"Then only my hand will be cut off for my own part in attempting to steal the Psalter? I would rather kill myself than become a further burden to my mother."
Bernard gasped. "Your mother loves you as does Alys. Why make them suffer by committing that cruel and sinful act?"
"When the sheriff chops off the hand, I may die anyway. Satan will get a fine jester when he receives my soul."
"Justice will not be a secular one," Thomas said. "Your sheriff has proclaimed, in front of witnesses, that Church law rules in the matter of ghosts. Since you were the ghost, the priory will decide your punishment."
"Have I not profited from leading monks to sin? Did I not agree to help steal a holy work? Surely the Church would say that I am to blame for the death of my father and Brother Baeda, a most virtuous monk who joyfully shared the Psalter's sacred beauty with this wicked man." He turned his face away. "The Church will love me even less than King Henry's men."
"You conspired to catch Master Herbert in the theft and arranged for me to witness his confession of murder." Bernard folded his arms. "Does that not show repentance for any past sins?
"Repentance?" Sayer laughed. "I but wanted you and Alys to marry! Once the vintner's crimes were exposed and your courage in catching him out was told, my aunt would accept your suit."
"More is involved, I think," Thomas added.
"Consider the advantage to me if Bernard heard the vintner's confession. It absolves me of killing my father. When he was murdered on the path outside the priory, I suspected who had done it. Only Master Herbert knew about the toeholds I had gouged into the mortar when I finished repairing the wall for my father. When I confronted the man, he did admit the deed, claiming my sire had to die because he recognized him escaping from the priory after a monk cried out in fear."
"If he confessed, why did you not report it?"
"He reminded me that many had heard how my father and I quarreled and the threat I made in the heat of it to kill him. It would be easy to make sure I was arrested for my father's murder."
"A threat most did not believe you meant," Thomas added.
"Dear cousin, why do you continue to cover your soul with foulness? Admit your honest deeds."
Sayer raised an eyebrow. "Cousin? You should not stain your honor by adding me to your family."
"As Alys' beloved cousin, you are mine as well." Bernard raised his chin. "If you insist on confessing your evil deeds, at least add how you planned to trap the man."
"And failed to do so before a kind monk was killed." The roofer's mouth trembled. "Since the vintner had not asked my help in his first attempt to steal the Psalter, I should have known he did not trust me, or else had grown impatient with greed. Once again and without my knowledge, he climbed the wall and managed to slip into the library. Brother Baeda caught him and died. For that, I grieve."
Thomas shook his head. "Yet you came for the Psalter last night. How did you regain the man's trust?"
"I squirmed on my knees and beseeched him for coin, a longing he well understood. Since he had failed twice, I convinced him to let me try. I knew the building best, having reached the scaffolding to the roof from inside the library." Sayer shrugged, then winced with the pain. "When he agreed, I knew he would probably follow, hoping to kill me as soon as he could get the manuscript in hand."
"Surely the ghost could only be accused of so much violence before someone suspected a human hand. How dare he chance another corpse?"
"Queen Elfrida would be blamed for only two murders. Need I remind you how cleverly he disguised his wife's death, Brother? He was most confident, and, although I think his guilty soul may have really wanted hers to seem an accident, he would have had no scruples about making mine look like suicide."
"From guilt because you sold women's flesh? London would be bereft of whoremongers if men were so conscience-stricken."
"This is Amesbury, Brother. Some here would most certainly conclude I had killed myself over sins of the flesh." Sayer's smile was fleeting.
"Might no one have asked if his travel to Gascony was connected to the disappearance of the Psalter?"
"Why? The man was a respected merchant. Even honest men see only what they are led to believe if the telling is cunning enough. Consider how quickly all decided the verdict on Mistress Eda's death because a few were most persuasive."
Bernard slammed a fist into his other hand. "The theft would have been the perfect crime, had you not arranged for me to witness it." Horror washed over his face. "And you might have died if Brother Thomas had not been there! Surely you realized.
