Chambers of Death mm-6

by Priscilla Royal

  “Of course,” Eleanor replied. She wished to say more, but caution held her back. She had read two conflicting messages in the wife’s manner: dismissive annoyance and a deep need for the solace offered. Since she had just chastised herself for giving too much credence to flawed impressions, she decided she must obey the wife’s reasonable request to return tomorrow even though her heart suggested otherwise.

  The steward’s wife bowed her head and quickly slipped back into her room.

  Eleanor stared at the closed door. Again she heard speech from within but no distinct words. Did one of the voices belong to a man, or was it the servant, whose quality of voice had sounded deeper than most women? Realizing that she had stood there too long, she walked away, gesturing for Thomas to approach.

  “We should go to the chapel, Brother,” she said. “I fear we have often missed the Offices with all the turmoil since our arrival.” She switched to Latin. “I have news for you as well, but let us truly turn our souls to God for a while. All of a sudden, I have grown very weary of the world.”

  And the deceitful nature of mortals, she thought as a curious detail suddenly came to mind. If Mistress Luce had dedicated this time to solitary silence, why had the servant just arrived with two cups?

  ***

  The time spent on her knees did nothing to ease Eleanor’s spirit. That night she slept fitfully, her overwrought mind racing in frantic circles like some kitten chasing his tail-and with just as much effect. If only she were back at Tyndal in her chambers where her own cat, a creature far too wise to chase anything without purpose, might settle into her arms and soothe her path to sweet dreams with his rumbling purrs.

  Instead, a dog barked outside. Half in jest, she blamed the beast for chasing away what remained of slumber, as it most likely had some wandering nocturnal thing.

  She sat up, arms about her knees, and listened to the rasping breath of Mariota sleeping nearby. Not wishing to awaken the recuperating young woman, Eleanor did not rise and pace, a method she often used to increase fatigue and thus fall back asleep with ease.

  So she prayed, then prayed some more. There were enough sins of which she was guilty to spend many dark hours telling God how much she abhorred her mortal weaknesses. Yet her remorse was forced this night, and she knew God would not be fooled. Her thoughts were less on her sinful nature than on the guilt of whoever had attacked two people and had most certainly killed one of them.

  In any case, Mariota is safe enough, Eleanor concluded, as long as I am with her. The killer has only attacked solitary souls, at least so far.

  Panic grabbed at her heart. All around her, wavering shadows taunted her. Satan owned the bleak hours and peopled them with his imps who took joy in infecting men with terror. Shaking her head to dispel fear, she repeated what her aunt had taught, that shadows were but illusions, crafted by demons, and would melt away with the sun’s rising. She willed her thoughts away from fallen angels and back to mortal murder.

  What was she missing? She felt as if she had been given a skein of spun threads, knotted and hopelessly tangled, to unwind. There were too many answers to the question of who killed Tobye, although perhaps too few to the identity of Hilda’s attacker.

  The most obvious choice for the groom’s murderer remained the steward, but his demonstrated concern for the cook argued against his involvement in the violence against her. Perhaps he was unaware of the adultery, although Eleanor found it odd that he would be. Yet some husbands did refuse to give credence to slanderous tales for reasons known only to themselves, and others in this place certainly had equal cause to kill.

  Tobye might have tried to gain something from either Mistress Luce or Mistress Maud in exchange for his silence. As for the steward’s wife, she could have killed him if he had grown bored with her body and had found a fresh bed partner. If either woman was guilty of cutting his throat, however, the only reason for attacking Hilda was if she were witness to the crime. That was not improbable. Sadly, the possibility that the cook might soon regain consciousness and reveal the name of the person she saw was growing ever more unlikely.

  Yet Maud had surrendered her own bed to Hilda, swearing to stay by her side until Death came or God granted a healing hand. That act still spoke more of kindness than murderous guilt, especially since Hilda had not yet been conveniently smothered. Eleanor did not discount the use of clever deception, but her heart refused to cease its strong argument for innocence behind caring acts.

