The crowner nodded, then forced the stick deeper into the earth. It snapped, and he frowned with continued unhappiness.
Two birds argued in the trees overhead. Below them, a fish leapt out of the stream for an insect, then splashed back into the water.
Thomas shifted his weight. “Are you sure one man murdered both the baron and the servant?”
Ralf blinked, then swatted at a persistent fly. “Why do you ask?”
“The baron had his throat slit. The servant was poisoned. The first at night. The next in broad daylight. One victim is a man of rank, the other a servant. Two different methods. Two different times. Two different…” He fell silent and squinted at the treetops as if looking for guidance.
“You seek consistency where there need not be any.”
“Both required planning.” Thomas shook his head. “These crimes were not committed because a man was in the wrong place at an unfortunate time like some wealthy merchant meeting with a band of outlaws as he traveled through a forest. There is reason hiding behind each act. The logical link between them eludes me.”
“This killer is surely a courtier, monk, and men like that love intrigue and clever plotting.”
“Courtiers are still men, and men follow patterns.” He pulled at his beard as if the hair annoyed him. “We know Baron Otes had many enemies. How had Kenard offended?”
The crowner grunted, then fell silent.
***
Thomas watched Ralf walk away and down the road toward the priory. “Weary,” he whispered. Every muscle in his body felt unbearably leaden with fatigue. Leaning against the wall of the hut, he went limp and let the weight of his body pull him to the ground.
“Perhaps it will rain later,” he said as he stared at the promising cloud wisps that were stretching white fingers across the sky. At least summer rains cooled a man’s body for a short while, even if they left the air heavy with damp afterward.
Turning his head, he looked into the hut and saw that Simon remained stretched out on the floor in front of the altar. As a monk, he should be overjoyed he had been able to convert the young man from bedding women and playing in tournaments to serving God. Instead, he feared he had created a monster, more likely to be a better servant of the Prince of Darkness than he had been as some thoughtless youth.
He had meant well by telling Simon how he had striven, in the service of his Order and prioress, to discover God’s more perfect justice and how worldly sins should be treated under it. In doing so, he had hoped to teach the youth compassion, charity, and a way to find peace.
Instead, he had seen the lad’s eyes begin to glow with sharp fire, and, when the youth threw himself on the floor in front of the altar and began to twist, buck, and moan, Thomas knew he was not witnessing holy ecstasy. The act might look godly. It stank of evil.
Had Sir Fulke not arrived when he did, the monk feared he would have fled the hut and run until he collapsed from exhaustion. If some wild and ravenous creature had come upon him then, he might have prayed for a quick descent to Hell and blessed the beast for killing him.
Mercifully, the sheriff’s grief had calmed him. With growing compassion, he learned how deeply this man loved a wife whom he called good, but whose health now prevented her from welcoming him to her bed. Although Thomas knew that Fulke’s tears must taste more of ale than salt, he had believed his sorrow and took pains to soothe him. The monk had not found a way to heal himself, but his heart understood how deeply both body and soul ached when lust could not find comfort in permitted love. Even if his own wounds might still bleed, he had learned the right words to console other men.
So he had sent Sir Fulke on his way back to the priory with knees as sore as his head from long prayer and much guidance. Perhaps the sheriff would return home a kinder husband and a better man.
Then, as the sound of Simon chanting incomprehensible prayers grew louder, Thomas begged God to keep the monster he had created out of good intentions from wreaking havoc on the world.
Chapter Thirty-two
Eleanor settled into her chair, gripped her staff of office, and begged God for wisdom. Quickly glancing to her right, she took comfort in knowing Sister Anne stood close by. At least she had had time to confer with her before this meeting, and the company of her dearest friend never failed to give her courage.
Not that she minded discussing matters with Ralf, but she must treat that eldest brother, standing next to the crowner, with care. Sir Fulke, for all his evident disinterest in local crime, was highly enough placed at court to cause problems for her, Ralf, and even her own family if he was sufficiently offended.
