Forsaken Soul Page 8

  Even before his imprisonment, he had never found tranquility on his knees before the altar. Now that he sought it after the events at Amesbury, God seemed to be taking a most cruel pleasure in mocking his pathetic attempts to pray. The only time he found peace was in the comforting of the sick at the hospital or helping his prioress bring justice to the aggrieved. At this moment, the monk almost wished his spymaster had an assignment for him. Perhaps that would distract him from these gangrenous musings?

  Thomas rubbed his eyes again with the heel of his hands and cursed. All these thoughts were wicked self-indulgences. Had he been in his narrow bed dreaming of heaven, or on his knees praying to God, Satan would not have found such joy in pricking his soul like this. No matter what his doubts, was he not still a priest sworn to serve God? His duty was to fight the evils that tortured him, not give in to mortal weakness.

  Despite his clenched fist, Thomas knew that such fine thoughts were as hollow as his heart. His dreams were never of heaven, and the only thing Thomas ever heard, when he lay on the rough-cut stones of the chapel, was the chatter of rats and his own babble of repeated prayers. Death might well be kinder, he often thought. Even the certainly of Hell seemed preferable than the spiritual torment he now suffered.

  Thomas stopped and shook his head as if that would scatter his brooding thoughts. His hard bed in the monks’ dorter would give him no relief tonight. The looming, dark outline of the priory church was just in front of him. He might as well try prayer again. At least God must surely understand that he wanted to be a true liegeman, even if he did fail in practice.

  As he neared the church door, he glanced at the anchorage. For once, there was no one at Sister Juliana’s window. Dare he kneel there at last and seek whatever curse or blessing she might have for him?

  He stumbled toward it, weary with fear and sleeplessness. Had some unseen force taken him by the arm and pushed him there? Whatever the cause, he did not even try to resist. At the curtained window he dropped to his knees and started to weep, his cheeks stinging as if the tears were made of vinegar.

  “What brings you here, Brother Thomas?”

  How did she know it was him?

  “I remember that sigh from the time we met in the snow at Wynethorpe Castle.”

  “You recall that, Sister?” Thomas’ voice rose with terror. If she could not see him, how could she distinguish one stranger’s moan from another?

  “Memory’s vivid colors dance in my heart. In this way I am reminded of the reasons I left the world.”

  “Then I should not remind you of such troubling times,” Thomas replied, struggling to rise without success.

  “Stay, Brother. I hear your heart’s dreadful groaning. God must hear it as well.”

  “If so, He brings no comfort.” Thomas blinked, hearing the anger in his voice. “Forgive me. Those were the Devil’s words.”

  “Nay, they were a man’s cry for help. Are you afraid because you curse God? You are not the only one to do so. Priests may teach us to emulate Job and praise God even when He torments the just, but I say that others have cursed Him and gained His sympathy. Remember Jesus when he cried out from the cross: ‘My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?’ If the perfect son speaks so to the perfect father, may you not do the same?”

  “None of us is the Son. Surely the wise men are right when they say we must follow Job’s path and his strong faith.”

  “Will you listen to men or to God? Those who boast they know God best often fail to understand the sweet humanity of His son.”

  Silence fell between them, and a light breeze dried the tears on Thomas’ cheeks to salt. The hot summer air, that had weighed him down earlier, now rested with a light touch on his body, but he had lost all desire to stand. He sank back on his heels.

  “Even if God were to forgive a man for railing against Him, there must be sins that He will not forgive,” he whispered.

  “And that man sees the sin he committed and begs for mercy with an honest heart? Do you not believe in perfect grace? If you have no faith in flawless mercy, you deny God’s perfection. In this way, you allow that He is capable of sin. Such is blasphemy.”

  “Then why will He not bring me solace and the understanding I long for?”

  As Thomas waited for her answer, an owl hooted in the distance as if mocking his impatience.

  “Surely you have asked this question of your confessor?” Juliana asked. “Tell me what he said.”

