Sorrow Without End

by Priscilla Royal

  “…protective custody, lest I be harmed by a most violent man for what I might have seen,” Thomas finished.

  “There was only one other monk at Tyndal with similar height, and thus I realized he was the same man at the inn who was engaged in eager...”

  “May Satan fry your…” Matthew was writhing.

  “Silence, Brother,” Sister Ruth hissed.

  “This tale clears you of the attack on Sister Christina,” Eleanor said to the relic seller. “There is still the murder of Sir Maurice to resolve.”

  Matthew fell to his knees and raised his hands in supplication. “Please, my lady! I pray you to let me tell this in private!”

  “Surely there is little else to relate that would cause you much more shame,” Eleanor replied, “and this matter is so serious that we must have witnesses to all you have to say. The need for the crowner’s presence is, of course, indisputable.”

  The monk gestured at Sister Ruth. “Must all stay?” he begged piteously.

  The sub-prioress’ expression now changed from disgust and sorrow to one of deep humiliation. She rose and bowed to Eleanor. “Others should remain as witnesses, but is it truly necessary that I do so? For the sake of modesty, will you excuse me, my lady?”

  “Of course, Sister,” Eleanor said gently.

  The nun glared at the monk. “I thought you a better man than this, Brother. You have much for which to beg forgiveness.”

  He reached out a hand to her, then drew it back.

  “I will pray for you,” Sister Ruth said, then stormed out of the chambers.

  After the door slammed, Ralf turned to the monk. “I will make your confession easier by telling it myself,” he said. “According to Brother Thomas, you met with our relic seller at the inn just after the pilgrim had left with his vial of blood. Perhaps you came with some payment for the bones, but, from what our good brother has described, I must ask you this: did you and the relic seller pray before or after sharing the bed of a village whore that night?”

  Chapter Forty-three

  Cuthbert had taken the relic seller into custody. Brother Matthew begged leave to find his confessor. Sister Anne and Brother Andrew returned to the sick and the watching of gates. Still seated in the chambers were Thomas, Ralf, and Eleanor. Before departing with her prioress’ blessing, Gytha set out more ale and a fine creamy cheese on the table for the renewal of everyone’s strength.

  Strength was needed.

  Thomas cut into the cheese and offered his prioress the slice. “In truth, I did hope at one time that he was the murderer,” he said with evident discomfort.

  “There was cause enough to wonder,” Eleanor replied. “We had to establish his exact involvement, and we needed to know what he had seen.”

  Shaking his head, Thomas ran one finger around the rim of his pottery cup.

  Ralf thumped the monk’s shoulder. “I do not blame you for wishing so. At first, I doubted he could have done the killing. After he fooled me into believing you were involved, I grew angry, thus was blinded and thought to change my mind. His theft of the soldier’s purse made more sense, although I confess I had little enough evidence of the thievery. The purse was in his bedding, but anyone might have placed it there. In fact, it might have belonged to any man, except for the bloodstains. Fortunately, he was so frightened that he spilled his tale.”

  “We were wise to keep secret the story of the attack on Sister Christina. Had our relic seller heard it, he might have fled the area entirely for fear that he would be the suspect,” Eleanor said, then fell silent, noting that Ralf’s usually fine appetite had abandoned him.

  “You promised him mercy in exchange for the truth, my lady,” the crowner said at last. “For a knave, he showed some honor and did serve justice today, thus I will gladly agree to whatever punishment you think is meet. The farmer, however, must be paid for his dead sheep.”

  With a brief smile, Eleanor nodded, but her look grew distracted.

  Thomas watched his prioress with curiosity before speaking. “So Ralf has found his seller of false relics, and the death of the crusader has been solved. Sir Maurice killed him.”

  “Your brother will be satisfied.” Eleanor studied the crowner.

  Ralf started as if his thoughts had drifted elsewhere. “Aye.”

