Justice for the Damned

by Priscilla Royal

  He waited until a woman with two overfilled baskets passed by, several children with lesser burdens in tow.

  Since the spy master seemed to view women as beings formed from a mere rib only to serve Adam’s sons, the priest might have judged her involvement not worth the noting. A poor decision, Thomas thought. With pleasure he imagined the expression on the man’s face should he ever try matching wits with the formidable novice mistress.

  “Watch your step!” a voice cried out.

  Thomas looked down.

  A legless man sat on a cart just in front of him. The man’s hollow cheeks spoke eloquently of starvation.

  Thomas found a coin meant for tongue-loosening ale, dropped it into the man’s hand, and walked on, forcing his thoughts back to the question. If Sister Beatrice had been the one to alert some bishop that the Amesbury Psalter might be stolen, would she not assume that someone would be sent to investigate? But if she knew that, why had she not said anything?

  Perhaps she had been ordered to remain silent to prevent alerting the thief. He, too, had been forbidden to speak to anyone about his role here. Nonetheless, she might well have guessed that he was the one. Why else would she have set him on this task of finding the ghost, allowing a monk she did not know to visit the inn and wander about the town like some clerk?

  A loud crash made him jump. To his right, a butcher was cutting meat while a spotted bitch with engorged teats danced and whined at his feet. The fellow tossed the creature a bloody bit, and she raced away with her treasure.

  Thomas shook his head. Had the novice mistress said anything about her suspicions to Prioress Eleanor? Although he might have preferred that, he doubted Sister Beatrice would have broken a vowed silence even to a loved relative. She seemed as much a woman of strong principles as her niece.

  If Sister Beatrice knew about the threat to the Psalter, then someone must have told her. Was the source a man or woman, religious or townsman? How did this person find out? Thomas cursed that his bound silence prevented him from asking her the identity and that her own vow would stop her from answering even if he did.

  As he paused to let men driving sheep go by, he looked over the passing flock and discovered that his wanderings had led him back to the inn. He gritted his teeth, trying to banish his dismay.

  The source of the tale was most likely a secular man, seated inside that inn and listening to gossip and plots. Both women and monastics were less likely to hear rumors about thievery. As he had already confirmed, men interrupted their conversations to jest at monks in an inn. Serving wenches were an equal distraction and cause for lewd remarks. Only a secular man, and a local one at that, could remain unnoticed while men spoke together of secret things. Although he was unsure how he would find the man out, he knew he had little choice but to try.

  Thomas crossed the road to the inn door.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Eleanor halted. As they walked through the market stalls, she had glanced behind and caught the wistful expressions on the faces of her two young attendants. How thoughtless she had been! They were probably hungry.

  “Oh, I do remember the delicious fish taken from the river while I was growing up at this priory,” she said. “That man over there has pies made from them. Shall we honor God’s bounty and eat one?”

  When the eyes of her attendants brightened, Prioress Eleanor gestured to the merchant, who brought them a sampling of his wares. He might have given the food as a gift to the benefit of his soul, but Tyndal’s leader gave him both blessing and coin.

  While her youthful religious chewed with undisguised pleasure, Eleanor turned her attention to the surrounding crowds. Not far to her right, she recognized Bernard and Alys, standing in front of his display of gloves. They were holding hands and gazing at each other with undisguised rapture.

  Hearing a shout redolent with outrage, the prioress turned to see a scarlet-faced Jhone elbowing a path through to the pair, their moment of delight now ended.

  “How dare you, sir?” the mother exclaimed. “And you, strumpet! Did I not forbid you to come near this man?”

  “I wanted to look at his gloves, Mother. That is guiltless enough. Even you admit that his work is of the best quality.”

  “He had no need to fondle your hand. He had no reason to look upon you with such undisguised lust…”

  “Mistress, I was but taking her hand to measure it for a glove. As for any intent to dishonor, I am blameless!”

  Eleanor noticed the slight bulge in the man’s robe. Innocence may have dwelt in the glover’s gaze, but elsewhere the virtue had departed.

