Forsaken Soul

by Priscilla Royal

  “Isn’t it a fair day for market?” A young widow, with three children trailing behind, shifted her basket filled with green leeks and yellow mustard. Tilting her head to look up at the crowner, her smile revealed an almost full complement of teeth.

  Ralf nodded with an abrupt but courteous enough gesture and walked on. Feeling uneasy, however, he glanced back.

  The widow was still watching him. She waved, then reached out for one straying child and pulled him closer with a mild rebuke.

  “I think she likes you, Crowner.”

  Ralf felt his cheeks flush as he spun around.

  Gytha stood just to his left.

  “Have you been too busy rendering the king’s justice to notice?” She grew more solemn as she saw the injury to his head. “Surely that wound has only recently addled your wits.”

  His face grew hotter. “A minor thing,” he muttered, fingering the tenderness. Ever since she was a wee lass, he had liked Tostig’s sister. She made him laugh with her frank wit. Now that she was a young woman, however, he sometimes found her ways oddly disturbing.

  “Brother Beorn’s work,” she concluded, but her brow remained furrowed.

  Unable to come up with anything else to say, he went back to the subject of the widow. “Her husband and I fished together as boys. When I heard he had drowned in a storm last winter, I was saddened.”

  Gytha raised an eyebrow with her unspoken question.

  “I am not interested in marrying her,” Ralf growled.

  Two plump wives, and longtime friends, passed by with bright smiles and friendly nods. After a few steps, they drew closer together and began to giggle in whispered conversation.

  It was Gytha whose cheeks now turned pink.

  But not unattractively, Ralf thought, then grinned with gentle delight. “Your basket is full, I see,” he quickly remarked, wanting to soothe whatever had caused the girl’s embarrassment. “What can Prioress Eleanor possibly lack with her fine priory gardens?” Curious, he reached into the basket and began to sort through the contents.

  She swatted his hand. “Hush, Crowner! I’m here to listen. ‘Tis for deception that I am buying a few things.”

  “And the reason for this?”

  “Gossip. I wanted to learn what the village is saying about these murders.”

  “What!” he roared.

  Gytha grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the crowd.

  “Do you think…?” One of the plumb wives asked the other as they stared after the departing couple. With a beaming smile, her friend nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” Ralf muttered as he and Gytha found a quiet hillock where they sat down in the warm grass.

  “You were as loud as your stomach often is,” she replied, but her tone did not suggest she meant these words as her usual jest.

  “You should not be getting involved in this matter. It is not your concern, and I do not want you to get hurt,” he hissed.

  “Because I am Tostig’s young sister,” she snapped.

  “That, too,” he replied and then suddenly realized he may have suggested more than he intended. “I…”

  “Oh, be silent, Crowner! Your tongue always has balked at your teeth unless you are tormenting suspects. Let me tell you what I learned, and you will see that no harm could come of this.” She dug through her basket and pulled out a small fruit tart. “Eat this while I talk. It will keep you quiet while I chatter. Anyone passing will assume you were hungry and I am simply amusing my brother’s best friend with childish babble.”

  He took the tart and bit into it. “Where’d you get this?” he asked. “It’s good.”

  Gytha scowled. “Methinks you need a nurse to take care of you more than your daughter does!”

  “I, rather, she most certainly needs a good woman…”

  “…and I’ll find her one. That, I promise. Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?”

  Ralf nodded sheepishly.

  “The news abroad is that Ivetta and Martin were poisoned by drinking a potion of crushed yew berries. When I was examining these onions, a group of women nearby were complaining that their husbands now refuse to drink anything without having some creature lap at it first. One said she must be grateful her husband didn’t want her to test it rather than the dog!”

  “Is there growing concern over these deaths?” Ralf licked his fingers and looked hopefully at the basket resting between them.

  Gytha found another tart and tossed it to him. “Despite the priory’s efforts, some do still think the Devil is involved. The baker’s wife told me that Will, the blacksmith, was seen in conversation with old Tibia just before he disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “He has not been seen at the smithy for many hours.”

  Ralf swallowed his bite. “Did she say what passed between the two?”

  “No, but she thinks the herb woman is a witch, and Will sold his soul to the Devil through her. That would explain why he has vanished, she says. As for the other deaths, the baker’s wife believes Satan killed them because he had grown impatient waiting for those wicked souls to come to him.”

  “She doesn’t think they were poisoned?” He gestured expectantly at the basket.

  This time, she ignored his hungry look. “No one doubts that yew was involved, but, according to the baker’s wife, that proves Satan’s hand in the deaths. Everyone knows how poisonous the tree is. Would you allow Sibely to even play in the shadow of a yew? Only the Devil can handle it without harm.”

  “Are there no suspects mentioned?”

  “Only the Prince of Darkness.”

  “Thus panic grows,” Ralf muttered, covering his face with his hands. “And I am no closer to finding the guilty one.”

  Gytha rose and picked up her basket. “You will, Crowner. You always do.”

  He looked up and smiled with gratitude at her gentle words.

  “Oh, you are quite welcome to the help I have given you.” She tossed her head, and then left him before he could find words to reply.

