Justice for the Damned mm-4

by Priscilla Royal

  "She suffered so!" An unrestrained tear slipped from the widow's eye. "No, I could never take her place in your bed. To do so would be a betrayal."

  "Betrayal? Never! Nor would she think such a thing, even though her soul twists in Hell's fires. Your fidelity to her memory has been constant enough to prove your loyalty. You are amongst the few who share my belief that she was wrongly accused of self-murder and should have been buried in sanctified ground."

  "I pray daily at her grave."

  "Just so! On my own hope of heaven, I swear it would please our Eda to see us comfortably wed to each other. May I not persuade you to take me as spouse?" He bent to kiss her.

  Jhone turned her head away from the vintner's lips, although the slowness with which she did so suggested some reluctance. "You need sons, sir. Your seed should be planted, not in the weak body of this aging widow, but in a strong girl like my Alys…"

  "…a daughter who appears inclined to reject my suit and join this Order of Fontevraud where Eve rules Adam. A most unnatural Order methinks, although I believe it is much favored at the king's court." Herbert stepped away to put a more respectable distance between them.

  "Fear not! My daughter shall take vows for cert, but they will be earthly ones as your wife at the church door."

  "So you say, yet she continues to refuse marriage with me with unwomanly determination."

  Jhone's face flushed. "She will be persuaded. As for her plea to become a nun at this priory, I swear that I shall not allow such a thing."

  Herbert frowned as if deep in thought, reached for her hand, and placed it lightly on his arm. "Nor would I, were she my child. This priory is most undeserving of her, a cursed place I think. Although I have said that the spirit haunting this priory must be our Eda, longing for proper burial, I cannot discount those who say the founding queen has returned to condemn those false monastics for their lewdness."

  "Yet the priory has been of assistance to the village. My sister's son and husband both earn their bread there, along with many others from Amesbury. Prioress Ida is known for her generosity to the poor, feeding their bodies and praying for their souls."

  "She is a chaste and honorable virgin herself, but we cannot ignore with what disgrace priory monks follow Satan's song over the broken wall to the inn where they satisfy their unholy lusts."

  "That is surely past! My sister told me the wall has been repaired and no one has since.

  "Your sister says? Forgive me, but I cannot give credence to her opinions. Honest though she may be, your sister is not known for her judgement in worldly matters. Did she not resist, like your daughter does now, when your parents proposed an honorable marriage many years ago? Did she not instead marry a rogue, a man who once spied on tradesmen, men traveling to make fair profit, for the purpose of sending masterless men to rob them of their wealth?" Herbert let his words sink in. "Nay, I am not convinced that the priory has ceased sinning and have long questioned the competence of its leadership. How wise was it, for example, to give work in priory fields to a man like your sister's husband?"

  "Wulfstan was never found guilty of any crime…" Jhone quickly lowered her head as if apologizing for her quick speech. "I thought the priory kind.

  Herbert patted her hand. "What sweet, feminine charity you show! Even though he was never arrested for his foul deeds, most of us know your brother-in-law was a felon." Sighing, he continued. "The old prioress, who is most assuredly in Heaven for her charitable spirit, may have been ill-advised to hire such a man, but I cannot dispute her soft-hearted motives in doing so, nor yours in defending them."

  The two fell silent as the May sun enfolded them with amiable warmth. To their right, a row of yellow-cheeked Great Tit chicks, evenly spaced along a tree branch, filled the air with raucous protest over an unacceptable parental delay in their feeding.

  Jhone's lips curved into a brief smile at the sight.

  "Very well, I trouble you no longer with my pleas, although I trust that you will tame your wayward Alys and keep her from following the ill-advised example of her aunt."

  "I shall."

  "And teach your daughter how to serve a husband as you yourself did with your dear spouse? That is not so much to ask in return for my devotion and the sharing of my wealth."

  "You may count on it, sir."

  "And persuade her that convent vows are not for her?"

  She nodded.

  "I shall be most thankful to you for all of this and will demonstrate my gratitude in a more tangible form as soon as the marriage takes place." His lips smiled, but his eyes lacked the glow of comparable joy.

  A scream shattered the peaceful morning.

  Jhone picked up her robe and raced toward the river. The vintner was not far behind.

  When they reached the trembling Alys, the pair quickly saw the cause of her horror. A dead body bobbed gently in the tangled growth at the edge of the Avon. Although each of them knew most of the townspeople of Amesbury, none could identify whose body it might be.

