Wild Justice

by Priscilla Royal

  There was a knock at the door.

  Damian roared permission to enter. The sound of his own voice hurt his ears, and he felt his face flush.

  The priest stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “May God bring you blessings, my lord. How may I serve you?”

  “You took long enough to obey my summons.” Damian failed to mute his irritation, and a small voice inside his head reminded him that was rarely wise.

  “I was hearing the confession of one of our lay brothers. You know the one who alternates between long periods of silence and extensive descriptions of his paltry sins? Even God must lose patience. When I saw Brother Martin arrive and indicate he must speak with me, I attempted to bring the recitation to an end, but stubbornness is one vice our dear brother never confesses but suffers in excess. I finally brought him to a halt by assigning some particularly lengthy penances. He left quite pleased.”

  Damian chuckled, his mood restored. “I have a task for you. Let me explain it quickly, for Brother Thomas awaits you.” Then he confided to the priest far more of what was needed than he had planned to tell Brother Martin.

  “I welcome the opportunity, my lord.”

  “I thought you might. Join Brother Thomas now. He has been long delayed and might be uneasy about our motives.”

  “I shall apologize profusely and be a pleasing companion to him.” Pasche grinned.

  With a brief instruction to also request another vial of poppy juice from the infirmarian to replace the one he had carelessly spilled, Damian sent the priest on his way.

  After the chamber door closed, he rose, braced himself against the furniture and walls, and inched his way along until he reached it. Carefully, he looked outside.

  No one was there.

  “Good,” he murmured, and then with an equally measured caution, the commander of the priory wove his way into his private room, collapsed on his narrow bed, and plunged into the depths of a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When Sister Anne saw the woven shirt, in which sharp thorns were entangled, that Amicia wore under her habit, she bit her tongue lest she gasp in horror. Many religious wore hair shirts that chafed the skin and were populated with colonies of fleas or lice, but this torment was beyond the practice of any she had known.

  “I advised you to remove this, my lady,” Sister Richolda said in a tone that would make a saint tremble.

  Sister Amicia simply raised an eyebrow.

  “I have brought you a clean habit, my lady,” Janeta said, laying the clothing down on the bed. “Do you wish to change while I am here to help you?”

  “I am no longer my lady but a loathsome sinner,” Amicia replied with a nod to both women. “As for my thorn shirt, I shall wear it until I die. Even after my last breath, I must be buried in it and have told Father Pasche. When I donned this years ago, I did so as penance for those grave transgressions committed before I took vows. Now, of course, I have even greater need for it. It is my only hope to escape the fires of Hell.”

  “And it has caused wounds in your breasts and back that are no longer healing,” the infirmarian retorted.

  “I am dying, Sister Richolda. It matters not if such minor injuries putrefy.”

  Her shock subsiding, Sister Anne watched the infirmarian bathe the angry cuts with a concoction of water betony and took note. She might have used a wine cleansing followed by an application of honey. Later she would ask Sister Richolda to explain her choice. Perhaps water betony was more effective in certain situations?

  But what could the former prioress have done to require such a horrible penance as a shirt of thorns even before the murder? She could think of no crime that would warrant such a thing and yet allow the sinner to live. Her curiosity growing, she decided to see if Amicia would tell her.

  “I understand the world, Sister,” Anne said to the former prioress. “Before I took vows, I was a wife and mother. There is much temptation outside our priory walls, and we all sin.” The sympathy in her voice was genuine.

  Amicia smiled in silent response, but her eyes revealed that she knew what this woman from Tyndal wanted to know. They also politely conveyed that she refused to give her what she wished.

  With a brief nod, Sister Anne indicated that she understood and would not press the question. Instead, she turned to watch Sister Richolda prepare her draught of opium in wine.

  “At least you are now willing to take this medicine,” the infirmarian said, pouring a small amount into a cup and handing it to the former prioress. “For that small concession, I am grateful.”

