did she not fight against a marriage to one who would have been a most devoted husband? Were I required to swear an oath on this, I would say our anchoress seeks only God’s arms about her.”

“Although you and I might argue over whether she found the proposed husband distasteful for reasons other known only to herself, I do agree that your conclusion holds no other significant fault, Brother.” Once again, the prioress turned away from him. “Do you swear without reservation that you felt no lust for her?”

“I swear that without hesitation.” If she is so concerned about my chastity, he asked himself, why allow me to travel to the village at night to deliver medicines? Were I inclined to those sins of the flesh, would I not find opportunity there to find some woman to swyve? If not, why should I be tempted by Sister Juliana? “Was our anchoress offended by anything I said or did?”

“Nay, Brother, but I must answer all complaints with persuasive truth, especially those based on misconceptions.”

Although he thought the prioress was going to continue in that vein, she fell into a distracted silence. As her brow furrowed, he began to tremble. He could not read her thoughts, but he was suddenly filled with a cold but ill-defined dismay.

Instinctively, he fell to his knees.

Eleanor caught her breath.

“My lady, I have vowed to protect and obey you as the earthly representation of Our Lord’s mother and to do so with the devotion sworn by the beloved disciple at the foot of the cross. That oath is more sacred to me than any other; therefore, if I have committed any sinful act, seeming or real, involuntarily or simply ill-considered, give me what penance you will and I shall embrace it, no matter how onerous.”

Eleanor shakily reached backward, seeking the security of her chair, then fell into it as if she had lost all strength.

Thomas gasped with apprehension.

She shook off his concern and gestured for him to rise, then continued. “I have taken your oath as a loving and dutiful son to my heart, Brother, and shall not forget your words.” She took a deep breath, and her color returned. “In the meantime, I would hear more of what you have seen at night when you have passed by our anchoress’ window. There may be much of use to me as I counter criticism. As you would surely agree, her behavior invites that even if evil has no part in it.”

“From what I have heard in the village, she is known for giving solace to those who seek that.”

“What comfort did she offer you?”

Hearing the bite in these words, Thomas again felt perplexed. Hadn’t he just sworn he felt no lust for the woman, an oath his prioress seemed to accept? What was disquieting her? “The night I felt drawn to her window,” he continued, “I admitted that I was troubled in spirit. She advised prayer.”

“Has she taken on a priest’s role?”

Thomas hesitated. “She said nothing inimical to her sex, my lady. She quickly asked if I had spoken with my confessor, then called herself a foul creature.” Was her advice against spoken prayer wrong, an admonition that was contrary to Church practice? Although the prioress had ordered him to tell her everything, he balked. Was he not a priest, able to decide these matters himself? Or was Sister Juliana speaking with Satan’s tongue, when she told him he had the right to hear God’s truth directly, and had he been seduced into sin?

“You said you felt drawn to her window, as if you were driven there and not of your own volition. Could the Prince of Darkness have pushed you there? I ask, not to accuse, but to gather information.”

“To my imperfect knowledge, the Devil brings joy only to our lesser nature. My soul found ease. That was all.” At least he was able to speak the truth there.

“Did she claim to speak with God’s tongue?”

“She does, but, as we all know, He has spoken through many holy women. Perhaps He has chosen her? Yet she did not proclaim this with pride. I found her humble, quite terrified that she might be His chosen vessel, and filled with longing that He pick someone else.”

“I had best leave that decision to Brother John, whom I have sent to question her. Although you say the village proclaims her holiness, I know other voices hiss of sin. Our sub-prioress is amongst those.” She fell silent as if troubled, then continued. “Tell me what seekers come at night when Evil prevails, frail creatures of either sex who should be asleep in chaste beds and not walking about freely at such a time.”

Thomas closed his eyes, trying to remember those he had recognized. “Some, I did not know, but they may have been pilgrims…”

“I am not concerned with those.” Eleanor smiled gently. “Nor will I ask you to list all you could identify, or else I fear I shall hear the names of the entire village. Tell me if Martin, Will, or Hob ever visited our anchoress. Did Signy or Ivetta?”

Ah, it was murder that troubled his prioress, not his secrets or his sins! Thomas brightened with relief. “In the darkness, it is hard to see with clarity, but I do not think either the cooper or the two brothers ever came. Although I did see the shadows of a few other men, I can name only Tostig with certainty. Most of the men seemed to be strangers, pilgrims on the way to or from Norwich, or so the rumor from the village declares.”

“Do you know why any of the men came to her?”

“I do not listen where I should not, my lady.” Hearing his own aggrieved tone, Thomas forced himself to moderate his speech with a smile. “Unless, of course, you order me to do so in the name of justice.”

Eleanor acknowledged his attempt with a short laugh. “What about Signy?” she then asked.

“Aye. I have seen her there more than once.”

“Ivetta?”

“As often as the baker’s wife.”

“A woman who found our anchoress most well-informed about bread, if the tales passed on are true,” Eleanor replied dryly. “From what you have already said, I will not ask if you overheard what troubled either Ivetta or Signy, but were you aware of any rumors from the village?”

“Nay.”

The prioress shook her head in frustration, her expression suggesting she was about to end the discussion.

“I might question old Tibia,” Thomas said. “Although Crowner Ralf asked me to question her about anything she might have seen at the inn the night of Martin’s murder, I have not done so yet. Her pain has remained severe, yet she did tell me that she has also visited the anchoress and swears by her counsel. Perhaps she knows what brought Ivetta or Signy to our anchoress’ window.”

Eleanor nodded approval. “I thank you for what you have told me. As for your visit to Sister Juliana, I must order you not to repeat it. Surely you understand why.”

Thomas bowed his concurrence.

With that she dismissed him.

Thomas left. Outside the chambers, he stopped briefly to wipe sweat from his eyes, then went down the stairs and back to the hospital.

The moment the door had closed, Prioress Eleanor began to weep.