  The corpse had quite lost its head.

  Chapter Eight

  "He is my father." Sayer stumbled backwards as if the pale, headless body had pushed him away with spectral hand.

  Thomas put a comforting arm around the son's shoulders but quickly drew it back when he saw Sayer's eyes narrow with anger.

  "We feared as much," replied Brother Infirmarian. "I recognized the broken arm I had set some years ago. The bone had broken the skin just there. Wulfstan was lucky to have survived that one."

  "A cruel kindness since he lived only to be murdered." The son's voice was flat.

  "The deed was a most foul thing," Sister Anne said. Standing behind Thomas, she frowned in thought. "To behead a man after killing him is a devilish act."

  Brother Infirmarian shrugged, then gave her a sheepish look. "I treat the living and leave the cause of death to God, but Sister Beatrice told me that you have skill with both."

  "Beheaded. Stabbed. Pushed into the river to drown. What does any of that matter? My father is dead. He should have gone to God as an old man with a cleansed soul and whispers of love in his ears." Sayer stared at the body now fully covered on the trestle table. Tears had yet to dampen his cheeks.

  Thomas felt a kindred sting in his own heart. He, too, was bereft of any final word with the man who had sired him. "Your mother…" he began.

  "She will live."

  "I pray she will! My concern was.

  "She has a plot of land." Sayer's hands formed fists. "We need no charity."

  "Nor did I think otherwise." Thomas' voice softened. "Does she not have you?"

  The bright anger in Sayer's eyes faded, leaving only a muted but flickering glow.

  "I knew not if she had been told about your father's death." Thomas looked first at the other monk, then at Sister Anne. "That was my question."

  Brother Infirmarian shook his head.

  The young man put his hands over his eyes, pressing his fingers into his brow as if he suffered an intolerable pain. "Will you bury my father in sanctified ground?"

  "There is no reason to do otherwise," Brother Infirmarian replied. "Although he was not shrived before his death, we will surely pray for his soul. In that you may find comfort.

  "What if the ghost killed him?" Sayer interrupted.

  Brother Infirmarian's eyes opened wide with horror. Clearly he had not thought about this complication. "If Satan seized his soul…"

  "Ghosts do not kill," Thomas snapped.

  "I would not be so certain," the son replied, his voice as cold as the corpse on the table. Then he turned his back on them all and strode out of the chapel.

  "Not Wulfstan!" Jhone put her hand to her mouth, her eyes round with shock.

  "You were acquainted with him?" Thomas asked as gently as he could.

  Herbert answered for the woman beside him. "He was married to Mistress Jhone's sister."

  "What will Drifa do alone?" she whispered. "Their children!"

  Realizing it woul
d be cruel to question a woman lost in the distress of both murder and its consequences, Thomas turned to the tall, dark-haired man. "How could this have happened?" he asked.

  Herbert shrugged. "Who knows? Our laws are lax, and evil men are everywhere. Any one of them might have met this man on the road and killed him for some little thing. Of the man himself, I can say little. He was free, of course, but a poor creature with few skills, unless thievery…"

  Thief? Thomas blinked at the word.

  "Even if the tales were true, all that was many years ago!" Tears slipped down Jhone's cheeks. "He had long been an honest man. I beg you to show compassion!"

  "I did not mean to do otherwise, although I could never include him amongst those I would call upright men."

  "I am not unmindful of this dreadful thing you have just seen," Thomas said, "but if Wulfstan had enemies or was engaged in something outside the law, please tell me now."

  "Why?" Herbert asked. "Surely this is a matter for secular law. The body was found beyond the priory walls."

  Thomas cursed himself for not thinking before he spoke. Quickly he tried to cloak his odd demand with some reason. "The sheriff is delayed. If you give me the details now, I will pass them on to him when he arrives, and you will not be troubled by questions from him." His mind raced. If Wulfstan had the reputation for thievery, could he have been part of some band that planned to steal the Amesbury Psalter? Had something gone wrong that had resulted in his murder? Maybe not, but he had to know whether or not this was a possibility.

  "As Mistress Jhone has said, my comment dealt with events long ago." Herbert's lips curled into a sneer. "I did not respect the man, but I know of no crime he committed in recent years."

  "Old sins sometimes return to haunt." Anything, Thomas thought, just tell me anything.

  "He labored on priory lands," Herbert continued. "You must ask Prioress Ida, or Sister Beatrice in her stead, about his service. For my part, I have not heard any tales to suggest his work was not diligently done or that any of his fellow laborers had issue with him."

