“I have no wish to be cruel, but God’s justice requires your strength in telling all you can recall.” Eleanor reached out with commiseration to the woman.
“The next thing I remember was the crowner taunting me!” Ivetta shouted, and then began to sob without attempting to hide it. “He was a beast to say what he did, accusing me of murder. Martin was not… Oh, my lady, I may be the vilest of God’s creation, but even soulless creatures know tenderness. I loved him! And I am bearing his child!”
Chapter Twelve
“Devoted lover?” Ralf snorted. “Martin? He may have liked to swyve Ivetta from time to time, but he never would have let her keep the babe had she told him of it.”
The prioress remained silent, her gray eyes darkening.
“Surely you do not mean…” Anne pressed her hand against her waist.
“He hired her out. She let the cooper take whatever she earned, and he paid as little as possible for her keep in return. A pregnant whore brings little trade, Annie. He would never have tolerated the loss of income. Is this sweet love?”
“Perhaps he had gained affection for her after all this time,” Anne interjected.
“A bull would sooner grow wings. By all reports, Ivetta is skilled at her craft. That may satisfy a man’s hungry yard, leaving behind some short-lived taste for the food, but it rarely fills his heart with tenderness.”
“What of Hob and Will, the two men who were alone with Martin that night? They argued with the cooper. How quickly the number of your suspects has increased from one to three,” the sub-infirmarian concluded.
“A number enlarged by the very woman who may have poisoned him and wishes to point us in some other direction.”
“There is also the innkeeper’s niece,” Eleanor said. “She, too, was alone with him.”
Ralf shook his head. “Signy is innocent,” he mumbled.
“We cannot ignore her. After all, she delivered the food and drink and apparently had heated words with the cooper. At some point, Signy, Hob, and Will were all alone with Martin for a while. After that, when Ivetta entered the room the second time, Martin was drinking the wine. Any one could have poisoned the drink before she arrived.”
“So claims the harlot,” he replied. “Shall I mention that the goblet was empty, as was the jug that contained it, by the time I got up the stairs?” Who might have done that and for what purpose?”
“Who was in the room when you arrived?” Eleanor asked the crowner.
“The innkeeper and Signy were just in front of me as I climbed the stairs. They could not have destroyed evidence without my seeing the act. Only Ivetta was alone with the corpse and the method of killing him. For all her cleverly professed affection for Martin, she had the best opportunity to do the deed, then destroy the poisoned wine.”
“For just a moment, let us assume that one of the others killed him. What reason might either Hob or Will, perhaps both, have for doing such a thing?” Eleanor continued.
Ralf shrugged. “They have long been friends with the cooper and used to his ways. The brothers drank, and when they did, they got into fights-with Martin as well as others. The difference is that all was forgotten by the three men before the aching heads were healed. That has long been their pattern.”
“Ivetta said that Martin was mocking Will’s impotence. Was that a longtime jest?” Anne asked.
The crowner frowned. “That I had not heard. If true, would it be cause for murder? I wonder.”
“Would it be if he had said the same about you?” Anne snapped.
Ralf’s face turned scarlet.
“I have made my argument,” the sub-infirmarian replied.
“And Hob?” Eleanor added.
“As a boy, Hob always followed his elder brother in wickedness. Then he changed his ways but still works at the smithy with Will, and thus is not removed from that influence. Tostig claims Hob has grown more independent in the last several months, however. Of the two, the younger has long been the more restrained, but he is fiercely loyal to his brother. Of all their family, only they remain on this earth. So I could believe Hob might have struck out to protect his brother, but I doubt he is a murderer. Nay, I still think the whore had more reason to kill than either man.”
“Because she was with child?” Anne asked.
“Surely it is not the first time! Maybe she thought this quickening would change a bawd into a husband. Her value as a common woman is diminishing, and even she must have realized that Martin would have been contemplating the acquisition of a younger harlot. Perhaps she thought he owed her the security of marriage, and, when he laughed at the prospect, she killed him.”
