Sorrow Without End

by Priscilla Royal

  “I understand, Brother.”

  That she well might, Thomas thought, and, if she did suspect that he had lied, he hoped she was the only one at Tyndal who did.

  Chapter Eleven

  Thomas saw Eleanor first. Crowner Ralf was at her side. The crowner’s presence never signified pleasant tidings nor did the prioress’ stern look belie that conclusion.

  “I fear something has happened,” Thomas said to Anne, inclining his head toward the approaching pair.

  Ralf bowed stiffly to the sub-infirmarian. “I regret disturbing you, ” he said, his gaze targeted somewhere between Anne and Thomas.

  “You are always welcome here, Ralf,” Anne replied, her voice soft. “Although I fear you have not come merely to visit.”

  “You are most generous.” Ralf was now studying his feet.

  Anne gave her prioress a quick, questioning look, then continued. “I did wonder if your long absence from Tyndal meant you had followed your elder brother to court. Your manners, I note, are more polished than has been the case in times past.”

  “I am not one for the court.” Ralf grunted, then spat. “I have brought you a corpse.”

  “For cert I did not think you came to grace us with poetry.” Sister Anne’s eyes shone briefly with mirth.

  “To gift us with a corpse is more like the crowner we know,” Thomas grinned.

  Eleanor’s gray eyes darkened. “I fear your jest is out of place, Brother. A corpse is not something to treat with levity.” Her words cut like the edge of a sharply honed knife.

  Thomas blinked. Hadn’t Sister Anne said much the same as he? Why did the prioress single him out for chastisement? He had meant no ill with his remark nor had he taken the crowner’s tidings lightly. Surely she knew that. “I beg pardon, my lady.” He bowed his head to hide his confusion. “I grieve that any should die before reaching our hospital.”

  “And that he did, Brother,” the prioress said, “but the cause of his death was not any of man’s many mortal ills, unless you consider murder such a thing.”

  Anne turned pale.

  Ralf bent toward them and lowered his voice. “Since the man died violently, a death that took place in the woods nearby, I had to bring the tidings to Prioress Eleanor immediately before rumor spread.”

  “Surely we have suffered enough bloodshed at Tyndal! Why should murder come to our gates again?” Anne raised her hands in a gesture of frustration, then crossed herself. “Forgive me. It was selfish to think only of our peace, not of the poor soul who has been robbed of life and without a priest to ease his soul.”

  “You have reason enough to be upset after the events of last year.” Ralf reached out his hand as if to give Anne a comforting touch, then quickly dropped it.

  “You did not say if he was a local man,” Eleanor said.

  “I do not recognize him.” Ralf looked briefly at Anne. “Someone else might. His dress is that of a soldier, and, if the red cross on his cloak is a true sign, I would conclude that he must be a crusader just home from Outremer. My sergeant and I found him lying alone, not a half-mile from here in the clearing by the road that passes through the village. When we first saw him, we feared he had suffered injury from a fall or an attack. Instead, we found him freshly slain.”

  “Clearing by the road?” Thomas asked, his expression a troubled one. He, too, had just traveled that road but had left it before he reached the clearing to take the shortcut through the woods. Had he seen or heard anything untoward? Only the scream of the high wind that he had taken for Satan’s laughter. Could that sound have been human, not demonic?

  “I have failed to welcome you home, Brother,” Eleanor said, breaking into his thoughts.

  Thomas looked at her with puzzlement. Her voice fell like a drop of chill water on his ears. Why so cold to me, Thomas wondered? Not only had she rebuked him unreasonably, she had certainly failed to welcome him, a most unusual breach of courtesy from his usually gracious prioress.

  “The nuns have prayed for the speedy return of their confessor, and I am sure Sister Anne is grateful as well that you are back.” Eleanor hesitated, thoughtfully studying the monk. “All Tyndal has missed you. Sorely.”

  Thomas bowed in silence. Although her words now expressed kind concern, her tone suggested but a token interest. Had he somehow fallen into disfavor in his absence?

