Wild Justice

by Priscilla Royal

  “I meant only that the rift came after the death of two husbands, while a possible attempt at reconciliation came after the death of another.”

  “That is a pondering far beyond my ken, Brother. But my wife learned that Mistress Hursel’s first husband also left her with nothing much to live on when he died. Seems he had a mistress he supported, but could little afford, so the small farm he owned had to be sold for debts. Then she lost her place in service…” He shrugged.

  “Your wife is a wonderful source of information!” Thomas grinned.

  “She is not usually prone to chatter, but other women do on market days and she tells us all fine tales over supper.” His smile betrayed deep affection for his very helpful wife.

  “So Mistress Hursel has had two husbands, both now dead, but barely a roof over her head. Any rumors of a third match?”

  The steward shook his head. “None. Even I have heard it said that she became a shrew once the marriage vows were uttered.”

  The monk nodded. “Was anything else told about the day Mistress Hursel was killed? It must have been a shock to both town and priory.”

  “It seems that Father Pasche arrived at the priory soon after the dead woman. When Janeta told him about the visitor, he asked to be taken to the garth. I have heard he knew the woman when Prioress Amicia’s husband still lived, but why this was so, I never learned.”

  They were now standing outside the entrance to the building owned by the Hospitaller monks. Thomas knew he had little time to hear what more the steward knew, so he bent to check his foot as if something was amiss with his shoe.

  “When Janeta led the priest to the garth, they saw Prioress Amicia bending over the victim and that she had blood all over her hands and robe. It was obvious that Mistress Hursel was dead. When Father Pasche asked the prioress what had happened, she shook her head but said nothing. When he asked her specifically if she had committed the crime, she simply looked at him, then down at the corpse, and refused to defend herself or confess. Father Pasche arranged for her confinement. She was convicted in Chapter, never once contesting the accusation or the evidence. Now she waits for the Prior of England to decree her fate.”

  “On what evidence was she convicted?” Thomas asked as he stood.

  “My wife has heard nothing more, and Janeta never speaks of it to anyone. I assume the priest examined the site. Sister Richolda, the infirmarian, must have seen the corpse. That’s what the sheriff and crowner always do. But this was on Church land…” He shook his head. “King’s justice or Church authority are equally confusing. Legal matters mean as much as Latin to me, Brother. I know about sheep, not the law.”

  Thomas was intrigued by the knowledge that the former prioress, victim, and priory priest were acquainted long before the murder took place. He was also troubled that the decision to convict Amicia seemed so swift, yet was so feebly based.

  Perhaps Father Pasche knew more about the old quarrel than this steward had learned and had added significant testimony at the trial? If this had cast a strong light on why the prioress might have committed the crime, it did not bode well for proving Amicia innocent.

  The steward knocked at the entry door.

  It swung open, and a tall monk, the eight-pointed cross displayed like a pure white radiance against the left shoulder of his black robe, stood in the doorway.

  “Welcome, Brother Thomas. I am Brother Damian, leader of our small band here. We offer you a warm bed, a hot meal, and any other small comfort you might require in this place dedicated to God’s work.” He stepped aside and, with graceful invitation, swept his hand toward the interior.

  Thomas thanked him and entered, noting as he passed, that Brother Damian was missing his right arm below the elbow.

  Chapter Nine

  Prioress Eleanor and Sister Anne stood at the window in the chamber they shared.

  Eleanor carefully remained to one side, lest someone below see her and conclude that she was able to stand on her injured ankle.

  Sister Anne observed the activity in the courtyard. “It is certainly a busy place,” she said. “Is it possible that so many local villagers have wares to sell this priory?”

  “Can you see if any are invited into the garth?”

  Briefly, Anne bent forward, trying hard not to appear overly curious to anyone who might look up at the window and watch her movements. “That is completely hidden from my view.” She stepped back.

  “Then we can learn nothing from here of value to our purpose.”

  Anne agreed, then once more looked down at the courtyard. “I wonder if some of those below have come to bring gifts in gratitude for the healing they received at the Order’s hospital in Acre.”

  “Might you also be curious to learn if this priory has any manuscripts brought back from Outremer that remain rare in England?” Eleanor knew her friend collected such treasures and studied them well. Even Queen Eleanor had sent the priory one from Castile for the benefit of Tyndal’s hospital.

  “Such treasures are more likely found in Clerkenwell’s library with the brothers. The infirmarian here is a woman, not a physician, but the nun might have been told some stories about treatments.” Anne failed to keep her eagerness hidden. “As I have heard, they used Muslim doctors on occasion in Acre, men who are especially skilled in curing diseases of the eyes.”

  Eleanor turned away and walked back to the small table where Janeta had recently refilled the ewer of wine and left a small loaf of crusty bread. She put her hand on it and noted that it was still warm from the oven. “This is the first time I have heard a hint of your usual enthusiasm since we left Tyndal.”

  “I confess my curiosity.”

  Eleanor poured a little red wine and brought a mazer to her friend. “I have observed how frail you are, as well. Remember the words ‘physician, heal thyself’? That admonition suggests to me that healers do not always care well enough for themselves.”