“Kenard’s body rests safely in the hospital chapel,” she began. “There the corpse has been more carefully examined in the presence of Crowner Ralf.” She nodded at Fulke. “I hope this has met with your approval, my lord sheriff.”
“It has.” Fulke stood, legs slightly apart and arms folded.
Although the sheriff had reminded her earlier of some bright-feathered rooster, today he resembled a more bedraggled fowl. What had kept him awake all night was probably ale and not a fox. She hoped this had not made him more contrary.
Eleanor turned to Ralf. “What have you learned from your study of the corpse, Crowner?” Or rather what has our sub-infirmarian found, she amended in silence, and was grateful that he respected Sister Anne’s knowledge enough not only to listen but seek her advice.
“There were no signs of violence on his body, nor any other indication of struggle. His skin was mottled with red patches. His pupils were enlarged. He had vomited and had also drooled a great deal, staining his clothes. This suggests poison. Although the wineskin nearby was almost empty, there was enough left to find bits of leaves in it. The vomit contained the same. All this suggests Kenard drank wine mixed with a lethal dose of leaves from a plant called Lily of the Valley.” Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at Anne.
She lowered her head in subtle concurrence.
“Adequately done,” Fulke growled.
Ralf’s face colored, although his tightened jaw suggested a successful effort to control his temper.
“Both you and Brother John were trained apothecaries before taking vows,” Eleanor said to Anne, crafting her phrasing with care to suggest that John had been present at the examination of the corpse. In fact, he had been with his novices. “Based on that experience, what can be learned about this plant?” The prioress hoped she was also ambiguous enough to avoid the sin of bearing false witness.
“Brother John and I agree on this, my lady.” Anne now bowed her head in the direction of the sheriff. “It is a most dangerous plant, especially the leaves. Death occurs very quickly if mixed with a liquid and drunk.”
“Would someone be able to taste it and become suspicious?” Fulke grimaced.
“The flavor is much like that of wild garlic often used in soups.”
“That might be noticed in wine,” Eleanor said.
“Am I correct is assuming that this is a poison not well known by most?” Ralf eyed his brother.
Fulke glared back.
The sub-infirmarian ignored them both. “Lily of the Valley has medicinal use as well. The proper dosage requires training if death is to be avoided.”
“Curative?” Eleanor straightened. “What treatments?”
“Many believe it improves memory, strengthens the heart, soothes eyes, and even cures headaches.” Anne smiled at the prioress. “I prefer feverfew for the last since that herb is not lethal.”
“I am grateful!” Eleanor leaned back in her chair. “Let us now consider the deaths, the first being Baron Otes. Since our crowner has found no evidence that he was killed by lawless men or other local felons, we are obliged to look to members of the queen’s party for the man’s enemy.” The prioress turned to Fulke.
His face reddened, and he quickly bowed his head without offering either comment or protest.
“And enough men did hate the baron,” Ralf said.
“Well n
oted, Crowner. Do we know of any reason why Kenard, a servant, should have been poisoned?”
“No,” he said. “Nor do we know if there are two killers amongst the courtiers or just one.”
Fulke opened his mouth to speak.
His brother ignored him. “While the servant’s body was being removed, I did seek out Brother Thomas.”
The sheriff began to cough.
“I wanted to know what visitors he had that night and whether they were with him long enough to prove innocent of murder. Simon was the only one, and he is most certainly without guilt.” He fell silent as he looked at Fulke, then turned back to the prioress. “Since I have learned to respect the good hermit’s observations, I stayed to talk over the details of the deaths with him. He is troubled by the differences between the two and fears there may be two killers. He says that the facts of each crime suggest no unifying logic or pattern.”
Eleanor considered this. “Although I would never dismiss whatever he has to say, I am not sure I agree with his concern.”
