Wild Justice

by Priscilla Royal

  The infirmarian rubbed a finger under one eye. “My logic quarrels with my heart. The latter says innocent. When I discovered her shirt of thorns, I realized she was deeply repentant over some crime she, or her former priest, had deemed a terrible sin before she took vows. While she ruled us, she was a wise leader, compassionate but firm. Her humors always remained in balance. No prioress is ever universally loved, even those who are later recognized as saints, but no one ever claimed she was unfair or inconsistent. Is this a woman who is likely to murder another?”

  “Did she have any cause to kill Mistress Hursel?”

  Richolda shrugged and straightened as if her back pained her. “I do not know details and did not know our prioress before she arrived at Mynchen Buckland. At the trial, she said that she had known Mistress Hursel years ago and they had argued, although she claimed it was over a small thing. The relationship had been one of servant and mistress. If Prioress Amicia had sent her away for some infraction, any resentment should have been in Mistress Hursel’s heart, not that of our prioress.”

  Anne noticed that the infirmarian had reverted to calling the convicted woman by her previous title. “What do you know of Mistress Hursel?”

  “Little enough. She was the local butcher’s wife. She may have come here on occasion, but I cannot swear to it. One nun, who had taken food to a poor family in the village, mentioned that the woman was known as a shrew, and some said she would cast her own child into the fires of Hell if it served some purpose for her. But that was stated by the husband of the poor family. When his wife fell ill, he took a few hours to care for her until others could assist. He was told he no longer had a job with the butcher as a result and later heard that the man’s wife had ordered it.”

  The sub-infirmarian blinked. “Might a villager have killed Mistress Hursel in the priory garth?”

  Sister Richolda shook her head. “Some may have wished to do so, but why would any commit the crime here when it would have been far simpler to do so in the village? Besides, there was very little time between when Mistress Hursel arrived and Prioress Amicia went to the cloister.”

  Anne nodded, then glanced again at the sleeping maid.

  Janeta seemed to be stirring.

  Gesturing for the infirmarian to lean closer, Anne quickly whispered, “I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “As I am able, I am willing.”

  “You take medicines or other healing items to the brothers’ house?”

  “Frequently. Most often to the commander who continues to suffer from pain in his mutilated arm.”

  “Shall you go there soon?”

  “Today.”

  “Will you take a message to Brother Thomas for me?” She looked at the sleeping maid once more. “Only he can know of it.”

  Richolda grinned and nodded.

  “I must meet with him tonight. Somewhere private.”

  “I will tell him where and lead you there myself.”

  “May God take your soul directly to Heaven for this kindness!”

  “Your prayer humbles me, but I hope the need does not come too soon,” the infirmarian said with a twinkle and then lifted her head. Her eyes said clearly enough that their time for private conversation had ended.

  Janeta yawned.

  Richolda took a deep breath. “And then the young mother in Acre turned with a look of great love at the small cot we had put beside her and asked that I give her the sweet babe who lay there…”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Brother Martin’s body lay in front of the small altar. Candles cast wavering shadows on his face, and his body gave off a whiff of rot. For those so inclined, it was a reminder that all living must return to the earth from whence they came. To those who had loved the dead man, it opened the heart to a flood of bitter pain, no matter how deep their faith.

  Brother Damian knelt and wept. Had others been in the chapel, they might have heard brief snatches of incomprehensible prayer. His sorrow was evident and profound.

  While often abrupt with the lad, he had cared for him. Brother Martin reminded him of a cherub in his innocence, a beautiful boy with no malice. And although the lad had never been a problem, always dutiful in the practices of faith, he had grown sweetly pious of late, spending hours praying in the chapel. On the very day of his death, he had glowed with a special joy after early communal prayer as if God had granted him some favor.

  It was a state of purity the commander envied, although only Damian knew just how far from such virtue he was himself. Had it not been blasphemy, he would have said that penance was useless, he would never be cleansed, and even God could never forgive all his transgressions.

  Brother Martin, on the other hand, had surely gone straight to Heaven.

  He moaned, not from the pain in his old wound but in his soul. No amount of poppy juice from a skilled infirmarian could cure that, and no priest ever had.

  Gazing up, he stared at the corpse. The shadows mocked him, playing with the eyes of the dead man and making them appear to move.

  Damian shivered. It was his fault that the lad had died, and now the youth’s spirit was aware of it. “I shall make amends,” he whispered, begging Brother Martin not to haunt him, and then he bent until his head struck the stone floor.

  This was a pain he welcomed.

  “The monk lied,” he hissed to the stones. “This was neither an accident nor the result of the lad taking his own life. This was murder by another hand.” He was convinced Brother Thomas knew it and had a malicious reason for not telling him the truth.

  He suspected his sister was right. They had erred in so rigorously trying to keep the Tyndal monastics from looking into the former prioress’ conviction, and it was his fault they had made that decision.

  He banged his head again against the floor.

