“Not through the forest. We should go back along the road.”
“Then do that! I shall take my chances with the blacksmith alone,” Thomas angrily countered. He took a few steps toward the forest, and then turned around. “When you catch the herb woman, will you hang her?”
“Perhaps not,” Ralf looked around with an expression of uncharacteristic indecision.
Suddenly they heard a high-pitched scream.
The crowner sprang off in the direction of the sound.
Thomas was right behind him.
Chapter Forty-One
Thomas grew breathless. His feet pounded the earth. Branches slashed at his flesh as he pushed through the thick brush. Thorns from a wild berry cane cut into his ankle. Soon his lungs were screaming with pain.
Running in front of him, Ralf cried out and fell.
The monk leapt over the crowner, avoiding the vine that had tripped his friend.
Were they too late?
Rushing around a thick clump of bushes, he burst into a small clearing.
A tall tree stood near a steep embankment. Hob stood at the brink, looking down. His dog leaned against his leg.
“Where is she?”
The blacksmith pointed to a spot just below him.
The monk crouched on his heels, then carefully eased himself over the edge and down the several feet to the stony stream bed, grabbing at rocks to slow his pace, gravel and dirt filling his shoes as he slid.
Tibia lay at the bottom, her body broken on the rocks. Her wide eyes turned to stare at him, eyes that screamed more of terror than pain.
“My son,” she gasped.
From the angle of her body Thomas knew that the fragile bones of her spine must have shattered beyond hope. “Mother,” he whispered as he knelt by her side. Then he took her hand.
A strange look of peace came over old Tibia. “I killed them,” she said. “For you.”
What point was there in reminding her who her was, he thought. “You killed them because they hanged me?” he asked, raising his tone into a soft and youthful tenor. “Martin, Ivetta, and Will?”
Tibia’s lips twitched into a brief smile. “God was kind to send you, Brother,” she whispered.
“He wants you to confess so He can hold your soul in His hand,” Thomas replied, reverting to his own voice as quickly as he had the dead boy’s.
“I have given no joy to any and sinned for no reason, even pleasure. All that I confess and regret.” She lost breath for a moment, then continued, “Aye, I killed the three who murdered my sweet lad. No remorse.”
“You must repent or all hope of salvation is lost.”
“My son went to Hell on that tree above us. Ivetta lured him to her bed. He’d been as virginal as a saint ‘til then. The others waited until he was covered in spent seed from wicked lust. Then they killed him.”
“It was an accident.”
“God knew otherwise, though I didn’t understand that. Spent years weeping for justice from Him. Then our anchoress said I must fall silent. To hear His voice.” She groaned. “He told me the time had come for vengeance.”
Thomas felt tears stinging his eyes. Surely God would never order or consent to these murders. Satan must have found a way to twist the anchoress’ innocent advice.
She cried out, her eyes round with pain, and dug her nails into Thomas’ hand. When it eased, she continued. “The crowner’s jury blinded themselves to their own sins when they found the murderers innocent. Some lay with me as a girl, others had Ivetta.” Her eyes squeezed shut. “Muttered that a whore’s son caught swyving a harlot was a sinner twice over and deserved to die. Puffed out their chests with righteousness. Thought to hide their own guilt and…” She screamed. “Punished me!”
“Say you repent!” Thomas pleaded.
Panting with weakening breath, the old woman whispered, “Of those deaths, I can’t. God said I needn’t wait longer. I was dying. He let me have justice.”
The killings were wrong. Of course he knew that, but his heart ached with both sorrow and understanding. She had been spat upon by the very men who had once used her as a girl no older than their daughters. Then she lost the one thing that gave her joy and was mocked when those who had killed him walked free. If she had heard God’s voice in Satan’s seductive words, how many others might not have done the same? But the deed was still against God’s commandments and Tibia must repent. He begged God to show him how to persuade her, for he would not let Satan have this soul.