  Sister Anne looked confused as well. “His brother was ill…” she began.

  “Forgive me, Brother Thomas,” Eleanor said, flushing despite the autumn chill. “I fear these tidings of murder have so taken me by surprise that I have been discourteous. How fares your brother? We have all prayed for his improved health.”

  “I thank you for that, my lady,” Thomas muttered, then willed himself through his litany of lies. “Your prayers have been heard, and my brother is fully recovered.”

  Did she suspect or had she even learned that his story was false? When the man in black had sent Thomas off on this latest mission, the monk had warned his spymaster that this pretense could not continue forever. Prioress Eleanor must be told how else he served the Church. If she found out that he was a spy, placed in her midst without her knowledge or consent, the prioress’ anger over the deception could have unpleasant consequences.

  On the other hand, he had said, she could prove a valuable ally if she knew what the Church required of him, but his black-clad master had only waved a dismissive hand when Thomas mentioned all this. The monk hoped the man fully understood what a dangerous enemy Prioress Eleanor could be if crossed. Not only had he seen how wily she herself could be, he also knew that her father was a powerful man in King Henry’s court and her brother a close friend of the Lord Edward. The Wynethorpes were not a family one could offend with impunity.

  “The monk has a brother?”

  “And what do you mean by that, Ralf?” Anne frowned.

  Ralf cocked one eyebrow with an exaggerated gesture. “Only that I am now assured he was born of woman and must share some vices with other mortal men. I had some doubt.”

  “That I was born or that I have vices, Crowner?” Thomas was grateful for the gentle jesting. “There is no doubt that I was born of woman. That I have sinned as much as you, Ralf? Of that there may be reasonable question, for you are a most worldly man.”

  Ralf threw his head back and roared. “How I have missed you, monk! Even Brother Andrew has not your quick wit.”

  “But you speak of murder?” Thomas countered, still feeling the sting of his prioress’ recent reproach.

  The crowner swiped his sleeve across his nose. “Aye, the man was gutted and abandoned in the woods like an illegally slaughtered deer.”

  A most vivid image, Thomas thought, and swallowed hard.

  “Brother Andrew said that you were seen on the road from the west. When did you return, Brother, and by which route did you come to Tyndal?” Suddenly, the crowner’s tone lost all warmth.

  A shiver of apprehension went through Thomas. “Why do you ask?”

  “I seek information. You may have seen something.”

  “After I left the village near the inn, I followed the road to the turn, then took the shortest way through the forest by the stream. I entered the priory at the mill gate and so never came to the clearing of which you speak.”

  “You neither heard nor saw anyone on the road?”

  Thomas shook his head.

  “Odd, that. You must have come near enough to the corpse.” Ralf studied the monk in silence. “You noted nothing at all?”

  The crowner might be his friend, but his questions were sharply asked. Thomas felt a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. Once before he had been questioned in like fashion, then thrown into a prison where he had nearly died. This questioning brought his hideous memories back with so much force that his head now spun. “For cert, Ralf. As I said, I left the road just before…” Now his voice was rising in panic. He must calm himself!

  “You returned when?�
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  Thomas could smell his rank fear. He closed his eyes, reminding himself that this was Tyndal, not London. “I stopped at the warming room, then I came to the hospital…”

  “To hear a confession?” Ralf asked, sarcasm quite palpable in his voice.

  Thomas looked nervously from crowner to prioress. What did all this mean? How had he offended his prioress? Why was his friend treating him like a suspect in a crime? He swayed backward as if he had come to the edge of Hell, then seen the twisting bodies of the burning damned. Someone put a steadying hand on him. “I wanted to find Sister Anne and return to my work,” he whispered.

  “That is enough, Ralf,” Anne said, dropping her hand from Thomas’ back.

  “Forgive me, Brother.” Ralf’s voice softened. “As Sister Anne often reminds me, I fail in civility, but I am desperate for information.”

  Eleanor nodded. “This was a grisly crime. Anything you remember might be of help.”