  “That I have not prayed loudly or long enough. I am too wicked a man…”

  “Hush! Perhaps your confessor fails to understand that God cares less about the loud gnashing of teeth than whether the heart is ready to hear Him.”

  “My confessor is a priest, through whom God grants wisdom and guidance. If we listen to our own hearts, we may confuse the Devil’s voice with that of God.”

  “You are a priest.”

  “Aye.”

  “Then are you not allowed to know God’s will?”

  “I am not worthy.”

  “No mortal is, Brother, but understanding how unworthy you are is the first step to cleansing yourself of worldly error.”

  “I am frightened.”

  “As you should be. Truth’s light shines in men’s eyes with such painful intensity that most turn away from it. It is far easier to look upon the cancerous rot of their willful and arrogant ignorance which Satan has glazed with the sheen of righteousness. Yet are we not commanded to obey the holy spirit of the law, not the imperfect letter, to reject a fine appearance for the plainness of truth? Those who repeat the well-worn phrases of prayer may still be good men, but they will never match the blessedness of those who follow the example of God’s only son.”

  “What am I to do?”

  “Be silent in God’s presence, and He will send you guidance.”

  Surely it was blasphemy to deny the power of spoken prayer? Thomas began to sweat, his head light with dizziness. “Your phrases are sweet in the ear, Sister, but I must listen to you with caution. Do you not recall how Saint Paul said, in a letter to Timothy, that women must be silent and not teach for they are the daughters of that great transgressor, Eve?”

  “I would not dare to speak with my own mouth, Brother. Without question, I am a frail woman, a creature of no consequence. Nevertheless, as you know well, I am not the first woman through whom God has chosen to speak.”

  Was he wrong or had the tenor of her voice deepened? Women, who swore themselves to God’s service, often acquired a sacred masculinity through their vows and faith. He himself had witnessed this transformation after entering the Order of Fontevraud where women ruled men. If God had chosen this anchoress to convey His wisdom, Thomas should listen and not argue. If not…

  “How can I know whether or not you speak with God’s voice?” he whispered.

  “Alas, I am unable to prove this to you. When morning comes, my throat is raw from speaking words I cannot even remember. My heart fills with anguish, and I beg God to choose someone else as His voice. No one knows better than I what a foul creature I am, so I spend my days punishing myself for my unworthiness and longing for forgiveness. Give me your blessing, Brother, for I most certainly need it!”

  Although his voice shook, Thomas did as she asked, then rose and walked to the chapel. Was this strange woman, who counseled weary souls in dark hours, God’s true instrument? Or was she the handmaid of that most clever Prince of Darkness?

  While his manly reason reserved judgement on this, his heart recalled what old Tibia had said earlier that evening, words that now filled him with a rare calm.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The sound of feminine laughter shattered the concentration of the prioress at prayer. Unlike some of her vocation, Eleanor believed laughter to be one of God’s most gracious gifts to his mortal creatures. Instead of being offended at the interruption, she rose from her prie-dieu and thanked Him for His charity.

  When she entered the public
chambers, she saw Gytha and Signy standing near the window, their backs turned to the prioress.

  How lovely the innkeeper’s niece is, Eleanor thought, as she watched the light dance in Signy’s hair, brightening the red-gold strands scattered amongst the blond. This was a woman who could easily ensnare a man’s heart.

  Not long ago, Gytha had confided her suspicions that Tostig might have fallen under the woman’s spell, a development the loving sister found pleasing. Although Ralf had said nothing about it to her, Eleanor knew from other sources that the crowner had also been shown much favor by Signy in the days before he left to join his elder brother. Even now he seemed fiercely protective of her in the matter of the cooper’s death. Did an easy capturing of a man’s affection have any significance in this particular murder?

  The women turned.

  Signy knelt and asked for a blessing.

