Wild Justice

by Priscilla Royal

  “She looked relieved to admit innocence, as one is when finally confessing a lie.”

  “What a perplexing woman. First she claims to repent of telling what she now insists is a lie, and yet we both think her current tale holds falsehoods too. If that is true, what sin has she cast aside?”

  Eleanor concurred. “Those who must face hanging often claim innocence even when they have actually confessed to their crime. They weep as well, but those tears are based in terror of the execution. But her tears seemed genuine. As you said, this woman has lived with her fate and never shrunk from it until today.” She bit her lips. “I know my belief in her story is not based in logic, and yet...”

  “Did she give any further details about what happened that day?”

  “A few. Her maid, Janeta, announced Mistress Hursel’s arrival, stating that the woman awaited her in the cloister garth. When Amicia approached, she saw the woman sitting on a bench, head forward as if asleep. She put a hand on her shoulder to gently awaken her, but Mistress Hursel fell forward. Fearing the woman was ill, she grabbed her to prevent injury. That was how Amicia got blood on her hands. Although she did not see the cause of the wound, she knew the woman was dead and was about to raise the hue and cry, but the Hospitaller priest, Father Pasche, arrived. The moment he caught sight of her, he fell to his knees and asked, “Prioress Amicia, what have you done?”

  Anne clapped her hands in frustration. “All she needed to do was tell the truth!”

  “I did wonder aloud why the priest assumed she had done something wrong. In response, she said that he had cause. He knew of the quarrel between herself and the dead woman.”

  “Was she the first to speak of it at the trial or was he?”

  “It was she.”

  Putting her empty cup back on the chest next to the ewer, Anne frowned. “It is as if she wanted to be found guilty.”

  “I agree. Yet now she does not. If she had cause for lying about her guilt before, something has since happened to change her mind or, perhaps, the reasons for her doing so have altered. I am not convinced my brother’s generous gift and the reminder that we have solved a few crimes were why she changed her mind, any more than I believe her sudden realization that lying is a sin. She has been a prioress and fully aware that she must tell the truth in confession. Sin may creep up on us, but, soon after, we know the nature of our transgression.” Eleanor took a deep breath. “All that noted, my heart still found her innocence believable.”

  “Your heart is rarely wrong.”

  “I promised her nothing more than an attempt. Finding evidence at this point is virtually hopeless. Yet strangers rarely invade a priory, kill, and then disappear without a trace. The most likely conclusion is that someone here, or very familiar to the monastics, killed Mistress Hursel. In any case, that is the premise with which we must start.”

  “And your contrived injury will allow a few days for investigation.”

  “Sister Amicia has refused to let me tell Prioress Emelyne of her changed story unless we find new evidence. Hard as that is to accept, I had to agree and feel some sympathy for her decision. Clearly, all inquires must be cautiously subtle. I have eliminated myself from seeking answers because of my injury, but Brother Thomas is free to do what he can at the men’s house and that includes questioning the priest. You must go to him and relay what I have told you. As my counselor, he may always confer with me in private without raising suspicion.”

  Sister Anne waited for her friend to continue. When she did not, she reached out to touch Eleanor’s arm. “Request of me whatever you need. I have the freedom of the nun’s priory and also have access to you as your sub-infirmarian.”

  “I would not ask more of you than you are able.”

  Sister Anne waved that hesitation aside. “I need a task. I am not accustomed to remaining idle when there is work to be done.”

  Eleanor took her friend in her arms and hugged her. Their friendship was deep enough that nothing more need be said.

  There was a hesitant knock at the door.

  Eleanor quickly lay back on the mound of pillows.

  When Sister Anne opened the door, Janeta stood outside, a tray of food in her hands.

  Chapter Seven

  Prioress Emelyne was in a rage.

  To keep from ramming her fist into the stone wall as she strode back to her quarters after speaking with Prioress Eleanor, she struck her thigh hard but felt no pain.

