Forsaken Soul Read online

  “They were all boys. My son fell in love with a girl in the village. When they caught him lying with her in the forest, they mocked him, swearing he must pay for his lust, especially being the offspring of a harlot. A rope was put around his neck and he was hauled up. According to those who stood in judgement later, the intent was honest enough and meant only to scare him. A joke, they claimed, but the rope stuck in that tree. When my son began to choke, they said help was sought, but my boy died before he could be cut down.”

  Thomas bent his head in silence. Had any son of his been killed in this fashion, he would have found more solace in crying out murder and railing against a deliberate killer. There was no intent in an accident, and thus a man might reproach God for lack of caring and the cruel injustice of it. Was it not better for her soul that Tibia believe the death to be murder and choose to curse a man who killed rather than God?

  As if she had been reading his thoughts, the old woman added, “It takes time to strangle, Brother. My boy was beyond all help when I found him, but I saw who’d done it running into the woods.” Her breathing grew harsh with the torment of memory.

  How little most mortals think of consequences when we are that young, Thomas thought. To look up and see the boy slowly strangling and the rope snagged beyond reach must have been terrifying. Although he felt no pity for bullies, he did understand the delay in action as the tragedy dawned. The crowner’s men should have demanded some punishment for such a vicious and unnecessary death, but he was not sure he would have called this willful murder either.

  Tibia shook her hand free of his. “Go, Brother,” she whispered. “Tonight I’d best stay alone.” Her lips twisted into a thin grimace. “But I promise I’ll think on how well God rewards us when we turn the other cheek.”

  Watching her hobble into the dark hut, Thomas knew that he had failed her.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The curtain flapped in the sweet-scented breeze. The anchoress caught a glimpse of the pale moon’s position in the sky and longed for morning light.

  “Why do you condemn me? I listened for God’s direction. I heard it. I acted. All this did you advise.”

  Sister Juliana shut her eyes and prayed, but no answer came to her in the dark silence of her soul.

  “Why do you now say I should beg for mercy? Did I not render His justice upon a wicked man?”

  “Your sin is grave.” Juliana’s lips trembled.

  “How can you denounce me so? Hasn’t God’s will been done? He spoke…”

  “You must seek a priest,” the anchoress cried out. “You must ask for absolution. That I have no right to grant!”

  “God speaks through your mouth. I have heard Him.”

  “I am Eve’s daughter: feeble of mind, irresolute in spirit, sinful in body.”

  The only response was the sharp intake of mortal breath.

  The anchoress bent forward until her forehead hit the stone wall. “I may pray that He fill me with His spirit, unworthy vessel that I am,” she groaned, “but I am still a wretched creature. Believe me when I say I have no right, no authority, to cleanse your soul. Only a priest has such power.”

  “My soul is at ease. My act was a righteous one. When you told me to wait for God’s voice, you said I would feel at peace when I heard it. I believed your words and I now rejoice. What need have I of any priest?”

  “This is murder!” Juliana wailed.

  Only the soft whish of tall grass broke the stillness as the figure moved from the window and walked away.

  That night God did not grace Juliana with sweet visions or a honeyed voice. Instead she experienced only that bitter despair suffered by lost souls. In anguish, she sought the small whip, bared her back, and beat herself until blood dripped, making tiny circles in the dust on the anchorage floor.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Signy trembled.

  Such a reaction might be caused by either outrage or fear, Eleanor decided as she sat back in her chair.

  “He lies!”

  “One of you does, perhaps both. Were I possessed of a more credulous mind, I might conclude that memory had simply betrayed one or the other of you. I am not, however, nor do I sympathize with trivial fears. Whether or not he was a good man, Martin’s soul has been torn from his body by unlawful violence.”

  The length of the silence, as the prioress studied her, must have given Signy some foretaste of how unpleasant eternity could be. Discomfited, she dropped her eyes.

