Now Eustace rolled his eyes. “We were discussing Roger Lacy, Gilbert.”
“So we were. So we were. He had business at the castle. I cannot say what nature of business, but I am confident it was with Lady Isabella. It was she herself who asked us to prepare a room for him. I would not have turned him away in any case. Let all that come be received like Christ,” intoned the prior, respectfully reciting his own understanding of the Benedictine Rule of hospitality.
“Lacy was in a sad state when he arrived and had no money for hostelry. It was clear to me that he had once been a wealthy man and had since fallen on very hard times. He spoke well and even had a smattering of Latin and some small liturgical knowledge. I must say his changed circumstances made him all the more pitiable to my mind. I think the penury had somehow disturbed the poor fellow’s wits. He was also in decrepit health, all ulcerous sores, sagging skin, and crooked bones. Eustace did what he could to make him comfortable. It is no surprise Lady Isabella was moved by his condition.”
The prior shook his head sadly. Thomas believed the sympathy was genuine. The prior’s heart, it seemed, was almost a match for his belly.
“But sad to say, I know no more. I do try not to intrude into other people’s business.”
“Can you think of anybody else with whom I should speak?” Thomas asked.
“As I said, he had business with Lady Isabella. Her Ladyship tends to be shy of company, but she will surely see you given the gravity of the matter. How much help she will prove to be … well, you shall have to judge that for yourself.”
Thomas wondered at the prior’s apparent reticence with regard to Lady Isabella but thought it unlikely from his tone that any further clarification would be forthcoming. He would indeed have to judge for himself.
“And as to the matter of Father Oswin, I believe the housekeeper found his body. I suppose you might speak with her. Agnes is her name.”
Thomas gave John a look, letting him know that they should add a discussion with Agnes to their list of chores for the day.
“What kind of man was Father Oswin?”
Gilbert inhaled slowly, taking the time to measure his words. “The benefice of Saint Mary’s is ours to bestow, you know. Or did I say so already? Yes, I believe I did.” Thomas tried very hard not to sigh or roll his eyes. “And we are helping out with services as much as possible until we can find a new vicar. Eustace here has been particularly giving of his time. Sir Mortimer has also lent us the services of his chaplain from time to time. A good man that. And naturally we have hired itinerant chaplains when necessary. I had hoped one of them might prove suitable to take up the benefice. Unfortunately, so far, that has not been the case.”
“I had asked about Oswin?” Thomas reminded him gently.
“I was getting there,” Gilbert responded, a little irritated at having his flow interrupted. “I was going to say that we are being careful in the selection of the next vicar. Father Oswin was not the easiest man to get along with. He was of a taciturn nature. Very strict, intolerant of sin, prone to taking offense, and often most severe in the punishments he doled out after confession. Many a penitent left confession in tears—mostly women, who do tend to be sensitive about these things. And many a hapless child received a sound thrashing at his hands. He was not one to spare the rod. One might even say he was a tyrant. And he was an unpopular man with his parishioners, which is hardly an ideal state of affairs. Other than his maid, Agnes, I cannot think of a one who liked him.”
He shook his head sadly.
“I often wondered if Oswin’s zeal might have blinded him to some of his own failings. A certain want of the milk of human kindness, so to speak. From time to time, I encouraged him to show a little more understanding, a little more compassion, but to no avail. All that said, and as unpopular as he might have been, I do not believe that anyone in his flock would have thought to hurt him. Or even to disobey him.”
The prior coughed uncomfortably.
“But I think I have said more than enough about Father Oswin. There is no need to speak further ill of the dead.”
Thomas nodded his understanding. “Friar Justus is staying here?”
“Yes. There is another hard man. I would say he is … devoted to his cause.” Gilbert looked upward, choosing his words carefully, reluctant to say anything too terrible about his guest but wanting to convey his dislike.
