Frowning, Stevyn folded his arms. “Then answer me another question, if you would be so kind. Does age make a man more reflective because the stink of death grows stronger in his nostrils? It seems we care little about what we do until our strength falters, our bellies sag, and our hair drops out.” He smiled, but the expression was a melancholy thing. “For most of my life, I never thought of myself as an especially evil creature. Like most men, I spent my youth in lusty pleasures. When a man dared to jab at my pride, I fought him. Yet I have worked faithfully for my lord and honored my marriage vows more than many other men do.” He fell silent and studied the monk as if expecting something.
This speech was a far longer one than Thomas had ever heard before from this man. Hopeful that the steward would say more, he emulated Stevyn’s firm silence.
“I fear you are waiting for a confession, Brother.”
“If that is your wish, I suggest we go to the quiet of the chapel where others will not overhear what is rightly said in private by a man to a priest and thus on to God’s ears.”
The steward laughed, the sound akin to that of an angry hound’s barking. “Why should I seek privacy? To admit that I am one of God’s more flawed creatures?” He jabbed his thumb at the stable. “If the servants and craftsmen of this manor dare not say to my face that I am imperfect, the horses will be honest enough.”
“God demands it, Master Stevyn. When we sin, we forget His might, but silence chases away all worldly concerns and distractions. In silence, His power may be rediscovered to the benefit of our souls.”
“You speak well, Brother, and I beg forgiveness for my mocking tone. Nothing ill was intended, but I am a simple man, one who spends his days considering whether seeds should be planted now or a week hence, whether the harvest will provide enough for the beasts to eat over winter, and, as leisure, where the conies are that my lord allows me to hunt on his land. I do not have a scholar’s skill in disputation. To men like me, a matter is either this.” He gestured with one hand. “Or that.” He raised the other. “I have little understanding of much in between.”
Thomas was not fooled by this demonstrably false claim of simplicity, but he did hear acute sorrow in the man’s voice and to that he responded. “I heard only the cry of a tired spirit, longing to find lost peace.”
Master Stevyn’s lids closed with fatigue so heavy that he struggled to reopen his eyes. “Would you go to the manor hall and wait for me, Brother? I have one matter requiring my immediate attention but shall join you soon. Then we will share some wine, and I will beg your patience in hearing my tale.” He stretched out his arms with evident discomfort. “Aye, this air is very chill with rain. My old joints ache today more than usual.”
Sympathetic to the man’s complaints, Thomas smiled, nodded his concurrence, and walked back toward the hall. As he reached the steps of the manor, he turned around to see where Stevyn had gone.
The steward had disappeared.
The monk cursed himself. Had the man’s light jesting about the aches of old age lulled him into complacence? Thomas had reason enough to suspect the steward of murder. Should he seek him out to make sure he did not escape? At the very least, he ought to have noted where Stevyn went.
The monk shook his head and turned again in the direction of the manor hall. After all, where could a man of his reputation go to hide and what more ill would he cause, assuming he was guilty of murder, now that his faithless wife and her lover were dead? As he had thought before, Stevyn might even be innocent.
Walking into the house, Thomas decided that the steward would keep his word and meet him soon. His conscience did seem troubled enough and eager to confess something. And Thomas would not fail to ask where the steward had been last night, about the time of his wife’s murder.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Constance lay on the chapel floor and clawed at the rough stone. Her nails might be ripped and bleeding, but she felt only the writhing agony of her soul. What should she do? Dare she speak out? Where did her duty to God lie?
“Lust,” she groaned. “All this has been caused by it. Punishment I may deserve, but surely my sins have been fewer than most. Do I not spend more time than other women on my knees in prayer? Did I not urge my husband to brighten the parish church with chalices and drape the priest in fine robes? Haven’t I valiantly fought for virtue, railing against festering sin, and did I not argue for abstinence in my marriage? And do I not loudly condemn the wickedness of creatures like Master Stevyn’s wife and the physician’s widow?” She turned her gaze to the base of the altar and cried out: “My mortal body may be sinful, but my soul is virtuous. I deserve better than this from You!”
From the soft shadows came a brittle laugh.
Constance fell silent, unsure she had heard that sound. “Who dares to ridicule my righteous longings?” she whispered. “If it is the Prince of Darkness, you shall not claim victory over my soul because of one little weakness, vile though it was!”
“One? You lie, Mistress,” the voice mocked, “and that is a black enough sin.”
Dragging herself to her knees, she turned and squinted into the darkness.
Nothing moved.
Had that been the voice of Satan, she wondered, her body trembling. Or did it belong to a mortal? The rasping sound was familiar, but she could not identify it, coarsened as the whispering was with cruel scorn. Surely it was the Devil, she decided. He was attempting to trick her, and she raised her chin in defiance.
“I do not understand what fiendish ploy lies in your accusation, Wicked One, but you know I tell the truth. Aye, I may have followed the adulterous wife more than once and watched as Tobye swyved her. But evil should have a witness, for it must not remain secret, and did they not couple like dogs or perversely with Eve above Adam?” Her voice hoarse, she licked her dry lips. “It sickened me!”
