Justice for the Damned Read online

  “There is the priory of Amesbury across the river. You would find more congenial company there.” He examined the monk with some curiosity. “Your habit is not one commonly seen on the king’s roads. Is your Order…?”

  “…that of Fontevraud. In truth, I knew about the priory, since I bring a message of greeting from another daughter house, but my journey has been long. The hour is now late, and I fear the gates have been closed.” Thomas looked around him with wide-eyed amazement. “I thought I might clear the travel dust from my throat before I found a stable in which to sleep, but I have long been out of the world. I had no idea that this inn would be so…”

  “Popular?” The man’s laugh was merry and utterly devoid of ridicule. “Forgive my discourtesy, Brother.” He gestured to a seat opposite him. “I am Bernard of Amesbury, a glover in this town. Will you join me in some wine?”

  Although this Bernard was as sober as he had looked, he turned out to be a most sociable man, much inclined to talk as he poured Thomas a generous cup of wine. The stout fellow might be a merchant, but Thomas warmed to him as he sat back and listened to the glover tell him about Amesbury and its unusual environs. With more drink, he thought, the man’s tongue would surely loosen, and he could pose some questions.

  “There is a great stone circle not far away. If you came to Amesbury by the western road, surely you saw it.”

  Thomas shrugged. It was just as well, he decided, to remain vague about his journey. Even though they had traveled from the east, he had heard talk of this circle on the way. “The sun was setting, and our party was hurrying to reach the village before dark. I noted it but little. A strange pile of huge rocks?”

  “Perhaps you were wise not to tarry, for many believe it a haunt of Satan and his minions. The plain on which it sits is bleak enough for hellish things, and there are always robbers to beset lone travelers even if the Devil is not about.”

  “Robbers, imps, or both? What is your opinion?” Thomas carefully sipped his drink and was surprised to find that the wine was a pleasant one. He hoped he was not sampling Master Herbert’s wares.

  “Lawless men are everywhere in England, Brother, but I cannot believe the stones shelter imps.” Bernard shut his eyes and smiled as if falling into a pleasant dream. “It is a wondrous place. Sometimes I have imagined that a knight of the Round Table raised it as a monument after King Arthur’s death on Salisbury Plain, or else Brutus of Troy came here, hoping to rebuild the city of his father. When the days are at their longest, I ride out to watch the light playing amongst the stones and how the shadows dance. I feel no fear, even when I walk to the center. Instead, there is only profound silence, one that is as calming as if God had blessed the place. I doubt any evil lives there.” He laughed, dimples plunging deep into his cheeks. “I burden you with my fanciful thoughts and beg pardon!”

  “Nay, Master Bernard, do not apologize, but please forgive me if I ask this: do you write verse? Singing well-turned phrases at court might serve both you and your gloves well!” Thomas grinned with genuine pleasantry. “I have heard that King Henry and his queen happily part with coin and gifts for finely crafted art. Business might come your way as well.”

  Bernard quickly sang the one English line from Dou Way Robyn. His voice grated like a saw on metal. “That may prove my lack of talent in the art of music, Brother. In truth, one of my neighbors has forbidden me to sing, lest my voice hurt the ears of his pigs. He claims the sows would miscarry should they hear me.”

  “Surely your neighbor jests.”

  “He is my sister’s husband.”

  Thomas laughed and took another appreciative sip of the wine. “Your stone circle does intrigue me. If there are no imps in residence, our party had only lawless men to fear. We must have been most fortunate to avoid them.”

  “They do not bother large or armed groups, nor those from our village. I suspect they are local men.” The glover’s expression soured. “Were there not some honor amongst them, we would be severely troubled. Our sheriff fancies boar chasing more than he does the pursuit of men who break the king’s law.”

  Thomas raised an eyebrow. “A corrupt sheriff?”

  “Nay. A lazy one.”

  The monk fell silent as he pretended to drink. Since he had gained little from the discussion so far, he had to turn the discussion into another path. “Your priory here is famous in our Order. Was it not founded by a Saxon queen who murdered her stepson and sought forgiveness for her sin?”