“He is not someone to be gainsaid, Thomas,” he added with a meaningful look. “He is not like other Dominicans I have known from the abbey in Leicester. Good and godly men, I found them to be. One fellow passed through here not so long ago and was very fine company and a rather good chess player. He made short work of me, I can tell you, and he even gave old Eustace here a good game.”
Gilbert chortled all the way from his belly.
“Friar Justus seems to believe that there is some devilry involved in both deaths,” suggested Thomas.
“So I understand,” responded the prior gravely. “Maleficium—the practice of harmful magic. Poisoning. Sacrifice. I suppose such things are not unheard of, and the pope long ago declared them to be heretical, but I have encountered nothing of the sort in our sleepy little part of the world. Eustace thinks it is all a lot of nonsense.” The infirmerer’s face was presently wearing a look of disgust. “It is not our place, however, to question Friar Justus’s conclusions. The pope has in the main entrusted the investigation of such matters to our Dominican brethren, and I understand Justus has himself served the Inquisition. As such, he is sure to be far more knowledgeable about heretical practices than we could ever be.”
There was something very final about the prior’s last words.
“Well, I suppose if there is nothing more, the two of you had best be on your way. It is almost vespers, and Eustace and I shall need to tend to our devotions. Do drop by if you need anything else. We are always happy to help. Though, as I said, I doubt there is much more we can add.”
The prior nodded decisively to Brother Eustace and turned to the door, firmly indicating that the interview was now concluded.
* * *
They had only just reached the village when John elbowed Thomas in the ribs. “Now here’s a piece of luck. That’s Agnes, the vicar’s maid, right over there.”
He pointed to a pleasant-looking woman huddled in conversation with a man Thomas already knew to be the village reeve.
As soon as she saw them hurrying in her direction, Agnes moved away, waving them off with her hand.
“I have no more to say. Please leave me be.”
“I only have a few questions for you, Agnes,” protested Thomas. “It shall only take a moment of your time.”
“No, I have said all already,” she tossed over her shoulder, quickening her pace. “I have no more to say. You must speak with Friar Justus. He said I should tell anybody asking me questions to speak with him.”
And with that she was gone, leaving them all a little befuddled.
The reeve and constable exchanged a look of surprise.
“Well if that don’t beat all,” remarked the reeve. He was a thickset man, with a no-nonsense kind of face and muscled forearms showing below the rolled-up sleeves of his tunic. Just the sort of person you might expect to find in charge of the village. “A full two years I’ve been asking her to marry again. Several widowers have had their eye on her. Decent offers too. And every time she just shakes her head, smiling real shy-like. She’s lucky his lordship is an understanding man. And now she comes up to me saying as how she has to be married, and right quick. And that she’s none too particular who the man is.”
The reeve watched Agnes walk away, shaking his head in bewilderment, and then shrugged, doubtless attributing it all to the vagaries of women.
“I suppose there is John Dysart. He was interested in her. What do you think of him, John?”
“He’s an old man!” protested the constable. “She’s already lost one husband. Why would you put her through that again? What about the hayward
? He’s closer to her age, and I know for a fact he’s been right lonely since his missus passed.”
The reeve stroked his chin. “Aye, maybe. She’d be a good match for him. Keep him out of the alehouse too, which would be a good thing for all of us.”
They left him mumbling to himself and tallying the prospects.
“What do you make of that, John?” Thomas asked when they were out of earshot.
“Mighty strange. It makes you wonder if she’s carrying a bundle. But that would not be like her at all. Dotty is friendly with Agnes. I shall ask her to visit. Everybody likes my Dotty.”
He puffed his chest out proudly, and Thomas had to smile.
CHAPTER 10
Thomas sprang down from the saddle of his roan and tossed the reins to the approaching ostler. He immediately spied the chaplain walking toward the little stone chapel and hastened to catch up.
“Ah, our intrepid investigator.” Father Elyas smiled in greeting, pausing to allow Thomas to fall in step with him. He had a warm, welcoming smile that lit up an otherwise unremarkable face. “It is a difficult task you have been given, my friend. I cannot say that I envy you. May I ask whether you have made any progress?”