  Thomas shook his head. The terror receded slowly. He nervously rubbed his eyes with his hand. “There were other travelers on the road earlier in the day, but I believe I was alone after I left the village. Those with whom I had journeyed thus far stopped for refreshment and lodgings at the inn. The weather had turned most foul.” He took a deep breath. Should he tell Ralf about his strange feeling that he had been followed? Nay, he decided, for he had no wish to speak of York or his imaginings about the Prince of Darkness.

  Ralf stared up at the bracing of the ceiling like a builder studying his work, then glanced down at Eleanor. “Cuthbert has the corpse tied to his horse, my lady. I was hoping Sister Anne might examine…”

  Eleanor looked first to the sub-infirmarian, then turned to the crowner. “Of course, Ralf, but there are some without who have most pressing need of her attention…”

  “As soon as I have tended to them, my lady, I will be happy to be of whatever small assistance I may be in this case.”

  “Then have your sergeant take the sad burden to the outside entrance of the men’s chapel, Crowner. We will have a trestle table set up so Cuthbert can put the corpse there and cover it for decency’s sake.”

  “I am grateful, my lady,” Ralf replied.

  The prioress smiled, then gestured to Anne, and the two women left.

  Although the crowner bowed his head, Thomas noticed that Ralf’s eyes followed the nuns until they had disappeared from sight around a pillar. When the man still did not move, Thomas coughed.

  Ralf turned red and looked at the monk as if he had forgotten he was there. “Will you come to the hospital chapel, Brother?” he quickly asked. “After Cuthbert lays the corpse on the trestle, I would be grateful if you looked upon the body. Perhaps the man was among those with whom you traveled earlier.”

  “I shall, Crowner,” the monk replied, briefly closing his eyes with weary relief. Would he never be able to forget his time in prison, his body abused and bitten by rats while he lay in his own filth? For the moment at least he had recovered from the horror of old memories, and perhaps he could be of help in this current matter. He shook all thoughts of his past from his mind and accompanied Ralf to the chapel.

  Chapter Twelve

  Eleanor spun around. She saw nothing untoward in the murky shadows beyond the hospital entrance. Why then this prickling at the back of her neck, she asked herself? Was she so filled with dark sin that she thought some mocking imp might be prancing behind her?

  She shivered, then continued rushing along the path to her chambers. Sin, indeed! Her body ached, not with the autumn chill but with a longing she had little will to fight. The unexpected sight of Thomas at the hospital had sent shocks through her, reigniting the fires of her passion, causing her knees to weaken, and banishing any hold she might have on rational thought. Angry and humiliated, she was disgusted by her frailty.

  “Get thee behind me,” she growled at whatever frolicking imp might be near. She could not afford this teary lovesickness. Not only must she emerge victorious in her struggle with Brother Matthew, but she now had a murder committed all too near her priory, news that must be handled with both delicacy and firm reason. She could not continue to suffer these hellish agonies whenever she was in Thomas’ presence. Earlier she might have thought she had a choice in this matter of the comely monk. Now she was convinced he must be sent away.

  As she marched along, oblivious to the water she splashed through on the way, she swore that she would remain in command of her reason. If the murderer or murderers did seek shelter here, as Ralf had suggested when he first told her of the crime, she could not indulge in womanly weakness. She was Tyndal’s leader; thus she must have a man’s stomach.

  She felt cold, then glanced at her shoes. They were soaked.

  She walked on. Could these killers have gained a haven at Tyndal’s hospital? If so, she must help the crowner ferret them out. Although she had much confidence in his ability to find the perpetrators, she could not, as leader of this priory, remain passive in this matter. She represented the authority of the Church on these grounds. Thus she could not ignore any evil in her midst, even a criminal who fell under secular law.

  Suddenly she realized the direction her thoughts were going and stopped her headlong rush through the cloister garth. She found a dry spot on a stone bench just under the covered walkway and sat.