Then it came to him, a cruel thing to tell her but something that might force Tibia to see the error of flawed mortals rendering vengeance. She had adored her son and that love had brought some redemption, despite the harshness of her life. This news might grieve her deeply enough to provoke remorse.
“Did you know that Ivetta was with child when you killed her?” he said, bending to whisper into her ear.
“Didn’t know!” Tibia convulsed with fresh agony. “I deserve Hell.”
“Nay! Your son begs you to cleanse your soul. God does. I do.”
Another spasm hit her. “Give me comfort and pity. I die!” She rolled her eyes in the direction of the embankment. “Of the four, I poisoned three. I saved Hob. He begged forgiveness. Left wood at my door in winter. He could live. God said.”
Thomas glanced up at the man standing in silence above, his arms casually folded as he gazed down at them. The dog looked intently at Ralf who stood but a foot away. Did the crowner think the younger blacksmith had killed Tibia? Had the man done so?
“Did Hob push…?”
“Dog. Scared me. Fell.” Her lips drew back, exposing her gums, and her eyes began to roll back. “An accident,” she mumbled.
With her soul struggling to depart a body it had long hated, Thomas knew he had no more time for questioning or argument. He must cleanse her of sins. “I bring the comfort of forgiveness. Just say repent,” he beseeched.
For a long moment, the only sounds were the rattling whisper of Tibia’s fading life and the bubbling of the nearby stream. Then she murmured something so softly that Thomas had to press his ear near her lips to hear.
“God’ll grant mercy if due. Punishment, too. I’m ready.”
“Then you do repent,” the monk decided and quickly repeated the ritual of absolution.
With a harsh scream, she reached out to him, her eyes turned white and blind with death. “God’s terrible face! Take my hand! Oh, sweetest son, hold me! I can’t bear this…”
Thomas raised her hand to his lips and tenderly kissed the gnarled fingers.
The herb woman convulsed once and slipped into silence.
Tibia was dead.
Chapter Forty-Two
The monk released her hand, pressed his eyes shut, and begged God to take pity on her. Would He take her final words as sufficient repentance and deflect her soul from Hell? Thomas believed she understood the nature of her sin but he had grown fond of her and his heart might be untrustworthy as a result. Certainly her spirit had cause enough to rejoice when it tore away from that body. Hadn’t she suffered too much pain and a life with too little happiness? Wouldn’t God feel compassion…?
The rattle of small rocks tumbling against his feet brought him sharply back to earthly matters.
Ralf skidded to a stop and knelt beside him.
Thomas nodded at the body. “With two corpses to carry into the village, we will now need more men.” His voice echoed in his head with an odd hollowness, as if his thoughts and tongue were separated by much distance.
“She died quickly then?” Ralf looked hopefully at his friend.
“She confessed first.”
“To the killing of all three?”
“Aye. Signy is innocent,” Thomas snapped, answering what he assumed to be the crowner’s primary concern, but his face grew hot with swift regret. He had not meant to speak so harshly. After attending the dying, he often found himself impatient with the living, th
eir concerns flat and pallid in the face of death. As a former soldier, however, Ralf might well understand and forgive his abruptness. To temper his words, he added, “Tibia did kill them for their part in murdering her boy, as our prioress suspected.”
“Did she die quickly, monk?” Ralf shifted his weight in the gravel.
“Soon enough. Within minutes, Crowner.” Thomas expression turned quizzical.
“You asked if I hoped to hang her. The law would have demanded that I put her neck in a noose, but she’d have died long before any trial, in misery, with foul water, hard bread, and rats for company. This was a better death for an old woman. Murderer though she was, I find no fault with that. Her soul will pay the price.”
“She was dying already and may have stayed alive only for her revenge.”
The crowner looked at the tree looming above, its dark branches stretched out like the arms of a condemned man praying on his scaffold. “Yet I find it strange that she did not return home along an easy path? Why fight her way through that brush to this place after poisoning Will? This was where her son died.” He twisted around and stared up at Hob still standing on the edge of the embankment. “I wonder if she was to meet someone here?”