  The spell cast by romantic imaginings shattered, Alys tossed her head in fury at the slur on her virtue. In doing so, she caught sight of the prioress standing near. “My lady!” she cried out.

  Bernard and Jhone spun around.

  “I did not see you,” the widow said, covering her eyes as if hiding what a prioress might read in them. “I beg pardon for any offense!”

  “As there was none, there is no need.”

  “Then please excuse us, my lady,” she mumbled, her face a mix of conflicting hues. “I have errands to attend with this daughter of mine.”

  Eleanor nodded and gave her blessing.

  Jhone grasped her daughter’s arm with a firmness that demanded obedience and aimed her child away from the booth. Although Alys might have been reluctant to obey and surely felt the defiance of thwarted passion, she wisely did not cast even one backward glance at her beloved.

  “A tryst?” Eleanor asked, turning to Bernard.

  Embarrassment colored the glover’s cheeks. “Alys and I try to meet whenever possible, but her mother is so clever at discovering our evasions that we rarely have more than a moment together. How she is able to read our thoughts remains a wonder to us.”

  “You both know that Alys is to marry Master Herbert.” Although she had her suspicions about the glover, Eleanor found herself in sympathy with the young lovers. Whatever the truth about Bernard, she still did not want to encourage behavior that could easily lead to less chaste conduct than holding hands.

  “Alys has not given her consent, although I fear she must do so soon.”

  “Can you refute the reasons behind her mother’s choice?”

  “My heart denies her logic, my lady. If her mother only knew what Alys and I feel for each other…” His eyes filled with tears. “My dearest one and I could do so much together to gain the wealth the vintner now has. Mistress Jhone claims I am nothing more than an impractical boy with no prospects, but my glove designs are gaining favor amongst those who can pay for carefully crafted work. Alys has an eye for what her mother should recognize as the more practical elements of business. We know our union would be blessed.”

  “If Alys does not marry as her mother wishes, has she not expressed a desire for the cloistered life?”

  Bernard shook his head angrily. “In truth she told me that she would take holy vows only to avoid wedding a man she does not love.” As soon as he had said the words, the glover realized he had just denied his beloved one escape from a hateful marriage by admitting she had no calling to the religious life. He groaned and slapped his hand against his forehead.

  As the young man slumped against the table of his stall, his eyes turning dark with despair, Eleanor’s heart softened. “Are you able to prove that your profits have increased, that your reasonable prospects make you a match equal to the vintner even if your current state does not?”

  Bernard’s expression conveyed utter defeat. “I cannot easily counter the wish of a dead husband, my lady.”

  If that was true, then this man had no pressing reason to chance the theft and sale of the Psalter, unless he had pressing bills. “Is it that,” she asked, her voice gentle, “or hold you such debt…”

  “All merchants owe something, but my father taught me prudence in business and thrift in habits.”

  He has not taken offense at my prying, Eleanor no
ted, then changed the direction of her questions. “I cannot understand why Alys’ father and the vintner were so eager for this marriage,” she said. “Although Master Woolmonger would have wanted a wealthy tradesman for Alys, I do not see the gain for Master Vintner. He has wealth enough, and wool would be a new trade for him. Wasn’t he deeply wronged by Mistress Jhone’s kin? I am as surprised that the woolmonger dared to suggest the union as I am by the vintner’s willingness to accept it.”

  “Like a foul odor, that tale drifts through the village!” The glover frowned. “I myself overheard Master Herbert tell the story to Alys’ father one night at the inn. Others must have as well for I would never have repeated something like that. Mistress Eda was an honorable woman and her husband most assuredly mistaken. I never gave credence to the accusation.”

  “Did Master Woolmonger perhaps deny that his nephew was the seducer?”

  Bernard shook his head.

  How very odd this matter is, Eleanor thought. “Were you well-acquainted with Mistress Eda?”