  Desperately, she prayed for composure. Expected to be the model of devotion for her nuns, Emelyne knew she was obliged to remain tranquil even when outrage coursed like hellfire through her veins.

  Why had God cursed her with these wearisome guests?

  Not that she suspected they had intentionally created a reason for a longer stay. They had no motive to do so, and the stone floor was uneven. Last winter, an elderly nun had fallen, broken her hip, and subsequently died. Although Prioress Eleanor was much younger and seemingly did not suffer from poor vision, her fall might well have been due to prayerful distraction. Emelyne had heard that many considered this leader of Tyndal Priory a woman much favored by God. Hadn’t He granted her a vision of the Holy Family some years ago?

  She shivered as a damp breeze whistled through a window in the corridor and struck her overheated cheeks with a sharp chill. Looking outside, she saw that the sun was bravely attempting to shine through the mist. That might be a blessing, but it did nothing to calm her anger born of an uneasy spirit and a fear she could not quite define.

  An approaching nun murmured a greeting and bowed her head with reverence.

  Prioress Emelyne brushed past in grim silence.

  As she approached her chambers, the nun standing without opened the door so her leader could enter.

  Emelyne barked an order for mulled wine.

  The nun swiftly obeyed.

  At least the fire is cheerful, the prioress thought, and threw herself into the chair. The floor remained cluttered with accounting rolls and charters. Only the gift from Baron Hugh rested alone in the middle of her desk.

  “A blessing and a curse,” the prioress muttered, her words punctuated by the snapping flames. “Had he not chosen to be generous, his sister would not have arrived with her companions to disturb my peace.”

  Yet the gift was welcome. She could now afford to improve the fishponds, which had grown rank with foul growth, and the surrounding paths, which dissolved into treacherous mud in the rain. Had the meeting with her steward not been interrupted by the news that Prioress Eleanor had been injured and required her attendance, she might have discussed other priorities that could be funded, thanks to the baron’s munificence.

  There was a soft knock at the door

  Emelyne granted leave to enter, and the nun hurried to place the requested hot wine next to her leader’s hand.

  “Stay outside, Sister. I wish to be left alone,” Emelyne said and waved the woman away.

  A sip of the wine soothed her, and her thoughts, previously scattered by her anger, began to coalesce.

  Until she proved to the Prior of England that she was a talented manager of priority assets, she did not want him to learn of her outbursts of unseemly wrath. In spite of her acknowledged competence, she knew that the nuns had voted for her to replace Prioress Amicia with some reluctance. Many were aware of her occasional failure to curb her hot temper.

  But the Prior would forgive a few complaints about excessive beatings or harsh fasts if she succeeded in increasing this priory’s expected donations to the Hospitaller work in Outremer. God’s demands were paramount. The funding of charity work and brother knights would take precedence over the grumblings of feeble women whose flesh longed for earthly comforts and thus resented a holier austerity.

  She sighed, drank a little deeper of the wine, and felt her ire recede a bit more.

  If only these Fontevraudine re
ligious would leave and let her proceed with her work of getting the priory assets in order. But that wish must be set aside. She could not change either the fact of the visit or the accident that would keep them here.

  Staring at the ceiling, she considered her plight and her options.

  What danger was there in this extended visit by Prioress Eleanor and her companions? As Baron Hugh’s sister, she knew about the long friendship he had had with the former Prioress Amicia and her dead husband. Had there been time enough for the news of her murder conviction to have reached him? Might he have asked his sister and Brother Thomas to look into the matter?

  Despite her orders, there was a soft knock at the door.

  Squeezing her eyes shut to control her surging fury, Prioress Emelyne bade the nun enter.

  The woman bowed her head. “I beg forgiveness, my lady, but your steward has asked if he may be permitted to return to his other duties after he takes the Fontevraudine monk to his quarters.”

  “Tell him he must come back here,” she replied, then forced a smile. “I have many other pressing matters to discuss.”

