Brother Martin blushed, something he seemed inclined to do. “We also feed the steward, whose duties we share with the nuns, and house one priest as well as two lay brothers besides me. Brother Damian is our leader but chooses not to bear the usual title of commander. Because he served as a brother knight in Outremer, however, we all refer to him as our commander to show courtesy.”
Not exactly the answer to his question, but Thomas had learned a more interesting detail instead about who lived in the house. “Is that where he lost his lower arm?”
“So I assume, but he never speaks of it.”
Thomas nodded, his expression suggesting deep respect. “And have you gone yourself to regain Jerusalem?” This he doubted, but he did not want to insult the boy by making it clear he did not think him capable of a warrior’s task.
The young lay brother bowed his head. “I have neither the skills nor stature to do so. I entered the Order because my uncle died in battle there. My family wished it, and I was pleased to so honor him. They appealed to William De Henley, now Prior of England, and offered my insignificant service as a lay brother in his memory. The Prior was kind and granted the plea.”
“I have no doubt you will serve God and the Order well, Brother. In spite of our short acquaintance, I have been struck by your dedication.” Yet Thomas wondered if the lad had found any vocation either before or after he was given to the Order. Was he even old enough to have suffered a youth’s first lust?
Another blush washed the boy’s face, and he quickly glanced down.
Brother Martin may be admirably dutiful, Thomas thought, but his reaction to my compliment suggests he has discovered that some vows are not easily kept. He hoped the priest had been kind when the lad explained how his body betrayed him and dreams tempted him beyond endurance.
Still unable to look the monk in the eye, Brother Martin stared ahead and gestured at the view in front of him. “Here are our fishponds,” he stammered. “I think you will find them superior to most. If pride were not wicked, we might boast of them.”
As Thomas had noted on arrival, the ponds were large, but now he could see how badly they needed tending. Noxious pond weeds fouled them, thick bands of tangled vegetation stretching into the water like gnarled fingers. The path along the perimeter was slippery with mud. In several places, the earth had crumbled, and sediment dyed the water with a gloomy hue.
“Surely Brother Damian has plans to improve them further?” the monk asked, looking back at the youth. Was he mistaken or had the shadow of a troubling emotion bleached the color from Brother Martin’s face? Was the pallor caused by a passing sadness? Might it even be a stronger one—like fear?
The young man bit his lip, and the moment fled as quickly as it had arrived. “I am sure that Prioress Emelyne, now that she rules the nuns, will share much more bounty from their rents with us. Brother Damian is her elder brother.”
“I did not know their relationship!” A small enough lie, Thomas thought, and perhaps not even worthy of confession, considering the purpose for which it was uttered. “Then the conviction of Prioress Amicia for the murder of …” He shook his head. “I fear I heard only a little about her guilt in this tragedy while we waited to be greeted by Prioress Emelyne.”
“Mistress Hursel was the corpse.” Brother Martin nervously checked the immediate area as if worried a ghost might be lurking.
“Ah, yes. That must have shocked you all.” Once again, Thomas saw the lad turn pale and he wondered if this had been caused solely by the lad’s horror over murder done on sacred ground. Silently, he chided himself for being so eager to discover information that his imagination was beginning to dominate his reason.
A gull passing overhead uttered a strident cry.
Brother Martin looked away but did not reply to the monk’s comment.
The young man must have been startled by the bird, Thomas forced himself to conclude. Nothing more. He continued, “Yet despite that misfortune, some good has emerged. It seems the elevation of your commander’s sister to lead Mynchen Buckland will be a blessing to the monks.”
“The fishponds are used by both nuns and brothers, but, as I have heard, Prioress Amicia often sent more money than was her responsibility to the Prior of England for the benefit of Outremer and ignored some needs for improvements in our buildings, especially if they remained serviceable.” He looked at the ponds and sighed. “One of the other lay brothers and I had to shore up parts of the rim with rocks over there where the earth had slid into the water.” He gestured in the direction of the road that led into the priory. “We did so after a villager was badly injured when the path collapsed under his feet.”
“Prioress Amicia’s desire to send more to Clerkenwell must have been hard to accept when Brother Damian saw work here that needed attention.”
“Prioress Amicia was a virtuous woman, most devoted to the causes God favored.” This time the explanation for his grey hue was clear. “Or so we thought until she was convicted of this murder.”
“I meant no reproach, for I am not acquainted with her nor did I know her reputation. I only meant that it may be best for all if Prioress Emelyne is more willing to accept the direction her brother offers.”
“Yes,” Brother Martin said and sighed with evident relief.
“Yet surely the murder has troubled you all, as it would in our priory at Tyndal.”
Brother Martin stiffened like a student about to recite a lesson that had required a long and difficult memorization. “Brother Damian may have been pleased at the elevation of his sister to head the nuns’ preceptory, but it grieved him that the former prioress was convicted. Her husband had been his close friend and, as rumor has it, once saved his life. They fought together in Outremer. When he died, Brother Damian spent hours in the chapel praying.”
Thomas could barely control his curiosity. “A friend of the husband?”