  Bernard brightened. “Queen Elfrida. She died not long before King William came from Normandy, yet many claim the site is far older than that. Others in England may say that Queen Guinevere died elsewhere, but we in Amesbury insist it was here. After all, it would have been fitting that she live her last days in penance near the place Mordred slew the king she wronged.”

  “For cert! The presence of such an ancient place of faith should be the reason the village is little disturbed by evil, even if your sheriff is lax. The prayers of so many monks and nuns would surely save you from all demons.”

  As the monk had hoped, Bernard’s expression turned gloomy. “One would think so, yet a strange spirit now troubles us.”

  Thomas leaned back, gazing at the glover with expectant curiosity.

  Bernard bent across the wooden table, his voice lowered as if he feared someone would overhear. “Some weeks ago, men first reported seeing a ghost near the River Avon, just around dusk or early dawn. Soon after, a few monks claimed that the phantom had drifted within the walls of the priory as well.” Bernard sat back, drank deeply from his cup, and stared in silence at a spot over Thomas’ shoulder. “This morning a man’s body was found, beheaded. Now men say that this ghost must be a most vengeful spirit for it has turned murderous.”

  “Why has this hellish thing come to Amesbury? What sin could the village or, God forbid, the priory have committed that Satan would let loose this creature from his domain?” Thomas shook his head. “Pardon my questions but I am filled with wonder at your story!”

  Bernard gave him a thin smile. “Forgive me if my words offend, Brother, but some from the priory came to this inn to satisfy worldly longings. Did you note the reaction to your presence? I hope no one approached you with base intent?”

  “I fear I might not understand their meaning if they did, Master Glover, for I came to my vocation as a youth…” Thomas lowered his head to suggest modest innocence while praying that the lie that should have shone in his eyes would remain hidden.

  Bernard straightened his back. “The lapse in monastic chastity was but a momentary one! Since the grandfather of our current king cast the sinful Benedictines out and invited those of your Order to take their place, this priory has been steadfast in God’s service. If He was offended by the weakness of a few, He would have been pleased when Prioress Ida swiftly made amends and chased the Devil back to Hell. I do believe, if Queen Elfrida’s spirit was the one loosed by Satan as some have claimed, that she would have returned to Purgatory by now and not slain this man.”

  “You do not believe a ghost killed him?”

  “There is another spirit that might be abroad, that of a local merchant’s wife. She drowned in the Avon. Although some believe she committed self-murder, others think she was unfairly condemned by the crowner’s jury to be buried in unsanctified ground as a suicide.”

  “So her ghost might blame both village and priory for her place in Hell.” Thomas rested his chin on folded hands. “Was the murdered man the one who brought witness against this dead woman?”

  “He had no part in the verdict,” Bernard snapped. “I do not know why she should have any quarrel with him.”

  Thomas sipped more wine, unsure of where he should go from here. “Might the killer be mortal?” he asked at last, deciding that the direct question might not seem strange.

  “Wulfstan had no enemies.”

  How can a man be slaughtered so brutally, yet have no foe? Thomas wondered. “Then he must
have been killed by this heinous phantom of a woman.”

  The man’s knuckles turned white as he gripped his cup. “Eda was ever a virtuous creature. Although no mortal can live without sin, she came near enough in her devotion to God’s commandments. I cannot believe she would ever commit such a crime, even after suffering the tortures of Hell.”

  Thomas blinked at the sharpness in tone. The boyishness had fled and left behind an angry man.

  The glover silently filled the monk’s cup and poured a modest amount of wine for himself. His hand was steady.

  The man is quite calm, Thomas thought, almost too calm.

  Suddenly, Bernard slammed the cup down on the table and covered his face with his hands. “Cursed be that priory! It brings grief to mortal men.”