  “I do not suffer any illness.”

  Eleanor continued to look at the nun while she sipped her wine in silence.

  “I told you I wished to help, and most certainly can do far more to help you solve this murder than peer from a window.” Anne had read her friend’s quiet but firm gaze well.

  “Are you truly strong enough?”

  “Any affliction I have experienced lies in melancholia, a disturbance in my humors that I have suffered since my wretched failure to find the causes behind the abbots’ deaths at Tyndal last winter.”

  “It was you who discovered the significant medical facts.”

  “Not before three men had died.”

  “One of whom would have died anyway, and the other had sickened before he arrived.”

  “You are ever charitable, but I expected more of my skills. Pride in them blinded me to the answers.”

  As Eleanor realized, there was no argument that would soothe her friend, and she chose not to try. Instead, she said, “Your pallor, your thinness, your retreat into prayer and silence…”

  “Are the result of melancholia, except for prayer and meditation. Those were an antidote to my wicked pride.” The sub-infirmarian looked hopefully at her prioress. “It is possible that God has now granted me a way to expiate my sins. If I help you solve this crime, I may redeem myself in His eyes. Consider my assistance as my penance and let me perform it for the good of my soul.”

  “Your help would be invaluable,” Eleanor said with honesty as well as fondness.

  “Am I not a simple nun who does not even head the hospital at Tyndal Priory? Of what danger am I, especially if I look as ill as you feared I was?”

  Then Eleanor put a cautionary finger to her lips and tiptoed to the door where she bent her head to listen. She shook her head and returned to her friend’s side.

  Opting nonetheless for prudence, the two women refilled their cups, tore off a portion of the bread, and
huddled together as far from the door as possible so their voices would not carry to any unfriendly listener.

  “Give me a plan to help you,” Anne whispered.

  “The body is buried, but the infirmarian is still here. Sister Richolda must have examined it before the Chapter met and offered her opinions as evidence to consider. Perhaps what she noted supported the conclusion that Amicia was the killer. Or perhaps she had unvoiced doubts that she might discuss with you. An innocent consultation between healers would surely not be untoward?”

  “I can, with honesty, visit her because I wish to learn from her.”

  “I must ask Prioress Emelyne for permission, but I think she will grant it. There is nothing suspicious in your desire to learn from the unique experience the Order gained in Outremer. After all, you are a healer, and the healing arts were the reason for the very foundation of the Hospitallers.”

  “Shall I also explore the site where the murder occurred?”

  Eleanor almost said that there would be no value in it but changed her mind. “Yes. Although the cloister garth has been used by many since, and presumably searched for evidence at the time the body was found, I do not know how careful that examination was. If the assumption at the time was that Sister Amicia was the killer, and she refused to claim innocence, any search might well have been perfunctory. Sister Amicia did not say anything about that, if she even knew what had been done. Nor did she tell me who the culprit might have been. That was another question I had no time to ask.”

  Anne nodded.

  “It seems the trial only lasted for the length of one Chapter meeting, so I must conclude that very little testimony was given and nothing of benefit to her.”

  “I still wonder that no one thought it odd when she would not clearly say that she was guilty.”

  “Having seen her, I also question why no one doubted her ability to commit the crime. Although I could not determine her age, she is not a young woman. She is clearly frail, but her current state may be the result of her confinement and sorrow.” Eleanor sighed. “We have so many questions to answer.”

  “Then I shall first stroll through the garth at a time when few others might wish to do so,” Anne said. “If I am as pale and thin as you say, I can always argue that I am doing so for my health, should anyone ask why I am there.”

  “Sit often so you can look carefully at the surrounding areas. Few are as good as you are at observing what might be out of place.”

  Anne was pleased, noting that her friend had finally decided that she might help in this matter. She had won her chance to redeem herself from her earlier failure.

  “The bench where Mistress Hursel was killed should still bear traces of her blood,” Eleanor said. “You could sit there without anyone thinking it odd. No one would know that you are aware of any details in this tragedy.”

  “I shall enjoy the opportunity to rid my humors of their dark hue.” Anne laughed and then whispered, “I promise discretion. No one will guess what I am really doing.”

  Eleanor learned back a bit so she could gaze at the sub-infirmarian with mock gravity. “Am I wrong in concluding that you may enjoy our little subterfuge?”

  “I think we shall make a good couple in solving this sad crime.”

  “Haven’t we always,” Eleanor whispered back.

  Chapter Ten

  Brother Thomas was given a tiny room close to the chapel. Amused, he stretched out his arms and could almost rest his fingers against the walls. Perhaps if I got up on the bed, I could kneel to pray, he thought, but quickly chastised himself for his lack of gratitude. He doubted anyone but Brother Damian had a larger space.

  He was curious about the men who lived in this commandery. Although the Hospitallers were a military Order, and women comprised a small number overall, the nuns here significantly outnumbered the men. Since it was the only female priory of the Order allowed in England, the disparity in numbers was understandable, but it also explained why conflict was inevitable. Unlike the men in the Order of Fontevraud, these monks were not accustomed to taking a mostly subordinate position to women.