“Slipping ground yew seeds into a man’s wine suggests some planning, Ralf.”
“Are you certain that was the case, Annie?”
“Before I heard what Ivetta had to say, I suspected yew or nightshade. Now I am fairly sure it was the seeds from a yew tree. There were tiny bits left where the wine had spilled. The symptoms described and what I noted about the corpse were consistent with that kind of poisoning.”
“Something easily slipped into a drink?” Eleanor asked.
“The taste of wine, especially a flavored one, hides many things. The poison can work quickly, and we do not know exactly when the cooper might have started to drink it. Of course, it could have been put into the stew, both food and drink were brought together, but little of the stew had been eaten. A potion slipped into wine is more likely to achieve the murderous effect than something scattered over food. Some men reach for the cup before the spoon.” Anne hesitated. “I fear that yew has also been used to abort unborn babes, usually with cruel consequences to mother and child.”
“Of course a prostitute would be familiar with it.” Ralf paused to let the comment sink in.
“Or an apothecary and many more women than we might commonly assume. Dangerous though it is, the method is well known, Ralf.”
“Which reminds me that we have yet to consider any motive Signy might have,” Eleanor said.
“None!” Ralf struck a fist into his other hand.
“Why are you so convinced?” Anne asked.
He threw up his hands. “Ivetta has committed sins that would make the Devil blush. Signy is a decent woman.”
“Very well, Ralf, but we will question her shortly.” Eleanor’s stern expression was enough to quell any potential argument.
“I am grateful.” Ralf lowered his eyes.
The sub-infirmarian tilted her head and studied the crowner in silence.
“She refuses to speak with me,” the crowner sputtered in response to Anne’s unspoken query.
“Why am I not surprised?”
Ralf threw up his hands. “Very well, I will not arrest Ivetta yet, but she is still my strongest suspect. Signy is innocent, but you may well learn something valuable from her. The innkeeper and other possible witnesses, I will question myself, including Will and Hob.”
“I praise the wisdom of your direction, Ralf,” Anne said wryly.
Eleanor laughed to lighten the mood. “Our priory is attracting the most interesting visitors these days. A prostitute and a serving wench? The Kingdom of Heaven must be nigh when such come to a priory and give up the secrets of their souls.”
Anne nodded. “Ivetta was quite blunt in telling her tales. I wonder what the innkeeper’s niece might have to say…” She hesitated, then gave the crowner a mischievous look. “…about many little things.”
Although Ralf’s muttered response was not completely clear, the two nuns later agreed that he had first complained about being a much maligned man with nothing small about him, and then had uttered a most impressive oath before stomping out the door.
Chapter Thirteen
“You’re a godly monk, Brother.” Old Tibia’s voice began to slur as the sleep-inducing draught took effect.
Godly was not a word he would have used to describe himself, Thomas thought, but opted not to contradict her gentle words.
“And h
ave a consoling angel’s smile.”
“You are most kind, but I am a sinful man like any other. I will convey your gratitude to those who make this potion. I am but the courier who delivers restful sleep from the priory.”
Tibia laid a light hand on Thomas’ arm and watched him as she did. “You don’t draw back at the touch of this crone?”
“Why should I?”
“Most bearing the tonsure do. How can a feeble old woman like me corrupt chastity? I’ve oft asked that.” Her expression suggested some distant memory had drifted like a cloud’s shadow across her face. “If the sex that bore them troubles monks so, how could they have been good sons? But you, you’re like a proper son, Brother. Touching you with a mother’s hand comforts me and makes the absence of my own boy more bearable.”
“We should praise the God who sent me to you.”
She turned her sharp-featured face from him.