  Stunned at the outburst, Thomas sat back. What contradictory views of the priory! After what he had overheard between Bernard and Sayer, he wondered if some wish for vengeance was the cause of this passionate cry. Might a clue to the identity of the ghost be found in it or even something about the Psalter theft? He reached out and touched the man’s arm in sympathy but said nothing. Silence was the better tool for bringing truth to a man’s lips.

  “Ah, forgive me, Brother,” Bernard said at last, his now exposed eyes wet with tears. “I should not burden you with minor woes. You asked about ghosts, but I cannot imagine who would stalk innocent men and kill them so cruelly. I can only suggest that it could not be sweet Eda.”

  Sincerity colors that speech, Thomas decided. “Are there any strangers in town or at the priory, Master Bernard? Might the phantom be found amongst them?”

  “Our town is known for hospitality, else we would not have this well-stocked inn, nor is the priory ungenerous to travelers. There are always strangers here, but they come and go. A few in their late years have made accommodation with the priory for care in exchange for lands or other wealth, but I cannot see any silver-haired man or his hunched dame playing a cruel spirit that beheads innocent men.”

  “No younger strangers who have shown a special interest in the priory?”

  “Other than you, Brother? Nay.”

  “And I but long to learn more of the Evil One’s devious ways!” The monk folded his hands and lowered his eyes. “Does anyone local have a quarrel with the monks and nuns there?”

  Bernard snorted and quickly swallowed his cup of wine. “You are looking at the only man who might.”

  Thomas’ eyes widened with hope.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The glover rose hastily from his seat. “I have grown too merry, Brother, and must seek my bed. Morning comes early for those of us who live by trade, and gloves need a steady hand at stitching if they are to please a woman’s critical eye.”

  “Nay, not yet!” Thomas reached out in genuine supplication. “Your words have struck fear in my heart. If this priory has brought grief to mortals, I question whether I dare approach the gates without meeting with evil spirits.”

  “Do not be alarmed. My remark was but a common complaint amongst men who have no wives but see so many eligible women encloistered. Take my words as the poor jests they were. The wine made me forget that becoming a nun is a holier choice than wedding a man like me.”

  “I hope one of those who chose God did not betray your hopes…”

  The glover shoved the nearly full wine pitcher toward Thomas. “I will not offend your ears with the meaningless speech of a sinful man, Brother. Please finish this and remember me in your prayers.” With that, he dropped a coin into the monk’s hand, bowed, and disappeared through the crowd.

  Thomas hit the table with clenched fist. “I have let myself be fooled by a boyish face,” he growled. “I should have pressed him harder. Surely this glover has some quarrel with the priory. Does it involve a woman?” He stared at the coin the man had donated to him. It was not the meager offering of those given to the token gestures of superficial faith. “No one who fears for his soul, like this man may, plans to steal a nun for his bed. Nay, if Master Bernard and Sayer have some plot together, it must mean profit for them both. After all, the glover is a merchant and the roofer is a rogue.”

  Growing gloomy with frustration, the monk tilted the pitcher and contemplated the large quantity of wine remaining. Quickly, he downed what was in his cup, poured another, and listened to the raucous joyfulness that filled Amesbury’s best hostel.

  Had Thomas been possessed of a more selfish nature, he might have viewed such merry crowds with envy. Were he a man of greater faith, he would have leapt upon this table and screamed abuse at the people, describing how they would look as they tottered on the maw of Hell. He was neither, however, and all he could feel was distance from any kind of happiness, a profound melancholy that he blamed only on himself.

  “I have failed,” he muttered, finishing the wine he had just poured and replenishing his cup. Now that the glover had escaped him, he felt defeated and did not know what he should do next. Without a clear purpose to occupy his thoughts, Thomas grew increasingly uneasy sitting in the inn. “I should never have come here,” he said to his crudely wrought mazer.

  In his days as a clerk, he had often partaken of an inn’s particular joys. The darkness of his prison may have dimmed the shimmering lure of enjoyable ale and willing women, but Thomas would never pretend his past had been other than what it was or that he had become a monk as penance. Perhaps, he thought with some bitterness, he was too sober to find the women here as attractive as they had seemed when he and Giles had shared them.