Sayer winked at the monk. "Mayhap I would not have fallen."
"Mayhap," Thomas replied, doubt coloring his voice.
"I have long wondered why Master Herbert claimed you had bedded his wife," Bernard said softly. "Surely there was no truth to that?"
"Never! I fear the reason for his wife's murder and that accusation are found in the same tale. As our monk here may not know, Alys grieved over Mistress Eda's painful illness. Knowing me to be a merry rogue, she asked that I spend an hour playing the fool to make the lady laugh. Instead, Eda burst into tears when she saw me. When I sought to comfort her, she confessed her sorrow. She had overheard her husband's proposal to me about the theft of the Psalter one night when we thought she was deep in sleep. Although she could not quite believe her husband would plan such a blasphemous act, she feared she was not mistaken. My heart broke, and I confirmed that what she had heard was true."
"Why had he planned the theft? Was he not wealthy enough?" Thomas asked.
"His show of wealth was false. Before her illness, she found proof that he had sold his vineyards. When she questioned him, he insisted she did not understand what she had seen, that he had sold but a portion to pay debts left by his father. Although the vintner could be most persuasive in his lies, she was suspicious and looked further, discovering that he had followed his father's example in acquiring debts beyond his ability to pay. Soon after, she fell ill and began to draw away from any interest in those worldly cares, although the blasphemy in stealing the Psalter deeply troubled her pious soul. Nonetheless, he feared her knowledge. When he overheard us talk about the Psalter, he decided she knew too much and killed her."
"That does not explain how he decided you had cuckolded him," Bernard replied.
Sayer snorted with contempt. "He knew that to be untrue. While I was holding his wife, attempting to stop her tears, the vintner came upon us. He flew into a feigned rage, swearing to expose us as adulterers."
"You could have countered the charge with the tale of the theft and repented of your agreement with him."
"With some, Brother, any accusation has the whiff of truth. Were either of us to speak of her discoveries or the theft, the vintner would have claimed we were trying to hide our sin with lies. Mistress Eda was an honest wife. I did not want her honor soiled on my account."
"Why would any man put horns on his own head? He himself told the tale of adultery to the woolmonger and I overheard it. Others must have as well," Bernard said.
"The sharpness of a cuckold's horns may be dulled by cleverness. First, he made sure my reputation grew darker by suggesting the adultery might have been rape. His pride, therefore, suffered a lesser wound. Next, he showed Christian charity by defending the soul of his dishonorable wife. Can you not hear the crowds exclaiming, 'What a noble man'? You see what a crafty teller of tales he was."
Bernard smiled. "You may paint yourself with the Devil's colors, Sayer, but he does not have your conscience."
"My selfishness has brought about two deaths. I will say nothing in my defense and shall go to my hanging without protest."
"What self-interest was involved in getting the vintner to confess in front of half the priory that Mistress Eda was innocent of both self-murder and adultery?" Thomas asked. "Nor did you have any reason to save my life. When Herbert wanted to finish the task of killing me in the library, you drew him away. You knew I was still alive."
> Sayer said nothing.
Bernard sat on a stool next to the bed. "I beg you to admit the good you have done and save yourself. Like many, you have done no more than loan your soul to Satan."
"Let me be."
"Sayer needs the advice of a confessor, Master Bernard. Would you leave us?"
The glover blinked, then quickly rose. "I will be walking in the gardens outside."
Thomas took the vacant seat.
"Leave me in peace, monk. I have no longing for any priest."
"Your guilt over your father's death and that of the librarian troubles you deeply, but you have other reasons for wanting to join Satan in Hell."
Sayer put his uninjured hand lightly on the monk's knee. "Do you blame me?" he asked softly.
"Yes."
"I have no wish to take a vow of celibacy," Sayer replied. "I will continue to dance with the Devil."
"Dance with a wife. Beget children. Bring the joy of grandchildren to your mother."
"And thus God will forgive me?" Sayer's laugh was bitter.
