“Martin was cruel in his jesting,” Ralf said, turning to Will. “You knew that best of all and often came to blows…”
Will’s face flushed with blood lust, and he clenched his fists.
Hob stepped in front of him. “Stand back or I’ll let him run you through, Will.”
With but a brief hesitation, his brother did.
Ralf also retreated a step. “Do you believe he meant to toss Ivetta aside or was that just another of his callous jokes? After all, she was bearing his child.”
Hob’s mouth dropped open. “May God have mercy on her, Crowner! We did not know…”
“Did Martin?”
“It wouldn’t have mattered what she claimed,” Will growled. “Enough men had mingled their seed in her. What reason had he to believe he was the father any more than…” He grinned. “Me, for instance, or one of the priory monks?”
“Was there another woman or was that false, said only to wound her more deeply?”
Will began to shift from foot to foot like some eager boy. “You’ll like this one, Crowner.”
“Shut up, Will!” Hob snapped.
Ralf looked from one to the other. “What do you mean?”
“He had another, for cert!” Will leered at the crowner. “Signy, the innkeeper’s niece.”
Ralf swallowed hard, his face turning pale.
Will the blacksmith bent over, holding his sides as he roared with laughter. “Can’t you share the jest, Crowner? Or does it trouble you that she found Martin more pleasing in bed than she did you!”
The crowner lunged.
Hob leapt between the two men and shoved his brother backward through the door of the hut. “Leave us in peace,” he shouted from inside, over the barks of the unseen dog. “My brother may be rude, but neither of us had aught to do with murder.”
Feeling his face seared by humiliation, Ralf shut his eyes.
Suddenly, he heard a hiss behind him.
Drawing his sword, he spun around.
A very pregnant cat sat nearby and glared. Her eyes glowed red in the light of the dying fire in the forge.
“Devil, thy true name is Woman,” the crowner grumbled, replaced his weapon, and strode out of the smithy.
Chapter Nineteen
Ivetta leaned back against the lime-washed, straw and clay daub of the stable wall and absently ran a hand around her quickening belly. Had the babe grown? She smiled.
But the memory of Martin’s death quickly shattered that brief happiness, and she began to whimper like a hurt child. “He was jesting. It was what he always did. He never meant what he said!”
That horrible night, she had thought his trembling hands spoke of his especial eagerness to mount her. He must be excited about becoming a father at last, she remembered thinking, and his cruel words about the babe had meant nothing, nothing at all.
When he then began to jerk and twist so oddly, she imagined he had found some new way to pleasure himself, but she grew perplexed when he did not enter her and had twisted around to look at what he was doing. The memory was as vivid as if she were seeing it all again, every hideous detail of it.
Martin had fallen to the floor, twitching and clawing at himself. His lips were painted white with foam, his bowels had loosened, and his eyes were wide with unholy terror.
Was it then she had screamed?
She opened her eyes and looked around wildly as if she had just awakened from a nightmare. Staring at the familiar shape of the inn brought her comfort, and the image of his twisted features began to fade. Surely this must all be just a bad dream, she thought.
“Martin will be waiting in that upstairs room. He’ll laugh when I walk in, slap me on the tout, and tell me he never meant a word he said.”
Won’t he?
She had not told the prioress what Martin had said when she revealed she was with child. There was no reason to mention any of that, was there? It had nothing to do with his murder, and God’s holy virgin could not possibly understand what often passed between a woman and her man. How could she explain to such a woman that he had often said one thing while thinking another? Despite what others might conclude from his words, she always understood what Martin truly meant.
She had heard many call him cruel and selfish but she knew better. Hadn’t his smile betrayed his joy when she gave him her news? Surely he had only meant to be considerate when he said she could birth or bury the child for all he cared. Foolish man! Of course she was happy but he had only wanted to make sure she was.