  Drinking it with one swallow, Amicia grimaced and handed back the mazer. “It often helps me sleep without pain or dreams, and I pray upon awakening that Death will be that kind.” She sighed. “Yet it will not, so I take the ease now. Eternity will be hard.”

  “Do you wish me to seek out Father Pasche, my lady?” Janeta’s eyes were moist, but her tone was eager. “I have just returned from delivering a message to Brother Damian. The last Office has been completed, and it is not yet time for the next. The priest should be free to attend you if I leave now.”

  “That might be wise, child. Tell him I have nothing new to confess but that speaking with him might bring solace. I would be grateful for his company and wisdom.”

  The two nuns waited while Janeta quickly helped Amicia into her fresh robes. Sister Richolda winced when the former prioress settled the thorn shirt over her shoulders and newly treated wounds. One began to bleed again.

  Then the three took their leave and left the cell.

  Janeta hurried off to summon the priest. Anne and Richolda walked more slowly back to the infirmary.

  “The draught I gave our former prioress was used in Outremer by both Jewish and Muslim physicians who sometimes helped with surgeries like amputations. It eased pain, according to one doctor, and he also claimed that patients survived the traumatic procedures in greater numbers with the opium. Although many Christians believe pain is meant to be suffered to the fullest as an acknowledgement of our sins, it seems the Muslims and Jews do not.”

  Anne laughed. “Not all Christians believe pain must be endured for the good of their souls either. My physician father did not.”

  “As I said earlier, your father was an exceptional man. I may believe in penance and rejection of the demands of the flesh, but I also believe God intended for us to show mercy. If suffering is obligatory, perhaps He is the best judge of when it must be endured and not mortal men.” Richolda put a gentle hand on the nun’s arm. “Do not repeat my words, Sister, for some might call them heresy.”

  “I swear myself to silence.” Anne was surprised and pleased by the infirmarian’s words as well as confidence. They also reminded her of the favor she wanted to ask. Reaching into the pouch at her waist, where she carried medicines at Tyndal, she pulled out the ring and showed it to Sister Richolda.

  “I found this in the cloister garth and wish to return it to the owner. Do you recognize it?”

  With a puzzled expression, Richolda fingered it for a moment. “I cannot be certain, but I believe I saw it once in Pri…Sister Amicia’s possession.” She looked up at Sister Anne for a long moment, then said, “I just remembered that I meant to bring her a salve to use on her wounds and must retrieve it from my apothecary shelf. Shall I take this ring and ask her if she recognizes it when I go back to her cell?”

  Anne hesitated just long enough.

  The infirmarian read her meaning well. “If it is hers, shall I return it to her if she desires? If it is not, but she knows to whom it belongs, do you wish me to give it back to you so you may tell the owner how you discovered it?” She looked at the ring with sorrow in her eyes, then back at her companion.

  “I would be most grateful if you would do so, Sister,” Anne replied.

  Chapter Twenty

  Father Pasche oozed charm. />
  It was much like a fishmonger touting rotten fish as a bargain, Thomas thought. Pasche’s unsubtle attempts to flatter had also quickly grown stale. For one thing, Thomas did not think he would make a fine mentor to Brother Martin, nor had Brother Damian assigned the lad to be his leech in hopes that the Fontevraudine monk would.

  “It must have been a terrible shock when the nuns’ former prioress was convicted of murder,” Thomas said. Perhaps the remark was too transparent and abrupt, but it was one anyone might make who had just learned of the events.

  “It grieved us, but I confess the verdict was not a great surprise.” The priest’s tone was casual.

  “How so?” Thomas suspected he had been meant to ask the question but was willing enough to comply.

  “I have long known her. My elder brother was Sister Amicia’s husband.”

  Thomas came to a sudden halt and stared at the priest. How many questions dare he ask the man in the short time before they entered the priory walls? “You had cause to believe she was capable of murder?”

