Sorrow Without End

by Priscilla Royal

  “Was he your son?” she whispered, bending close to the man.

  Walter looked at her, tears streaming from one dark-rimmed eye while the other remained dry as if empty of emotion as well as sight. He shook his head. “He was my brother’s son, my lady.” Then he struck his heart. “But to this childless man he was near enough.” Although he spoke, as did she, in a whisper, the sound was like the last rattling breath of a dying man.

  “You wished no one learn of this?”

  “He was my Absalom!” the man murmured, then threw his head back and wailed with an intensity that should have caused the very angels themselves to weep for his agony.

  Eleanor rested one hand gently on the man’s back, then turned her head. “Come, Brother Thomas. He needs a priest’s comfort.” She knew there was little she could say to ease this man’s sorrow. Tomorrow, her reminders of God’s promises might bring solace. Today, the pain was too raw for any woman’s balm.

  This man was answerable for much, she knew, but now was not the time for confrontations and accusations. There were many other questions to resolve first before she was certain that would be necessary. For now, she would let him grieve.

  Chapter Forty

  Thomas and Ralf stood in front of the second trestle table laid for the second corpse. By order of the prioress, the screen to the chapel had been closed, thus barring this sight from all. Eleanor remained apart in the shadows as if she did not want to intrude, or else wished to be alone with her thoughts.

  Sister Anne bent over the body. With two fingers she raised some hair from the dead man’s neck, then stroked his head once as if it had been that of a child or the hospital cat. Cuthbert pulled the cloth back over the still face.

  “What think you, Annie?” Ralf said, his voice soft as if he feared the dead might be disturbed by his question.

  “There is little more to see than when we first examined him by torch light. The only wound is the one that killed him, and it was a swift death. The murderer aimed for the heart and did not miss.”

  “No other blows?”

  “None, Ralf. There are no bruises, cuts, or any signs of a struggle. The width of the stab wound would suggest a common knife. Since you found none nearby, I assume the killer took it with him.”

  “Not the same kind of murder as that one then.” Ralf pointed to the overripe body of the soldier.

  “There are no signs of rage in this deed. As these things go, it was a kind act. I might guess that the murderer slipped behind Sir Maurice in silence, then stabbed him with one hard blow to the heart.”

  Ralf nodded.

  Anne continued. “The position of the knight was most certainly interesting. Lying on his back with his hands crossed over his chest? It was as if he had died in his bed with a priest at his side. Someone took time to position him like a peaceful corpse ready for burial. All that would suggest a certain reverence despite the killing.”

  “Could we have two killers then?” Ralf turned to Thomas. “You have thoughts, Brother?”

  “Although we should be grateful that this murder occurred on the public grounds of our priory, that also means almost anyone could have done it. From what Sister Anne says, the method does not suggest the murderer was the same one who killed…” Thomas waved at the first corpse without looking at it. “We could have two killers abroad.”

  “I do believe we must find our madman and hear the riddles he now chooses to tell.” Eleanor’s words came like a ghostly voice from the shadows. “Perhaps they hold the key to all of this.”

  “Aye, my lady,” Thomas said, glancing at the crowner.

  “Has anyone disturbed the cell he occupied?” Ralf asked.

  “It has been left almost untouched,” Anne replied. “When I saw a lay sister coming from it with the bed sheets, I asked that no one touch anything else and that the cell remain unoccupied until someone had searched it.”

  “You are ever wise, Annie.” Ralf gazed at her tenderly, then cleared his throat. “Has anyone done so?”

  Thomas shook his head. “There were so many to question at the hospital, we had no time for that.”

  “Then I shall now,” the crowner said. “If I had searched earlier, perhaps Sir Maurice would still be alive.”

  ***

  “Satan’s tits! I am but human,” the crowner muttered as he left the chapel for the madman’s former cell. He cursed himself for his frailties. Instead of chasing down a murderer, he had gotten drunk, bedded one woman as substitute for another, and suffered raddled wits ever since.