  “By repute, you are a sensible woman. If you are innocent, there is no reason to lie other than shame. Compared to the sufferings of a soul sent to Hell without the chance for repentance, I think humiliation is a very minor thing indeed.”

  “I did not kill him.”

  “Then you should be eager to do everything to prove that,” the prioress replied. “Surely you agree as well that this killer must be found and punished? In the search for truth, I may ask many questions. Answers to some may not be relevant, and if so, I shall cast them from my mind, leaving those transgressions to your conscience and your confessor. That said, all details must be exposed and investigated further if needed. Justice shall be hastened.”

  Sweat glistened on Signy’s brow.

  “Would you like some ale?” Eleanor asked. Although her voice was gentle, she was angry. Lies stank like night soil at midday, and she was concluding that the reek in the room was growing too potent.

  “I would be grateful, my lady.” Signy’s shoulders drooped with resignation.

  Against her better judgement, Eleanor’s heart began to soften. “Do not imagine that I ignore the beam in my own eye when I see the mote of dust in yours. Not one of us is free from sin; thus I promise to hear all you have to tell me with compassion.” The prioress poured a pottery mazer full and passed it to the innkeeper’s niece. “Unless, of course, it proves murder.”

  Signy quickly swallowed the ale. “Will is a hateful man,” she said.

  “Why would he tell such a story?” Eleanor refilled the woman’s cup. “Before you reply, be aware that I heard the tale of what Ivetta shouted out during your argument near the inn. She was quite specific in her details. Many have repeated her words.”

  Signy flushed deeply. Her hand shook, and she quickly set her cup down, spilling ale in the process.

  “The tale will be forgotten soon enough. Since we all struggle with our failings, most of us will readily forgive if another rejects deceitfulness and humbly admits the truth,” Eleanor reminded her gently. “God, of course, is always willing to forgive the contrite heart.”

  “So said your new anchoress, my lady.”

  Eleanor raised a questioning eyebrow. “You have sought her counsel?”

  “Most of the village women have and found comfort from her.”

  “At night?”

  “The Evil One troubles sinners most when there is no light in the world, my lady. Sister Juliana understands that and gives welcome solace to those tortured by Satan’s imps in the dark hours.”

  “Most certainly proof that God is compassionate with the penitent,” Eleanor replied with heavy emphasis on the last word. Although refusing to be distracted from murder, she did tuck the woman’s testimony away for the next time Sister Ruth brought forth her complaints about the anchoress. “Was the matter troubling you related either to Martin’s murder or the allegations that you might be sharing the cooper’s bed?”

  Signy took in a deep breath. “In part, my lady, but the tale is a long one.”

  The prioress nodded, offering both ale and cheese. “To give you strength in the telling,” she said with a smile.

  “I have reason enough to hate Martin,” Signy began with evident lack of enthusiasm. “After my parents died and I had gone to my uncle’s care, the cooper sought me out and often soothed my battered heart with soft compliments. I was ignorant then of how desire can erupt from a few caresses so let him touch me for it brought a curiously sweet solace. One n
ight he drew me down beside him in a hidden spot near the inn and taught me howling lust. I was frightened at the power of it and tried to break away, but he first covered my mouth and then shattered my maidenhead. I was younger than Gytha.”

  “You told your uncle of this?”

  “I dared not! Without question, he is a most charitable man but he has always treated me as if I were an apprentice, kindly but with no great affection. And so I feared to anger him, lest he cast me out. Martin swore he would claim I had encouraged him if I spoke of what he had done. Had he accused me of lewdness, my uncle might well have turned his back on me and I have no other family.” She rubbed her eyes. “I did not give the cooper opportunity to swyve me again.”

  “Indeed?”

  Signy bit her lip.

  “Do not think me a fool,” Eleanor said, resting her chin in her hand. “I doubt Martin was silent about his conquest even if you were, but the scandal has lost its bite after all this time. Too many other broken maidenheads have since brought greater glee to the withered hearts of tale-tellers. Why should this especially trouble you now?”