Remembering his earlier, less compassionate thoughts about her, shame filled his heart. Why was it that we sing paeans to lush but wicked youth, he asked himself, and mock the hooked noses and hollow cheeks of those whose souls were soon to see God? Should we not pray instead for these scars left by grueling life and condemn the plump callousness of youth? At the moment, age’s pale warmth seemed preferable to Thomas than the heat of youth. What joy had the latter ever brought him?
“Is your mother dead?” Tibia’s voice was just a whisper.
“Aye, as are the women who took me in as a babe and young boy.”
“Your father?”
“He also.”
“More recently? There’s fresh sadness in your voice.”
“The brothers and sisters at the priory are my kin,” he replied, realizing that there was much truth in what he said, more than he had intended.
“A kind family,” Tibia murmured. “Your holy prioress brought good with her when she came to Tyndal Priory. The Evil One stays where he should in his stinking pit longer than he did in the past.”
“Like the beloved disciple, who took care of Our Lord’s mother after the crucifixion, I gain honor by serving Prioress Eleanor,” Thomas said. The words might have been spoken out of common courtesy, but his heart meant them.
The old woman suddenly gazed up at him, all sleep fled and her eyes shining with wide-eyed zeal. “And now the priory has a new anchoress. A holy woman, for cert!”
“You think her blessed by God?”
“Her advice brings hope to us in the village. And I’ve heard it true that pilgrims, even from London, delay their journey on the way to the shrine of Saint William to crouch by her window.”
Although he had seen some whom he had not recognized at Sister Juliana’s window, he had no idea that her reputation as a woman touched by God had spread quite so far abroad. “Have you spoken with the anchoress yourself?”
“What woman hasn’t?” Tibia sighed. “A friar traveling through the village preached that women are the most sinful creatures. We destroy any hope men might have to return to Eden.” She closed her eyes as if wearied by the effort to talk. “That’s hard to bear. Since I’ve committed much wickedness, I know I must take my share of blame. But those words must weigh heavy on a virtuous woman. If the Anchoress Juliana can spread balm on my evil heart, she’ll do more for the innocent.”
“Nevertheless, she cannot give you God’s forgiveness.”
The silence grew long, except for the sound of the old woman’s steady breathing. Had Tibia finally fallen asleep? He bent over to listen and decided that the potion had finally worked.
That was just as well, he decided. His curiosity about Sister Juliana and her advice was sparked, but he should not question this poor soul about her experience with the anchoress. As a priest, he might be able to hear any willing confession. As a mere man, he had no right to pry into what had transpired between the old woman and the young anchoress.
As Thomas rose to leave, he heard old Tibia mutter something. Was she just talking in her sleep or had she spoken to him? He leaned over and brought his ear closer to her mouth.
“A priest may bring a father’s forgiveness,” the woman said clearly enough, “but we all long for a mother’s embrace. A holy woman brings that from God, Brother.”
Startled by her meaning, he drew back.
Tibia now slipped into a sleep so deep it foretold the peace of death.
Chapter Fourteen
Aided by the full moon’s ashen light, Thomas hurried along the path to the priory. His mood was darker than the Devil’s heart.
After leaving Tibia, he had taken one more potion to a man who suffered a deep and oozing sore in his throat. As the monk helped him drink a measure of poppy juice, the man screamed, his eyes wide like a wounded animal, terrified by the unimaginable pain before the numbing drug took affect. Glancing up at the wet cheeks of the man’s wife, Thomas knew that both of them would call God merciful if He took the man’s soul quickly, even though that aged widow would be left to the care of their son’s spouse, a woman of few mercies and even less charity.
“Is there any earthly happiness for mortals?” Thomas growled as he entered the priory grounds near the mill. His eyes were gritty with fatigue-or was it bitterness?
He rubbed angrily at them.
The light might be bright enough to see along the path, but the shadows cast in front of him were sinister, twitching like tortured souls in Hell. Although daylight might reveal the cause to be as harmless as wind-stunted brush moving in a sea breeze, Thomas found night to be an ominous time. When God’s sunshine deserted the earth, Satan most certainly rejoiced, ruled his kingdom with bleak terror, and filled the hours with hideous deeds.