  He spat. His mouth still tasted of sheep dung. “Get a wife?” he snorted as he approached the cubicle. Reeking of sweat and vomit, he was no Sir Lancelot. He rubbed his ear where Signy had hit him yesterday when he arrived at the inn to beg her pardon as well as question her on the madman. He could not blame her. He was a rough man.

  Ralf kicked the screen aside and strode into the cell.

  “It matters not. Once this crime is solved, I will avoid Tyndal Priory and never again care for any woman, wench or wife,” he said with conviction born of despair. “Back to murder,” he said and set his torch into a bracket in the wall. If he was going to feel miserable, he might as well concentrate on madness, death, and a vanished man.

  In the weak light of the torch, he could see little, but there was little enough in this bare space. ”My brother will not replace me for fornicating, but he will if I do not catch the man who killed the crusader,” he growled, but when he kicked the strewn herbs on the ground, the only thing he unearthed was dust.

  Whether or not his brother did choose someone else as crowner, Ralf still held the office, although he would be the first to say that any man who spent his time drinking and wenching in the middle of a murder investigation was unworthy of the position. Nevertheless, crowner he was, and at least his hangover had faded. Perhaps after all the mistakes he had made in this investigation, he was owed some good fortune.

  “God should be so gracious,” Ralf growled as he sat on the edge of the narrow bed. He began sifting through the straw with one hand. Was this madman capable of beating, then trying to rape the little nun? Might he be the murderer of the crusader? Could he be guilty of both crimes?

  He had agreed with Prioress Eleanor when she first told him about releasing Thomas to see if the sight of the monk might leech truth from the fellow. The madman did seem guilty of something. Yet where did his guilt lie? Perhaps his crime was but a petty thing. Spending time on him and whatever minor transgression he had committed might be like stirring up muck in a clear stream. Perhaps it was wisest to ignore the man.

  Something began to buzz in his head like a large bee going from flower to flower in the full heat of a summer’s day. Had he seen the fellow before? Perhaps it had been on a market day when he and Cuthbert wandered about, watching for cutpurses? Brother Matthew had told Beorn that the fellow had been in the village for some days, had he not? Now that he thought on it, he realized that Cuthbert had never seen the madman while the fellow was in this hospital. Again he cursed himself. If he had brought his sergeant with him when he had questioned the man, Cuthbert might have recognized him.

  Ralf struggled to focus. A vague image danced across his mind, then disappeared like a playful maid around a corner. He shook his head in frustration. When Cuthbert had awakened him with news of the attack on Sister Christina, Ralf had tried to remember something from the previous night. Had it to do with the madman? Murder? Or just Signy’s hardened nipples under his fingers?

  “S’blood! Why does ale make a man’s mind so clear while he drinks but leave his wits so muddy afterward?”

  The memory dallied with him again, then coyly hid once more. “Women and memories,” he growled. “They tease men’s souls like flax.” With a grunt, he quickly tossed aside the effort to catch hold of the thing and began to dig farther into the straw, tossing large bits onto the floor.

  This fellow was far too clever to be as mad as he purported.
Ralf was troubled as well by the man’s broken nose and especially the reddened skin, as if the sun had permanently marked him. Had the man been to the Holy Land? Was he one of those soldiers who bore few visible wounds but hid a mortal one in his soul? Did his wits perhaps come and go with a soldier’s hellish vision, asleep or awake? Did he scream at the sight of flames or strike at anyone who came upon him unawares? Ralf had seen these things often enough. Maybe this fellow suffered like that, thus might have attacked the infirmarian given the right circumstances...

  Ralf started. His hand had just touched an object buried deep into the straw. He pulled it out. It was a small leather pouch, much stained. The strings that would be used to tie it to the braies had been neatly cut. Since Anne insisted that each new patient be given fresh straw bedding, this had to belong to the missing man.