  On the other hand, had the steward’s wife shown any interest in Hilda one way or the other? Eleanor had not raised the matter with Mistress Luce, but wasn’t it odd that the steward’s wife had not even mentioned that she would add Hilda’s name to her solitary prayers today? Whatever their own sins, most wives cared enough about those who served them to at least list their names for God’s attention whenever something dire occurred. This omission by the steward’s wife therefore troubled the prioress.

  As for Huet, she dare not dismiss the possibility that he was a killer. He had lied, knowing Brother Thomas would catch him out, a likelihood he seemed not to mind. On brief acquaintance, he appeared a clever, talented, and pleasing young man, but the Devil was charming too, Eleanor thought ruefully, and the reasons for Huet’s abandonment of his priestly education as well as the details of his wanderings outside England remained unknown. Perhaps he lied simply to see what her monk would do. This younger son might yet prove to possess a heart grown cancerous with disinterest toward anything not of direct value to himself.

  Now, of course, there was reason to suspect he was the widow’s lover-or perhaps his stepmother’s-or even both. Eleanor cringed at the latter. Like his father, however, he had also defended Hilda, albeit with a lie, and she truly could see no reason to do so if he had then tried to kill her.

  The prioress could no longer bear to remain so still. She rose and quietly slipped to the window. Easing open the wooden shutters, she looked down on the silent courtyard. Storm clouds must have shrouded the moon, she thought. Even that dim light had been banished.

  A rude wind from the north nipped at her cheeks, and she drew back. Shuttering the window to keep the cold from her sleeping charge, Eleanor sat back on her heels and rubbed grit from the corners of her eyes.

  And what should she conclude about the quarrel she had witnessed earlier between the steward’s wife and Mistress Maud? Why had Luce summarily ordered the older woman from the manor grounds? Was it a petty thing or had she learned something malign such as an affair between the widow and Huet? Was the cause of the dispute something else entirely with nothing to do with murder? Perhaps she would learn more from Luce in a few hours.

  In any case, Maud had not left that night. The prioress had seen her enter the room, where Hilda lay, with a small tray containing the ingredients needed for potions and poultices. Perhaps this quarrel was nothing new between the two women and Eleanor should dismiss it as irrelevant.

  As for Mariota’s care, the usual servant had arrived with instructions from the widow on the herbal doses needed for her recovery. Both herbs and portions seemed safe enough, she thought, grateful to Sister Anne for teaching her something more of healing than a woman’s usual knowledge.

  And then there was the question of the second cup on the servant’s tray when Eleanor was refused entrance to Mistress Luce’s chambers. Was there someone in that room, a person the steward’s wife did not want the prioress to see? Or was she expecting another visitor soon whom she did not want Eleanor to meet on the way? She shrugged and hoped she did not really need to resolve this particular question.

  At least Brother Thomas had found a witness who saw a person enter the storage hut. With a start, however, Eleanor realized that she did not know what shape the presumed imp had assumed. Was it a man’s or a woman’s? The boy had not said. Would he have mentioned it if he thought it was a woman’s?

  “How could I have been so foolish?” she groaned softly. They could have eliminated suspects if only she had thought of this
one simple question. Brother Thomas might have gone back to ask the boy yesterday, but now that detail must wait for resolution until morning. Could he find the boy alone again? In fact, despite his argument that the lad might safely tell tales of seeing the Devil to a priest, the boy’s parents might not want their son to speak anymore on this matter.

  If only she could count on Sir Reimund to seek the truth of what had happened here, a man far more knowledgeable about the details of life and relationships in this manor than any stranger. Even if she and Brother Thomas discovered the killer’s identity, would the sheriff listen unless the perpetrator was someone guaranteed not to offend the owner of this manor or his steward? How could she force him to render honest justice? She must find a way.