  Ralf watched her walk away, his mouth still open. When she did find a husband to suit her, he wondered if he should pity the man or envy him for winning the heart of such an amazing woman.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Silence that cur.”

  The growl grew deeper.

  “He doesn’t like anyone who threatens me, Crowner.” Hob’s grin was not pleasant.

  “Answer my question then, and you both will be treated with the benevolence due all honest creatures.” Ralf glanced under the inn table.

  The dog covered his eyes with a large paw.

  “How can I tell you where Will is when I don’t know myself? Must I lie to convince you I am honest?”

  Ralf was tempted to grind his foot into the blacksmith’s arch but remembered the dog. “Perhaps you can explain to me why he ran if he is innocent of murder?” Anger made his face grow even hotter in the already warm air.

  “Knowing you is cause enough.”

  “Must I ask this a second time? Have you ever seen me act unfairly in the pursuit of justice?”

  “You hate my brother, even if you have been honest enough in other matters.”

  “Your brother is not known for his generosity to those less gifted with mortal goods than he. He does not possess a sweet nature. All that is true enough. Nor, I confess, am I fond of those who torment the innocent.” The crowner shrugged. “None of those qualities is likely to foster love in my heart for any man.”

  Hob leaned across the table, his face so close to the crowner’s that Ralf could smell the ale on his breath. “None of that means he’s a murderer either, but Will told me you’d arrest him nonetheless.”

  “Your brother did kill, as you well remember. Why shouldn’t I think he would do so again?”

  The man turned his head and spat. “That one time with the boy was an accident. Besides, Will only threw the rope over the tree limb and hel
d him. It was Martin who dropped the noose around his neck and hauled him up.”

  The crowner sat back and folded his arms.

  Hob did the same.

  “Very well. I do not accuse your brother of murder. But he does know more than he admits, maybe to you as well as to me. All I want from him are frank answers. Then he can return to the smithy in peace and beat hot metal into submission all he likes. Tell him that. His rank stench is enough to keep me far away, unless the king’s justice demands it.”

  Hob nodded, his expression softening. “If I tell you what I know of this, will you leave my brother alone?”

  “You shall confess your knowledge whether I decide it proves your brother’s innocence or not.” Ralf’s tone indicated some hope of concession.

  The man thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I’ve already told you that Will could not have murdered Martin. He wasn’t at the inn…”

  “The cooper was poisoned, not beaten to death as rumor should have told you by now. Your brother could have slipped the stuff into the drink before he left.”

  “Poison?” Hob threw his head back and roared with laughter. “My brother not only has no skill with herbs, Crowner, he wouldn’t know a beet top from that of a carrot. Nor does he seek the skill of those who understand the healing herbs even when he falls ill which, thanks be to God, has been rare. Like most of us, he fears mortality and rejects any reminder of it. As for the night of Martin’s death, Will was more interested in proving his manhood by rubbing up Signy. Whatever else you might think of him, my brother is a simple man with simple desires.”

  “And the night Ivetta was killed?”

  “He went to see old Tibia…”

  “What business did he have with her? Surely she is too old to find a use for his limp rod, and you have just said he had no love of herbs. Was it to make cruel fun…?”

  “My brother left her alone after her son’s death! He was hot-tempered but not cruel.”

  Ralf pointed under the table. “Tell that to your cur.”

  Hob swallowed hard and turned away.

  “When did he go to the herb woman? When did he return? Why did he want to speak to her?”

  “I told him to forget the night with Ivetta—although he had more than one such failure to overlook. As much as he hated potions and powders, the one thing Will could not bear was the loss of his manhood. He admitted to me that he would seek out Tibia’s cure. Others had praised her for it, but, when he went to her hut, she would not answer his knock. He stayed for some time at her door.”

  “Perhaps she knew who it was and did not wish to help him.”

  “She had promised earlier that she would.”

  So far Hob was confirming what the elder brother had already told him. “Are there witnesses? And, again, what time was this and when did he come back to the smithy?”

  “Enough questions! He left the smithy not long after the sun disappeared, for that was the hour she told him to come. When she did not let him in, he went to the inn, thinking she might be there since the innkeeper and his niece often fed her for the good of their souls. When he didn’t see her, Will drank until the thatcher carried him home and dropped him outside the smithy. I know this because I awoke from the noise and pulled him to his pallet. The next morning he cursed the herb woman for going back on her promise.”

  “Someone saw your brother talking to her just before he disappeared.”

  “Maybe that was when they agreed to meet at her hut?”

  Ralf silently cursed himself for not asking Gytha exactly when the baker’s wife had seen the two together. Perhaps Hob was right. “Did he ask anyone where she was when he did not find her there?”

  “You think Will would let a man besides his brother know he had need of her special skills?”

  Ralf turned thoughtful. “And you, Hob? What were you doing that night?”

  The blacksmith winced as if pricked with a nail. Bending toward the crowner, he beckoned for him to bring his ear closer. “Swear you will keep this secret?” he whispered uneasily.

  “If it has naught to do with murder.”

  “I had a woman in my bed. Her father does not know we meet….”

  “Will she confirm this to me?”