  Thomas frowned. “The murder of the knight and the attack on Sister Christina remain mysteries. Now, it seems, those crimes were separate.”

  For one long moment, the crowner seemed not to hear, then he scowled and picked up his mazer of ale.

  “Have those who did the deeds escaped, then? Will they never be brought to justice?” Thomas asked, his voice sharp with anger.

  Eleanor cradled her cup and gazed at Thomas. “Perhaps he will, Brother.”

  Ralf lowered his ale before the mazer even reached his mouth. “What do you mean, my lady?”

  “We must question Walter.”

  “That we must surely do to confirm the details of the soldier’s murder,” the crowner said, his expression puzzled.

  “He is not the servant he claimed to be,” Eleanor said. “Sir Maurice was his nephew. He has much to explain, I fear.”

  Ralf slammed his fist on the table. “You are not suggesting that he murdered his own kin?”

  “He lamented like a grieving father over the corpse. No man could weep so over someone he had just slain,” Thomas said.

  “I think we must hear the tale from him,” Eleanor replied.

  “If he did murder the man, he will surely be on a boat to Normandy by now.”

  “Ah, Crowner, is there no difference between kill and murder in the world of secular justice?” Eleanor’s lips turned up with grim humor. “He has not fled.”

  Ralf shook his head. “Forgive me, my lady, but this is not a matter for philosophical dispute. A murderer does not seek the rope. He flees.”

  “Engaging in entertaining debate was not my intent. We should put the question directly to the test.” Eleanor rose. “If you are correct, Ralf, then Walter has left Tyndal. If I am right, he waits for us to come for him.”

  The crowner stood up and bowed. “My lady, lead the way.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  They found Walter kneeling at the altar in Tyndal’s main chapel, his head bowed in prayer. When he heard their echoing footsteps behind him, he rose, turned, and drew his sword, placing it point down in front of him. Otherwise, he was unarmed.

  “Peace, good sir,” Eleanor said as the three halted just a few feet away.

  “There is never peace on earth, my lady.” He brought his other hand to rest on the hilt. “Only fools think there is.”

  Ralf reached for his own weapon.

  Eleanor gently touched her palm to the crowner’s hand. Ralf pushed his sword back into its scabbard and stepped back.

  “There is peace in God’s love,” she said. “And in His mercy.”

  Walter’s laugh rang out like a raven’s cry.

  “Do you doubt this, sir?”

  “Doubt? Nay, I do not doubt that He forgives when it pleases Him, my lady, but God can be both wrathful and cruel. Women may believe He is merciful, even kind, but I have seen only God’s vengeful face.”

  “In battle most certainly, but you stand on priory grounds, a place of compassion and absolution.”

  Walter shook his head sadly. “Yet you come to take me to my hanging. Is that not vengeance?”

  “Justice,” Ralf replied.

  “Words that may have many meanings,” Eleanor countered, looking only at the man with drawn sword. “You brought violence to my priory, sir. I would know why.”

  “That was not our intent, my lady. We came for healing.”

  “Maurice murdered a soldier outside these walls. Soon after, you killed your nephew with a blow to his heart. Where is the healing in this bloodshed?”

  Walter’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Ask your merciful God why He put that soldier and Maur
ice on the same path. As for my nephew’s heart, He struck him there long before I did. If you knew what he had suffered, you might understand why I thought my deed was kind and one for which I willingly face the rope.” He nodded at Thomas. “Did I not ask your priest to shrive him after Maurice thought he saw the angel of death? I may be angry with God for the cruelty he has shown my nephew, but He has promised forgiveness to those who confess. Surely, He will forgive whatever sins were forgotten because my nephew’s wits were gone.” The last was said with a sob.

  Thomas turned pale. “I never would have agreed had I known confession would allow this uncle to become an angel of death himself and thus...”

  “Brother, I saw the future no more than you did and believed the knight’s soul would regain peace when shriven. The only one here who bears any guilt in failing to prevent this death is I. The signs were plain, but I allowed other things to distract me from seeing them with clarity.” Eleanor turned to Walter. “As for your nephew, sir, you did send him to God with a cleansed soul.”

