“At least you were able to keep witnesses present while the sheriff’s men searched the hut. Now it is clear that Hilda did not commit self-murder. I feared Sir Reimund would arrange for a knife to be found.”
“There were no windows through which to toss it. No rational person would conclude that she could unbar a door, bolted from the outside, and throw away a knife with which she had stabbed herself. Although our king’s man may begrudge the loss of his choice for the groom’s killer, I think he might concede that the cook was attacked by someone besides herself.”
“You are most generous in your assessment of his wits, my lady. I am not sure they are quite that keen, having been blunted by his ambition,” Thomas replied.
Eleanor chuckled. “I assume you will confess that lack of charity, Brother, when we return to Tyndal. On the other hand, your confessor may well decide that any sin is wiped clean because your words hold some truth in them.”
Exchanging amused looks, the pair continued to the manor house in companionable silence.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Death grasps her hand with great strength, my lady. I doubt Hilda will ever again greet fellow mortals on this earth.” Mistress Maud stood back from the pallet where the cook lay, her breath almost imperceptible.
Looking down at the body, which had quickly become little more than a frail mortal shell eager to release a struggling soul, Eleanor nodded understanding. She might wish the outcome to be otherwise, but she had asked Brother Thomas to give the last rites. “You have known her long?” The prioress’ voice was soft with sympathy.
“I have. She is a good woman. I never believed she killed Tobye.”
“You do not think she lusted after the man and grew jealous enough to strike out?”
“Oh, she itched for him but, as sins go, hers were trifling enough. Was she jealous?” Maud’s smile was cheerless. “Most likely, but she would have sooner wept over it than turned to murder. Women may dream, my lady, but men either seize what they want or destroy what they can’t have.” She shrugged. “Yet God made Adam before Eve, thus wise men say he was His more perfect creature. Imaginings, being womanish, must be the greater folly.”
Eleanor was surprised by the well-whetted edge she heard in those words. What was the source of this woman’s bitterness? But no question formed quickly enough for the asking, and she knew the cause might well have nothing to do with this crime. Perhaps she would be wiser to let the widow continue on.
“I do not doubt that Hilda suffered from her longings. The Devil may find it easier to torment youth with unrelenting lust, but I sometimes think he gains special merriment by pricking those who believe they have grown past that foolishness.” Maud blinked as if surprised by what she had just said. “Yet I am sure Tobye lent his shape to incubi that tormented many other women at night, both the wrinkled and the smooth-fleshed. If thwarted lust is a motive in this murder, my lady, the sheriff may find there was a long line of women, who stood outside the stable on that night, waiting their turn to kill the groom.”
Since she often hoped that age would calm her own passions, Eleanor prayed the widow was wrong about Satan’s ways. “Did the cook have any enemy who might have hated her enough to attack her with intent to kill?” she asked, redirecting the conversation from her own uncomfortable thoughts.
“Hilda? Never! She slipped savories to lads and sweets to the girls. Her meals pleased those of both high and low birth. The only creatures that had cause to loathe her were fowl, and even there she chose to wring the necks of ones closest to their natural death. She took pride in making a tough old cock taste like a tender young hen.”
Eleanor smiled. “So I have heard.”
Maud looked down at the woman lying in bed and sighed.
“Can you think of any reason why Tobye was murdered or why Hilda was attacked so cruelly?”
“Have you found reason not to trust the sheriff to find the killer, my lady?” Maude raised an eyebrow as she studied the prioress.
Eleanor lowered her eyes with suitable meekness. “Like many women, I suffer from the weakness of curiosity. My questions are nothing more than whimsical things. As the king’s man, I have no doubt that Sir Reimund will prove up to the task.” Her face hidden, the prioress frowned. And why ask such a question, she wondered, when it was you who first planted the seed of doubt in my mind about his peculiar methods of seeking justice? Eleanor grew uneasy.
“He would not have assigned a guard to keep an eye on you if he thought you so harmless and docile.” Maud chuckled. “Our sheriff is not the only one who knows your reputation as a woman with an unsettling and masculine mind.”
Was this widow part of some trap set by Sir Reimund to catch her interfering where she should not? Had Maud’s earlier suggestion that the sheriff cared most about his own interests been part of a scheme? Eleanor tried to calm herself and think logically.
Although she had gained a reputation for solving criminal matters, her greatest success involved financial solvency for her priory. Power was ever linked to coin so, if there were concerns that she was growing too influential, they were based in the increasing wealth of Tyndal.
Perhaps the sheriff believed he would gain by proving she had willfully and unjustifiably interfered with the king’s matters. The ways and concerns of King Edward were still unknown to her, indeed to her father as well, for this new king was known more for changes in direction than the steadiness of his purpose. Were she to make a misstep and find disfavor with the new regime, Eleanor knew that she, her family, and her priory would be in danger. And, should she suffer a fall from grace, there might well be those at court who would rejoice and smile on the man who had brought it about.
It would be wise not to trust Maud, or to give Sir Reimund cause to complain to her superiors, she decided. She must tread more carefully than she had in this matter. After all, she had no wish to ruin her family or her priory, especially by foolish actions born more of sinful pride than anything else.