Thomas nodded gravely.
"Yet the Church will surely condemn me for the theft…"
"Bernard will tell Sister Beatrice how you plotted to save the Psalter and expose a killer at the risk of your own life. I will swear that you saved my life and confirm the vintner's confession to the murder of both Brother Baeda and Wulfstan. Brother Infirmarian and several lay brothers heard Herbert confess to his wife's killing. Prioress Ida may even count it a blessing that you frightened vow-breaking monks back into their solitary beds."
"My father…"
"… was killed because Herbert grew greedy and tried to steal the Psalter without paying for your help."
"The librarian's death.
"…is on your conscience. His soul needs your prayers. I repeat: those are not your most troubling sins."
"For all my sins, monk, name my punishment."
"Marry, take on a man's responsibilities, and find joy in that."
Sayer drew back his hand. "Did you find your own answer in God's arms, Brother?"
Thomas closed his eyes and turned away.
Chapter Forty
The grave was little marked. The dirt once mounded over the pit had sunk, leaving only a small rise in the earth, but new growth sprouted there with a particular vigor.
In contrast to the lime green of young grass, the dress of the kneeling woolmonger's widow was dark as a night without stars. Her fingers curled like claws as she covered her face. Yet when she uncovered her somber eyes and looked up at the bright heavens, her face was not as aged as it had seemed only a few days ago. Her features now held a hint of youth and even a certain beauty.
Drifa helped her sister rise, but Mistress Jhone gently shook her hand away and stood motionless, quite careless that her robe was stained with sodden earth. A soft cry escaped her lips as she looked down at the little grave, and she stretched forth an open hand as if longing to grasp something only she could see. Weeping, she pulled her arm back against her breast and shuddered. Then she let her sister take her into her arms where she sobbed with all the force of pent-up grief.
"Eda is at peace, mistress. God has rendered justice," Eleanor said, her voice as soft as the breeze against their faces.
"She will be reburied in holy ground?" lomorrow.
"She is no longer in Hell?"
"I doubt she ever was," Eleanor replied. "The Prince of Darkness may have blinded the crowner and his jury with ignorance and hardened hearts, but God would have known the truth."
Drifa wiped Jhone's cheeks with an elder sister's love. A smudge of dirt remained under one eye, but tears quickly washed it away.
"I came here every day to pray," the woolmonger's widow whispered.
Her sister took her hand and pressed it.
"Most would not have done so, mistress. This is the burial ground of condemned souls. Many fear the contagion of their wickedness," the prioress said.
"I knew she was innocent, my lady. We had been like kin from the day we could first walk. I owed her a friend's steadfastness," the woman replied with simple, unwavering belief.
Eleanor glanced at the uneven ground surrounding them and so many graves of the damned. The silence of this unholy place made her shiver, yet she caught herself wondering how many more innocents were buried here, condemned by men but never by God.
Mistress Drifa kissed Jhone on the cheek and once again pulled her sister into the comfort of her arms.
In silence, the prioress watched the two sisters and smiled at the tenderness between such resolute women. Would she herself have been able to show such bravery, kneeling on this cursed earth and persevering in the belief that a friend was innocent when a community might well rebuke her? Would she, like Drifa, continue to see goodness in a son who kissed the Devil's hand? The actions of these two had raised questions that she knew she would ponder long after her return to Tyndal.
"My lady, I have much to thank you for," Jhone suddenly cried out, throwing herself on her knees before the Prioress of Tyndal.
Eleanor gasped. "You have no need…"
"I have another favor to beg."
"Ask it but do not kneel to me." Eleanor raised the wool-monger's widow to her feet.
"My sins have been grievous ones! Like my husband, I was blinded by Master Herbert's well-crafted cloak of wealth, but God has now torn that pall from my eyes. My daughter shall marry her glover, a man I might have found worthy enough had it not been…"
Although Jhone turned her face away, Eleanor saw anger flash in her eyes. Was the cause her husband's inability to see Herbert's true nature or her own unthinking complicity in a decision that would have forced her beloved daughter into the arms of a murderer?