  “As well as I knew most of my mother’s friends, although the vintner’s wife was younger by some years. My mother praised her faith and sweet temper, saying she wished her own daughters would follow Mistress Eda’s example. All who knew the lady respected her charity and honesty.”

  Eleanor had listened to his words most carefully. They did not suggest any untoward passion between the glover and Eda. “Perhaps she was innocent of adultery, but what of Sayer? Might he have tried to bed her and been refused?”

  Bernard opened his mouth.

  “Do not claim improbable ignorance of the man as you did before.” The prioress lowered her voice. “Is he not Alys’ cousin?”

  The glover coughed as if he had swallowed wrong. “Did I say I knew him not? Although I am not well acquainted with her cousin, Alys has vouched for his gentle and honorable treatment of women. I myself have no direct knowledge that would contradict her opinion,” he added quickly.

  “A man who treats women with honor—except tavern wenches. Those he sends to tempt weak-fleshed monks,” Eleanor countered.

  “Of these rumors I should not speak, my lady,” he stammered, “but I shall confirm that Mistress Eda was not capable of being a faithless wife. She was most devout.”

  “A pious woman who committed self-murder?”

  “I may be one of the few who disbelieved that tale, but I am not alone. Even those who said she must have committed the sin were sympathetic and believed the agony of her illness brought such deep despair that her many hours of prayer could not daunt it. Despite his story of adultery, her husband defended his dead wife, claiming she had fallen into the river and died by accident. He was quite distraught when her body was condemned to burial in unsanctified ground.”

  “How could he have grieved so if he thought she had crowned his head with a cuckold’s horns?”

  “Maybe he was a most forgiving spouse.”

  “Was the woolmonger such a close friend that Master Herbert might confess this humiliation to him?”

  “My lady, I know not all that transpired between the two men. I have often seen them together, and did overhear that one discussion, but it is not my custom to listen to private talks.” The glover was showing signs of an uneasy impatience.

  “Forgive my curiosity, Master Glover. I shall ask no more about that.” Indeed, she added to herself, I doubt you will tell me more anyway.

  The color in the young merchant’s face quickly faded to a more natural pink.

  “More to your concerns, I fear you have little hope of gaining Alys’ hand if you have neither coin nor the blessing of a dead husband.”

  Bernard sighed. “I do not mean to wrong Mistress Jhone. She most truly loves her daughter and only wants the best for her as is right. Had my father died, leaving me more wealth than hope, I might still be able to persuade her to grant our wish for marriage, despite her dead husband’s plan. Master Herbert demonstrates his prosperity daily by his dress and most public generosity in alms. In comparison, I am a poor man. My brother and I support our mother, and I confess we both do what we can to help her recover some joy in life. To that purpose, we spend our spare coin on things to delight her heart, for her grief at my father’s death has been most profound.”

  Eleanor’s heart sank. She had hoped to dismiss the possibility that the theft and sale of a manuscript might be this young man’s way of finding the coin to buy his love. Reluctantly, she put Bernard Glover back on her list of suspects.

  Chapter Thirty

  A man flew backward through the inn door, hitting Thomas with such force that he landed on his back in the dust of the road.

  “Satan’s black balls!” the stranger roared. Struggling to his knees, he gagged and spat out teeth.

  Thomas grabbed at the man’s arm. “Are you not injured enough? Go home,” he urged.

  “Nay, monk, he must stay. He is still alive,” a familiar voice scoffed.

  Thomas looked up at Sayer. From the high color of the roofer’s face, he guessed the fellow was drunk.

  With another oath, the unknown man rose and took to his heels down the street. When he was a safe distance away, he stopped to yell further abuse before quickly disappearing around a cart.

  The roofer helped the monk up. “Are you hurt, Brother?”

  As he grasped Sayer’s proffered hand, Thomas felt a dampness and saw a rivulet of blood trickling over the man’s fingers. “You are bleeding,” he said. “Was the fight worth that?”

  “Spoken like a monk,” the man replied, but his tone was gentle.