  As soon as the nun closed the door, Emelyne picked up the cup of mulled wine and drained it. Peaceful warmth now rapidly seeped through her, and she sat back in her chair with greater content. Surely there is no reason to be troubled, she decided, and my fear is only a woman’s frailty.

  The news of the murder could not have traveled yet to Wynethorpe Castle. Even if it had, the baron would have learned as well that Amicia consented to her verdict without offering one word of denial or argument in her own defense. Why then would Baron Hugh question the verdict and ask his sister to intervene?

  Emelyne caught herself smiling benignly at the winking flames of her little fire. After all, she mused, Prioress Eleanor was unable to walk on that wounded ankle. What trouble could she possibly cause, even if her brother had hoped she would look into the verdict as a kindness to the widow of a fellow crusader?

  There was Brother Thomas to consider, but he would be quartered in the brothers’ house. All she had to do was ask Brother Damian to set a watch on the clever monk and make sure he did nothing to investigate this murder or communicate with his prioress.

  About Sister Anne, she had few worries. The nun’s expertise lay in healing and the nature of injuries. There was no corpse for her to examine or anything else that might require her medical expertise. Although Mynchen Buckland’s own infirmarian, Sister Richolda, could be sent to attend Prioress Eleanor, Tyndal’s leader would surely prefer her own healer to provide any needed physic.

  And, having noted the sub-infirmarian’s gauntness and pallor, Emelyne wondered if the nun was in frail health. If that observation was correct, then caring for her prioress would be all Sister Anne was capable of doing.

  “God has given me wisdom in my time of trial,” the Prioress of Mynchen Buckland murmured and then sighed with growing confidence. “I take it as a sign that my elevation to this position finds favor in His eyes, and that my willingness to endure penance for my sins has been accepted.”

  She waited. There was only silence, which led her to conclude she had been right about God’s smile upon her. To further support this belief, she was suddenly graced with a new inspiration.

  Wouldn’t Janeta be the perfect one to report any attempts by Prioress Eleanor to pry into the murder of Mistress Hursel or to contact Brother Thomas for assistance on her behalf?

  The secular maid would soon be without a mistress, once the Prior of England cast Amicia from the Order. With no means of support, Janeta would be desperate to gain favor with the new prioress who had the authority to accept her as a lay sister, should she be willing to take vows. If Janeta were assigned to wait upon Prioress Eleanor, until the woman was well enough to leave, the maid dare not refuse Emelyne’s command to bring her all pertinent news.

  In a voice some might deem too merry for a prioress, Emelyne called to the nun waiting outside her door and told her to bring Janeta to her chambers before the steward arrived.

  Chapter Eight

  Little rivulets ran along the short path between the nuns’ preceptory and the brothers’ house. Usually the route was dry, but the severe winter and unusual snows had turned this part of Somerset into more than the usual wetlands. Men sank up to their ankles in muck. Oxen bellowed in fear when they stumbled. Placid streams now raged, churning with tan mud and torn black roots. Deep puddles formed in the ruts dug by cart wheels.

  Brother Thomas wondered if the very walls of Mynchen Buckland Priory might be in danger of cracking. Turning around, he quickly decided that the buildings were on high enough ground. As the mud sucked hungrily at his feet, he concluded that only the path was a problem.

  “There is no danger to either the preceptory or the brothers’ house,” the odiferous steward said as he noted the expression on the monk’s face. “But even the water in the fishponds has risen to flood stage and grown filthy with earth crumbling from the banks. If a man fell in, there are a few places he might be entangled by the rank weeds and drown. We are sure-of-foot here, and there is little real danger of that.” He grinned impishly. “Now a stranger would be well-advised to try netting his fish elsewhere.”

  Thomas smiled. The man might reek, but he was otherwise a pleasant fellow. Perhaps in summer, when his clothes could dry and not mildewed, he would be less fragrant. “We passed the ponds on our journey here,” he said. “I have never seen ones so large. Is there not an island, or even two?”