"And you shall have grandchildren to make your life most joyous," the prioress quickly said. The image of plump children racing around their grandmother, graced with Alys' loving determination and Bernard's gentle nature and pink cheeks, was a sweet one.
"I want to end my days in the priory."
"Only Prioress Ida has the authority to grant that plea!"
"But she would listen to you!"
"Seek instead the counsel of Sister Beatrice, a woman far wiser than I and one whose voice the prioress of Amesbury respects."
"As you will, my lady, but there is no reason to doubt my longing to leave the world. I owe God a long penance. I married for lust and fell into a cruel bondage with a husband who had always been an angry man. He beat me when I smiled at the butcher or did not cook his meat the way he liked it. When he struck me so hard that I lost the one son he gave me, he took to drink. As a good wife must, I turned my head away from his growing iniquity and honored my vows of obedience until his death. As a good wife still, I pray daily for his soul, but it will take many years before I can forgive his wickedness toward the innocent even if God does so."
Eleanor looked over at Drifa. Wulfstan's widow was weeping.
"Yet I, too, committed great wickedness when I tried to force Alys into a marriage with a malevolent man. My husband may have been fooled by the vintner's fine show of competence and prosperity, but I bear fault enough myself. In my youth, I failed to heed my parents. When I saw Alys set her heart on the glover, I feared she was as blinded by lust as I had been once. Although she, unlike I, chose a good man, I did not note the differences and was determined that she follow the path I had refused." Jhone's face darkened with grim determination. "Like Moses, I should not cross the Jordan and taint the future of my child and the innocence of her children with my knowledge of wicked ways."
"Mortals do evil things, mistress. It is our nature. Your mistake was born of reasonable fear, but there was no cruelty in your heart. Seek penance and remain in the world where Alys and her babes can bring you joy. Help your sister with her fatherless children. You can bring all these young ones the wisdom learned from your errors so that they may avoid the same faults."
"I fear that the Devil has not let me go," she whispered, "and I would o
nly lead the innocent to calamity as I almost did my daughter. Nor would I burden Bernard with my care. He has proven himself a worthy man, and, despite my cruel words to him, I believe he would be forgiving and generous to me. It would be kinder if I did not accept a place at his table. Nay, after paying my dowry to the Order, the remaining wealth and the business must go to him and my Alys' children."
"There are other good men in the world…"
"I have no wish to remarry. Although the Church says I may without sin, I could not bring myself to bed with another man."
Eleanor glanced at Drifa, asking for confirmation of what she had just heard.
The woman nodded and gazed back at her sister. The tears that flowed down her cheeks glittered with both sadness and love.
"On Judgement Day," Jhone now continued, "I will seek my husband. May God grant that I am able to give him my hand in forgiveness. With God's mercy, I pray he will have learned the horror of his sins. We should stand side by side at God's throne while we wait for His verdict on our various transgressions. For the remainder of my days on this earth, I would find chastity, obedience, and poverty easy vows to take, although I would beg to be granted one wish."
"And that is?"
"Until I die, I would like to come each day and pray beside the new grave of Eda, that her time in Purgatory may be short. She was as virtuous as any mortal can be."
As Eleanor drew Jhone into a comforting embrace, the harsh silence in the lonely graveyard of damned souls softened as if hope had entered the gate.
On the edge of the graveyard, standing alongside Sister Anne and Brother Thomas, Beatrice watched her niece take the woolmonger's widow into her arms. She might not have heard what each had said to the other, but the novice mistress could read the words writ on faces well enough. After all, she herself had been a wife and mother, then a widow, before she became a nun.
As she watched Eleanor comfort Mistress Jhone, Beatrice pressed a hand to her breast to hold in the joy flooding her heart. Such pride in her niece might be sinful, but she suspected God forgave more quickly in instances like this.
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