  He put the purse on the ground, then began digging out great handfuls of straw. There was nothing more in the bed, so he got down on his knees to see under it. Something else was on the ground. Ralf flattened himself, reached out, and grabbed a handful of coarse sackcloth. He carried it carefully to the torchlight.

  The thing was a sack. As he looked inside, he saw that the cloth was covered with a pale dust. He ran his finger through it. It was gritty, sharp. Then he peered at the residue on his hand. Suddenly, a host of memories, not just the one he had been chasing since yesterday, returned to him like children to a mother’s loving arms. Ralf began to laugh.

  “Cuthbert!” he yelled. “Come here! And bring Brother Thomas.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  The following day, a weak sun had done its best to warm men’s spirits before the next storm swept the coast. As that sun was setting, however, it must have grieved that its best efforts had failed so with Sister Ruth and Brother Matthew. Both were standing, heads bowed with dejection, in the prioress’ chambers.

  Prioress Eleanor’s look was most grave as well, but Sister Anne did smile. As long as the twitching muscles at each corner of Brother Andrew’s mouth were ignored, his expression might have suggested a neutral stance.

  In front of these five stood Crowner Ralf, Brother Thomas, and the man heretofore known only as mad. The latter’s hands were bound, but Cuthbert still gripped him firmly by the arm.

  On a central table lay a bulging bag and a flat pouch. Next to these items was the thigh bone with kneecap attached that Sister Ruth had been protecting with most loving care.

  “Repeat, knave,” Ralf ordered, pointing to the bones. “I want everyone to hear this one more time so there will be no doubt.”

  The captive looked nervously around him, then cleared his throat. “Sheep. The bones are from a sheep.” He coughed.

  Brother Andrew’s facial muscles twitched with more liveliness. Eleanor raised one hand to her mouth, but the expressions of Sister Anne, Sister Ruth, and Brother Matthew did not change.

  “So the relic you wanted to sell Tyndal was a sheep’s thigh bone and kneecap. And what is in that bag?” Ralf pointed to the round sack on the table.

  The man remained silent.

  The crowner walked over to the object and dumped out the contents. They slid and clattered across the table. “Sheep bones. Sheep blood in vials. Bits of wool,” he said, sorting the things into uneven piles by type.

  The prisoner was making a careful study of his naked feet.

  “The latter to be transformed, no doubt, into many hairs of various aged saints. None, in fact, sacred.” There was not even the hint of a question in Ralf’s words.

  “You wish me to confess to something, Crowner?” The fellow’s voice did not tremble; yet he was quite pale, a color suggesting he might be a very frightened man.

  “You may confirm what my men and I have found; however, your refusal to do so is unimportant.”

  “Shall you torture a lie from me, then?”

  “No need. The facts are simple. A farmer reported one missing sheep. After determining that no wild creature had killed it, we set watch on his land, and Cuthbert saw you steal another beast, then slaughter it. My sergeant observed as you cleaned the bones, had a good feast of mutton, put these items in a bag, and hid all under a bush before disappearing into the storm. Fortunately, my sergeant decided to ask me, before he arrested you solely for stealing sheep, why I thought you might have saved the bits, then hidden the bag. His tale reminded me of something I had seen the other night at the inn.”

  The fellow shrugged. “Your sergeant has such good vision in a bad storm?”

  “Cuthbert can see a seagull standing in a fog bank. From his description, I knew you were the same man who has been leading the lay brothers here a merry chase.”

  The captive twitched uncomfortably.

  Ralf smiled with little humor. “According to the innkeeper today, you were seen talking with pilgrims who had some coin. The inn was a profitable place for you, was it not? When I told Cuthbert and Brother Thomas what I suspected, we decided you might return there with your newly created relics. Cuthbert went back to the hiding place, waited until you arrived, then followed you back to the inn where you met with a pilgrim for the purpose of selling him a vial of…Saint Poculum’s blood, I believe?” Ralf looked over at Brother Thomas.