  “Thank you for coming here,” Eleanor said. “The day is fair, and I regret darkening it with grim questions about a slaying. Nonetheless, justice demands it.”

  “As does our crowner,” Signy replied, her voice betraying a hint of discontent.

  “A man with many flaws.” Eleanor nodded in acknowledgement of the woman’s displeasure. “In that I would agree, but one of them is not an unwillingness to seek the truth.”

  “My lady, I know I am here because I would not answer his questions the night Martin was killed. Despite my anger with the crowner, I most certainly have no quarrel with you. I will cooperate in any way so that justice may be rendered.”

  At the prioress’ nod, Gytha slipped out of the room, leaving the two women to talk in private.

  Eleanor poured dark golden ale from a sweating jug and passed the cool mazer to the innkeeper’s niece. “We all hold secrets in our hearts,” she said, “and I shall not stand in judgement on anything you might tell me. If it has no relevance to the death of the cooper, I will promptly forget it. Is that fair?”

  Signy nodded.

  “Then I may conclude that neither of us wants a killer to escape because some detail, no matter how inconsequential or even humiliating, was ignored or kept hidden out of shame or pride?”

  Signy lifted the cup to her lips but failed to hide a rising color in her cheeks.

  “God knows everything about us. Only His judgement matters, not the flawed opinions of mortals, including prioresses.”

  “Ask what you will. I shall be honest in my answers.”

  “Please tell me what you remember about the night Martin died.”

  Despite the prioress’ encouragement, Signy had very little to tell. Ivetta had given more detail.

  “Where did you get the food and drink? Did you deliver them directly to Martin’s room?” Eleanor asked at the end of the brief tale.

  “The food was from the common pot, my lady. A stew of meat with wine, ginger, and onions. I poured the ale myself. Both I took directly up the…” Signy stopped, her lips now moving silently as if they insisted on finishing the sentence. “Nay, I did not do so!” she continued. “I stopped to speak with my uncle for a moment and put the platter and jug down on a nearby table.”

  “Do you remember if anyone was sitting there?”

  “Three men had just left.” She thought for a moment. “The table was empty. Had it been occupied, I might not have taken my eyes off such tempting fare, lest a man take a spoonful of something he had not paid for.”

  “Who was nearby?”

  “I do not recall, but anyone leaving or coming into the inn would have passed by. I was standing near the door…”

  “Would your uncle remember?”

  “I confess the subject of our conversation was a heated one, and he might not have noticed anything. I faced the door, not he, yet surely I would have become aware if some suspicious person had approached the platter. As for my uncle, I cannot truly speak for him.”

  “Perhaps Crowner Ralf can ask him.”

  “He must, I am sure.”

  Eleanor deliberately took her time to sip some ale, waiting to see if Signy would continue. “What was the quarrel you had with your uncle?” she asked.

  “Did I say quarrel, my lady?”

  The prioress simply raised her eyebrows, sufficient reminder of the promise to speak with honesty.

  Albeit with evident reluctance, the innkeeper’s niece nodded her concession. “It was about his willingness to rent a room to men who want a woman for the night. I did not like the practice.”

  “I commend you in that.”

  “My lady, forgive my sin in this matter, but I claim no virtue in my objection. Were I a man, I might permit the custom as well, for the little whoring does bring some extra coin. However, my uncle has no living kin and has promised the inn to me when he dies. No woman may allow whoring in her business if she does not wish to be called bawd herself.”

  “Thank you for your honesty,” Eleanor said. “I can also understand how this dispute might have kept you both from seeing much that went on nearby, but I beg of you to please think back and try to recall any faces, or voices, of those who might have been close to hand. Did you see someone who hesitated, even for a brief moment, by the food and drink? An odd gesture perhaps? One caught out of the corner of your eye but quickly forgotten because of the nature of your discussion?”