She shut her eyes again and tried to remember his exact expression. Wasn’t that a delighted smile he gave her? His lips were twisted as they always were when he spoke mean words, but didn’t that sparkling in his eyes shout a most paternal happiness? An uneasy doubt pricked at her heart, but she quickly disregarded it.
And then there was that business about Signy. At first, she had grown angry when he said he would soon replace her in his bed with the innkeeper’s niece, but her temper had cooled when he began to fondle her as he always did. No matter that she did not like the idea of another in Martin’s arms, but a man must have a woman lest his seed grow weak and die. Accordingly, she had decided he could swyve the tavern wench for relief if he wanted, while she herself was big with child, but it would be a temporary thing as it had always been.
Yet he had been cruel to tease her and bring up things she’d rather never remember like the other women he’d bedded. Of all times, why did he also have to do it that night when she was so happy about their first son and the coming marriage he had once promised her?
And why did he have to die? Who would have been so pitiless as to kill him, especially before he could marry her? As his wife under law, she would have gained possession of all he owned, a portion for herself and the rest for their child. Now she had nothing and might starve before the babe was even born. She began to shake with icy terror and pulled herself closer to the stable wall for support.
When she felt some ease, she loosened her grip on the rough surface and looked with longing toward the inn where her beloved had died. A figure coming along the path from the priory caught her eye.
Ivetta tensed. Anger rose with the heat of Hell’s fire from her belly, and an idea burned itself into her mind. Why had she not thought of this before? Now she knew what had happened that night. Like a wild woman, she flung herself away from the stable.
“You killed him!” she screamed and ran toward the innkeeper’s niece.
Startled by the screeching woman racing toward her, Signy stopped so quickly that she stumbled, lost her balance in the rutted ground, and fell to her knees.
In an instant, Ivetta was on top of her, pummeling Signy with both fists. “You murdered him because he loved me! You knew you could never have him to yourself!”
The innkeeper’s niece twisted first to one side and then the next, shouting for help and trying to protect her eyes and face. Being far taller and heavier-boned than Ivetta, she finally dislodged her attacker and jumped to her feet. “You’re mad!” she shouted.
Ivetta struggled to her feet. “Lecherous woman! Martin only bedded you out of pity. When he came back to me, he mimicked how you had howled with longing, and then writhed with lust under him.”
“How dare you call me wanton!”
A crowd was now gathering outside the inn.
Ivetta noted the growing audience and gleefully threw her arms out to them. “May not an honest whore expose a dishonest one? Of course, I can. Shall I be more specific to prove the truth of what I say?”
A few voices urged her to continue.
“Do you deny that you have a red mark on your left breast, just above the tit? Was that where the Devil bit you when even he failed to sate your lusts?” Ivetta shouted.
Signy froze.
“And the mole on your pryvete?”
“Liar!” The innkeeper’s niece screamed, covering her ears.
Ivetta threw her head back and laughed.
Signy began to weep.
A heavy-set man suddenly appeared at the doorway of the inn, then pushed his way through the crowd toward the women.
Seeing the innkeeper amongst them, a few men left, assuming the entertainment was over. Others stayed to watch what would happen next.
“Go back inside,” he ordered. “This is but a spat between women, of no greater import than the sparring of two cats over a vole. Tonight we have a band of jugglers passing through, far better amusement than this silliness.”
In good humor after such merry sport and needing ale to wet their throats on a summer eve, the crowd dispersed, most returning to the inn.
The innkeeper took the trembling Signy by the arm. “Come, niece,” he said gently. “Dry your tears. The cook needs help with the fish.”
By then, Ivetta had disappeared into the shadows of the slowly fading light.
Chapter Twenty
Eleanor’s eyes widened. “I never would have thought such a thing.”
Ralf stared at the rushes on the floor. Although no one could read his expression, his shoulders were rounded as if heavy melancholy had weighed them down.
“Nor do I now,” Sister Anne replied. “Signy may have faults like the rest of us, but I cannot imagine why she would bed a man like Martin. I had never heard that she was fond of the rougher sort.”
