Sorrow Without End

by Priscilla Royal

  He could not confess to Ralf that he had been held so long in prison, and, even if he were to do so, he certainly would never admit he had been put there for an act of sodomy. If he admitted to the former, Ralf would surely ask why. In a land where sentences for minor crimes were usually quickly executed, the crowner might well wonder if Thomas had committed some grave, even treasonous act.

  Were he to divulge the prison time and the sodomy, he would not only lose a friend, but Ralf could still ask why Thomas had been released into the priesthood when conviction for sodomy should have prevented that. This realization posed a more complex problem for the monk.

  Thomas might hate the very sight of his sinister master, but he owed him loyalty. Or rather he owed it to that man’s lord, the one who had ultimately saved Thomas’ life. Although that man had never been named, Thomas had good reason to suspect he was of high ecclesiastic rank. Reluctant monk though Thomas might be, he had given his oath to remain silent about his role as a Church spy, as well as any secrets he might learn. Breaking any oath might be unthinkable, but telling secrets was rank betrayal. If one were a spy, the latter was also most cruelly punished. Thomas would keep his word.

  No matter how independent the crowner seemed, Ralf had his own allegiance, and his was to the king. Since the secular powers were often in conflict with religious ones, Thomas knew that his loyalties and those of his friend might be at odds someday. Therefore, he could never explain why he was a monk or anything about his prison past to the crowner, even as a friend. He must find another way to escape this misery.

  He began to pace the boundaries of his cell. His predicament was impossible, and his throat was dry from all the tears he had shed. At last, Thomas returned to the table, poured from the pitcher, and drained the cup slowly. The ale had a bitterness to it, albeit a pleasant one. The taste fitted his mood, and he poured another cup.

  All of a sudden, a possible solution fluttered at the edge of his thoughts. Thomas looked down at the trencher and smiled.

  Although Cuthbert had not left a knife, he had given Thomas a spoon. The monk picked up the implement and played with it for a moment as the idea took form. He dipped the spoon into the soup and swallowed.

  Had Sister Matilda added garlic?

  With the other hand, he reached for the bread. Grainy but sweet, he concluded after savoring a bite.

  Sister Matilda was most certainly a wonder in her kitchen.

  By the time Thomas had reached for the cheese, he knew what he must do, say, and to whom in order to gain his freedom.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Ralf raced along the path, Anne’s rebuke from last night still roaring in his ears. How dare she claim he was careless of Thomas’ plight when the monk lay weeping in her arms? Had not Thomas’ tears proven his innocence, she had asked. Why else would a man shed tears in front of another?

  Women! Did they believe that men never wept? He had seen battle-hardened soldiers sob without shame. How could one not weep when friends and brothers screamed for their mothers as flaming pitch burnt their flesh all too slowly into ash or they lay dying from wounds that had turned their bodies inside out. “If God made Eve from Adam’s rib, He must have failed to include his heart if her daughters think men do not mourn.” He spat into a puddle.

  Panting with anger, Ralf stopped to catch his breath. The rain had ceased for the moment, but the air felt cool against his hot cheek. He continued on at a slower pace toward the hospital courtyard.

  Tears might well signify pain, but he knew that they did not always prove innocence. Although he loved Thomas more than he did his own kin, Ralf was convinced that the monk was guilty of something. He could not ignore that no matter how much Anne berated him.

  As he entered the courtyard, an old woman from the village waved at him. He raised a hand in greeting but added no smile. His hand ached. When he looked down at it, he realized he had been clenching it for some time.

  Uncaring, was he? Did he not care about the man who had been cruelly murdered, a brave soldier who had gone to fight in Outremer? Why should he show Thomas mercy when none had been given that man?

  “The monk knows something,” he muttered, “and had you not given him the soft comfort of your embrace, Annie, he might have spoken the truth.” Yet he knew that he would confess all his secrets and sins were Anne but to take him into her arms.