“We know little about Kenard’s past or any connection with Baron Otes that might suggest a reason for his murder, my lady,” Ralf said. “It is possible he saw the baron’s killer or was somehow involved in that first death, reasons enough for a murderer to kill him also.”
“Then we must question the one person here who knows him best.” Falling silent, the prioress looked around briefly. “The Lady Avelina.” Before anyone could speak, she continued, “Although she is the queen’s lady, she is still a woman…” Carefully, Eleanor left the rest of the statement unspoken.
No one said a word.
Fulke blinked. “A woman should talk with her first,” he said. “It is more seemly.”
Grateful that the man had fulfilled her hope, Eleanor quickly asserted the authority to make the one investigation she deemed most important to do herself. “Then I shall go to her immediately and take Sister Anne with me. The lady’s fragile health has been violently assaulted by this shocking death of her servant. We must offer what succor we can. Such is our duty as God’s servants.” She began to rise.
“That would be wise as well as charitable,” Fulke snapped, his face quite scarlet. “Queen Eleanor will not be pleased if her own lady were to die in this priory as well as Baron Otes, her lord’s man.”
It was the prioress’ turn to glow with rising fury.
The atmosphere in the room grew foul with tension. “I do not think we should suggest that Tyndal Priory bears any blame in these deaths,” Ralf said, his tone apprehensive.
“We are casting everyone in the queen’s party into the shadow of suspicion,” Fulke growled. “Have we considered whether or not someone in this priory had cause to hate the baron?”
“Becalm yourself, brother! You act as if you yourself were a suspect, which you are not.”
Fulke deflated like a burst bubble. “I did not mean to offend,” he muttered with an abashed look. “I beg forgiveness, my lady.”
Eleanor’s face quickly recovered its usual hue. “Of course you did not, my lord, and your concern is justified. One of my religious confessed to me, soon after the baron’s body was found, that his family had been at odds with the murdered man. After swearing innocence of the death, he begged to be locked away in a cell until he had served penance for any uncharitable thoughts.”
“A penance which has continued,” Ralf added. “His cell is without windows, and the door is locked from outside.” He bowed to Eleanor.
“And I hold the key,” the prioress added. “All this was confirmed just before we met in my chambers. If there is but one killer, as I believe, then my monk has been proven innocent. If there are two…” She spread her hands. “He remains under my jurisdiction to examine, find innocent, or punish if guilty.”
“I never meant to question your authority on behalf of the Church, my lady.” Fulke nervously cleared his throat. “I withdraw my concerns about the innocence of all here. You have satisfied any doubts I might have had.” Then he turned to the crowner. “We must ask when and where Kenard acquired the full wineskin. Anyone could have easily slipped the poison into his drink. The poisoner could have been any man and done the deed anywhere.”
Ralf’s expression darkened as if he suspected his brother had continued to suggest that someone in the priory was guilty.
“There is so much that is unknown regarding the servant, his habits and his companions.” Eleanor tried to calm the evident strife between the two brothers by distracting them with questions. “Was the poison added before he came to the chapel? Why did he drink the wine so quickly? Had he been given something to increase his thirst?”
“Who?” Fulke shouted in evident frustration.
“Guards. Other servants.” Ralf pointed at his brother “How much time did Kenard spend with yours?”
“How dare you suggest that any man in my service would commit murder?” Fulke roared.
“I meant nothing by that. Maybe Kenard swyved some woman at the inn, and he so offended her that she sought revenge by putting lily leaves in his drink,” the crowner replied with an evil grin. “Shall I talk to the innkeeper about her wenches?”
Fulke stepped toward his brother.
Ralf raised a fist.
Eleanor lifted her staff and brought it down with a crash.
The two men jumped back.
“We have delayed long enough,” the prioress said. “Should we not each depart on our separate ways to question anyone that might have knowledge of the motive for Kenard’s death?”