  “I would prefer you not ask her, but she will answer readily enough if need be. Aye, Crowner, I read your thoughts in that frown.” Hob sheepishly lowered his eyes and studied his open hands. “She is a praiseworthy woman, sensible, and far too good for me. When I can prove to her father that I am steady enough, we shall make public the vows we have spoken to each other in secret. In God’s eyes, at least, we are married.”

  Casually fingering the hilt of his sword, Ralf leaned back. As he continued to glare at the man in front of him, he knew that those with greater reason to fear him would soon break down into tears and confession. Would the blacksmith?

  Hob did not blink.

  “Tell your brother to come home,” Ralf said at last, conceding defeat. “He has nothing to fear from me.”

  Those anticipated tears now threatened to overflow from the younger blacksmith’s eyes. “I would if I knew where he hides. In that, as in all the rest I’ve said, I did tell the truth.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Brother John was a wiry man, well over a foot taller than the woman who accompanied him, but he was having difficulty keeping pace with the tiny prioress of Tyndal.

  She glanced behind and said with a hint of impatience, “Did you not say that Sister Juliana begged you to bring me quickly?”

  “Aye,” he panted as he raced after her.

  “What brought about this plea? Did you question her as I asked? Was it that?”

  “I do not know the cause, my lady. I did question her.”

  “Do we have God’s creature or Satan’s in our anchorage?”

  Although sweat was now beading on his gaunt face, a sweet look conquered his usual somber expression. “God’s, I think.”

  “Yet you would agree that her behavior is most strange.”

  “Many holy women have behaved in ways men have found questionable. Beatrice of Nazareth cinched her waist with a girdle of thorns and even feigned madness to show the depth of her ecstasy, but Jesus favored her by speaking in Latin only. Saint Mary of Egypt lived over five decades on herbs alone. Saint Euphrosyne dressed herself as a man and lived chastely with other monks in a monastery for almost four.” He gulped in a breath. “I find no fault in our own sister here.”

  “How do we know she does not commune with Satan in secret?”

  “After I spoke with her, I hid and watched her from the squint that opens into the church. She prays, either on her knees or lying with her face pressing into the ground. I did see her shake once as if convulsing, but her expression glowed with a most holy joy afterward.”

  “Does she eat or sleep?” Eleanor’s pace did not slow.

  “A rat ate the meal placed on the floor just inside the door. As for rest, God may grant it to her in some marvelous way, but I never saw her lie on her bed. Not that I was there for long…”

  “She has asked to be given nothing to eat that was once living flesh, including both fish and fowl. Although we all should reject venison and other such meat to keep our bodies free from lust, I have heard that such extreme renunciation may suggest unorthodoxy. Those of the Cathar heresy often denied themselves in a similar way, did they not?”

  “She strives to follow the desert fathers who fasted in a similar manner, not to deny or punish the body, but to cleanse it of those sins that drove Adam and Eve from Eden. I myself see no problem with her wish to live as if Lent must extend the length of her days on earth.”

  “What of her sleepless nights at the window, waiting to attend all those souls in pain?”

  “Satan and his imps may have claimed the night as theirs, but is not God mightier than evil?” He stopped for a moment but his prioress did not and he hurried to catch up. “Not one frail woman
has suffered ill effects. I would suggest that God smiles on her and protects those who come to hear His words, spoken through her mouth. She may be unusual in greeting seekers to come to her window only after the sun sets, but other anchoresses have ministered to the suffering who prostrate themselves at the curtained window during the night. Her ways are not without precedence.”

  “And her resistance to having any woman serve her? What is the point of that?”

  The monk brushed the burning sweat from his eyes. “Sister Juliana told me that the women sent by our sub-prioress do not understand that she does not want to hear their voices while she is listening for God’s. A few have tried to tell her when to eat or sleep, while others frown or wince and in other ways express silent criticism of behavior they find troublesome or incomprehensible. Some have even tried to gossip and chatter with her, finding the solitude of an anchorage uncomfortable.”

  “She wants a monk to serve her. Did she tell you that?”

  “My lady, have mercy on me!” The monk bent forward, hands on knees. “God has given you a fleet foot whereas I have ever been a sluggish man and find it difficult to answer your concerns properly when I lack the breath to do them justice.”

  Eleanor skidded to a stop. “Forgive me, Brother, for my thoughtlessness.”

  The monk did his best to smile while gasping for air.

  “Let us sit over there in the garden and rest before we see Sister Juliana.” She gestured toward a bench, hesitating briefly. Rarely did she come here without remembering the day, soon after she had first come to Tyndal, that a dead monk was found nearby. She prayed Brother John had forgotten.

  The monk settled on a corner of the bench, apparently more grateful for the chance to rest than unsettled by any distressing memory. When his breathing returned to normal, he continued. “Had I not heard of Saint Euphrosyne or Christina of Markyake who lived chastely with the hermit Roger, albeit hidden in a miserable hole from which only he could release her, I might have questioned this desire more. Yet I find nothing lewd in her request. She seems to think men more peaceful creatures.” He pondered that for a silent moment. “I wonder what our new king would have to say about that.”