  Signy frowned. “There were many villagers there that night with much coming and going. The way to the inn door sometimes filled with customers, and a few may have bent close to the food and drink in an effort to squeeze by others. That said, I still do not recall anything unusual.” Her lips curled into a thin smile. “Our crowner was there himself and might have seen something of note, should he bother remembering.”

  Eleanor nodded with encouraging sympathy.

  “In the past, I might have suggested you ask old Tibia. She always saw things others did not, and she was at the inn for a bit of stew and ale that night.” She shrugged. “But I doubt she cares any longer about what goes on around her. With all the pain she now suffers, those sharp eyes have surely dulled. It is a blessing that she still eats. Even the king’s man might notice more than she.”

  The bitter tone whenever Signy mentioned Ralf was not lost on Eleanor. “After you parted from your uncle, you said you delivered the food and drink to the room but did not say if anyone was with Martin.”

  “Hob and Will were there. The three were arguing. When I entered, Will made lewd remarks about me, which caused much merriment for the cooper. I immediately set the tray and jug down on the table. Normally I would stay to make sure all was satisfactory and as requested, but I was both angry and fearful. I wanted to leave.”

  “Was Ivetta there?”

  “She was.” Signy squeezed her eyes shut. “She was there when I brought in the tray.”

  The prioress reached out and took the woman’s hand. “I beg forgiveness for the pain my next question must cause, but I would not ask for such details if I did not think they might help the cause of justice.”

  Signy nodded but kept her eyes shut.

  “Did any of them rudely handle you?”

  Tears edged Signy’s eyes. “Martin grabbed me and told Will to…”

  Eleanor forced herself to remain silent.

  “Hob pulled Will away before he could do more, and the two brothers left the room. Martin and Ivetta were laughing with such foul delight, I was able to escape.”

  “Were you ever alone with any of the three men?”

  “Ivetta was there the entire time, my lady. She had arrived before I did and was alone with Martin after I left. While Martin held me, she was the one to lift my gown so Will could put his hand between my legs…” She burst into tears.

  Eleanor pulled the innkeeper’s niece into her arms and comforted her. Perhaps that would be all she could learn, she thought, but as Signy wept, the prioress’ thoughts shifted from anger to puzzlement. Was there significance in the difference between the tale told by Ivetta and the one she had just heard
from Signy?

  Chapter Sixteen

  “If you want information, Crowner, talk to Will or Hob.” The innkeeper scowled as he recounted the dead rabbits lying on the table in front of him. “Ask the whore too. I’m a busy man.”

  Ralf shoved the carcasses to one side and leaned toward the man. “The night of Martin’s death. I want details from you.”

  Clearly annoyed at the interruption to his concentration, the man separated the rabbits once more, pointed a pudgy finger at the first one, and started yet another count.

  “Answer my question. I’m not here to watch you pretend King Edward is stopping for his first good English meal since leaving on crusade.”

  The innkeeper’s resigned sigh was as huge as he was. “Martin made the same arrangements he always did when he had Ivetta to himself for the night. He paid for the upstairs room and a proper meal to go with it. Something to break his fast the next morning as well, although he never got to that this time, did he? Now there’s a difference for you!” The innkeeper moved the carcasses to one side and dumped a basket of fish in their place. “Twelve rabbits,” he shouted to somebody. “Skinny. Tell Hanry to bring me fatter ones, or I’ll buy elsewhere.”

  Ralf was sure the conies were poached but had usually ignored this one practice on the assumption that most lords were in little danger of running short of rabbits to feed upon. “Did the harlot come with him or later?”

  “Later.”

  “You got your share first?”

  “I own the room, not the whore. He paid me what I asked when he made his arrangements. Ask her when he gave her whatever he thought she was due—or what, if that means anything to you.”

  The crowner glanced at the fresh, glistening trout. The innkeeper had never cheated on the quality of what he served at the inn, giving fair value for anything sold. He might bluster and rant about prices and business above all else, but he was an honest enough man. Ralf decided he would probably tell him the truth despite his obvious reluctance.