“At Tyndal Priory, I have an obligation to render God’s justice,” she replied with care. “In the world, I have no more authority than any other woman. This land belongs to the Earl of Lincoln and the king’s law rules here. Sir Reimund has nothing to fear from any feminine interference.”
“More’s the pity,” Maud sighed. “He is not an evil man but…” She shrugged.
Eleanor refused to be drawn into any criticism of the sheriff. “I am sure he will find Tobye’s killer as well as Hilda’s attacker.” Eleanor fell silent long enough to let her firmly stated confidence in the man sink in. As she had learned, people are often lulled into complacency after hearing the accepted point of view expressed. She would now chance a question. “I never met the groom, but wonder that Master Stevyn kept such a man if he was so despised.”
“Tobye was reliable and skilled with horses, whatever his other faults might be. My jest aside about the scorned women, I cannot say he was truly hated. A few husbands had cause to give him a beating, but the blows dealt were only hard enough to make his member droop when next he thought to smile upon their wives. There was a father or two who had wished his daughter could stand at the church door with maidenhead taut enough to bloody the marriage bed, but Tobye was clever and often able to point out other likely and equally randy youths as culprits there. He may have been less guilty of lewdness than he was accused.”
“Aye, but someone most certainly hated him more than those,” Eleanor said, letting her words fall as comment more than question.
Maud looked perplexed.
Deciding she had best turn away from all further inquiry, the prioress shook her head. “I pray that terror does not take residence in the hearts of those who live and work here. Murder is a frightening thing.”
“There was less unease after Hilda’s arrest and before she was attacked.”
Eleanor could not read the expression on Maud’s face quickly enough and turned her attention to the cook. An almost imperceptible rise and fall i
n the warm coverings over her proved life still had a hold on the sorely wounded woman.
“Although few believed she had done the deed, many were comforted by the swiftness of resolution in the crime,” the widow said.
“Perhaps there will be an equally quick solution in this matter,” Eleanor replied, deciding it was wiser to let the woman believe that she, too, was equally comforted by justice rendered with such shallowness. In truth, she had to bite her tongue to keep from crying out that she found no justice in that hasty arrest of an innocent.
Maud looked surprised by this answer.
The prioress nodded with due courtesy and took her leave.
***
As she walked toward the room where Mariota lay, Eleanor felt thwarted but now realized she had another problem. If she continued to ask questions, no matter how innocently she presented them, she might endanger others in her company as well as herself. Had she the right to do such a thing to innocent people just because she questioned the sheriff’s judgment?
Of course she had felt insulted by his manner toward her, even rightly so. His behavior had been unacceptable toward any woman of religious calling, let alone a prioress and a baron’s daughter. That said, she must balance her response with an understanding that her worldly pride might well be leading her in a foolhardy direction.
She stopped by a window and looked down on the busy courtyard below. Smoke rose from the smithy. A woman was feeding a flock of chickens. Animal noises mingled companionably with human shouts and the din of work. There was something soothing about watching people, going about their labors as if nothing had ever troubled them. As she well knew, however, routine might suggest calm, but fear could yet be a hidden resident.
Should she tell Sir Reimund about seeing Mistress Luce in an unchaste embrace with Tobye? What about this other woman who slipped into the stable and begged some favor of the man? Who was she? If both Ranulf and Hilda had witnessed the same thing, the prioress had to believe the event probably occurred.
Eleanor glanced back at the room she had just left. Was it Maud? Hadn’t this woman seemed troubled when she mentioned lust burning in one past such foolishness? Didn’t that understanding sing of experience? Was she an older woman who longed for the embrace of a handsome man, a woman too old to bear a child?
“No,” she whispered, “surely not Maud.”
Despite her fears that there was some collusion between sheriff and physician’s widow, Eleanor owed Maud gratitude for her care of Mariota. Had Maud’s one good deed blinded her to darker elements in the woman’s nature? Was Maud’s name the one Hilda meant to whisper in Brother Thomas’ ear?
“All mortals are sinners,” she groaned, resting her cheek against the rough stone, “but some dance the earth, shouting of sweet virtue to disguise the stench of their own rotting hearts. Others suffer men’s mockery because they gently embrace lepers and defend the suffering or weak with the compassion God intended. The rest wander through their lives, doing no greater evil and owning no finer virtue than any other man. Which is she?”
There were other suspects. She had not dismissed the strong possibility that Master Stevyn knew of his wife’s adultery and had killed the man who set horns on his forehead. But could he be guilty of the attack on Hilda? The steward might have struck her down because she knew or had witnessed something that would send him to the hangman.
Or did Mistress Luce kill her lover because he threatened to tell her husband, should she grow quick with child, unless she gave him bright coin for his silence? Or had she faced being replaced in his bed?
Had Huet killed the groom because he was his step-mother’s lover? Again, perhaps Hilda had been a witness or knew more than was safe for her.
And what about this older woman?
There was too much to consider.