The monk shuddered. Madness lay in these thoughts. Surely, if he were able to sleep, he would awaken to a more joyous view of God’s creation and cast his foe, the Prince of Darkness, out of his heart. Thomas quickened his pace as he passed the creaking mill wheel.
Of course there were men who experienced an honest pleasure in life: those with loving wives and children; some who found salvation in killing infidels and gaining prestige with a well-honed sword; or men filled with such rapturous faith that they longed only for God’s company, either in a hermitage or the cloister.
Thomas did not regret the lack of a wife, although he was sometimes sorry he had never fathered a son. Nor did he wish for the military life. Despite his bastardy, he might have gotten horse and armor from his father had he shown talent in warrior sports, but the monk had always preferred jousts with sharp wit to those with lances. The Church was the only logical place for a clever by-blow with reasoning skills, high enough birth, and a pleasing manner but no lands to tempt noble fathers demanding more than a handsome face for their daughters.
As for faith, he had always assumed the truth of what the Church taught but rarely thought much beyond that, unless struck by terror that his sins were so horrible that his soul must plunge directly into Hell. In short, his piety was of the common sort and made him unsuited to the monastic life. Might he have felt differently if he had not been forced to take the tonsure? He doubted it. As a clerk in minor orders, he had prayed respectfully but mostly out of habit and duty. Of course he wished to serve his Lord, as all Christian men did in this land, but he had never, until now, hungered for God’s voice.
Even before his imprisonment, he had never found tranquility on his knees before the altar. Now that he sought it after the events at Amesbury, God seemed to be taking a most cruel pleasure in mocking his pathetic attempts to pray. The only time he found peace was in the comforting of the sick at the hospital or helping his prioress bring justice to the aggrieved. At this moment, the monk almost wished his spymaster had an assignment for him. Perhaps that would distract him from these gangrenous musings?
Thomas rubbed his eyes again with the heel of his hands and cursed. All these thoughts were wicked self-indulgences. Had he been in his narrow bed dreaming of heaven, or on his knees praying to God, Satan would not have found such joy in pricking his soul l
ike this. No matter what his doubts, was he not still a priest sworn to serve God? His duty was to fight the evils that tortured him, not give in to mortal weakness.
Despite his clenched fist, Thomas knew that such fine thoughts were as hollow as his heart. His dreams were never of heaven, and the only thing Thomas ever heard, when he lay on the rough-cut stones of the chapel, was the chatter of rats and his own babble of repeated prayers. Death might well be kinder, he often thought. Even the certainly of Hell seemed preferable than the spiritual torment he now suffered.
Thomas stopped and shook his head as if that would scatter his brooding thoughts. His hard bed in the monks’ dorter would give him no relief tonight. The looming, dark outline of the priory church was just in front of him. He might as well try prayer again. At least God must surely understand that he wanted to be a true liegeman, even if he did fail in practice.
As he neared the church door, he glanced at the anchorage. For once, there was no one at Sister Juliana’s window. Dare he kneel there at last and seek whatever curse or blessing she might have for him?
He stumbled toward it, weary with fear and sleeplessness. Had some unseen force taken him by the arm and pushed him there? Whatever the cause, he did not even try to resist. At the curtained window he dropped to his knees and started to weep, his cheeks stinging as if the tears were made of vinegar.
“What brings you here, Brother Thomas?”
How did she know it was him?
“I remember that sigh from the time we met in the snow at Wynethorpe Castle.”
“You recall that, Sister?” Thomas’ voice rose with terror. If she could not see him, how could she distinguish one stranger’s moan from another?
“Memory’s vivid colors dance in my heart. In this way I am reminded of the reasons I left the world.”
“Then I should not remind you of such troubling times,” Thomas replied, struggling to rise without success.
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