Forsaken Soul mm-5

by Priscilla Royal

  “Oh, be silent, Crowner! Your tongue always has balked at your teeth unless you are tormenting suspects. Let me tell you what I learned, and you will see that no harm could come of this.” She dug through her basket and pulled out a small fruit tart. “Eat this while I talk. It will keep you quiet while I chatter. Anyone passing will assume you were hungry and I am simply amusing my brother’s best friend with childish babble.”

  He took the tart and bit into it. “Where’d you get this?” he asked. “It’s good.”

  Gytha scowled. “Methinks you need a nurse to take care of you more than your daughter does!”

  “I, rather, she most certainly needs a good woman…”

  “…and I’ll find her one. That, I promise. Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?”

  Ralf nodded sheepishly.

  “The news abroad is that Ivetta and Martin were poisoned by drinking a potion of crushed yew berries. When I was examining these onions, a group of women nearby were complaining that their husbands now refuse to drink anything without having some creature lap at it first. One said she must be grateful her husband didn’t want her to test it rather than the dog!”

  “Is there growing concern over these deaths?” Ralf licked his fingers and looked hopefully at the basket resting between them.

  Gytha found another tart and tossed it to him. “Despite the priory’s efforts, some do still think the Devil is involved. The baker’s wife told me that Will, the blacksmith, was seen in conversation with old Tibia just before he disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “He has not been seen at the smithy for many hours.”

  Ralf swallowed his bite. “Did she say what passed between the two?”

  “No, but she thinks the herb woman is a witch, and Will sold his soul to the Devil through her. That would explain why he has vanished, she says. As for the other deaths, the baker’s wife believes Satan killed them because he had grown impatient waiting for those wicked souls to come to him.”

  “She doesn’t think they were poisoned?” He gestured expectantly at the basket.

  This time, she ignored his hungry look. “No one doubts that yew was involved, but, according to the baker’s wife, that proves Satan’s hand in the deaths. Everyone knows how poisonous the tree is. Would you allow Sibely to even play in the shadow of a yew? Only the Devil can handle it without harm.”

  “Are there no suspects mentioned?”

  “Only the Prince of Darkness.”

  “Thus panic grows,” Ralf muttered, covering his face with his hands. “And I am no closer to finding the guilty one.”

  Gytha rose and picked up her basket. “You will, Crowner. You always do.”

  He looked up and smiled with gratitude at her gentle words.

  “Oh, you are quite welcome to the help I have given you.” She tossed her head, and then left him before he could find words to reply.

  Ralf watched her walk away, his mouth still open. When she did find a husband to suit her, he wondered if he should pity the man or envy him for winning the heart of such an amazing woman.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Silence that cur.”

  The growl grew deeper.

  “He doesn’t like anyone who threatens me, Crowner.” Hob’s grin was not pleasant.

  “Answer my question then, and you both will be treated with the benevolence due all honest creatures.” Ralf glanced under the inn table.

  The dog covered his eyes with a large paw.

  “How can I tell you where Will is when I don’t know myself? Must I lie to convince you I am honest?”

  Ralf was tempted to grind his foot into the blacksmith’s arch but remembered the dog. “Perhaps you can explain to me why he ran if he is innocent of murder?” Anger made his face grow even hotter in the already warm air.

  “Knowing you is cause enough.”

  “Must I ask this a second time? Have you ever seen me act unfairly in the pursuit of justice?”

  “You hate my brother, even if you have been honest enough in other matters.”

  “Your brother is not known for his generosity to those less gifted with mortal goods than he. He does not possess a sweet nature. All that is true enough. Nor, I confess, am I fond of those who torment the innocent.” The crowner shrugged. “None of those qualities is likely to foster love in my heart for any man.”

  Hob leaned across the table, his face so close to the crowner’s that Ralf could smell the ale on his breath. “None of that means he’s a murderer either, but Will told me you’d arrest him nonetheless.”

  “Your brother did kill, as you well remember. Why shouldn’t I think he would do so again?”

  The man turned his head and spat. “That one time with the boy was an accident. Besides, Will only threw the rope over the tree limb and held him. It was Martin who dropped the noose around his neck and hauled him up.”

  The crowner sat back and folded his arms.

  Hob did the same.

  “Very well. I do not accuse your brother of murder. But he does know more than he admits, maybe to you as well as to me. All I want from him are frank answers. Then he can return to the smithy in peace and beat hot metal into submission all he likes. Tell him that. His rank stench is enough to keep me far away, unless the king’s justice demands it.”

  Hob nodded, his expression softening. “If I tell you what I know of this, will you leave my brother alone?”

  “You shall confess your knowledge whether I decide it proves your brother’s innocence or not.” Ralf’s tone indicated some hope of concession.

  The man thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I’ve already told you that Will could not have murdered Martin. He wasn’t at the inn…”

  “The cooper was poisoned, not beaten to death as rumor should have told you by now. Your brother could have slipped the stuff into the drink before he left.”