Brother Martin nodded. “It was also her lord husband who urged the Prior of England to appoint Brother Damian commander here so he would have the comfort of his sister, who was then a nun in the nearby preceptory.”
From this dutiful recitation, Brother Thomas wondered how much of the speech had been meant for his specific ears. Even though he was eager to learn more, he knew he must be guarded with his questions. If he were wise, he would ask nothing else. Brother Martin could tell the commander that he had inquired about the crime but was satisfied with the permitted information. Let the child spy receive praise and Damian be content.
There was another reason Thomas chose to be prudent. This youth might seem guileless, but innocence could be cleverly feigned.
In appearance, the lad was almost feminine. In speech and demeanor, he seemed to lack a sharp wit. But clever spies often presented themselves as less dangerous than they were. Brother Damian knew his chosen spy well. Thomas did not.
The monk smiled and turned his questions back to the plans to improve the fishponds. His instinct might continue to insist that it would not take much to outwit this man-child, but he opted to obey the more circumspect voice of his experience.
Chapter Eleven
One look around the cloister garth and Sister Anne lost hope of searching unnoticed.
The garden was being well-tended that morning by nuns and lay sisters alike. Even on this damp spring day, several were on their knees, pulling weeds and otherwise joyfully engaged in convincing life to return to the earth. Some worked in the dirt because the results reminded them of the Resurrection. Others seemed to find tranquility in the prayerful act of tending God’s creation.
But all this activity and the normal use of the cloister as a place to exercise, talk companionably, or even meet with visitors were not conducive to finding crucial evidence in a murder investigation.
Nonetheless, Sister Anne diligently sauntered along the paths with head solemnly bowed to discourage any who might be eager to engage
a stranger from another religious Order in conversation. With eyes fixed on the ground, she concentrated on seeking any detail, no matter how small, that might have been missed. Success was an unlikely hope, but she was determined.
May God forgive me for this dishonest attitude of prayer, she thought. Surely He knows no ill is meant, only a desire for justice. In that achievement, my longing for His blessing is sincere.
Her deception succeeded.
Two nuns passed her by but said nothing until they thought they were far enough away. Anne’s sharp hearing picked up the murmured observation: “She came with Prioress Eleanor of Tyndal, you know. Did you see how gaunt and pale she is? We may be wise to avoid her company lest she carry a contagion.”
Perhaps my melancholia has finally served me well, the sub-infirmarian thought, and fought off a telltale smile.
Walking slowly with no seeming direction to forestall any suspicion that she had a destination in mind, Sister Anne spied the discolored bench to her right where Mistress Hursel’s body had been found. To add further support to the conclusion that she was ill, she braced herself against the stone bench and eased herself down to sit, then looked heavenward and sighed with evident relief.
The bench might still be stained with faded blood, but she was certain the weapon had vanished long ago if it had not been recovered at the time the corpse was found. From the churned up earth around her feet, Anne knew that many others had since passed by here, after the shock of the murder had vanished, and probably sat on the bench, despite the reddish mark. If a clue had been left, it was buried in the mud, destroyed by many feet, tossed aside as trash, or even innocently picked up as a curiosity.
She turned her thoughts to how the murderer might have killed the victim.
From what the former prioress had told Eleanor, the body remained seated on the bench. It was not until it was touched that Amicia had realized Mistress Hursel was dead. The body began to fall forward, as Anne recalled the tale, and the former prioress grabbed it, thus getting blood on her hands and robe.
A nun passed by with a handful of garden implements. She hesitated, glanced at Sister Anne, and her concerned eyes asked a silent question.
The sub-infirmarian responded with a thin smile and lowered her head contemplatively as if musing in prayer.
The woman walked on.
Anne carefully inched toward the stain and looked around under half-closed eyelids.
If the victim was sitting when attacked, she thought, the killer must have come from behind her. But Anne saw little space behind the bench, where a naked shrub with thorny branches grew, and certainly not enough to allow someone to sneak up without being noticed.
Another conclusion might be that Mistress Hursel was seated, and the killer had approached her from the front. But if that were so, wouldn’t the victim have risen when greeted by the prioress, a woman whose husband had been of high enough rank to include a baron amongst his friends? Did that suggest the killer was known by the butcher’s widow to be her social equal or even of lower status? The victim would not have stood for a lay brother or sister, for instance, but surely she would also have risen for the priest.
If the killer had struck down Mistress Hursel while she stood, she would have fallen to the ground or backwards against the bench, not into a sitting position on it. The condemned prioress maintained the corpse was seated on the bench and seemed to be musing with her head lowered or else she was asleep. In an area where people often walked, it was unlikely the killer would have taken the time to lift and pose the corpse. If the body had fallen to the ground, it would have been left there.
Had Amicia’s story to Prioress Eleanor about the position of the corpse been told to the nuns at the trial? If so, the priest had not contradicted her. Had the infirmarian testified? Anne knew all that should be resolved. What questions were asked and what were the responses? It would also be important to know what was not asked and why.