  The priest raised his hand in a cautionary gesture. “Rumors only, Brother, but, if repeated, one must consider whether they might not hold a grain of truth.”

  For the first time, Thomas suspected Father Pasche was not telling a lie. Yet he was wary. Facts can be shaded into deception just as lies can be made to sound like truth. “I have heard she refused to confess, yet also failed to claim innocence. Had she been accused before of some crime and behaved the same way?”

  Pasche shook his head to suggest great reticence, then sighed as if forced to tell the tale. “She was suspected of murder once before but never tried. After my brother’s death, it was whispered that she had pushed him down the stairs. No one formally accused her, but many thought it odd that he had fallen and broken his neck.”

  “And you?”

  Pasche hesitated before replying, “I was in residence here as the priest at the time, but I, too, was surprised by the unexpected manner of his death.” He looked at the monk and almost smiled. “If a woman kills her lord husband, surely she is capable of killing anyone. Has she not already invited the Devil on the path to her soul? I linked the past suspicion with her current refusal to deny her guilt and was convinced she had murdered Mistress Hursel.”

  The gate to the priory was open. An aged nun waited for the men to enter.

  Thomas solemnly nodded, unable to respond otherwise to what the priest had just told him. How could he confirm that such a rumor about the death of Amicia’s husband had even been bruited about? And if it had been, was it true? Might Prioress Eleanor have been cunningly deceived by a double murderer? It was equally possible that this priest had misled him by telling him a lie he was incapable of verifying.

  At a loss for words or any plan of action, Thomas remained silent.

  As the men walked into the courtyard, Father Pasche immediately called to a lay sister, telling her to bring Sister Anne to the cloister. Then he recalled his other charge and asked her to tell the infirmarian that Brother Damian had spilled the vial of medicine prepared for him and needed another.

  Looking around him, Thomas suddenly felt a chill. He was too familiar with violent death to be uneasy at the scene of a murder, but the tale this priest had told about the convicted woman’s husband put his humors out of balance. Melancholy began to wrap its icy hand around his heart and tint his reason with a heavy grey.

  Fortunately, the sub-infirmarian arrived quickly. Thomas edged the despondency aside and greeted her with a tranquil mien.

  “I know that Prioress Eleanor is in much pain yet unable to see me because she resides in the nuns’ quarters,” he said to Anne and turned his head slightly so he could give her a wink on the side the priest couldn’t see.

  Sister Anne did not betray him, confirmed his statement, and begged him to pray that God ease their prioress’ suffering.

  “As do we all at the commandery,” Father Pasche added with appropriate gravity.

  The monk bowed his gratitude. “The head of this commandery, Brother Damian, has been most kind in assigning Brother Martin to attend to my every need. His dedicated companionship has already made my stay most pleasant.”

  “And Prioress Emelyne has done the same for Prioress Eleanor. Janeta, the former prioress’ maid, serves us with a most devoted charity.” Sister Anne looked properly thankful.

  Thomas noted that Father Pasche’s smile was growing a little brittle.

  So did Sister Anne. “I do have wonderful news, Brother,” she said with marked enthusiasm. “Prioress Emelyne has given me permission to study the methods of the resident infirmarian, Sister Richolda, who learned much at the Order’s hospital in Acre. I have visited her patients and accompanied her to treat the former prioress, Sister Amicia, who suffers from a great tumor in her breast.” The sub-infirmarian nodded at the priest with a sorrowful expression and modestly lowered her eyes. “I am grateful for this opportunity, while Prioress Eleanor is unable to travel, to improve my knowledge of healing. Your Order, Father, is as highly respected for the charity of your hospitals as it is for the prowess of your brother knights in holy war.”

  Father Pasche seemed relieved and his features developed a more honest earnestness. “We are honored by Prioress Eleanor’s visit but abhor the suffering she must endure from her injury. If we can provide a tiny gift of greater knowledge to your well-regarded hospital at Tyndal Priory, we are gratified.”

