Justice for the Damned

by Priscilla Royal

  He shook his head with indignation. “So why should her spirit trouble me?” he growled, his breath gray against the growing dark. He, Wulfstan, had done her no harm. She should haunt the monks that had lengthened her time in Purgatory when they chose lust over prayer.

  The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He looked around. Nay, it was not yet dark enough for ghosts to be fluttering about, troubling the likes of the honest living. Nevertheless, he could not stop shaking, and his temper began to cool in the darkening light.

  Maybe he had no wish to swyve that wife of his tonight after all, he thought. He did not want any red-haired child either, and she had been a good woman to him in so many ways over the years. Briefly he smiled. Aye, she always made sure one of the children put wood on for a fire, and she would have a hot meal waiting for him. And, if he mentioned the ache he had, she would even rub his shoulders with that balm…

  A movement on his left caught his eye.

  He stopped.

  A tall, black figure stood by the priory wall.

  Monks! Even with the wall repaired, this one had discovered a way to get through. He cursed. Once more,the inn would gain from the ale the man drank to dull his guilt before he found soft breasts to fondle.

  The figure remained motionless, watching him.

  Wulfstan glared.

  The dark and hooded shape glided toward him.

  “Off to play at thrusting like a gelded goat,” Wulfstan said in a low growl, then raised his voice. “Others might stay silent, but I shall go to Sister Beatrice about this!”

  The figure halted in front of him.

  Wulfstan stepped back. “What were you doing…?”

  The first burst of pain was unbearable, but Death came with compassionate speed.

  Chapter Six

  The cresset lamps in the prioress’ chambers flickered unevenly and cast moving shadows on the faces of the four monastics.

  Prioress Eleanor was seated. The others remained standing.

  “I’m told you have a talent for clever investigations, Brother,” Sister Beatrice said. Soft though her words may have been to the ear, her piercing gaze sharpened their meaning.

  Thomas lowered his eyes, but this had nothing to do with modesty. The novice mistress reminded him of the cook who had raised him, a woman who could read everything in a boy’s soul, including those secrets left unformed by word or image. The man began to sweat.

  The silence lasted a heartbeat too long. Mercifully, his prioress broke it. “Brother Thomas is humble,” she said, her voice tender as the May air. “I shall respect that virtue and confirm myself what you have heard. Not only has his pursuit of justice been of great value to my priory, but it saved our family’s honor...” She began to cough, bending forward with the force of it.

  How thin she is, Thomas thought, watching Eleanor gasp for breath. As he saw the quick glances now passing between sub-infirmarian and novice mistress, the monk knew they shared his concern that this once energetic young woman was still so wan and frail.

  When the prioress’ fever had spiked to dangerous heights just after Twelfth Night, Sister Anne had remained by her bedside, sending him orders for herbs and potions. Dark-eyed with worry and ashen with fatigue herself, Anne confided her worst fears when he delivered the medicines to the nuns’ cloister door. Then Eleanor’s fever broke at last, and Tyndal’s religious offered grateful prayers that their respected leader had spurned Death’s skeletal hand.

  Or had she but delayed her acceptance?

  Although he had realized from the day he arrived at Tyndal that he owed Prioress Eleanor a liegeman’s loyalty, he was surprised to discover that his sense of duty had deepened with warm affection. She had always treated him with kindness, and, after he had been forced to tell her something of his past before her illness, she had shown him sensitive compassion. Aye, he thought, he very much wanted this woman to live.

  Eleanor straightened. A worrisome flush painted her cheeks, but Thomas saw a sparkle in her eyes he had not seen since last autumn and a look not unlike that gleam in a huntsman’s eye when he saw a fine boar he wished to kill for dinner.

  “My lady is most generous,” he said, bowing. Since he had no reason to believe her look was directed at him, he welcomed this sign of returning vigor with joy. Thomas found his prioress’ iron will and determination most daunting, but he admired it as well. For once he was not embarrassed by the tremor in his voice. Relief was the cause.

  Sister Beatrice tilted her head to one side, her lips easing into a reflective smile. “My niece would not have praised your actions out of a magnanimous spirit, nor would my beloved brother of Wynethorpe. He liked you, he said. That remark, from a man more likely to bark reproach than sing approval, has greater value than the gift of a furred robe from King Henry.”

  “I am honored,” he replied and once again bowed his head, but this act of humility masked amusement. The convent nun and her warrior brother did share a fondness for candid speech.

  Beatrice nodded approval. “Courtesy has now been given its due, I believe. We have a problem to solve.” She gestured at the monk. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  Thomas blinked. “Ghosts?”

  “Aye.” The corners of the novice mistress’ thin lips twitched upward.

  “Forgive my hesitancy, but I am amazed. This is the second time today I have heard such spirits mentioned. Sayer, the roofer, warned me that one was troubling the priory, but I did not take his tale too seriously. He seemed a very merry fellow and quite fond of jokes.”

  “Indeed he is. Now I would hear what you know of the restless dead.”