The blacksmith did not move. His dog whimpered softly.
“Perhaps it was the Devil. Some claim she was a witch. She might have traded her soul to the Prince of Darkness for that of her son and come here to make the exchange,” Thomas murmured as he went back to studying the body, his forehead furrowed with dark thought. “Yet Satan does little in the brightness of God’s day…”
Suddenly, the monk reached out and pulled over a small but damply stained bag from where it lay under the dead woman’s hip. “If this holds what I suspect, she may have done with life. Perhaps she wanted her soul to depart the world under that tree where her son had been hanged?”
From inside the bag, Thomas drew forth two small pottery bottles: one intact; one cracked and leaking. “I fear I am right. For once, I grieve to be so,” he murmured.
“What is this?” The crowner took the undamaged bottle and uncorked it, sniffing at the opening with caution.
“Don’t drink that unless you are in need of profound sleep,” Thomas’ smile was thin with bitterness.
“Poison?” Ralf’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Not in moderation.” The monk shook his head. “A very effective draught for easing pain and bringing sleep that was brought to our priory, when it was still a Benedictine house, by an old crusader. On his way to join the monks at Shrewsbury, he fell ill, and in gratitude for his care here, he gave the infirmarian some poppy seeds for the garden. Their usefulness was forgotten until Sister Anne recognized the plant and remembered how her father had prepared and used this draught.”
“Two bottles?” Ralf gave the monk a questioning look as he gestured at the broken one.
“Sufficient to fall into death’s sleep,” Thomas replied. “There I take full blame. She asked me about the dangers of the draught, and I must have explained enough for her to conclude the dosage needed to die. When I found her without pain, or so she claimed, she begged me to leave the bottle each time, saying she feared the agony would return after I had gone. These two, it seems, she set aside for this sinister purpose.”
“Can you be sure we do not have another poisoner?”
“Sister Anne makes the potion only when there is a need and allows no one else to do so. These are priory jars. If you seek another killer, then you have found him in me.”
The crowner jumped to his feet and tossed the intact bottle into the stream. It shattered, staining the rocks before the water washed the potion away.
Thomas watched, his face devoid of expression.
“What of him?” Ralf asked, gesturing at the figure still standing on the edge of the bank.
“She said he had naught to do with her death.”
“An accident?”
“When the dog ran out of the forest, he startled her. She must have been standing there at the brink and fallen backward.”
Ralf hesitated, his expression suggesting some internal quarrel with himself. At last, he nodded and then pushed himself upright. “Hob!”
The blacksmith let his arms drop to his sides but did not speak.
“Find Cuthbert, will you? We need more men to carry these bodies back to the village.”
The man turned and walked off. Behind him, his dog followed, tail wagging.
“Will you stay with her body, Brother, until the men come?”
Thomas nodded.
As he watched Ralf pull himself back up the embankment with deliberate slowness, he realized that the crowner was allowing Hob to get far enough away to understand that no one was following to arrest him for murder.
***
Did the forest ever quite grow silent, Thomas asked himself, as he sat back on his heels and waited. From the safety of trees, birds warned each other that an ominous creature was still in their midst. Insects were less cautious. He swatted at a few brazen enough to land on his face and hands. Even the leaves made noise brushing one against another in the sea breeze. Nay, the woods were not quiet at all—unlike the forsaken shell of Man.
Thomas looked at the motionless corpse and bent over to close the gaping mouth. Tibia’s expression was calm, her face smoother now that the pain of age and anger was gone. Sinner she most certainly was, but whose fault was it that she had felt justified in poisoning those who had murdered her son?