  “I did not kill the cooper!” Signy protested once again, her eyes round with terror.

  “Then confide in me. Let me help you free your conscience as well as prove your innocence. I know you did not consult Sister Juliana because the inn ale had gone sour, nor, I suspect, did you suddenly long to find forgiveness for virginity lost long ago.”

  “Might I not realize the horror of my sin, even at this late date, and seek advice on how best to repent?”

  Eleanor leaned forward, her eyes narrowing with anger. “I believe you and Martin have bedded more recently, something you wish would remain secret. That is why you screamed at Ivetta when she publicly denounced you, not out of shame for a young girl’s weakness years ago. In this fresh sin lies a reason for you to have killed the cooper.”

  “A lie!”

  “A word you have used with ease today.” The prioress sat back, her expression devoid of pity. “If I can conclude such a thing, others will as well. Even if the blacksmith has told no one else except the crowner what Martin most surely told him, he shall do so now if he thinks he is a suspect in his friend’s death. Once the tale is bruited about, our crowner must arrest you, whether he wants to do so or not. You would be wise, therefore, if you told me now why you should not be found guilty of murder and let me keep you from some fetid hole while you wait for a trial.”

  “Ralf must not hear of this,” Signy sobbed.

  “That, I cannot promise. If he does not hear it from me, he will hear it from others. Ivetta has detailed moles and marks on your private parts to all in the village square. The blacksmith will shout out anything else he has learned to cast suspicion of murder away from him. I cannot prevent further humiliation and shame, but the truth may protect you from the hangman.”

  Signy put her hand to her mouth. As she spoke, she looked away from the prioress. “I did let Martin back into my bed some months ago.”

  “Why?”

  “Do not ask. I beg of you!” Her eyes began to flash with anger, although her cheeks now glistened with tears. “You would not understand what I…”

  “Understand? No, I do not, nor would others who have not so vowed themselves to chastity. If, as you claim, you hated the man for a rape committed against you as a young girl, why would you now eagerly spread your legs for him again? Many would find cause to ask that, not just I.”

  Shocked at the prioress’ harshness, Signy opened her mouth to reply but all speech had fled.

  “You may think me cruel, but my words are far gentler than those you shall hear flung at you during your public trial.”

  The innkeeper’s niece slipped to her knees. “My lady,” she said, “I beg forgiveness for what I have both said and thought.”

  The prioress rose and took Signy by the hands. “Your penance shall be the truthful telling of what happened. If there is violence in your tale, I promise I shall seek some reason to beg for mercy on your behalf.”

  The woman rose, wiped her cheeks dry with her sleeve, then took the mazer of ale and sipped. “Many months ago,” she began, clearing her throat, “I took a man into my bed, someone my heart adored. I believed he cared for me as I did him. Instead, he used me as casually as he would any whore.” She squeezed her eyes shut.

  Eleanor gently touched Signy’s hand.

  “Filled with shame and anger, I let Satan possess me. For some time I was blind to either virtue or reason, and I sought out Martin for his charming lies, although I swear I lusted after his false flattery more than I ever did his body.”

  Eleanor said nothing, her silence proclaiming her skepticism eloquently enough.

  Signy flushed. “You are right enough to cast that look at me, my lady. Although I did love the balm of his words, Martin is not only clever in speech but has learned well how to pleasure a woman.”

  The prioress nodded but quickly closed her eyes to veil her own thoughts.

  “But the secret I wished kept was not so much the wickedness of lust. I found myself with child,” she whispered. “I sought the advice of old Tibia. The babe…”

  “…died?”

  As if the word had been a blow, Signy’s head jerked to one side.

  “Martin knew this?”

  “Somehow he learned it, although I did not tell him.”

  “Who did?”

  “Not the herb woman. Not only did she have cause to avoid him after the death of her son, no one would go to her if she were one to tell their secrets.”

  “Could another have overheard you speak of it? Think back on what you might have said, when, and to whom.”