  “Saint Augustine did not believe in them, nor do I think our Brother Aquinas would from what I have been told. Although there have been sightings of saints as well as demons in the guise of humans, there does seem to be general agreement, amongst the wise scholars of the Church, that the dead remain with their own. I bow to their superior knowledge.”

  “Such sweet phrasing is worthy of a bishopric, Brother.” Beatrice raised an amused eyebrow. “Within that speech, I conclude that you do not personally believe in these spirits who some claim rise from their graves after dusk?”

  In spite of himself, Thomas grinned in reply.

  “Excellent. I concur. Yet others have declared that we have such a phantom nearby, insisting that they have seen it on several occasions. The sightings have become more frequent of late, and there is panic growing in the village as well as amongst our monastics.”

  “What form has this spirit taken, to whom has it appeared, and when?”

  “A man who wastes no time.” Beatrice clapped her hands with satisfaction. “I like that!”

  Thomas stared at her for a brief moment. Nay, he was not back at Wynethorpe Castle, and he was not facing Baron Adam.

  As if acknowledging his thoughts, the novice mistress shook her head. “Our nuns have not seen the creature at all. Some of the men, who work in the nearby priory lands and live in the village, have. Several lay brothers and monks as well. Although they say the spirit has no face, they think it wears a woman’s robe. The majority claim the shade is that of our alleged founder, Queen Elfrida. Based on such imprecise details, I might not conclude that King Edgar’s long dead wife has come to us all the way from Wherwell Abbey, but many believe they have seen a crown on her head. The description of that has been both varied and vague.”

  “You told me others say the ghost is that of a local woman.” Eleanor learned forward, resting her chin in her hand.

  “Who has also been described as wearing a crown, but this one is made of fiery nails for her spirit comes from Hell,” Beatrice replied. “In either case, the shade appears at twilight, when men are returning from work in our fields, or else very early in the morning, especially when the fog rises from the river. She walks along the road by the Avon, although some monks have claimed to have seen her within our walls on priory land.”

  “So said your roofer.�
�� Thomas glanced over at his prioress. “He seemed to think the ghost was the queen.”

  Beatrice closed her eyes in a brief attempt to hide her disdain for the whole debate. “The first sighting was before Prioress Ida left on her journey,” she continued. “A worker saw a woman on the path and, noting her veil and plain dress, thought it odd that a nun would be walking alone outside the walls, especially at that hour. When she drew closer, he saw she had no face. Others have reported that she came from the river, her attire wet as if she had just emerged from the water.”

  “Which might explain why a few think she is the local woman.”

  “One reason certainly,” Beatrice replied to Eleanor. “Opinions on that vary, but one man went to offer aid. When he saw she had no hands and nothing where a face should be, he ran away.”

  Thomas began to pace, then asked, “Why do some think the ghost of a local woman would haunt the area?”

  “Mistress Eda was the wife of a vintner in the village. After she drowned in the Avon, the crowner and his jury determined that she had committed self-murder. We then buried her in unconsecrated ground. Despite his verdict, there are those who still believe she died by accident and has been wrongly accursed.”

  “I can understand why the villagers might conclude that the ghost is the vintner’s wife, if her corpse was dishonored in burial, but why do so many think your founder has returned?”

  “Our young rogue, Sayer, did not give you a clue?”

  Thomas felt his face flush. “Aye, he did.”

  “Come, now, Brother! Surely you know there are those who come to a monastery with little longing for the life, and that others arrive with a vocation but must struggle with the flesh more than they imagined? Our priory has had our share of these and, like any villager who saw them at the inn, Sayer knows them well—as do those of us who are responsible for this priory’s reputation.”

  “He did tell me as well that these monks had repented.”

  “And he is right. Our prioress made sure the break in our wall was repaired. Those monks who chose to lie between the legs of Eve’s daughters instead of praying on their knees for the queen’s spotted soul have been punished and now have renewed enthusiasm for the chaste life.”

  “That the creature continues to bother the priory argues in favor of those who think she is the vintner’s wife,” Eleanor suggested.

  “Or else there was some delay receiving the news in Purgatory that Prioress Ida had destroyed the easy path to sin?” Anne did not betray, by either tone or expression, whether her words were said in jest.

  “There is no ghost,” Beatrice snapped, the V between her eyes darkening.

  “The alleged spirit has committed no violence?” Thomas asked with careful emphasis.

  Eleanor’s brief smile expressed her approval of this speech.

  “An older man fainted, but a companion soon found him. Our Brother Infirmarian treated him and he survived.”

  “Have most of these sightings occurred outside or within the priory walls?” he continued.

  “Nearly all without.”

  “The king’s justice…”

  “Lest you think our local sheriff should be interested, I must lay waste to any hope. According to him, no harm has been committed; therefore, there is no crime. Even if some ill had befallen someone, he says that all ghosts fall under Church authority, not secular justice. Besides his evident laziness, he has not the intelligence of your own local crowner, as my niece has told me. I would not trust our fellow to know a ghost from a bed sheet.”

  Sister Anne chuckled.