  All logic still demanded that she let this matter go, but her heart clenched in outrage at the very thought. Hilda had been chosen to hang, yet her guilt might rest only in the witnessing of something that could reveal the true killer-that and a woman’s weakness for a handsome man.

  But the latter was God’s business alone. Tobye had had no wife and thus Hilda’s only sin was a passing but secret lust. Sin enough, for cert, but a minor one and easily purged with confession and penance. Neither king nor bishop would have demanded death for that.

  Eleanor stilled her rushing thoughts, but silently staring into the graying darkness did not enlighten her. Everything she had considered was far too complicated and must be hiding the simpler answer, but her mind baulked from further pursuit. She would give up the attempt until dawn broke.

  Eleanor slipped back to her bed, lay down, and shut her aching eyes against the growing light. Perhaps sleep would come now, although it was surely time for the Morning Office.

  And thus it might have been, had God wanted his prioress to rest.

  Instead, loud shouting from the courtyard sent Eleanor out of her bed and back to her feet.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The naked body of Mistress Luce twisted with each gust of wind that surged through the stable. Her face was a dusky red, her legs stained brown with foul-smelling excrement.

  The steward turned away. “Cut her down,” he ordered.

  Sir Reimund gestured at one of his men to climb into the loft to the beam where the hanging rope was tied.

  Near the open door, Thomas stood next to his prioress and looked up at the body. He was often drawn to a corpse’s unblinking eyes. Sometimes he could read fear in a dead man’s stare, while others left the world with wonder frozen in their gaze, but Mistress Luce seemed to have greeted Death with incredulity. Was there meaning in this difference, he asked himself, or did no one quite comprehend the nature of eternity until the soul first looked into it? He shook the thought away and concentrated on details more pertinent to the dangling corpse. And indeed he found an interesting one.

  “My lady, I do not think she…” he began.

  She put a finger to her closed lips. “I concur.”

  Mistress Constance, who stood near the ladder to the loft, began to sob, the sound akin to a wailing hiccup. The physician’s widow walked to her side and put an arm around the woman’s shoulders, but Constance shook off her attempt at comfort and moaned yet louder.

  The steward glared at his daughter-in-law and muttered something incomprehensible, but whatever he said failed to moderate the woman’s cries.

  Again, Eleanor cursed herself for ignorance of common practice in this place. She had learned that it was Constance who had discovered the body, rather than a groom. What reason had she to come to the stable at such an early hour? Surely her duties did not extend to the care of horses.

  The man sent up to the loft had reached the beam where the rope was knotted. He pointed to it and shouted a question down to Sir Reimund.

  “Just cut through it,” the sheriff replied, then put his hand sympathetically on Master Stevyn’s shoulder. “Might she have killed herself?” the sheriff asked in a hopeful voice.

  “She had no cause,” the steward replied, facing the man with an angry look.

  “Nor was she likely to have done so,” Thomas added, then looked down at his prioress with silent apology for speaking against her command.

  “Continue,” she murmured. “As Eve’s daughter, I am bereft of logic. While you and the sheriff engage in disputation, I shall seek to give Mistress Constance a woman’s comfort.” With a conspiratorial smile, she walked off toward the two women by the ladder.

  “Shouldn’t you be on your knees in the chapel, praying for Mistress Luce’s soul?” Reimund snarled at the monk. “Leave this matter to me. You have a most unfortunate tendency to interfere in secular matters, Brother.”

  “If she committed self-murder, she cannot be buried in sanctified ground,” Thomas replied, his voice tense with defiance. “Surely Master Stevyn would find some comfort in knowing that his wife was both innocent of this particular sin and might find rest in a proper grave. Would you deny him that?”

  “On what do you base your belief, Brother?” The steward gestured for the sheriff to remain silent.

  “If we look at the position of the body in relation to the loft, we can see that she could not have jumped from there and killed herself.”

  “Stop!” Master Stevyn shouted up to the man who had begun sawing at the rope from which the dead wife was suspended.

  The man hesitated.