  The crowner kicked at a rock in his way. “Oh aye, and I was jealous, Annie, seeing you holding him in your arms, but I fought the demon back.” He cursed. “Why must I always be reasonable? Will no one grant me just mercy in return?”

  “Watch your step!” someone shouted.

  Ralf looked up. A young couple stood just in front of him. The woman, big with child, gestured at her belly. Her companion put his hand where she had indicated, then grinned with so much joy that even his rough features softened.

  Walking around the couple without a word, the crowner felt a growing chill. His bleak mood deepened. Any autumn might be cheerless, he thought, but this one seemed especially so.

  Just then, a familiar figure came into sight.

  “Brother Beorn!” the crowner shouted.

  “You wish to see the same man again, Crowner?” Although the lay brother came forward readily enough, his expression suggested that he was less than overjoyed to see Ralf.

  “Not him. Your prioress has given me permission to order any travelers who came from the village yesterday to the chapel where they may look on a corpse. Perhaps one will recognize him.” Ralf caught himself before he called the death “murder” since he had not asked if the prioress had told the priory about this tragedy or what she might have said.

  Beorn muttered an almost inaudible oath. “We had so many at our gates. Without asking them, how can we tell which came by what route? Some were but children…”

  “The men first, or at least those with one good eye who can walk without much assistance. If they had women or children with them, we may not have to trouble those, at least not now.”

  The lay brother exhaled a grateful sigh.

  “I shall need your help in this questioning, however, for I have just sent my sergeant off to see a nearby farmer about a lost sheep.”

  Beorn briefly bent his head in prayer, then hesitated as if eagerly awaiting a response. When he looked back at the crowner, his expression suggested disappointment. “Whatever our prioress wishes, I shall do,” he said.

  “We should begin with any that bear the crusader cross. How many of those?” Ralf’s chuckle sounded almost gleefully wicked.

  “One has died already. Another is blind and would help you little unless he heard something helpful. A third has leprosy and will be sent to a lazar house in Norwich, but we will keep him here should you wish to question him.” Beorn smiled back at the crowner with impish delight.

  Ralf shuddered, then gestured for the lay brother to continue with his list.

  “Thus ends the list of strangers who bear the crusader cross.”

  “I think we can leave the two still living in peace.” However willing Ralf might be to drop a coin for the good of his own soul into a leper’s bowl, he had no desire to come close enough to catch the disease. If he had to question the two crusaders, he’d leave the leper to the end.

  “We had many from the village or nearby. Most were known to us…”

  “And those men I leave to you to question on the route they took, when they did so, and what they might have seen.”

  The lay brother nodded wearily.

  “Other strangers?”

  “Three from court, men of some weight in both rank and person.” A brief smile twitched at Beorn’s mouth. “They needed assistance to dismount.”

  Ralf grinned. Although he and the good lay brother had often clashed over the years, he did enjoy Beorn’s sharp wit. “Their weapons?”

  “Bejeweled, I do think. The glitter, even in this weak light, blinded us.”

  Such men were n
ot likely to attack anything with passion, other than a roasted pheasant redressed with feathers for dinner, Ralf thought. If he learned nothing from anyone else, he might question them later. “No one else?”

  The lay brother fell silent for a moment. “Two in particular,” he continued. “One was a badly scarred young man of some rank, if I might judge from the quality of his dress. An older servant with only one eye accompanied him. Neither bore the red cross, yet I did wonder if they had once been soldiers to have gotten those wounds.”

  “Let us begin with them.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “The purchase of Saint Skallagrim’s kneecap and thigh bone is a rare opportunity for Tyndal, my lady. If we do not buy now, the seller might go to Norwich with it. I beg you, make an immediate decision on this pressing matter!” Brother Matthew swayed like a sapling in a high wind.

  Sister Ruth stared at him with unblinking eyes. Although most would conclude that her look suggested attentiveness, a few might wonder if it could be adoring.