  Thomas loudly cleared his throat. “I do not wish to take up any more of your time, Sister. If you have the advice of Sister Richolda, perhaps we need not discuss the treatment of our prioress?”

  “I always require your insights and wisdom, Brother,” Anne said, indicating subtly that she understood his meaning.

  They kept their discussion short but believable, then Thomas added, “Should Prioress Eleanor need my services, I am sure a messenger can be sent to Brother Damian who will know where I may be found.”

  The sound of someone running down the path startled the trio of monastics.

  Janeta came to a halt in front of them, her face pale and her body reeking with sweat.

  “Is all well with Prioress Eleanor, child?” Thomas looked at Anne and saw that she shared his fear.

  “Yes, Brother!” the maid gasped. “Is there a message I could take to her?”

  He glanced at Anne.

  She raised an eyebrow to suggest she was equally puzzled.

  “No message that I have not given to Sister Anne,” he replied. Nor was there anything more either he or Sister Anne dared to say, so he added, “Perhaps you will convey to Prioress Emelyne that I beg the favor of her nuns’ prayers so our prioress may have a swift recovery.”

  Something was troubling this woman, he thought, but he had no way of discovering the cause.

  The priest glared at the maid and immediately suggested that he and Thomas return forthwith to the commandery.

  “Father!” Janeta stared at him, her eyes round with some undefined emotion.

  He waited with an impatient frown.

  “Sister Amicia asked if you would go to her cell for she has need of your comfort.”

  “Is her wish an urgent one?”

  Janet swallowed several times. “She did not say so, but I know her soul is troubled.”

  “Please tell her that I will come immediately after the next Office.”

  Thomas noted that the priest’s expression had turned gentle. Could Father Pasche possibly grieve over the fate of a woman who might have killed his brother as well as Mistress Hursel? Yet he had seemed firm in his belief that she deserved her conviction. Such contradictions were always worth remembering and resolving, he thought.

  He bowed to Sister Anne and nodded to the priest that he was ready to leave.

  ***

  As Sister Anne pretended to watch them depart, she kept one eye on Janeta. Eithe
r she is sick or profoundly agitated about something, the sub-infirmarian concluded. For a second time she found herself asking, “Are you unwell, child?”

  Although it had seemed impossible, the maid turned even paler and the reek of her sweat grew stronger. “It is nothing now,” Janeta replied in a tone that was less than convincing. “My mistress sent me to find Father Pasche, but I could not do so. I did not want to fail her!” Briefly, she put her hands over her eyes. “No one told me he had left with Brother Thomas. I did not know whether I should return here or continue to seek the priest.”

  Anne put a calming hand on the maid’s arm. “All is well,” she said in a soothing voice. “You made the right decision to come back, and you have done what your mistress required. As for Prioress Eleanor, I was with her, so you were not remiss in any obligation there. No one can claim that you did not do as you were commanded.”

  Janeta looked at her, then wiped the sweat from her face. “I ran all the way back here. Now I am just short of breath but will soon recover.”

  Anne was oddly unconvinced by this but had no valid reason to question the maid further.

  Without another word, Janeta turned away and quickly left the garth.

  The sub-infirmarian paused before leaving. The feeling that something was wrong extended far beyond Janeta, but she could not define it. Unfortunately, this reminded her again of the deadly illnesses of the abbots last winter. “Please let me not be so blind again in discovering the cause,” she whispered to God.

  As she walked back to the chamber she shared with her prioress, Sister Anne unconsciously felt in her pouch for the ring, now missing because Sister Richolda had possession.

  It might well belong to the convicted woman, and that fact only added to the likelihood of Sister Amicia’s guilt. Other than Sister Richolda’s belief that the woman was too frail to stab Mistress Hursel, Anne had discovered little to suggest the former prioress was innocent. And even frailty was weak evidence, as the infirmarian had pointed out.