  “Saint Poculum Butyri,” the monk confirmed.

  “Butter?” Brother Andrew sputtered, losing all semblance of solemnity. “A canonized cup of butter?” he repeated, then doubled over with laughter.

  “Our relic seller, it seems, has both humor and some knowledge of Latin.” Thomas grinned at the prisoner. “Were you a cleric once?”

  The man refused to answer.

  “The pilgrim may have been quite ignorant of Latin, but I am not, and our relic seller failed to recognize that the hooded traveler snoring so loudly nearby was I.”

  “Few would argue with my sergeant’s testimony and none with Brother Thomas’. What use would torture be?” Ralf asked.

  “Surely the man is innocent!” Brother Matthew looked up and glanced with pitiful hopefulness at the man with the broken nose.

  The face of the captive lit up with some joy. “As you see, Crowner, this good brother is a man of faith. If you believed in the wonders of God, you would have no doubt that a sheep’s knee could become a sacred thing. Saint Skallagrim…”

  Ralf spat just in front of the bound man’s toes.

  “Saint Skallagrim never existed,” Eleanor said. “So I have confirmed with Brother Beorn who grew up here. It is blasphemy to pretend that some falsity is sacred. You are a fraud and may not deny what both a man of God and the king’s liegemen have seen.”

  “I gain all by silence, my lady.”

  “Little,” she said. “Any countryman would know the difference between the thigh bone of a sheep and that of a man or child. Of course, the kneecap does look much the same as that belonging to someone of about ten summers; nonetheless, this thigh bone, the one you tried to sell us, is uniquely curved.” She pointed to the rounded bone.

  Brother Matthew opened his mouth but, upon seeing the expression on his prioress’ face, shut it. Beside him, Sister Ruth’s face had turned the color of shame.

  “Clearly that of a sheep,” Eleanor continued. “Since our hospital has had the sad task of preparing bodies of young children for transportation some distance to a family grave,” she gestured toward Sister Anne, “we know that the same bone in a child would be straighter.” She looked over at Brother Matthew. “Or, if curved for some other reason, quite differently so.”

  “As you heard me say, my lady, I now know the thigh bone and kneecap are those of a sheep, but I was defrauded myself when I was sold the bone.” The bound man had developed a noticeable facial spasm.

  “Sold?”

  “I was sold this item, my lady.” The man was sweating as he nodded at the Tyndal bones.

  “You have, of course, the name and description of this person?”

  “Name? He gave me none, but he had an honest look. As for description, he was of
middle height with light brown hair and hazel eyes. One eye wandered…”

  “And thus he describes half the men in England.” Ralf gestured with contempt.

  “And you bought these bones where?” Eleanor continued.

  “In Norwich…”

  “Near the farmer who is also missing two prime sheep,” Ralf interrupted.

  “Accidental. Purely accidental,” Brother Matthew remarked, hope brightening his expression. “You have no witness to explain the disappearance of the first beast.”

  The prisoner’s expression showed less enthusiasm.

  “Nonetheless, this bag of bones most certainly contains those of sheep, and the blood you attempted to sell the pilgrim came from the one we watched you butcher and feast upon. There is no doubt who is responsible for these fraudulent relics.”

  “As you have had ample opportunity to notice, Crowner, my wits are often weak. This monk,” he bent his head toward Thomas, “can confirm that as well. When I am possessed, I might slaughter a beast, believing upon recovery that God has graciously gifted me with sacred items to sell at some small price. Thus I sustain my fragile body.”

  “Were you resting at Tyndal on your way to Saint William’s shrine in Norwich to seek a miraculous cure for your madness?” Brother Andrew interjected.

  “I would if you would so advise, good brother.” The man’s voice was both hesitant and meek.

  “Nay. Rather I would seek your advice on the effectiveness of the cures for I have heard said that you have been there already.” The lines around the monk’s eyes crinkled with good humor.

  The man did not reply.