  “Must it take murder to chase lust from my loins?” she asked aloud with grim humor. Raising her eyes to the slate-dark heavens, she continued. “May You send me a kinder remedy, for my soul’s cure should not bring more bloodshed to an already violent world!” In truth, the news of this murder had seemed to burn away her woman’s softness, at least for the time being. She did not think any of them in the hospital had suspected her longing to take Thomas into her arms, nor noticed how she had studied his face for any sign of grief at a brother’s death. Once she had felt her face flush, but she believed she had hidden her feelings with a brusque tone and even discourtesy. Better she be condemned for insensitivity, even cruel indifference, than lust.

  With this foul murder to solve, she might be able to delay any decision on Thomas’ future at the priory. She did believe in a God of consummate compassion, and surely in good time He would give her guidance, some insight on what she must do with a priest who served Tyndal well but wracked her soul with longings she had once so willingly forsworn. Perhaps the answer would come when she spent her hour of penance on the chapel floor. “Thy will be done in this matter,” she said, head bowed as she rose from the cold bench.

  In the meantime, she would spend some hours with her account rolls, leaving time for Ralf to study the corpse with Sister Anne. Then she would return to the chapel herself and see what stories the victim might have to tell the prioress of Tyndal.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The man from Acre slipped into the shadows and leaned his forehead against the rough wall. With a muttered curse, he slammed his fist against the stones.

  How dare they bring that hell-bound corpse into a chapel and lay it before the cross? It was blasphemy! They should have burnt the rotting thing in the forest at midnight, then left the ashes for Satan’s imps to dance in.

  He hit his head once against the masonry, then turned his gaze upward. Dust motes were falling slowly in the feeble beam of light from the window just above him. They reminded him of sand, of Acre, then of blood.

  “The man did take the cross,” he snarled, sliding into a crouch. “He is probably in Heaven now, laughing and enjoying God’s favor, while my wife jerks and twists with the flames of Hell.”

  His eyes burned with pain, and he longed to close them. His body cried out for rest. The empty place where his soul had once been ached like a festering wound. He wanted to die, but he could not.

  He had given his word not to commit self-murder when they took him off the ship in Sicily and said he must make peace with God. When they finally let him finish his voyage to England, there had been days that he regretted his promise, especial
ly when he stared back across the ship’s wake toward the land where his wife had died. Nonetheless, he had sworn an oath.

  He leaned against the cold, rough-chiseled stone of the hospital wall. Turning his face away from the chapel, he watched the movement in the light from the window, his vision blurring as he stared. The specks of dust were now dancing with so much innocence and grace that he smiled in spite of the throbbing between his eyes. Nay, they were not bloodstained bits of sand, he thought. Might they not be tiny saints?

  Had it not been for the man who had been kind to him in the days when he rolled in the dust of Outremer, screaming for miracles, he would not have come here at all. It was that man who promised him God was good, that He would heal him of his pain and guilt. Nonetheless, he still wondered if he might not have found a greater peace, sitting at the grave of his wife until the sun baked his body into a brittle shell and released his soul to join hers.

  A tall nun walked by. She looked over at him with a questioning glance, but he shook his head and she went on into the chapel. Might she be the one who was supposed to heal him? Or was it the round one, the one with closed eyes who twisted her fat, white hands as she spoke to those soft-robed cokenays on horseback? It could not be the short one, the one who claimed she was prioress of this place.

  He shuddered.

  That woman’s eyes were the color of hot ashes. When she had looked at him, her eyes had reflected hellfire, burning through him with searing pain. She was no healer. He doubted that she was even prioress here. Nay, she was one of Lucifer’s minions hidden in this cloistered place to fish for weak souls. The heat of that gaze would cause any monk’s chaste vows to shrivel and his forsaken manhood to swell!

  He bit his thumb and felt a chill sweat break out on his forehead. Had they lied to him? If God would let Satan send such a creature to seduce him, then He was no kinder here than He had been in Outremer. The memory of the hot-eyed woman pounded in his head like the banging of a condemned man’s fists against his prison door.