  Prioress Eleanor was not quite so wooed. “I was clear. We shall delay until we have a new prior.”

  “A prior who must await confirmation from Anjou, as you yourself so wisely noted.” The monk smirked.

  He has won that argument, the prioress conceded in silence. She nodded.

  “Dare we hesitate so long? Think what prestige and coin other sacred bones have brought to blessed sites: Saint William to Norwich, Saint Thomas Becket at Canterbury.” His voice slipped into an awed whisper. “Saint Frideswide to Oxford! King Henry himself has gone there and given gifts. Perhaps the king might grace us with a visit if we had a wondrous relic of our own.”

  Briefly closing her eyes, Eleanor imagined with horror the amount of work and expense required to receive a king.

  “I do see God’s hand in this. How else can we explain this sudden discovery of Saint Skallagrim’s bones? How dare we turn ungrateful backs on this gracious gift?”

  Sister Ruth blinked. “A whole thigh bone and kneecap! Think, my lady, what this would mean for Tyndal’s reputation. Our good brother is right in this matter.” There was none of the usual rasping malice in Sister Ruth’s voice. As she continued to gaze upon the leggy monk, her tone was soft, even sweet.

  Eleanor clenched her teeth. And what would it mean if she were foolish enough to consent? The monk would spread the story of how his superior arguments had vanquished her weaker ones. With this show of strength, he would surely win more support, become prior, and even do so with some appearance that she blessed the decision. On the other hand, if she were to refuse to purchase it, others might switch their allegiance to Brother Matthew out of anger that she had cast aside such a purported treasure. A dull ache began over her left eye.

  “Shall I have the relic seller come to you, my lady?” Brother Matthew ground one fist into the palm of his other hand.

  Eleanor watched the gesture, knowing it was she who was being ground down. “Your diligence has been most impressive and duly noted. Nevertheless, I do not believe the time is auspicious for a quick decision.”

  “I fear he may sell…”

  “Norwich has its saint. A full body, I believe. Need I remind you that Tyndal is far from any major town, and there are no other religious houses or churches nearby that could afford an expensive relic. If your source is that eager to sell in this lonely area, he should be willing to wait a little longer.”

  “Nevertheless…”

  The two monastics were watching her like hawks might a field mouse. “Please excuse me, Brother. It is late and I have vowed to pray at this hour.” The pain above her eye was growing worse.

  “My lady?” A look crossed Sister Ruth’s face that suggested she was weighing the merits of staying behind to plead further on behalf of the relic.

  “Alone. You may both leave with my gratitude. Your concern for the reputation of Tyndal is laudable.” May the priory soon elect a man of sense, Eleanor prayed, for if Tyndal chose Brother Matthew, she might be forced to purchase these bones.

  The two religious glanced at each other, rose in unison, and did obeisance.

  As Eleanor watched them walk away, she caught herself muttering, “Why do they remind me of an old married couple, each having learned to read the mind of the other?” She took in a deep breath before turning to the ewer of ale on her table. Slowly she poured a cup and sipped. Her eyes burned. Her head hurt. Her heart? Ah, that.

  A movement on the ground caught her eye. A cat with deep orange fur jumped up on the table. “Come, Arthur,” she said, picking up the rumbling creature. “Sit with me and bring the wise counsel of your noble namesake. I am much in need of it.”

  She carried him to a chair, then sat. He circled briefly on her lap, then settled into the warmth of her woolen habit with feline contentment. As she rested her hand in the soft fur, Eleanor closed her eyes. The ache in her head eased ever so slightly. How she regretted not taking Anne’s advice to take feverfew in time to ease this growing affliction, but despite the throbbing, the cat’s happy purrs did soothe enough of the tension so she could think.

  Although she had managed to deflect Brother Matthew and the issue of the relic for now, that difficulty would not go away, nor would the problem of Brother Thomas and the question of who killed the soldier. “What think you of this, Arthur? Could Brother Thomas be involved in a murder or am I so blinded by his beauty that I cannot see his evil nature?”