“My brother and I shall interrogate the servants who attend the queen’s courtiers, as well as those who escorted all here,” Ralf said, glowering at Fulke. “And we shall do so, acknowledging that we are here only with your permission and by swearing that we will abjure any violence in seeking answers. My lord sheriff and I both honor the sanctity of this priory.”
Fulke snorted, then remembered the prioress and flushed with embarrassment. He nodded concurrence.
“Permission is granted, but I shall speak with the Lady Avelina and will question her female servants as well.” Rising, she indicated the audience was finally over.
Both men bowed and left the chambers. As he approached the door, Ralf looked over his shoulder and raised a questioning eyebrow.
Eleanor smiled to reassure him all was well.
Watching the door to her public chambers swing shut, she wondered if she should have shared the information about Kenard, a man allegedly mute who had suddenly found voice enough to ask permission of Brother John to stay in the chapel and watch the play.
Fulke might well know whether or not the servant could speak on occasion, although Lady Avelina had claimed he had not uttered a word since Evesham. Under the circumstances, Eleanor feared that the sheriff would have said one way or the other.
The tension between Fulke and Ralf was evident today. Instead of considering facts with objectivity or conceding any merit in the other’s ideas, they had exhibited anger and inflexibility. For this reason, she feared this bit of information about Kenard could just as easily have caused further controversy between them, rather than generating helpful debate.
Once again, she missed Brother Thomas. Were she given the choice now, she would have endured the pain of desire in exchange for his insights. At least Ralf had spoken with him, and, the more she thought on the monk’s observation, the more she wondered if he might be right.
She turned to Sister Anne, and the two women conferred about what they must do next. Either or both of the two men might learn something helpful. In the meantime, Eleanor could talk with Lady Avelina, as she very much wanted to do, and Sister Anne, with her expertise with poisons, would be with her to assist.
As the two friends left for the guest quarters, the prioress shivered. Details were slowly forming a logical pattern, and she began to see just how wrong she might have been.
Chapter Thirty-three
Father Eliduc was accustomed to death, but this particular one caused
a flutter of distress. Closing his eyes, he mumbled a prayer over Kenard’s corpse, then quickly leaned backward. The over-ripe stench of decay was pungent in the heavy heat.
He rose. Forcefully exhaling the reek of corruption that had invaded his nostrils, the priest nodded at the lay brother, standing watch by the body, and hastened to the chapel door. Once outside, in the bright sun and fresh sea breeze, he gulped air like a man who had just escaped drowning.
Kenard might have died by violence, not disease, but there was something hovering around the corpse that reminded Eliduc of a malevolent and contagious miasma. Were further prayers needed, he would let other priests expose themselves to whatever evil drifted in the shadows there. He had done his duty.
Now he hurried on, gaining needed distance from such loathsome decay. The farther he got from the chapel, the lighter his spirit felt.
This latest fatality might have been convenient. It had not been required. A better conclusion would have allowed the man to give his confession and not go directly to Hell. In Eliduc’s opinion, Kenard was not truly wicked. He was a man who still deserved a good death.
As the priest passed the low-walled cemetery, his gaze took in the many overgrown and sunken patches of older graves, mixed with the newer, rounded mounds of naked earth. How many lying there had been aware enough of all their vile sins before death, he wondered. Perhaps some had begged forgiveness for too little and found themselves condemned to interminable, unimaginable suffering because of their paltry confessions. Kenard might have been one of those even if a priest had been at his side. The thought eased Eliduc’s heart into a more trifling grief.
Once beyond the boundaries of the cemetery, he slowed his pace and now ambled along the path to the mill. Although he had no purpose for going in that direction, the path was long and gave him time to think.
Not that he was a meditative man by habit. He left ponderous debate to those inclined to philosophy, but he did pride himself on pursuing his lord’s best interests with precise attention to detail. He also took care never to do anything that might be discovered and reflect badly on the Church.
Valley of Dry Bones mm-7 Page 19