  “I confided in no one else,” Signy protested but fell silent then, frowning with thought. “Yet I do suspect someone. I would not like to say the name, lest I accuse unjustly.”

  “Do not fear explaining this to me. I will decide the merit of your thoughts.”

  “As I left Tibia with her remedy in hand, I saw Ivetta coming around the side of the hut. At the time, I assumed she had come for the same reason I had, but she was surely skilled enough in such matters and had no cause to seek the herb woman’s help. Perhaps she listened at the wall? There are enough holes in it that the winter wind finds little resistance.” She stopped to think further. “If she heard my plight, she would have told Martin. Perhaps she learned many other secrets at Tibia’s walls and passed them on to him. Of course! How else would he have learned so much? And he did find merriment in making others squirm when he revealed vices they thought were buried deep.”

  Eleanor waited as a renewed stream of hot tears extinguished the fury glowing in the blue eyes of the innkeeper’s niece. “And did he find a way to torment you for this?”

  “Aye, my lady.” Once again, she rubbed her cheeks dry of tears. “Two nights before his death, Martin accosted me in the stable near the inn. He was tiring of Ivetta, he said, and of being a bawd for an aging harlot. He wanted the inn to bring him honest wealth, a respectable business and a profitable one. I must marry him, he said, and pass the business on to his control at my uncle’s death. If I refused, he would make sure the entire village learned that I was a whore and a murderer of babies. No decent man would come forth to marry me then, and, even if my uncle honored his promise to grant me the inn, all would assume I would turn it into a brothel.”

  “Thus losing the custom of pilgrims and other virtuous travelers.”

  “Aye.”

  “You could deny his tale as a malicious lie. Others have suffered from Martin’s vile tongue and you would have gained sympathy.”

  “Only the twist he would have put on the story was a lie, my lady. What Ivetta screamed to the entire village may have been humiliating enough, but think how much more credible Martin would be since he had swyved me. My uncle has long protected me from lewd fondling. With this one exception, I have kept my lapses from chastity both rare and discreet. Hence, I own the reputation
as a woman no man should approach with sinful intent. That would have ended with the cooper’s tale.”

  “Your uncle is still innkeeper and able to protect you from…”

  “He has never married, my lady, and believes women are either whores or virgins. Although he has been kind to me and I am grateful, his opinion in this matter is so inflexible that I wonder how he honored his mother who must have bedded with his father in order to give birth to him.”

  “Does he not know about your lovers?”

  “If he did, I do believe he would have thrown me out to earn my bread on my back.”

  Eleanor paused while she thought about what Signy had just told her. “You do have a motive for killing Martin.”

  The woman nodded. “Nor will I pretend I did not long for his death. I have not hidden my transgressions from you, my lady. On that truthfulness I do swear I am innocent of murder. To wish for the crime may be as great an offense as the act in God’s eyes, but surely He will forgive the thought sooner than the deed.”

  Although the prioress longed to believe this woman’s tale, she could not quite set aside the conclusion that Signy had good cause to kill Martin. By committing the deed, she would have saved her reputation, avoided an unthinkable marriage, and kept her uncle’s protection along with the promised inheritance of a profitable inn.

  Yet Eleanor knew that murder was most extreme and surely Signy would have found other solutions to the problems. She was a clever enough woman and could have twisted the tale, just as Martin might have done, to give the facts a more favorable cast. As for her uncle, surely he was not as ignorant of her lapses in virtue as she believed. Finally, as a practical matter, who else would inherit the inn? If there had been any male relative of any talent, a niece would never have been named heir in the first place.

  As she pondered further, Eleanor asked herself if Ivetta didn’t have reason as well to kill the cooper. She claimed to have loved Martin and still wished to bear his child despite the hardships inherent in keeping the babe. It was true that she was no longer as attractive as she had once been. Perhaps Martin told the truth when he said he found it less and less profitable to be her bawd. If the cooper had married Signy and dropped Ivetta, how would the woman live?