  “Aye, but nothing lives there. And we are fortunate the ponds are so large. The fish will likely survive the flooding and mud.”

  “Do the brother knights and sergeants pay for the maintenance?”

  “There is only one knight, Brother, and no sergeants.” He gestured at the building they approached. “But I think the nuns will quickly agree to pay for repairs, now that Prioress Emelyne leads the nuns’ preceptory. The two houses should be on better terms.”

  “There was a quarrel?” Thomas already knew about the tension between the two houses here and that it was firmly based in disparate income. The women vastly outnumbered the men and had title to more of the rents and lands donated to the Order, but the men often felt aggrieved over their lesser financial standing and let their feelings be known. Thus his question was intended to uncover something more. Friction often revealed much about the character of the arguing parties. With a murder to investigate, such information could be helpful.

  The steward shrugged. “In my opinion, ’twas a trivial thing. No one went hungry or badly clothed. Prioress Amicia, as she once was, dealt fairly with the men, fierce though she was in defense of the nuns’ rights to the gifts they were given. The men have to pay for the maintenance, ritual garments, and other costs of the priest, a man both houses share to keep their souls clean.” He beamed, exposing irritated gums and darkened teeth. “And they provide me with two meals a day, but I also require a good sum for my skills. The men pay that as well. Although the nuns have far more work for me, the men resent that I spend most of my time working for the preceptory.”

  Thomas raised a questioning eyebrow, although his expression betrayed no criticism.

  “I have a wife and children, Brother. I care not who gives me my pennies, but Roger de Veer, the Prior of England in the last king’s reign, decided that the brothers would pay the steward.”

  Thomas nodded, then asked, “But you said that Prioress Emelyne will ease the tensions between the monks and nuns?”

  “She has reason to be more generous. She and Brother Damian, the brother knight who leads the men, came from the same mother’s womb. You’ll meet him soon enough.”

  “And she was elected prioress after the murder happened? How odd that greater peace may be born of a crime.”

  “You heard of the scandal?”

  “The old woman who was waiting with us in the hall while…”

 
The steward laughed. “Ah, but she does love to tell her tales. I was probably asleep when she told you that one. But it was a strange event.”

  Thomas encouraged him to say more.

  “You see, Mistress Hursel, the dead one, was once a high-ranking servant in the household of Prioress Amicia when she was still in the world. First, Mistress Hursel’s husband died, then the Lady Amicia’s. Soon after, they had some quarrel, and the former prioress dismissed the woman from her service. I don’t know why Mistress Hursel came here, but she did and remarried a butcher in this town. Later, Lady Amicia joined the Order and was sent as a nun to Mynchen Buckland, quickly becoming prioress. But the two women had no contact until recently when Mistress Hursel came specifically to visit the prioress. Her second husband had just died.”

  “In an attempt to make peace, perhaps? Death often makes one ponder whether petty quarrels are worth the grief and sin.”

  “Poverty also makes one brood. Rumor says that the butcher left his widow with only her legal pittance. His sons took his business, which is prosperous enough, but my wife tells me they have little love for their stepmother.”

  Thomas wondered whether the woman had come to beg charity. But if refused, she would have been more likely to kill Prioress Amicia, not the reverse. “So no one really knows why Mistress Hursel chose this time to break the silence between them, or even whether the former prioress asked her to come?”

  The steward stopped and took a moment to dig a finger into his ear. “The last is unlikely. No rumors say that. As to why Mistress Hursel came, not even Janeta has said, and she served as Prioress Amicia’s maid before and after her mistress took vows. My wife heard at the market day, just after the trial, that the maid swore she had announced to her mistress that the butcher’s widow was waiting in the cloister to see her. Prioress Amicia went alone to greet the woman. Nothing more.”

  “A surfeit of dead husbands,” Thomas said, and then realized he had spoken his observation aloud.

  The steward blinked in confusion.