Was it Sister Juliana’s advice? Surely the guidance to seek silence in order to plainly hear God’s voice had been much the same as the anchoress had given him and others. These words may have been innocent enough, but might Tibia have heard another voice and interpreted that to mean that God would both actively encourage her take matters into her own hands and forgive her for doing so? Surely her spirit had mistaken the seductive lilt of Satan’s voice for God’s and heard only what she longed to hear. Her heart had been bitter enough to be easily wooed by the Devil.
Thomas stared up into the bright sky. He blinked with confusion and felt a slight shiver of fear. There were other conclusions. Dare he imagine that God would use her as an instrument of justice against the three when mortal sinners had failed to render it? Was it not heresy to think that God might have demanded their deaths without any opportunity for confession? What if God knew that none, except Hob, had ever felt the slightest anguish over what they had done? If they did not, could they have been truly penitent even though they spoke the right words? Surely God could not be so easily fooled.
Terror filled him. Was it a sin to wonder about such things! He was a priest. Had he not granted Tibia absolution when many reasonable men would have doubted the sincerity of her regret? Had he been present at their deaths, would he not have given the same consolation to Martin, Ivetta, and Will? His heart began to answer but he silenced that untrustworthy voice. Wasn’t he already cursed enough?
What of his own part in this cruel tale? Why had he not realized the danger of leaving her these potions? She was not the first to commit self-murder when pain of body or soul grew too great. Had God blinded him or had he blinded himself to what she might do with the extra bottle? At least she did not use the draughts—but she might have done so and that would have made him a companion in murder.
Closing his eyes, he suddenly felt as if Tibia’s soul were still hovering like a mother longing to give comfort to her orphaned child. “I shall pray for you,” he whispered. “God may have used you as a hand of vengeance for a brutal killing. I should not question that. Sinner you most certainly were, as am I, but perhaps He did speak to you. If He has now forgiven and taken your soul into His comforting arms, would you intercede on my behalf? Please ask if He will finally pardon me and answer my pleas for understanding.”
Tears began to run down his cheeks, and he rubbed his face dry with his sleeve. A light breeze brushed against him as he stood. Suddenly he began to shake with ho
rror at the next thought that came to him.
“An accident?” he murmured. “You said your death was…That was the verdict in your son’s death. Did Hob kill you after all?” he asked. Looking around as if expecting to see the herb woman alive and standing close by, he continued, “If so, why did you protect him? Did you think God used him to punish you for following His direction? Or did Satan direct Hob’s hand while God did nothing but stand by and watch?”
“Answer me!” he shouted, all tolerance for uncertainty at an end. But the only sound he heard was the twittering, rustling, and humming from the woods.
Raising his fists, his body tensed with outrage. He shut his eyes and willed himself into the silence Sister Juliana had promised would open his soul to God’s voice.
No words came. God most certainly did not speak.
Instead, Thomas found himself pondering two new questions.
Should he, like Sister Juliana, abandon the world completely and seek a hermitage? By hiding in the forest away from all men, he would never have to face his human demons again, as he did in Amesbury, and might find the strength to fight those imps who came to him in dreams. Even his spymaster might leave him alone then, for no priest would ever dare to pull a hermit from his holy cave.
Or should he stay in Tyndal Priory, working with Sister Anne in the hospital until his prioress demanded otherwise? Since his arrival here, he had begun to think that Prioress Eleanor might well be one of those avenging angels sent by God to wage war on evil men. And had he not fallen to his knees just the other day, breaking his previous oath to his spymaster, and sworn to obey her in all things henceforth? At the time, he had done so without thinking. Had God inspired him?
Opening his eyes, Thomas groaned. “I am still confused.” Indeed, he meant no complaint in that statement, only resignation. God may not have spoken to him from the stream or the rocks, but an odd kind of peace had been bestowed. Instead of answers, he had been granted questions. Only two, in fact, and for that he feared he should be grateful. Would his torments be eased once he had answered them, or were these only the beginning in a series of troubling queries?
Forsaken Soul Page 20