  “Poison?” Hob threw his head back and roared with laughter. “My brother not only has no skill with herbs, Crowner, he wouldn’t know a beet top from that of a carrot. Nor does he seek the skill of those who understand the healing herbs even when he falls ill which, thanks be to God, has been rare. Like most of us, he fears mortality and rejects any reminder of it. As for the night of Martin’s death, Will was more interested in proving his manhood by rubbing up Signy. Whatever else you might think of him, my brother is a simple man with simple desires.”

  “And the night Ivetta was killed?”

  “He went to see old Tibia…”

  “What business did he have with her? Surely she is too old to find a use for his limp rod, and you have just said he had no love of herbs. Was it to make cruel fun…?”

  “My brother left her alone after her son’s death! He was hot-tempered but not cruel.”

  Ralf pointed under the table. “Tell that to your cur.”

  Hob swallowed hard and turned away.

  “When did he go to the herb woman? When did he return? Why did he want to speak to her?”

  “I told him to forget the night with Ivetta-although he had more than one such failure to overlook. As much as he hated potions and powders, the one thing Will could not bear was the loss of his manhood. He admitted to me that he would seek out Tibia’s cure. Others had praised her for it, but, when he went to her hut, she would not answer his knock. He stayed for some time at her door.”

  “Perhaps she knew who it was and did not wish to help him.”

  “She had promised earlier that she would.”

  So far Hob was confirming what the elder brother had already told him. “Are there witnesses? And, again, what time was this and when did he come back to the smithy?”

  “Enough questions! He left the smithy not long after the sun disappeared, for that was the hour she told him to come. When she did not let him in, he went to the inn, thinking she might be there since the innkeeper and his niece often fed her for the good of their souls. When he didn’t see her, Will drank until the thatcher carried him home
and dropped him outside the smithy. I know this because I awoke from the noise and pulled him to his pallet. The next morning he cursed the herb woman for going back on her promise.”

  “Someone saw your brother talking to her just before he disappeared.”

  “Maybe that was when they agreed to meet at her hut?”

  Ralf silently cursed himself for not asking Gytha exactly when the baker’s wife had seen the two together. Perhaps Hob was right. “Did he ask anyone where she was when he did not find her there?”

  “You think Will would let a man besides his brother know he had need of her special skills?”

  Ralf turned thoughtful. “And you, Hob? What were you doing that night?”

  The blacksmith winced as if pricked with a nail. Bending toward the crowner, he beckoned for him to bring his ear closer. “Swear you will keep this secret?” he whispered uneasily.

  “If it has naught to do with murder.”

  “I had a woman in my bed. Her father does not know we meet….”

  “Will she confirm this to me?”

  “I would prefer you not ask her, but she will answer readily enough if need be. Aye, Crowner, I read your thoughts in that frown.” Hob sheepishly lowered his eyes and studied his open hands. “She is a praiseworthy woman, sensible, and far too good for me. When I can prove to her father that I am steady enough, we shall make public the vows we have spoken to each other in secret. In God’s eyes, at least, we are married.”

  Casually fingering the hilt of his sword, Ralf leaned back. As he continued to glare at the man in front of him, he knew that those with greater reason to fear him would soon break down into tears and confession. Would the blacksmith?

  Hob did not blink.

  “Tell your brother to come home,” Ralf said at last, conceding defeat. “He has nothing to fear from me.”

  Those anticipated tears now threatened to overflow from the younger blacksmith’s eyes. “I would if I knew where he hides. In that, as in all the rest I’ve said, I did tell the truth.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Brother John was a wiry man, well over a foot taller than the woman who accompanied him, but he was having difficulty keeping pace with the tiny prioress of Tyndal.

  She glanced behind and said with a hint of impatience, “Did you not say that Sister Juliana begged you to bring me quickly?”

  “Aye,” he panted as he raced after her.

  “What brought about this plea? Did you question her as I asked? Was it that?”

  “I do not know the cause, my lady. I did question her.”

  “Do we have God’s creature or Satan’s in our anchorage?”

  Although sweat was now beading on his gaunt face, a sweet look conquered his usual somber expression. “God’s, I think.”

  “Yet you would agree that her behavior is most strange.”

  “Many holy women have behaved in ways men have found questionable. Beatrice of Nazareth cinched her waist with a girdle of thorns and even feigned madness to show the depth of her ecstasy, but Jesus favored her by speaking in Latin only. Saint Mary of Egypt lived over five decades on herbs alone. Saint Euphrosyne dressed herself as a man and lived chastely with other monks in a monastery for almost four.” He gulped in a breath. “I find no fault in our own sister here.”

  “How do we know she does not commune with Satan in secret?”

  “After I spoke with her, I hid and watched her from the squint that opens into the church. She prays, either on her knees or lying with her face pressing into the ground. I did see her shake once as if convulsing, but her expression glowed with a most holy joy afterward.”

  “Does she eat or sleep?” Eleanor’s pace did not slow.

  “A rat ate the meal placed on the floor just inside the door. As for rest, God may grant it to her in some marvelous way, but I never saw her lie on her bed. Not that I was there for long…”

  “She has asked to be given nothing to eat that was once living flesh, including both fish and fowl. Although we all should reject venison and other such meat to keep our bodies free from lust, I have heard that such extreme renunciation may suggest unorthodoxy. Those of the Cathar heresy often denied themselves in a similar way, did they not?”