  Walter’s grief had etched deep lines into his face. “What company he has in Heaven, my lady! He must have longed to meet his wife there. Instead, she burns in Hell, while he sits, until the Day of Judgement, with the man who butchered her. Is that God’s mercy as well?”

  Eleanor gestured in supplication. “Sir, how can I answer when I know nothing of you or your nephew?”

  “I will bring some brevity to the tale. Will you hear it?”

  “We must,” Eleanor replied.

  “My beloved nephew might never have come to Acre and gone mad had it not been for me. For that, good people, I bear full blame. To understand why, you must first know that I am a younger son with neither wife nor child and went to Outremer as a mercenary for gold as well as the good of my soul. Then an arrow took out this eye, and the Hospitallers saved my life. By then I was most weary of both the world and war. I approached the Order to enter their number and end my days in service to the wounded. They were willing enough, but before I could take vows, Maurice arrived from England.”

  “A man you loved as much as King David did his son, Absalom.” Eleanor’s tone was gentle.

  “From birth.” Walter’s good eye seemed to be staring at something in the vast distance, then he smiled. “Nor could he have loved me more had I been his sire.”

  “His father had died?” Thomas asked.

  Walter shook his head. “My brother is not unkind but had little time to show love to any child, even his son. His lands lie near the northern border and, although he husbands them with competence, his yield is determined more by the raids he suffers than the weather. Thus he was rarely at home, and I became the father he could not be.”

  “Until you went on crusade,” Ralf said.

  “When Maurice took the cross, my brother blamed me. Had I not gone to Acre, he said, his son would have remained by his side in England. Thus it was my responsibility, he said, to watch over his only son and bring him safely home. I chose to delay my vows.”

  “Your nephew was severely wounded. His scar was terrible,” Eleanor added.

  “When his men came back without him, I grieved so deeply that I could not even send word of his death to his father. Then Maurice was found alive, and I rejoiced.” Walter laughed but it had a bitter sound. “I praised God’s grace too soon for he had brought with him the woman, a Saracen. Soon after, he married her.”

  “An infidel?” Ralf shook his head. “How could…”

  “At first I assumed she was just his whore. It was not until we were in Sicily that he explained how she had saved his life. When she converted, he had married her.”

  “You said a man butchered her. Was her death the cause of his sickened soul? When did madness fall upon him?” Eleanor asked.

  “In Acre.” In the wavering light of the candles near the altar, even his good eye looked black in its deep socket. “He loved the Saracen beyond reason!” As if speaking to himself, he muttered, “Surely his wits were disturbed when he married the infidel.”

  “She converted,” Eleanor reminded him.

  “My lady, forgive me, but you are ignorant of the world. Her kin had slaughtered ours. Converted or not, she was the enemy’s spawn,” Walter snapped. “Maurice knew his soldiers would consider this marriage a traitorous and sinful act. As would his father. As would I, had he but told me! Thus he hid the deed and sent her to live with the other captured women.”

  Eleanor said nothing for a moment, then abruptly nodded once.

  Tears flowed from the man’s one eye. “Soon after, a soldier from my nephew’s company went to the Saracen women’s quarters and happened upon Maurice’s wife. After satisfying his lust with her, the crusader mocked her with lewd jests. When he saw my nephew arrive, he assumed he had come to bed a whore as well and claimed this one had not fully satisfied him. Not knowing who she was, he skewered her like a pig with his sword as punishment. Maurice went mad.”

  “And thus his secret was revealed?” Thomas asked, a tear slipping down his cheek as well.

  “Only his love for her. That he screamed to Heaven, frothing and howling like a mad dog. The men who dragged him back to me said they knew little more than that his whore had died. I stripped him of his weapons and armor, tied him like a wild animal until he calmed, then carried him onto a ship for England.”