Thomas glanced up at the sky. He had woken that morning to a chill wind that carried with it a misting autumn rain. The sky had cleared for the moment, but the clouds were darkening again, and there would like as not be a storm before the day was out. Thomas could scent the moisture on the air and near taste it.
“Only a little, Father. As you said, it is no easy matter.”
The chaplain followed Thomas’s gaze heavenward and bundled his hands into his robe against the cold. “Well, I wish you well. This is a terrible business, and I should like to see it put behind us as quickly as possible. Some folk may think this matter a curiosity, but I can tell you that many are simply scared. And not just of the murderer. If truth be told, I think some are more afraid of our Dominican friend.”
“Perhaps they have a reason to be afraid. Friar Justus is an intimidating man, and his allegations dangerous.”
The chaplain sighed. “The Order of Saint Dominic does tremendous good, you know. In my time I have come across many Dominicans, almost all of whom I have found to be selfless and worthy of our respect. Some I even count as friends. Their doctrine, however, can tend to zealotry among the smaller minded. But that man,” he said, shuddering involuntarily, as if from revulsion. “I fear there is something truly wrong with his mind. He sees no good, only blackness and night. He has forgotten that Saint Dominic’s Order is first and foremost an order of preachers and not an order of inquisitors. I cannot believe his fraternity would condone his conduct were it widely known, and I marvel that the archbishop would give such a man license to investigate this matter.”
They walked in companionable silence for a few more paces. “Your charge is more important than you might suppose, Thomas. If we do not reach a resolution soon, more may follow Justus. If there is any assistance I can offer, you need only ask.”
“We are of a like mind, Father. And there is perhaps one matter you can help me with. Do you know Tom Attwood?”
The chaplain’s eyebrows rose inquisitively. “From the village? The miller? Yes, of course.”
“How well would you say you know him?”
“At Prior Gilbert’s request, I have performed services at Saint Mary’s and still do on occasion. With Father Oswin’s unfortunate passing, we have shared the load as best we can. A flock cannot be left long without a shepherd. Tom is one of the parishioners, so naturally I know him. I knew him a little even before, though not as well.”
He paused at the entrance to the stone chapel, tilting his head to the side and eyeing Thomas quizzically. “Why do you ask?”
“Would you say he is a man capable of harming another?”
The chaplain laughed out loud. “Tom? Hurt someone? No, I would not expect so. Not willingly. But wait,” he said, turning to face Thomas. “Surely you do not suspect him of playing some part in Roger Lacy’s death.”
When Thomas did not respond, Elyas stared at him aghast. “No, Thomas. I am sure you are mistaken.” He laughed again, but this time the laugh was faltering and distinctly wanting in mirth. “I cannot say he is the most devoted parishioner; a bit of a rogue to be sure. I dare say he owes some tithes, and I have heard grumblings from time to time about his weights and measures, the usual things people like to say about those in his profession. Perhaps he drinks too much. But an evil man—no, I would not think so. Why on earth would you suspect him?”
Elyas listened with an increasing look of concern as Thomas recounted his discussion with the miller and how he had seemingly followed Roger Lacy out of the alehouse.
“I would not dream of invading the sanctity of confession, Father, but has Tom sought your services as a confessor?”
“Yes,” replied the priest slowly, narrowing his eyes. “I have on occasion rendered him the sacrament of penance.”
Thomas realized he had to tread carefully. Elyas was not a man to take the sacrament lightly, and the wrong question might end the discussion quickly.
“I only ask, would you say it is possible for him to do such a thing?”
Elyas frowned thoughtfully and glanced to the sky once more, weighing his words carefully.
“It is true that the Devil hides his face. We cannot always know what lies in a man’s heart. And then many wicked things can be done in the heat of passion or when a man’s mind is befuddled with drink. But this,” he shook his head again. “I would not have thought Tom capable of such a thing, and nothing would lead me to suspect him. No.” His voice was less certain now, and he seemed to be dredging his memory, trying to persuade himself as much as Thomas. “Surely not. I cannot believe it.”