  Perhaps the tension would ease now that a blood sister and brother ruled the two sides. A brother’s wishes invariably ruled over those of any sister, Thomas thought, and then chuckled. Or at least they almost always did. He recalled how his prioress sometimes led her eldest brother to another course of action with subtle suggestions and even jests. Prioress Emelyne might use the same methods with Brother Damian.

  Suddenly, his thoughts were cut short by the sound of two men talking just outside his door. His interest sparked, Thomas slipped closer and pressed his ear to the slight gap between door and jamb.

  The deeper voice probably belonged to Brother Damian, he decided, the man who had greeted him on arrival.

  Despite the brother knight’s courteous welcome, Thomas found him disquieting, although he could not precisely define why. The man’s missing arm suggested he had been wounded in battle. Such men were often sent home and assigned to lead a commandery where they could further serve the Order by a profitable management of gifted estates. But what was the reason Brother Damian had been given such an inconsequential house to rule? His sister had not been prioress then, so her rank would not have been a factor. Had there been no other commandery available? Had he simply wished to be close to his sister? Was there another cause, and what might it be?

  “Our guest will surely be praying now, Brother Martin, but I want you to stay close by him at all times.” Brother Damian had chosen to raise his voice.

  Thomas knew this was no accident, and he was meant to hear the words. Why, he asked himself, was that necessary?

  “Should he wish to visit the women’s priory or even send a message to his prioress, come to me at once for direction.” Damian cleared his throat. “It is not safe in these marshlands for a stranger to walk without someone to guide him, nor does he know the rules of our Order. We do not wish him to suffer ill fortune, and it is only kindness to prevent him from violating any of our particular rules.”

  Brother Martin, whose voice was of a higher pitch, swore with impressive eagerness to do as his leader wished.

  Thomas wondered why anyone would care if he wanted to visit Prioress Eleanor, something that any other monk or prior would assume was his duty. As for danger, the path to the preceptory might be slick and muddy, but the distance was short. Even a stranger such as he would be unlikely to drown in a mud puddle. If Brother Damian made me vaguely uneasy before, the monk thought, I now have reason to firmly distrust him.

  He heard someone walk away. The step was that of a heavier man, and he suspected it must have been Brother Damian who was tall and muscular. But that meant the heretofore unrevealed Brother Martin remained hovering outside his door.

  Very well, I shall give him something to do, Thomas decided, and use the opportunity to learn about my newly assigned, and probably very devoted, shadow. Besides, he thought with his hand on the rope latch, I would never want a man to remain idle for no good purpose when he might otherwise find some innocent entertainment or be in the chapel, kneeling in ardent prayer.

  He opened the door and stepped outside.

  “I am Brother Martin!”

  The youth looked too young to shave. His apple-pink cheeks, covered with less down than those of a girl, were round and soft. Otherwise, he was thin, short, and stood before Thomas, panting like a young dog who hopes for a good run with his pack.

  I have been assigned a child to spy on me, Thomas decided, then quickly introduced himself to hide his shock. “I am Brother Thomas of the Order of Fontevraud who has accompanied Prioress Eleanor. Your prior has given me this room until she is well enough to return to Tyndal Priory.”

  The young brother crossed himself with an expression of genuine concern. “Is she ill? I shall pray for her!”

  “God is kind. She suffers but was
afflicted with a far less severe injury than feared. We were obliged to beg the kindness of your Order’s hospitality for a few days until her foot is healed.”

  “We are honored by your visit,” the youth gushed. “We have heard of your exploits on God’s behalf.”

  “Your praise is humbling, but all credit goes to Him. Our duty is to serve His pleasure.”

  The youth turned scarlet and seemed at a loss for words.

  Thomas took pity on him. Brother Martin must have been assigned to watch over him, but this apparent innocent seemed to lack any tiny measure of artifice that even good men owned. And from what the monk had overheard of Brother Damian’s orders, the youth might not even realize how nefarious his real task was.

  “I wish to stretch my legs after the long ride today.” Thomas gestured in the direction of where he believed the fishponds were.

  “Do let me accompany you!” The lad stumbled a few steps forward but suddenly halted. He frowned, as if perplexed by a weighty question. Then his eyes shone as he remembered his other directive. “Are you familiar with our Order?”

  “Only by reputation, Brother Martin, but I have heard many tales of Hospitaller courage and compassion in Outremer. If your duties allow it, I would enjoy your company and perhaps you can enlighten me on your praiseworthy Order as we walk.”

  Like a student eager to please his master, Brother Martin once again leapt forth and began a recitation of tales he had heard from Outremer.

  Trying not to smile, Brother Thomas decided the youth not only resembled a puppy but owned as much guile as one. He would give the lad something innocuous to report to Brother Damian and thus help him gain a little favor.

  ***

  As Brother Martin talked, the two men headed to the fishponds which the monk stated he was eager to see. Giving a clear directive seemed to be the best way to deal with his new shadow.

  When the youth finished yet another story, he took a deep breath.

  Thomas quickly inserted a question. “There seem so few monks in residence,” he said. “Some might say the number is not enough to warrant a prior. I mean no criticism. I am simply curious.”