Ralf glanced up and blinked as if waging war against enemy tears.
“Perhaps I misspoke,” Anne said, her tone softened by compassion. “When a man chooses to ignore sweet courtesies and fine fashion, he may still own a gentle heart. Martin was a cruel man. I meant the latter when I spoke of roughness.”
“The innkeeper’s niece is a woman beyond reproach,” the crowner replied, his words barely audible. “Were she otherwise, Tostig would not…” He coughed uncomfortably.
“Of course, Ralf.” Anne nodded.
“None of us gives credence to this comment by the smithy.” Eleanor’s dismissive gesture gave emphasis to her words. “Nonetheless, it provides me with cause to call Signy back. I wanted to clarify some details of her story. And,” she continued, “I have more questions for Ivetta as well, although the latter may find a second visit to the priory more unwelcome than the first. I fear the contemplative nature of our life failed to attract her.”
Anne raised a hopeful eyebrow. “Our Order has welcomed women of her trade who repent. Not all religious houses do. Her exposure was surely all too brief. Perhaps another walk through our cloister would open her heart to the murmured wisdom of Saint Mary Magdalene.”
“That is a miracle for which we might well pray.” The prioress smiled before turning her attention back to the crowner. “Meanwhile, I shall see what more I can learn that relates to murder.”
“My lady, you are most kind to take on this task,” he said, this time meeting her gaze. “The cooper’s death does not affect Tyndal Priory, and I shall never forget your generous help when I could not get answers.”
“God requires it. First, our priory does serve both the spiritual and many temporal needs of this village. Second, when any mortal falls victim to violence, even one as sinful as Martin, all men are blighted. Whether they follow a secular or religious life matters not. Because you are striving to emulate God’s most perfect justice, Crowner, we have good reason to assist you in that pursuit.” Her smile was warm with affection.
Ralf flushed unhappily. “I could never achieve perfection, my lady. My soul is so fat with its many transgressions that even the Devil must doubt he can find room for my spirit in Hell.”
“All I said was strive, Ralf,” she replied, her tone turning curiously chill. “With God’s help, we imperfect mortals may even succeed on rare occasion. As for the number of our sins, we all suffer from mortal flaws, whether sworn to enforce an earthly king’s law or that of God.”
Not long after, the crowner left-as did Sister Anne. When the Prioress of Tyndal’s eyes darkened to that color of storm clouds scudding above the North Sea, even friends felt safer elsewhere.
***
Eleanor marched into her private chambers.
From his nest in a worn piece of wool, the cat raised his head and scrutinized his mistress as she stood over him. His yellow-green eyes were round with grave concern.
“What a hypocrite I am!”
She picked the cat up and carried him in the crook of her arm to the nearby chair. “My perfect knight, I need your soothing company for I am most distraught. Did you overhear my words? Did I not speak convincingly of our duty to strive toward perfection in justice?”
As soon as she sat, the cat circled into a comfortable position on her lap.
“I am wallowing in self-pity. My heart rots with foul anger. The putrefying stench of my sins overcomes me, and my prayers bring neither answer nor comfort.”
Arthur, it seems, was less troubled and quickly fell asleep.
“Why should Signy not hide secrets from me that might bring disgrace, perhaps even connect her to murder? My own soul thrashes in a reeking slough. Would I readily speak of my shame, except to a confessor or my aunt?” She threw her head back against the chair.
Startled by the abrupt gesture, Arthur leapt to the floor but remained at her feet.
“And Ivetta? She is an honest whore while I most truly resemble a whited sepulcher, filled with dead bones and uncleanness.” She bent over to stroke the wary cat and sighed. “Strive, was the word I used,” she whispered. “Strive. That is all God asks, and I must never say He fails to answer my prayers. My greatest fault lies in not listening for His consolation.”