  “Where he killed a crusader on the road outside this priory. Why?” Ralf asked.

  “It was that man who had murdered his wife.”

  “’S blood,” Ralf hissed. “I believed the man was one of God’s brave soldiers!” His eyes narrowed with fury. “Why did you do nothing to prevent this? Surely, you must have known...”

  “I did not know who the man was until Maurice charged after him that day, screaming that the crusader had killed his wife. I tried to separate them but failed.”

  “We heard the tale,” Thomas added. “Was it true or was the soldier an innocent man that your nephew mistook for the other?”

  “When we boarded the ship, the man was there amongst the crowds. He was the only other crusader returning home, but I thought nothing of it at the time nor did Maurice say anything to me. Not long out of port, however, my nephew tried to throw himself into the sea. As you must understand, I cared nothing then about some common soldier. I could only pray that we would reach Sicily where I could take my nephew off the ship before he succeeded in killing himself.”

  “And thus the man traveled on while you rested in Sicily. What strange fortune that you should happen to meet again on the road to Tyndal,” Ralf said, disbelief evident in his voice.

  Walter shook his head. “Patience, Crowner. Let me finish with the monk’s question. During their struggles on the road, the soldier bragged about his deed in Acre. He mocked my nephew for caring what happened to a whore. Maurice did not kill an innocent man.”

  “God may have forgiven this crusader his past wickedness,” Eleanor said, “but no one who so flaunts His benevolence will be free of His wrath. Have some comfort, therefore, in knowing that this crusader suffers a special torment in Hell.”

  Walter looked at her in thoughtful silence.

  “For the soldier’s cruelty, I most sincerely pray that you are correct about his punishment, my lady,” Ralf said. “Nonetheless, I find the accident of this meeting to be most remarkable.”

  “With all my soul, Crowner, I wish it had not happened, nor can I explain why it did. The meeting between the two was like a miracle without grace. Perhaps the man went on by land while we took another ship from Sicily when my nephew had regained some clarity of mind. Perhaps the crusader’s ship was delayed by storms while we had clear sailing. Maybe the meeting was God’s joke.” He turned to Eleanor. “Or an example of His mercy?”

  Ralf stepped forward. “Then it may remain one of God’s mysteries, but you have confessed to murder…”

  “Wait, Ralf, there is more to this tale,” Eleanor said. “You and your nephew are from the we
st of England, yet you came here, begging for your nephew’s cure. Why?”

  “Because I was given hope, my lady. Although most avoided Maurice after his wife’s murder, there was one who was kind, a man you should know.”

  Eleanor’s hand went to her heart.

  “Your brother told me that you had written him of Tyndal’s hospital. Someone here, he told me, might be able to treat a man’s broken soul.” Then he quickly added, “Lord Hugh was well when we left, my lady.”

  “Yet you said nothing about this to Prioress Eleanor when you arrived?” Ralf asked. “I find that odd.”

  “Tell me, Crowner, what you would do if your nephew had just killed the man who had slaughtered his wife? Might you decide it was a just, albeit regrettable, death or would you give your brother’s only son up for hanging?” Walter watched Ralf’s expression. “Aye, I thought so,” he said, then continued. “I knew the death would be discovered quickly, thus chose to cloak the deed with a semblance of truth, stabbing the corpse with a knife I had brought from Acre and wrapping the body in my crusader cloak. A sheriff might conclude that an infidel had done the murder or that another crusader was involved. Meanwhile, Maurice and I became a knight and his servant, two simple pilgrims seeking healing shrines.”

  “In misdirecting the search you succeeded,” Ralf said. “Still, you need not have stayed here. As soon as the rain lessened, you could have left Tyndal and made your escape.”

  “You forget how much I loved my nephew.” He turned to Eleanor. “His face glowed, and he grew quiet when Sister Christina came to pray. I was regaining hope that I might yet return a whole son to his father.”

  “What changed?” Thomas asked.