“I am of a like mind with you, Father, but I cannot afford to ignore any leads, however unlikely they may be. Can you keep our discussion to yourself?”
“Of course, Thomas. You need not have asked. And as for Tom, do you wish me to speak with him as his priest?”
It was a generous offer, and Thomas considered it for a moment. “No, I do not think it necessary. I too doubt he has any part in this. With any luck, things will soon become clearer. Thank you for your time.”
He left Father Elyas standing motionless at the door of his chapel, his brow furrowed in concern.
* * *
Almost at once Thomas saw Hunydd making her way slowly across the courtyard. She was carrying a pail of water and making slow work of it.
“Hunydd,” he called, “I am glad to see you.”
She smiled brightly and gratefully set aside the bucket, smoothing her skirts.
“You were looking for me?”
“Actually, I was hoping to speak with your mistress.”
For some reason Thomas felt bad saying so, and Hunydd looked a little disappointed herself, even though there was no reason she should have thought Thomas would traipse all the way to the manor house to attend on her.
Hunydd wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “Yes, of course. I shall take you to her at once, sir.”
“There is no need to be so formal, Hunydd. If we are to be seeing each other, I think you should call me Thomas.”
“Should I? Do you think that would be proper?”
“I believe so, and I dare say nobody will care much. Besides, I should like it.”
“Tomos,” she repeated slowly as she led him toward the gardens, pronouncing his name a little differently. “Is it also a Welsh name?”
Thomas laughed, not at the question, but simply because he had managed to get her to use his name. He had half-suspected she would not. Hunydd’s cheeks reddened, and she turned her face away from him, clearly hurt.
“I am sorry, Hunydd. Have I offended you?”
“I think you are making fun of my ignorance, sir.”
He touched her shoulder gently, bringing her to a halt.
“Sometimes people do,” she said, jutting out her lower lip
. “They make fun of me. They laugh at me and treat me as though I am simple. I do not like it. It makes me feel low.” Surely no lower than Thomas felt now. “My mother said that it should not bother me. That it is the people making fun of me that are the fools, and not I.”
Thomas accepted the mild reproof, thinking he likely deserved it for his thoughtlessness.
“And she was right to say so, Hunydd. I truly am sorry if I offended you. I did not mean to do so.” They began walking again. “Mine is a Greek name, I think. But you are quite right—it is a Welsh name as well. The letters are a little different, but it sounds very much the same.”
She nodded, her general good nature already rising above any perceived insult.
“Of course, I’ll grant you that neither one is so pretty as Hunydd,” he added with a grin. “And I doubt that anyone will write a poem about a man named Thomas Lester. Least of all a Welsh prince.”
At that she smiled, and they turned onto the gravel path leading into the gardens.
“And how does a Welsh girl find her way to a little village here in the east of England?”
“I am from his lordship’s estates in the marches,” she said, meaning the counties bordering England and Wales.
“How long have you been Lady Cecily’s maid?”
“Less than a year. My mother said it was an opportunity to serve a great lady; that I could better myself. I am trying to do so, to better myself, though I shall never be so fine as Lady Cecily.”
Thomas did not pry further. To his mind there could be only two reasons for her being so far from her home. Either she had caught the eye of the master of the house, which seemed unlikely, given his state of health, or she was a bastard child brought to her father’s manor for her betterment, to salve his guilty conscience. Neither possibility merited discussion, and both were potentially painful for Hunydd.
“My mistress can read, you know,” Hunydd continued. “I’ve seen her doing so. All sorts of books she reads, some of them as thick as my arm. And she has such fine clothes—six kirtles, all different colors, and six surcotes to wear over top. Can you imagine such a thing?” Hunydd glanced at Thomas from the corner of her eye. “Many also think my mistress beautiful.”
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