Muffled voices from below her window caught her attention. She stiffened. Were visitors arriving to disrupt this time she needed for musing, she wondered. With relief, Eleanor recognized the familiar laughter of lay sisters passing by, and she slipped back into her troubled thoughts.
“This matter of Brother Thomas has cast my wits into a dungeon and chained them with rough iron to the stone wall,” she continued. “There Lust, Jealousy, and Anger are let loose like mad dogs by Satan to torment my frail reason. I should have asked our abbess in Anjou to send the monk elsewhere many months ago!”
She sighed. “But cooler logic showed me the selfishness of doing so, and I did not. Now that I know his traitorous secret, do I truly have any better cause than my lust to cast him forth? Even if I did, my request might be refused. Perhaps I would be wiser to keep my knowledge hidden. The Abbess herself might have been involved in making the decision to send him here.”
Eleanor patted her lap and the cat jumped back causing the prioress to smile in spite of herself. “Besides, you and my aunt seem to find him pleasing, snake in the garden though he might be,” she said to Arthur. “Dare I ignore your greater wisdom and my aunt’s pointed remark that he has proven his keenness for justice and the willingness to serve me? Surely I am out-argued by you both and must concede the debate.”
Arthur started to scrub her hand with studied care.
She laughed. “That rough tongue of yours is far more effective than any hair shirt, good sir!”
A fly buzzed by, slow and lazy with the summer warmth. The cat tensed, eyed the threat, then jumped down to the floor and began stalking it with due diligence.
“Perhaps a hair shirt would scour away this feminine imperfection of rampant lust and recloak my soul with a cooler, manlier reason? While I sit immobilized by my weaknesses, a soul draped in evil, one that has broken God’s commandment against murder, walks free in Tyndal village. My sins will multiply even more if I allow myself to be blinded by my frailty over Brother Thomas and not help bring that viler creature to earthly justice.”
Eleanor fell into a meditative silence.
The cat, meanwhile, twisted and jumped at the diverting insect.
“As my aunt told me, lusting after my monk gives Satan joy, but there is no sin in finding pleasure in the company of the man if that leads us both to better serve Our Lord. God gave Eve to Adam for companionship. Surely she found a like contentment with him before their f
all from grace. That proves there is no wickedness in chaste affection.”
She rose and walked over to the window. The sun was favoring the land outside with benevolent warmth. “Nonetheless, no man may have two masters.”
The fly disappeared out the same window, leaving the cat baffled.
The prioress clenched her fists. “And I shall claim first loyalty! Brother Thomas is my liegeman. I do not know the reason he became a spy, nor do I understand why he was sent specifically to Tyndal Priory.” Her lips curled with grim humor. “Perhaps the assumption was that I, a simple woman with few years on earth, would be easily deceived and manipulated. Until now, that was certainly true; but anyone who underestimates the niece of Sister Beatrice is the greater fool.”
The breeze shifted and brought the smell of the eastern sea into her room. Eleanor breathed deeply, finding calming pleasure in it.
“And now that I have been alerted to my monk’s other duties, this unnamed but arrogant churchman who claims his obedience would be well-advised to reconsider his methods.” Folding her arms, she looked back at her cat. “Of course, I shall let Brother Thomas leave Tyndal on missions to serve God, as he has been wont to do already, but henceforth he shall do so only by my grace! Perhaps I may even enjoy my next encounter with the priest, who comes with overt lies to purloin my monk, and shall consider how to make it quite clear that I am willing to let my monk serve God’s justice elsewhere, but only when it suits me.”
She looked heavenward, her eyes narrowing with ardent determination. “As prioress of Tyndal, I may rightfully lay claim to the obedience of my flock. Brother Thomas is mine and shall be only mine until God takes either of our souls to judgement!”
With that the prioress bent to pick up the disgruntled insect hunter and carried him out of her private chambers. Whatever grief Brother Thomas might bring her heart, Eleanor still had properties to manage and a murder to solve, whereas Arthur must clear the kitchen of thieving rodents.
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