  “She strives to follow the desert fathers who fasted in a similar manner, not to deny or punish the body, but to cleanse it of those sins that drove Adam and Eve from Eden. I myself see no problem with her wish to live as if Lent must extend the length of her days on earth.”

  “What of her sleepless nights at the window, waiting to attend all those souls in pain?”

  “Satan and his imps may have claimed the night as theirs, but is not God mightier than evil?” He stopped for a moment but his prioress did not and he hurried to catch up. “Not one frail woman has suffered ill effects. I would suggest that God smiles on her and protects those who come to hear His words, spoken through her mouth. She may be unusual in greeting seekers to come to her window only after the sun sets, but other anchoresses have ministered to the suffering who prostrate themselves at the curtained window during the night. Her ways are not without precedence.”

  “And her resistance to having any woman serve her? What is the point of that?”

  The monk brushed the burning sweat from his eyes. “Sister Juliana told me that the women sent by our sub-prioress do not understand that she does not want to hear their voices while she is listening for God’s. A few have tried to tell her when to eat or sleep, while others frown or wince and in other ways express silent criticism of behavior they find troublesome or incomprehensible. Some have even tried to gossip and chatter with her, finding the solitude of an anchorage uncomfortable.”

  “She wants a monk to serve her. Did she tell you that?”

  “My lady, have mercy on me!” The monk bent forward, hands on knees. “God has given you a fleet foot whereas I have ever been a sluggish man and find it difficult to answer your concerns properly when I lack the breath to do them justice.”

  Eleanor skidded to a stop. “Forgive me, Brother, for my thoughtlessness.”

  The monk did his best to smile while gasping for air.

  “Let us sit over there in the garden and rest before we see Sister Juliana.” She gestured toward a bench, hesitating briefly. Rarely did she come here without remembering the day, soon after she had first come to Tyndal, that a dead monk was found nearby. She prayed Brother John had forgotten.

  The monk settled on a corner of the bench, apparently more grateful for the chance to rest than unsettled by any distressing memory. When his breathing returned to normal, he continued. “Had I not heard of Saint Euphrosyne or Christina of Markyake who lived chastely with the hermit Roger, albeit hidden in a miserable hole from which only he could release her, I might have questioned this desire more. Yet I find nothing lewd in her request. She seems to think men more peaceful creatures.” He pondered that for a silent moment. “I wonder what our new king would have to say about that.”

  “Then it seems we must ask God to send her a woman with a man’s nature,” she replied.

  A rustling sound came from the shrubbery a foot or two away, startling the prioress, but it was only the hospital cat. Trailing behind the creature were two kittens, one of which bore the distinctive markings of the prioress’ own orange tabby.

  Brother John smiled. “You ask for a difficult resolution, my lady.”

  A small bird landed a short distance away.

  “We must continue to believe in miracles,” the prioress replied.

  The cat hunched into the hunting pose. The kittens mimicked their mother.

  The monk bent his head in modest agreement. “I shall add my prayers to yours.”

  The bird flew off, accompanied by the high chirps of feline annoyance.

  Eleanor rose. “Perhaps we should continue to the anchorage,” she said. “How did Sister Juliana learn that you were watching her?”

  This time, Brother John kept pace. “I do not know how she could have discovered me, my lad
y, for I crouched close to the wall and held my breath when I thought she was near. Nevertheless, when she threw herself on her knees near the squint, begging that I send for you and crying that her soul was cursed, I did not ask questions but came for you at once.”

  “We shall soon find out the source of her pain, Brother.” Then the prioress looked back at the kittens. They had forgotten all birds and were now engaged in an intense new hunt for bugs.

  Suddenly Eleanor knew she had a solution to at least one of her problems.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Tibia clutched her staff with such force that her knuckles shone bone-white.

  “You must go to the priory hospital,” Signy urged as she eased the tortured woman onto an inside bench near the inn door. “I will take you there.”

  Her jaw tight and eyes squeezed shut, Tibia shook her head with the impatience of the suffering.

  “You need not fear walking. We will find a cart or men to carry you.”

  Tibia’s groan was like the cry of an animal, uncomprehending yet instinctively fearing the cause of its torment. She opened her eyes and turned her pale gaze on the innkeeper’s niece. “You’re a good woman. My son should have married you. He’d have lived then,” she gasped through lips thinned by pain.

  Signy said nothing. What merit was there in reminding this woman, whose mind seemingly wandered with grief and agony, that she had been too young to wed when Tibia’s son had died?

  “Methinks it’s easing,” the old woman whispered. Indeed some color was returning to her face.

  The innkeeper’s niece gently pushed a steaming bowl of pottage toward her.

  “I can’t eat.”

  “You must.” Gently, Signy rested her hand on a bony arm.

  “The Devil’s coming soon enough for my soul. I don’t mind if it be sooner than later. Give this to another in need, one whom God might love more.” The old woman sucked in her lips. With so few teeth, her sharp nose almost touched her chin. “Is it true the crowner thinks you killed Martin and his whore?”