“Why then did you go to him and beg to be taken yourself in stable straw as filthy as your lust?”
Clutching her breast, Constance roared in protest. “Never did I grow so weak in flesh that I went to Tobye and asked…”
“Ask? Nay, Mistress, you did not ask. You beseeched him! Then, like any wanton, you dragged him down on you, spread your legs wide, and bucked…”
“A lie!” She threw back her head and wailed. “You mock me!”
“Do not deny what you did. Adam’s sons may be weak in flesh, but the progeny of Eve light Hell’s fire in men’s groins and drive them wild. Oh, didn’t you make the Devil dance that night with your writhing!”
“You and your imps had but little cause to frolic for that,” she whimpered.
Silence fell. Then the voice continued with a tremor. “You did not couple with the groom?”
“Surely you jest, Evil One! The night before Tobye died, I confess I hid in the stable, as I oft did, to watch him sin. But he caught me and, with harsh ridicule, accused me of watching him couple with women because I longed to join in the sport. Shamed by his discovery, I fled.” Taking a deep breath, she howled with profound misery. “Had you not entered his mouth and used his tongue to speak those vile insults, that low-born creature would never have dared utter such obscenities to a woman of my rank. How dare you continue humiliating me!”
“Why did you not return to your husband, chastened, and embrace him in the marital bed, as God allows, thus bringing the joy of male children?”
Her sole response was the shrill laughter of contempt.
The sound echoed in the darkness.
“Oh you adulterous whore! Perhaps you did not lie with the groom, but your body longed for his. Rather than welcome your lawful husband, you found wicked pleasure by watching others in unnatural acts. Was that not why you followed Mistress Luce to the stable last night, hoping to see her seduce another man into corruption?”
Constance rubbed her cheeks with her bloody fingers and moaned. Her guilt so overwhelmed her that it crushed a gnawing suspicion, tiny as a nibbling worm, that this voice belonged to a mortal.
&nbs
p; “How did you learn she was going to meet another?”
“I overheard Mistress Luce…”
“And thus you ran after her, although you told all that you would spend the night in the chapel for solitary prayer. Jezebel!”
She swallowed with pain, all moisture vanishing from her throat.
“Your sins shall drag you down to Hell. Had you not lied and gone to the stable, you would not have seen the one she met and what happened-nor would you have been observed. Now is the day of reckoning!”
Constance tried to speak but managed only a croak.
The figure moved swiftly from the shadows.
Her eyes widened and terror froze her in place. Unable to scream, her mouth opened and shut like a gasping fish lying on a fisherman’s boat.
Clutching her shoulder, the man smiled-then plunged his dagger into the exact middle of her faithless heart.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The crackling branches spat out a merry warmth from the nearby hearth. Although he was a young man, Thomas was grateful for the heat that chased the dampness from his bones. He rose and walked closer to the fire, stretching his arms wide to embrace more of the comfort. A cup of watered wine would be welcome as well, he decided, especially if he must hear an admission of murder.
“Wine!” a voice shouted.
Thomas turned to see the steward limp into the hall.
From the shadows behind a pillar, a servant rushed off to obey.
Stevyn approached the hearth, rubbing his hand against his side.
“You have cut yourself,” Thomas said, seeing smears of blood on the robe when the man drew closer. “I should make a poultice for that wound before it festers.”
“Nay, Brother. You are kind, but it is a minor thing.” He scowled at his hand, as if it had offended him, and picked out what seemed to be splinters. “I tripped and scraped it against the rough wood of a wall, trying to keep balance. In my youth, I would have righted myself easily, but my legs buckled. Like my youngest son returning from his studies, my body often rebels against my wishes.”
Thomas smiled in response.
The servant arrived with a pitcher and two cups. Stevyn grunted and waved him away with the injured hand.
Thomas concluded the wound must be insignificant enough.
The pewter cup Stevyn handed him was of plain design but fine crafting and filled with a dark wine that turned out to be excellent. Thomas nodded with surprised pleasure.
“From Gascony,” the steward replied to the unspoken question. “Now, Brother, sit back and let me tell you a tale. Women like them to be filled with handsome knights and courtly love, but I fear this one is about a simpler fellow.”
Raising his cup, Thomas grinned. “As a monk from a priory near a seacoast village, I know more of that ilk than I do of knights, Master Stevyn.”
The steward raised one bushy eyebrow to express affable doubt, then settled into his chair, drank his wine, and began the story.
“Long ago, but near to this place, there dwelt a lad and a lass, both sinners by birth but as close to Eden’s innocence as youth can be. They fell in love, but he was a younger son of a landed knight, and his father had higher ambition for him than a merchant’s daughter. A worthy spouse with a little property was soon found for him, and the lovers were forced to part, innocent of lewdness but wounded in heart.”
He drained his own wine, glanced over at the monk’s cup, and replenished both before continuing. “The lad was now a man in possession of some earthly wealth. His new wife also owned a good soul. She prayed much, gave alms to the poor, tended to the sick, and dutifully bedded her husband for the sake of heirs. She bore one in great agony, then failed to quicken again. Indeed, bedding her husband grew so painful after that hard birthing that he took pity and ceased demanding payment of the marriage debt.”