  “If the ghost prefers to walk outside the priory, I may be of little help in this matter, Sister. Since I am a monk…”

  “That is easily remedied.” Beatrice poured a measure of wine into a footed mazer and handed it to him. “We can let you out the gate. Monks do travel the roads, and a late arrival might find his way to the inn. You are not known in the village.”

  “Sayer might recognize me.” Thomas hesitated before quickly adding, “We did have some conversation. I was walking nearby and had cause.”

  “And he does spend time at the inn. Nay, blush not, Brother. I know he provided both women and drink for our weaker brethren. Since you are a stranger to this priory, I would not be surprised if he tried to tempt you, for the rediscovered piety of those monks has surely cost him. Perchance he even cursed this ghost for that.”

  “If he sees me, I cannot play either a virtuous or a traveling monk. He will think I have come for sinful purposes. How then shall I…?”

  “Let us hope he is not at the inn, but, if he is, I must trust you to be as clever and true to your vows as my niece assures me you are. There may be no ghost abroad, but there is something malign out there. Whether it is simply mischievous or truly evil, there must be an end to this matter.”

  Thomas shifted uncomfortably under her steady gaze, before nodding his concurrence. Although he was grateful that his prioress had given such strong witness to his virtue, he had caught something in the aunt’s tone that suggested she was not quite so certain about him. Even though her precise words did not betray this, he felt he was being tested.

  The assignment to find the truth behind a ghost would make his undertaking for the Church easier, and, with Sister Beatrice’s permission to leave the priory, he would not have to sneak out or come up with some questionable disguise in order to find this unknown manuscript thief before the Amesbury Psalter disappeared. In order to assuage any doubt she might have, he must present his response carefully to avoid showing any eagerness to escape the walls, an enthusiasm that might be interpreted as worldly.

  Thomas twisted his hands nervously. “I long to obey, as my vows demand, but do not wish to do anything that might bring dishonor to this priory. If you want me to go into the village, I must do so with the modesty expected in one of our vocation.” He held his breath, awaiting confirmation of his hopes.

  “That I do and with a bit of coin to buy ale or otherwise ease truth’s birthing amongst those who might talk to you of local matters at the inn.” Beatrice nodded sympathetically. “Ah, Brother, I know this is not an effortless thing I ask of you, but Satan is cunning and Man must use both prayer and God-given wits to defeat the evil he brings to the world. While our sheriff has chosen to visit a distant manor just now for a hunt,” the novice mistress snorted, “innocents both within and outside our walls have grown fearful of walking abroad. We cannot allow this to continue, and we have only ourselves to stop it.”

  Thomas exhaled.

  Eleanor sat back in her chair with evident fatigue. “If you see this strange and even unholy shade, Brother, try to note what you can but take care. If the being is one of Satan’s, it has the full power of the Prince of Darkness at its disposal. If the creature is mortal, it may have some malign intent. I beg you not to endanger yourself in this quest.”

  “My niece has properly reminded me that there is physical as well as spiritual danger here. I fear that I have been so blinded by my belief that the dead do not walk the earth that I failed to issue her very wise warning. If nothing untoward approaches you, however, a visit to the inn should prove helpful.”

  Thomas glanced over at his prioress.

  She nodded.

  The exchange was not lost on Sister Beatrice, and pride in her niece’s authority briefly shone in her eyes. “The inn is the perfect place to hear gossip, and I will instruct our porter to let you out the gate at an hour most religious should be in bed. This plan is a dangerous one, and I know I am sending you into a world where Satan will delight in testing you. Your devotion to justice and your calling must strengthen you. I trust you will remember you are there only to serve God. Had we some other choice…but we do not. Surely, if you dissemble as well as you did…”

  Thomas wiped a sudden light sweat from his forehead.

  “…when you faced that murderer in Tyndal, you will be convincing as a wandering monk with news to exchange. So
me of the inn’s visitors should be quite willing to tell you things they might not a local man. With God’s grace, your mission may be quickly accomplished, and you can come back to our priory without suffering from your experience.” She raised a thoughtful eyebrow.

  “I delight in honoring my vow of obedience and am happy to do as required, praying that my actions result in peace returning to these sacred walls.” Thomas put his hands together in the attitude of prayer and bowed his head.

  “As for your findings, do not come to me, for I fear my many extra duties keep me from giving this matter the proper attention.” Sister Beatrice drained her mazer and smiled at her niece. “On this question of ghosts, Prioress Eleanor shall act on Amesbury’s behalf.”

  Brother Thomas could barely contain his glee over this good fortune.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning’s mist was a light one. The yellow sun had already warmed the nearby outcropping of blue and lavender flowers, soft as a bishop’s linen, and their fragrance filled the air with an agreeable scent that almost masked the stench of rank filth and rotting weeds along the river bank. Nor did the air bite the skin as was sometimes true before the midsummer sun finally vanquished all remnants of the darker seasons. In sum, the day seemed quite filled with tenderness.

  Alys, however, was unmindful of the morning’s promise. Had she been passing a dunghill, her expression could not have been more sour; her face was reddened as if winter’s chill still ruled.

  “Is it not a lovely morning for a walk, mistress?” Master Herbert slowed so he would not outpace the sullen young woman at his side.