  Only one still living knew he had cause to kill Mistress Hursel, and he had done all he could so no one would give credence to that testimony. Lest his secrets be revealed, however, he did not want anyone growing curious and asking careful questions about Amicia’s conviction.

  But it was now evident to him that the vile woman had been killed by someone other than Prioress Amicia. His willingness to let her take the blame because it was convenient, added to her own odd decision not to defend herself, had likely resulted in the death of the innocent boy. His corpse now lay before Damian as a fresh reminder of his darkening sins.

  He had no regrets over the death of Mistress Hursel, only relief. She was a whore and earned her keep from her collection of secrets. After she learned how he had lost his hand in Outremer, she had mocked him for his cowardice and exacted a price for her silence.

  She had often lain with Prioress Amicia’s husband in ways no virtuous woman would. The man might have been Damian’s friend, but his sins were profound. One night, when he had drunk too deeply, he told Hursel that Damian had fled combat and cowered in a nearby crevice. When he found Damian after the battle, he told him that he could either face the punishment for cowardice, a shame from which his entire family would never recover, or suffer a private penance and be sent home with honor.

  Damian chose the latter, not knowing what was meant.

  It took but a moment. His friend told him to stretch forth his right arm, then drew a sword and struck off his lower arm just above his hand. After a rough treatment to stop the bleeding, he lifted Damian onto his horse and swiftly took him to the tent run by the Hospitallers near the battlefield. His friend told the brothers he had found Damian badly wounded in a crevice where he had crawled to die. A surgeon tended the wound and sent Damian to the hospital in Acre until he healed. Many months later, he was sent back to England and assigned to lead the commandery near his sister.

  Mistress Hursel had threatened to tell the true story to the Prior of England if Damian did not pay her a fine fortune. And he did, embezzling money from the rents whic
h were meant to help fund the hospital in Acre and the brother knights who fought the infidels.

  When she married the butcher, she told Damian he need not continue the payments for she had a good roof over her head and food for her belly. Perhaps he should have been grateful, even wondering at her strange definition of integrity, but she now knew the source of the funds he used to pay her. That would be fodder for the next time she needed money.

  When she had arrived at the preceptory and was murdered, he feared she had come to extort from him again. But now he was free of her, indeed of all who knew his shame. His spirit enjoyed the same relief from the woman’s death that poppy juice gave the pain in his wounded arm.

  And so he had had cause to rejoice over his newfound peace. The arrival of the party from Tyndal Priory and the subsequent injury suffered by Prioress Eleanor was a threat to that. He became fiercely determined to protect himself.

  But he had not counted on this second death. After fleeing the battlefield in Outremer, he had committed other acts of cowardice, but this most recent had turned out to be his most despicable.

  Mistress Hursel’s enemies were surely legion, and he presumed that her killer, if it truly was not Prioress Amicia, would escape. Had he been the man, he would have fled as far as he could from Mynchen Buckland. Apparently, the murderer had not.

  Did the youth see something he should not have seen that implicated one person in the murder? Had he been killed for that? And he would still be alive if Damian had not been so terrified that Prioress Eleanor and Brother Thomas might communicate with each other that he chose Father Pasche instead of Brother Martin to accompany the cursed monk from Tyndal.

  Damian whined like a sick child and again beat his head repeatedly against the stones until his forehead bled. Then he lay flat and wept again, his cheek lying in his own shed blood. What must his penance be?

  He knew well enough and begged God to take the bitter cup from him. Must he accept that his own sins would be discovered and that he would suffer the shame and consequences? Must he now humble himself and beg Brother Thomas to find the man who had killed an innocent boy?

  He sat up, wiped the seeping wound in his forehead, and clenched his fist.

  Was the murderer Father Pasche?

  There had been a very long delay between the time Damian had sent Brother Martin to summon the priest and Father Pasche’s arrival.

  Who else could it be?

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Sister Anne waited within the curtained branches of the willow tree close to the fishponds. It was near dusk, and Sister Richolda had warned her that there would be little time to talk before darkness made the walk back a dangerous one. The infirmarian could not wait, lest she be missed, nor did she want to know what the two monastics discussed.

  Through the increasing shadows, Anne saw two shapes approaching and held her breath.

  Brother Thomas pushed aside the branches and entered the meeting place. The other shadow turned and hurried back to her infirmary.

  “I have heard rumors…”

  Thomas interrupted her. “Brother Martin has been murdered.”

  Anne stifled a cry.

  “He was found not far from here, head down in the fishpond. Although I did not see the original position of the corpse, I was told that his head and neck were tangled in the weeds. It appeared he had fallen in headfirst. All assumed he had struggled to get out but the mud was too soft to gain a firm hold while he was upside down, then the weeds wrapped around his head, he panicked, and drowned.”

  “You said murdered.”

  “Weeds could not have crushed the back of his head, and he had fallen in a shallow part of the pond. Unless he was unconscious, he could have gotten out. There was no evidence that he hit his head falling into the pond. No sharp rocks. He must have been dead before his body was dragged to the edge of the pond and pushed in. The weeds float about, which would explain why some were tangled around his neck.”