Stevyn stopped and looked into his cup with a disappointed expression as if surprised not to find therein an answer to some question.
“He bore no fault for the pain his wife suffered,” Thomas said. “Sometimes God brings suffering to the good for reasons only He knows.” His heart always ached whenever he said this, and thus he used the argument as little as possible, but he suspected the steward would only take the words as rhetorical things.
In fact, the steward waved them aside. “There is more, Brother, much more.”
Thomas gestured for him to go on.
“Although the man did not love his wife, he honored her and sought remedies to heal her pain. When pilgrimages and trips to noted healers failed, he desperately turned to his former love. By this time, she had also married a good man at her parents’ behest and then gained some reputation as a woman skilled with herbs.”
He rose and paced without speaking, drained his cup, and refilled it. His hand visibly shaking, he spilled wine and muttered a mild curse. “Aye, a physician would have been the better choice, but the man’s wife had begged for a woman to attend her, confessing that her modesty had been offended enough by the questioning of one of the male healers.”
Thomas drank in silence.
“This desperate measure failed as well, and the man’s wife did not regain her health. As it turned out, it was a dangerous mistake. While the man’s wife prayed for relief, Satan found a fertile field in the hearts of the husband and his old love. At first they felt only comfort in each other’s company, then hellfire manifested as lust enflamed them beyond endurance. It was not long before they committed adultery, not just once but again and again.”
Although guilt colored the steward’s cheeks, Thomas briefly glimpsed something else in the man’s face. For just an instant, the wrinkles etched in his face smoothed and the brightness of youth flashed in his eyes. Did sin ever bring peace, the monk wondered before fear banished the blasphemous thought with just speed.
Stevyn sat back down and shook his head. “Unlike Huet, I tell tales badly, Brother. Let it be said, simply enough, that the wife learned of her husband’s sin and, like a true Christian, forgave him. God cursed him, however, and the good wife grew increasingly weak and finally died, leaving the husband so befouled with wickedness that he lost all reason. Blinded by the Devil, he turned selfish and took a young wife, whom he neither loved nor ever learned to respect, but whom he could swink at will like a boar in rut.” He closed his eyes, the illusion of story-telling grown as sheer as worn cloth.
“And when he learned that she was swyving another?”
Stevyn’s face turned a wine-red hue as he slammed his cup on the wooden table.
“Might he not have killed her because of the horns she put on his forehead? Many men have done just so and few have condemned them for it.”
“Someone else has done this, Brother. As I now think on it, the crime ought to have been done by me. For the sake of my honor, I confess I might even wish that it had been, but I have learned something from my sins toward my first wife. I…”
“…chose to forgive?” The question was dutifully asked, as his vocation demanded, but Thomas knew well enough what the reply would be.
Stevyn snorted. “Nay, I am not a man inclined to turn the other cheek, no matter how often our priest reminds us of that duty. I contemplated sending her to a convent for her sins, with a dowry large enough to guarantee acceptance and everlasting enclosure behind thick walls, but never did I want to kill her. And if you doubt me, Brother, as you most certainly have reason to do, I ask that you consider this. Why would I have publicly strung her up naked for all to see her shame, which is mine as well? That is an act of someone who must have had cause to wound both my wife and me.”
Thomas nodded. For a husband to stab an adulterous wife in bed with her lover, or to suffocate her without leaving plain evidence of killing, were more common methods. Yet he was puzzled about one thing. “When did you learn of the adultery? I have heard it continued for some time.”
“You are a young man, devoted to God. This may be difficult for you to understand.” The steward shifted uncomfortably,
then reached for the pitcher and poured himself another full cup.
Thomas refused the offer of more. This was not the time for a wine-dulled mind.
“It became obvious to me that she bore my swyving as a despised duty.” He smiled, but his eyes closed from the shame of the admission. “She was a lusty young woman, but her body was as dry as a desert after I tried to please her. Even the Church says a husband must give his wife joy in bed, but I failed and, in truth, she soon began to bore me.” He tilted his head to one side, some pride returning to his look. “Isn’t it odd, Brother, that I should find more joy with a woman who is beyond child-bearing and can never give me sons? Yet I have, although no man ever has sons enough. My wife’s adultery came after I had left her bed for that of another. If I learned late of my wife’s betrayal, it was because I was lying in the arms of the woman I have loved for far too many years.”
“Is your beloved now free to marry?” Thomas asked, a chill shuddering through him despite the warmth in the hall. Was he wrong in thinking the murderer must be a man? Might it be a mistress who longed to take this man as lawful husband at the church door? Although the Church frowned on marriages between a man and his mistress, it was a prohibition ignored often enough amongst those of lesser rank.
“Aye, she is, but, before you ask the question, Brother, I swear to you that she did not kill my wife either. A gentle woman, she has told me that she is willing enough to remain my leman. I have found great peace, lying in her arms, and her company soothes my angers and renders me a kinder man. I do not understand how this is possible, considering our great sin. Perhaps you can explain it to me?”
The monk chose to ignore the question for the moment. “You believe this woman did not kill your wife, but did she have the opportunity to murder either Tobye or Mistress Luce?”
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