  “I will buy you a drink. There are some questions I have for you.”

  Sayer stiffened and dropped Thomas’ hand. “Like a dog you are, sniffing about so eagerly.” Then his mouth twitched into a lopsided grin. “But I would be foolish to turn down the offer of ale from a monk with coin to buy it. That is such a rare wonder I will save the story to amaze my grandchildren when I am too old to keep their respect otherwise!”

  Directing Sayer to a quiet table, Thomas gently shoved the roofer onto the bench and slid in so close to him that the man was pushed against the wall where he could not escape. The monk gestured for a serving wench to bring ale.

  “Why did you and your father quarrel?” he asked when it arrived.

  “That was between my father and me.”

  “There are those who say you, not some ghost, killed your father.”

  Sayer pointed to the inn door. “You saw the last man who suggested that to me, but I would not strike a monk. I earn bread for my mother and kin from the priory.”

  “I did not say you had done the deed, only that others have claimed it. My curiosity is not idle, nor do I accuse. I ask only for the truth. Do you not think the priory that gives you work has the right to know? If you do not answer me, another may well demand it and with less kindness.”

  “Two pitchers are on your bill.” The young man tossed back his ale and poured again. For a moment, he said nothing, then looked at Thomas with unfocused eyes. “My father did not approve of some of my ways,” he slurred. “Is that enough for you?”

  “Was that disapproval reason enough for you to threaten murder?”

  “Ask yourself why I would kill him. Might I not prefer to find a wife and start my own family rather than support my mother and my siblings?”

  “Yet you were heard to say…”

  Sayer shrugged with evident annoyance. “I no longer recall the exact cause of our fight. He was drunk as was I, a condition that offers sweet forgetfulness after days filled with the questionable joys of unrelenting soberness.”

  “Had he enemies?”

  “All men do.”

  “I grow impatient with evasion. You know well enough what I mean, and, if you are innocent, you would serve your cause better by speaking the truth.”

  Sayer rubbed at his eyes. “Although I accused the ghost after seeing my father’s corpse, no such creature had any cause to
harm him. Queen Elfrida would not have cared what my father did as long as his labor provided her monks with enough food to sustain their prayers on her behalf. At that he worked hard, although he sometimes spoke ill of the priory’s religious when his back ached.”

  Thomas nodded.

  “As for Mistress Eda’s spirit, my father agreed with my mother that she was wrongly accused, thus her phantom had no reason to harm him. The vintner’s wife was honest and caring in life. Even after suffering the agonies of the damned, her soul would be incapable of murdering anyone so foully.”

  “You loved her?”

  “Even rogues may honor goodness.”

  “There are tales abroad that you bedded her.”

  “You say such a story is about?” Sayer’s face darkened with anger. “A fool told that lie, Brother, and a greater one believes it.”

  “Then I must ask again about old enemies. Did your father have them, perhaps from the days when he performed service to men who broke the king’s law?”

  Sayer gave the monk a meaningful look as he poured the remaining ale into his mug.

  Thomas waved for more drink.

  With a thud, the serving wench set another jug down on the table.

  “There is no truth…”

  Thomas growled a warning.

  Sayer drank deeply, poured, and drank again. “I knew the stories well enough from others, but my father never spoke of those times. Most of the men either died long ago or else returned to more lawful pursuits, as did he.” The roofer fell silent.

  Compassion battled against suspicion inside Thomas’ heart as he watched Sayer clutching his cup like a shipwrecked sailor holding onto a floating spar. “Why did you two fight?” he asked at last, his voice soft. “You remember well enough. Do not feign addled wits with me and claim your reason has grown rotten with ale. Your words have been too quick.”

  Sayer looked up at the ceiling, his mouth quivering with barely controlled grief. “Brother, ask not why we fought.” His voice hoarsened with tears. “This I do swear to you on any holy relic: I did not kill my father. My soul may be so black that even God in His mercy would turn His countenance away, but I loved the man who sired me!” With that, Sayer began to weep.