  “How did you come to know this?”

  “When Father Pasche and I were returning from that visit with you in the cloister, a lay brother waylaid us, informed us of the death and Brother Damian’s plea that we both come to the fishponds where the body lay. Once there, the commander asked me to examine the corpse.”

  Considering how much effort had been put forth to keep prioress and monk from talking to each other, Anne could not believe this. “Why would he ask you to do so?”

  “I do not know.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I lied and said the death was an accident.”

  “Why not tell him the truth?” Anne assumed Brother Thomas knew what he was doing, but nothing was making any sense and she voiced her confusion.

  “I do not trust the man. It was he who assigned Brother Martin to stay with me like a leech and, most likely, report every word and movement I made. As for the killer, I do not know who that is, but if we conclude that the former prioress is innocent, then it may be the same person who killed Mistress Hursel. Perhaps Brother Martin witnessed something he should not have, and the lad might not have understood the significance of what he saw. Certainly, he appeared remarkably ignorant of worldly things, although I have known men who portrayed themselves as such to hide their cunning...”

  “To set a spy on you but then ask you to inspect the corpse of the same man is most curious.” She thought for a moment. “Might Brother Damian have killed the boy and then asked you to examine the body? In so doing, he might have hoped you would assume his innocence of the crime. How many murderers ask for a knowledgeable examination of the person they just killed?”

  “Curious, indeed, but he seemed truly shocked and grieved.” Brother Thomas started, as if he had heard a sound, but then continued. “But Father Pasche did act strangely. He looked very pale and avoided the corpse. For a priest, that was most unusual. He must have seen violent death before, yet I had to urge him to comfort the dead boy’s soul, something he should have done the instant he saw the body. With great reluctance, he finally did but only after Brother Damian shouted at him to do so.”

  “Might he have feared that the corpse would bleed if he touched it and thus proclaim him the murderer?”

  “That is quite possible,” he replied. “Now that I think more on it, I recall that he very carefully did not lay even a finger on the corpse.”

  “What will you do?”

  He shook his head. “I am not sure, other than try to watch him carefully, lest he betray himself by some other means. But tell me what news you have. Maybe that will show us the next road to take.”

  Anne told him about the ring she had found behind the bench where Mistress Hursel was killed. “Prioress Eleanor and I decided to trust Sister Richolda and ask her to show the ring to Sister Amicia for identification. The former prioress confirmed it was hers, but she could not say, or refused to do so, when she might have lost it.”

  “Which tells nothing about the guilt or innocence of the former prioress.”

  Anne quickly summarized what the infirmarian had told her about the position of the wound and her conclusions from that, as well as her doubts that Sister Amicia was strong enough to have killed the woman. “The former prioress is dying of a canker,” Anne said. “I accompanied Sister Richolda when she visited Sister Amicia to provide palliative treatment. It is clear from many signs that the canker has driven its poisonous fingers deep into her. She has little time left to live.”

  “And thus the conclusion that she was too frail to kill Mistress Hursel seems reasonable.”

  Anne nodded. “She also wears a shirt entwined with thorns, which she donned long before this crime was committed. The torment would shame many a martyred saint. I do not why she suffers this hard penance. Although I tried to ask, she suspected my intent and refused to speak further.”

  “I wonder if that old sin would provide any
clue to the current crime.”

  “She holds a few secrets in her heart, Brother. She has not yet adequately explained why she refused to defend herself. Oh, she gave an answer, but neither our prioress nor I believed it.”

  Quickly they shared what little else each needed to know, then Anne said, “It is likely that Janeta, the former prioress’ maid, has been sent to watch Prioress Eleanor and me by Prioress Emelyne, just as Brother Martin was ordered to shadow you. Now that the lay brother is dead, do you think you will be assigned another leech?”

  He shook his head. “There are too few at the men’s house to do so. One is already watching the cell of the former prioress, and I doubt Brother Damian would try himself. He must suspect I do not trust him and that I have lied about the cause of Brother Martin’s death.”

  “Who do you think is the killer, or are you convinced it is Father Pasche?”

  “Apart from my current suspicions about the priest, the obvious suspects would be Brother Damian and Prioress Emelyne. They are the ones who worried enough about our presence that they assigned spies. Because of the force of the blow required to break Brother Martin’s skull, I would assume the killer was a man and that would eliminate Prioress Emelyne. Yet the commander was profoundly grieved over the death of the youth. Do you know how Prioress Emelyne reacted?”

  Anne shook her head. “I assume she has been told, but I do not know and thus could not observe any reaction.”

  Thomas looked around and realized the darkness was descending too quickly. “We must trust Prioress Eleanor to piece together the information we have shared and see if she can come to better conclusions. Both of us must leave now before it is too dark to see the safe path away from the ponds.”

  “It is possible we can meet again,” Sister Anne said as they slipped out of their hiding place. “Janeta can be avoided, as she was tonight, and Sister Richolda is trustworthy.”