“Nor do I know these people,” Eleanor complained softly, “and this manor is even smaller than the village of Tyndal. Surely the perpetrator is suspected. I should no longer question Sir Reimund’s arrests for he must know far better than I who might have committed these crimes.”
Yet she could not escape the fact that he had chosen to put Hilda in chains for no other apparent reason than she was convenient and would offend no one of rank. Surely he had heard rumor enough about Mistress Luce’s adultery, even if it was from the bawdy jests of his men. That said, to accuse her or her husband of this crime might bring down on his head the wrath of an earl. Master Stevyn was esteemed for his skilled running of this estate. Henry de Lacy would not look kindly on the man who hanged his steward or caused Stevyn deep humiliation by publicly crowning him as a cuckold.
Eleanor pressed her fist against the stone. “My primary responsibility is for the safety of those who came with me, a journey that grows even more ill-advised each day that I insist on meddling in affairs that are not mine to resolve,” she muttered. “And shall I repay the kindness of hospitality by pointing an accusing finger at those same good souls just because their motivations in killing this groom have not been questioned? What arrogance to think that I know better than those who have far greater understanding of the ways of this place! Since when has ignorance proven wiser than knowledge? And have I forgotten that I have authority over others in Tyndal Priory only because I stand as the symbol of a perfect woman and not because I am less frail than others of my sex? Dare I endanger my priory and my family with this wild imprudence?”
Having now presented herself with logical reasons why she should not continue this ill-advised pursuit of justice, she fell silent. But her heart had ever been rebellious, and in that stillness, she knew it had conceded nothing to logic or any of these reasonable concerns.
Feeling her face turn hot with frustration and fury, the prioress spun away and marched toward the room where her young charge lay healing from the winter fever.
As many had learned in the past, Prioress Eleanor was most dangerous when she was angry.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“You look downcast, Brother. Shall I sing you a bawdy song to make you laugh, although you may have to do penance for it after?” Huet mimed a young man wooing an invisible maiden. “Or would you prefer a more prayerful one to please your soul?” The steward’s younger son became an old man, bent with the pain of his sins, praying for God’s forgiveness.
Thomas leaned back on the bench in the kitchen and watched with admiration. “Where did you learn such skills, Master Huet? Surely they were not taught as part of your priestly training?”
The young man’s smile was enigmatic. “Have you been a monk since boyhood?”
“I became a clerk first,” Thomas answered. This was not the first time he had been asked this question and had an easy enough half-truth prepared should he be asked for whom he had served and where. As his spymaster, a man who preferred more skilled deception, had warned, Thomas might be caught out with this crude stratagem one day. So far, few had ever cared to delve deeper than his first reply.
“And you were God’s most dutiful servant, never sinning?”
“I sinned eagerly and often enough.”
“And thus took these vows as penance?”
Thomas bowed his head, knowing silence suggested an adequate enough answer.
“Forgive me, Brother, for I meant no ill by that question. I oft speak before reason can advise otherwise.”
“Nor was I offended. It was I who erred by inquiring into matters I had no right to know.”
“And thus we each allow the other his secrets.” Huet winked, then laughed to suggest his comment was only a jest.
Thomas was not fooled by the contrived lightness of the man’s tone and turned his gaze away to conceal his wariness. Huet had lied about returning to see Hilda asleep on the bench and thus Thomas had cause to be distrustful, forcing himself to maintain an objective distance. In truth, had the circumstances of their meeting been different, he knew he would have enjoyed joisting wits with this man, whom he found both talented and companionable, but this situation did
not permit such relaxation.
“Did you hear the latest news about Hilda?” Thomas asked, deliberately changing the subject.
“She is dead?”
The monk let Huet’s response resonate in his ears to catch what meanings he could, but all he heard was sorrow. “Near enough, I fear,” he said. Perhaps his suspicions of the man were ill-conceived. The steward’s son seemed very fond of the cook and may well have lied only to save her life. “I felt some trembling in her neck and a little breath of life from her mouth, but she had bled much. I have too little skill to help her and must pray that God lets her stay a while longer on earth and identify the one who did this unconscionable act.”
Huet frowned.
Involuntarily, the monk shivered. Surely Huet knew that Thomas was aware of the lie told and thus could expose the steward’s son any time he wished. If the man had made up the tale solely to keep the cook from hanging, he would expect Thomas to remain silent. After all, Huet’s words only provided support to the monk’s and thus the lie was well-intended. Thomas had no reason to speak up.
Or was this man malevolently clever? If this son of Master Stevyn had lied because it somehow placed him safely away from both time and place of the murder, Thomas was in danger. Perhaps Huet thought the monk would remain silent out of fear that he might be the next victim if he revealed the lie, an unlikely conclusion since most murderers killed witnesses.
Suddenly, Thomas became aware of just how vulnerable he was. The two of them were alone, and leaning against the table as he was, he was off balance should Huet wish to attack him. He had no wish to die with a knife shoved into his belly before he could defend himself. Slowly, he straightened up.
Huet folded his arms and studied the monk. “I heard she tried to kill herself.”
Chambers of Death mm-6 Page 14