Leaning back to study the area just behind the bench more closely, Anne saw no signs of footprints. The ground close to the shrub had been cleaned of weeds and dead leaves, however, and she did not know when that had been done. Considering the busy crew of monastic gardeners today, was it likely they had just weeded this patch? Or had the rains prevented performing all the usual tasks? Unless she asked, which she dared not if she wished to be circumspect, she would not know.
The sub-infirmarian sighed, concluding that her prioress had been right and there was nothing to find here.
Just as she decided to leave, a brief ray of light burst through the clouds. Out of the corner of her eye, Anne thought she saw a flash of color behind the bench in a tangle of small stems extending from the lower part of the shrub.
She carefully looked around, saw no one close enough by to see her, and plunged her hand into the mulch of decayed leaves and other vegetation around the trunk itself that had either been missed or deliberately left by the gardeners.
Biting her lip to keep from crying out, she realized there was good reason why no one had cleaned that small area. Sharp thorns pricked her hand, but she ignored them and clutched a handful of earth where she thought the item lay hidden.
The object was small but hard. Opening her hand, the soil fell away to reveal a small gold ring. The band was a popular stirrup shape, and it was topped with a deep red almandine garnet. As she again closed her hand over it, she wondered if it was a clue or if it had been lost by a nun or some visitor. Hospitaller nuns were allowed some minor possessions, and such a ring, albeit one made of gold, would be permitted.
Her thoughts went back to how Mistress Hursel might have been struck. It must have been from behind while she was seated, she thought, otherwise how could the corpse have remained in that position? But to do so the killer must have been standing behind the victim near the shrub. Why would the murderer have been so close to the victim? Could the ring have been lost then?
She twisted around to look, trying to calculate where the killer must have stood and if the ring could have fallen where she had found it.
“Sister Anne!”
The sub-infirmarian started and almost dropped the ring but managed to keep her hand firmly closed over it.
Standing in front of her, an agitated Janeta stared at her with wide eyes.
Sister Anne stood, trying to brush her hand against her robe to clean off some of the obvious dirt. “Is Prioress Eleanor taken ill?”
“No, but I have been searching everywhere for you,” the maid replied. “I wondered if you would like a tour of this priory. As someone who belongs to another Order, Prioress Emelyne thought you might find some aspects of the preceptory interesting.”
The sub-infirmarian accepted the offer with warm enthusiasm, and, when Janeta turned her back, she slipped the ring into the pouch at her waist.
Of course, the tour might prove useful in suggesting clues or ideas for further investigation, Anne thought, but a little voice nibbled at her. Was the invitation a simple matter of hospitality or was Prioress Emelyne hoping to keep her too busy to wander unsupervised?
Chapter Twelve
Prioress Emelyne stood by the Prioress of Tyndal’s bed, her face carefully arranged into an expression of suitable compassion.
A silent nun remained by the door.
Hands folded modestly over her furred cover, Eleanor smiled sweetly but was not deceived by the almost flawless portrayal of concern presented by the Hospitaller leader.
Cautiously studying the woman, she noted that Emelyne’s eyes swept the room, resting briefly here and there if something seemed amiss. She understood why the nuns might choose her as their leader. Prioress Emelyne seemed competent, observant, and bore herself with confidence. As a religious leader should do, she probably inspired just a little awe. Indeed, Eleanor might be tempted to choose her as her own sub-prioress, were she one of Tyndal’s nuns.
Yet she did n
ot trust her.
She had seen hints of rage and wondered if there was a bit of cruelty in her soul. Although Emelyne was probably close to Eleanor in age, she already had deep furrows between her brows, and in her forehead, but none around her mouth. This was not a woman much prone to laughter.
Were I in her charge and guilty of even the smallest transgression, Eleanor thought, I would tremble with fear. Yet here I lie, engaged in a deception, and feel neither shame nor trepidation.
With a hint of amusement, she admitted to God that the cause was probably her wicked pride. Whatever earthly flaws this troubling prioress owned, she was unmistakably clever, and Eleanor found herself eager to match wits with her in whatever chess game Prioress Emelyne was playing. But she also knew this was no lighthearted sport. If Amicia was innocent, a murderer was loose. Might this prioress own any guilt in the matter?
“I am grateful for your kind hospitality and assigning Janeta to help Sister Anne with my care. That was most charitable,” Eleanor said. And she offered these appreciative words with an honest smile. After the initial delay in greeting them, the prioress had provided well for their needs.
Prioress Emelyne bowed her head. “As God directs us to do good works, it is He who deserves all thanks.” The woman’s smile might own little warmth, but her words were softly spoken. “I see that your sub-infirmarian is not here. Do you have need for anything until she returns?”
“Sister Anne’s health suffered during our journey to visit my brother and then our travel here. Since I have heard that your cloister gardens soothe the eye and spirit even in the dark seasons, I granted her permission to take some exercise there.” To lend credibility, Eleanor had learned long ago, it was always wise to be as truthful as possible in the midst of deceit.
With relief, the prioress saw no unease in Emelyne’s expression. Not that there was any reason why Sister Anne should not walk in the cloister, as many others must have since the murder, but she would have been interested if this prioress had revealed concern.
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