  Protesting the pause in her attentions, Arthur pushed his head against her hand. “I do believe he is innocent,” she said, rubbing the proffered head. “Satan’s fire may have set my body aflame with lust, but the Evil One has not managed to reduce all my wits to ashes.”

  The cat rolled over, one claw catching the fabric of her robe. She eased it out. “The good brother is a man of courage and loyalty. You remember the bravery he showed when he first came to Tyndal, and I know I told you how steadfast he was at Wynethorpe Castle last winter. Had he not been willing to do what was needed to unveil a killer, my brother would have been hanged. When a man has proven he loves justice, how can he be guilty of a crime as horrible as the death of this poor soldier?”

  Arthur shifted, raising one front leg so his mistress could more thoroughly rub his chest.

  She smiled. “And what better proof of his virtue than your acceptance! I have seen you running after him with your tail held high with joy. That you approve of him is most assuredly unassailable evidence that Brother Thomas is an honorable man!”

  The cat opened one eye and purred louder.

  “Whereas I do remember that you have scratched Brother Matthew on more than one occasion.”

  Eleanor eased back into her chair. If the monk was innocent, as she did believe, what was he hiding? Did he know who the dead soldier was, and, if so, why did he refuse to identify him? She bit her lip. What if the dead man knew secrets about the monk’s past, secrets that involved women in whose arms he had known joy? By any standards, Thomas was handsome, and, although there had been no rumors that he had been unfaithful to his vow of chastity since his arrival at Tyndal, Eleanor suspected he must have been quite a different man in the world. Women there must have been, or at least one who might have won his heart.

  “May God forgive me! I am thinking like a jealous wife,” she growled. What difference would it make if he had slept with every wife and daughter in London before he took vows? Since God would have forgiven that long ago, she should not be thinking on it. She willed her thoughts to another possibility.

  Thomas did have family. Perhaps the secret he wished to keep involved them? She remembered that black-clad man of the Church who had arrived on a fine gray horse last spring and begged permission to take her monk away so he might care for his sick brother. Of course she had given it, then watched with aching heart as Thomas rode off with the messenger. At the time, she had thought it strange that Thomas’ expression suggested more anger than concern for his brother when she gave him the news
and her blessing to leave. “What rift from his family caused him to react so, yet feel duty-bound to attend when called?”

  The cat yawned.

  “Have I bored you, sweet one?” She gently rubbed his neck. “Very well, then, I shall confront Brother Thomas with a mother’s stern face when I question him on behalf of that dead soldier’s soul. As his prioress, I have sworn to be a mother to my monks as Our Lady was to the beloved of Our Lord. He must tell me whatever is troubling him.”

  Arthur slid one paw over his eyes with a show of some feline annoyance.

  “What else might I do to discover the murderer in our midst? Ralf will question those who came by the same road where the killing took place. That is something he and his men can do more efficiently than I, and he will tell me those results as soon as he is done.”

  Arthur raised his head, extended one paw, and rested it against her chin. Slipping one finger under that foot, she let him grip her playfully with his claws.

  “What of the man who saw our good brother at the turn in the road? Ralf believes that man too frail to have done the murder himself. He also believes him to be mad—yet not mad.” Eleanor tried to remember if she had seen this witness, then shook her head. “Perhaps I should speak to Brother Beorn or Sister Anne about him. Our crowner may be correct in his conclusion that the man is but a witness and incapable of murder, but I do wonder how someone can be described as both mad and not so. If Brother Thomas, a man of proven honor, can be put into protective custody for what he may know, I do think we might consider whether a madman, who may not be mad, might have something to tell as well.”

  Eleanor lifted the cat from her lap and set him on her bed in a warm, roughly woven nest of woolen cloth she had provided for him. Then she bent down and nuzzled his soft fur with her nose. “While I go off to the hospital, sweet sir,” she whispered, “dream of fat mice and…”