  Sir Reimund quickly nodded concurrence although his expression suggested reluctance.

  “Go on, Brother,” Master Stevyn said.

  “If she was determined to kill herself, she would have made sure the rope stretched down far enough to break her neck as she jumped from the loft. Instead, the noose was only a few inches below the planks of the loft. Had she wanted, she could have pulled herself back to safety when she began to choke. In any case, she would have dropped only far enough to bruise her neck and perhaps frighten herself but not to die.”

  “Women are deficient in logic, Brother. As distressed as it makes me to conclude this about Master Stevyn’s wife, I fear she may not have understood what she was doing and thus bungled the entire matter.” Reimund did manage to look suitably grieved.

  The steward snorted in disgust. “Have you all noted what Brother Thomas has observed and heard his skillful argument?” Stevyn pointed to each man standing nearby. All nodded concurrence. Now satisfied that there would be no finding of self-murder in his wife’s death, he turned in triumph to Sir Reimund. “You may now cut her down.”

  The sheriff allowed his man to finish cutting the rope. Mistress Luce’s body dropped to the stable floor with a dull thud, her legs spread and her sex exposed.

  Her husband covered his eyes.

  Several gaped.

  “Have none of you a charitable heart?” Mistress Maud hurried out of the shadows and threw her cloak over the corpse. Then she spun around and glared at the sheriff. “As mortals, women may be both foolish and sinful creatures, Sir Reimund, but that does not mean the body of Master Stevyn’s wife should be left exposed and gazed upon as if she were no more than some common whore.”

  “I want her prepared for honorable burial,” the steward said, his voice catching in a swallowed sob.

  Maud gave instructions to those who came forward to take the body away.

  The crowd began to disperse, their curiosity sated.

  “This was no accident?” Maud suddenly cried out to Thomas. “You believe it to be murder?”

  Heads quickly turned, and faces lit up at the prospect of more fodder for gossip.

  “That is the most likely conclusion,” the monk replied. “Lacking in reason or not, most mortals of any gender are more likely to grab at the chance for life when they find themselves unable to breath. She would have saved herself.”

  The sheriff still looked eager to argue the point.

  “Let the monk finish,” Stevyn growled, his fist raised as if longing to find something to strike.

  Sir Reimund wisely stepped away.

  “Even assuming she wanted to die, she
would not have chosen to choke slowly to death. She would have pulled herself up and reset the rope so she would drop farther and commit the act quickly. If we examine the body, I think we will find that she was dead before she was hanged and the killer bungled the deception.”

  Reimund bent to pull the temporary shroud back.

  “In the name of God’s mercy, let a woman do that!” Maud snapped. “She is the steward’s wife!”

  Eleanor left Constance and walked toward the physician’s widow. “Mistress Maud could examine the body for any signs of foul play,” she said. “With her experience as apothecary under the guidance of her physician husband, she has learned good skills, and I will be happy to assist. Thus propriety will be maintained.”

  Maud nodded. In the weak light, her face was a faded gray.

  “We will share our observations with Brother Thomas, and he can resolve questions or doubts as well as correct our faults. His work at Tyndal’s hospital is well known,” the prioress carefully added.

  “Then do so,” the steward said, looking at both women with pitiful gratitude. “After you finish, your monk should bring the findings to me. I must attend other matters until he has need of me, and Sir Reimund is free to return to his many other pressing duties until summoned.”

  Looking into Stevyn’s narrowed eyes, the sheriff must have known he had little choice but to agree.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Eleanor rushed back to the manor, her faithful guard hurrying in silence behind her. The swiftness of her pace was born of impatience to view the body as well as her anger over this latest, and quite needless, cruel death. While the sheriff fussed over his tender ambitions, a killer stalked. Would this violence never end?

  Nor could she ignore her own failings that contributed to Luce’s death. Had she but insisted on counseling the woman yesterday! But that was past, and penance would be done. In the meantime, she hoped that she was finally getting closer to a solution.