  He finished the cup, poured another, then another, and tried to force such memories away. He did not succeed. With the energy of some dark will, the past roared back into his soul. Even his normally quiescent flesh had inexplicably hardened, mocking his long impotence.

  Thomas summoned the serving wench. With only a brief glance at the coin in his open hand, she put another pitcher in front of him. He drank deeply.

  A voice began to hiss in his ear. Was it his dead father? “No son of mine would ever release his seed in another man’s body,” it echoed with contempt. Thomas shook his head and the voice faded, replaced by laughter. Surely that belonged to the Prince of Darkness.

  “We haven’t seen any of your vocation for some time, Brother.”

  Thomas looked up.

  The innkeeper stood over him. As the man bent his head in the direction of a woman beside him, his grin seemed unnaturally wide.

  Thomas turned his head carefully from one side to the other. “I am a monk,” he enunciated carefully.

  The pair disappeared.

  He finished his cup and poured more from the new pitcher. A soft wall was slowly surrounding him, and the noise of the inn began to fade. The wine was acting like a balm on the deep bruises in his soul. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, the world was muted, blessedly so.

  Thomas looked into his cup. He should not be drinking like this. Did he think he was still some boyish clerk, unburdened by a man’s responsibility? Whatever his pain, honor was at stake. Both his prioress and his spy master had set him tasks, and he had given his word that he would carry them out. Maybe he had learned nothing from Master Bernard, but surely there were other men here with looser tongues. He shoved the pitcher away and focused his aching eyes on the figures in front of him.

  Many in the crowd had grown quite cheerful with drink. In one corner, several sang with ragged harmony. Despite the press of bodies, with little room for privacy, two men sat nearby, heads almost touching as they spoke with some apparent urgency.

  What were they talking about? Women? Thievery? Crops? Were any of them plotting to steal the Amesbury Psalter?

  Thomas sat forward and pretended to sip his wine. Could he ease himself toward the pair and listen in on what they were saying? If he heard something of interest, how could he join them?

  He swore under his breath. Even if he posed as a wayward monk, and a drunken one at that, he would learn nothing. Like the red-faced man who had
mocked him when he first arrived, these men would never treat him like a fellow. Instead, they would surround him, taunting with ribald jests, pressing and grabbing at him, jabbing their fingers…

  “God save me!” he gasped as reawakened pain and humiliation raged through his soul like flames shot from Hell. Grabbing the pitcher, he threw back his head and gulped the wine, praying that would extinguish the inferno, but the fire seemed unquenchable. He set the empty jug down and, trembling, covered his face with his hands.

  He knew he must leave, but he could not move. Satan had stunned his will. Thomas tilted the pitcher back once more. It was empty. He dropped it. In despair, he tried to pray, but his charred soul had grown numb with tortured memories.

  A hand pushed a tankard of ale toward him, and a man slid onto the bench beside him.

  “I am pleased to see you here, Brother, and quite admire your cleverness in discovering a way out of the priory.” Sayer’s face was red, his look unfocused.

  God had most assuredly forsaken him. “Nor am I surprised to find you,” Thomas replied softly.

  The young man gestured at a nearby serving wench. “You can do better than that one,” he said. “Every man has her.”

  “She does not interest me.” Thomas had not even noticed her.

  “A monk who is particular about how he breaks his vows?”

  “Most are not?” A cold spot of sobriety was emerging just behind his eyes.

  “Contrary to common jest, few of your monks ever leapt over the wall, and most of those were so shocked when their feet touched profane earth that their manhood wilted.” Sayer put his hand on Thomas’ shoulder. “The others jumped on any willing woman, after which they ran back to the priory, cupping themselves as if their sex might fall off from the sinning.” His words slurred.

  “I am not looking for a woman.”

  “What are you looking for, monk?” The man’s hand slipped down Thomas’ back and came to rest on his thigh.

  Thomas froze, shock now chasing off his remaining drunkenness.