  "No rumors? No suggestion of problems or worry?"

  The man folded his arms. "I will be happy to talk to the sheriff when he returns."

  Jhone suddenly looked up at Herbert. "There was that one matter…" Her voice was just above a whisper.

  With an abrupt gesture of his hand, Herbert interrupted her. "Nay, mistress, do not even mention that petty thing. It would never have resulted in such a brutal killing." He scowled at Thomas. "I fear our brother here merely longs to satisfy some worldly interest in gossip, for he has no authority in this matter. You and I shall talk further in private, once you have recovered from your shock, and I will discuss what is needed with the sheriff."

  "I meant only to save you distress," Thomas said through clenched teeth.

  "And have forgotten charity, a virtue all monks should both learn and practice? Perhaps your intentions were benign, Brother, but your questions are impertinent and inconsiderate. As you should see, Mistress Jhone is too upset to remain here." Herbert waved at the monk with barely concealed contempt. "To humor you, I will say this. Please listen carefully for I will not repeat it." The merchant bent forward as if talking to a child and enunciated each word slowly. "Neither of us knows any mortal who had such a wicked hatred for the man that they would slay him in so foul a manner." He stepped back. "Does that satisfy your small curiosity?"

  Thomas felt his face turn hot with humiliation. How dare the merchant speak to him in this way? Bastard I might be, he shouted to himself, but I am no churl! In thoughtless fury, he spun around and faced the pale Jhone. "You have no idea who might have done this either?" he snapped.

  The woman looked up at the vintner with pleading eyes.

  Herbert's face darkened.

  Instantly, the monk regretted his action. Like a coward he had attacked a weak and innocent person.

  "For a monk who claims to love compassion, Brother, you have a harsh enough tongue. I think we have humored you enough." Herbert took the widow's arm with tenderness. "Come, mistress. We have answered all we need of this monk's rude queries." Firmly, he turned the woman away from Thomas, but not before giving him a thin but triumphant smile.

  The monk denounced himself for his burst of temper that had allowed the merchant's easy victory in this battle of wills.

  When the couple reached the entry door to the small chapel, however, Herbert suddenly stopped. Looking back at the monk with a thoughtful expression, he said in a tone that was almost conciliatory: "You might ask if the ghost killed him, Brother, and if her spirit had some quarrel with him."

  The words were like cold water in Thomas' face, quenching all his fury in a trice. As he watched the pair leave, he stared with growing uneasiness at the sunshine streaming through the open door. If he hoped the brightness would present him with a real killer instead of murderous ghosts, he was disappointed. The light revealed only dust motes that drifted about with unruly grace.

  Chapter Nine

  Leaning back into her chair, Eleanor stared at Adam and Eve in the tapestry above the chamber door and pondered the news of Wulfstan's murder.

  Her first reaction had been outrage. Not only was her beloved priory troubled with this vile and unlawful act, but had she not come here to escape death? For the last two years, she had been forced to deal with murders and had nearly died of a fever herself. Could God not grant her some respite?

  Quickly, her indignation had turned to shame. A man had been slain like a criminal and his wife and children left to grieve. He was a laborer. Would they have food and shelter now that he was dead? How could she put her own selfish concerns first?

  For this sin, she spent an hour in prayer, time she yearned to increase, but she had grown too weak to concentrate longer on God.

  Despite her mortal frailty, He had been merciful, sending both understanding and the calm of forgiveness. With the peace she felt descending on her, Eleanor became convinced that God had no quarrel with her longing to escape worldly violence, nor had He deemed Amesbury Priory worthy of this foul assault. Even her wish to turn her back on Death's grinning arrogance was innocent enough.

  Her failure lay in not directing her anger against the Prince of Darkness. Death had been a pawn of Satan in this murder.

  Was it not her duty to deny the dark angel his pleasure in wronging the innocent? She should find a way to bring justice to the bereaved family. In so doing, she could restore order to priory life as well. Surely God would grant her the tranquility she herself prayed for later.

  As she had gripped the prie-dieu and painfully pulled herself from her knees, however, she doubted her ability to do anything to resolve this issue. What a pitifully weak creature she had become! Once seated, she shook her head in despair. Nay, she did not have the strength to fight the Devil in this situation. Someone else must do it.

  Suddenly her foot grazed something next to her chair and she glanced down. The object was a woven basket, fitted with a smooth cushion that was coated with brindle-colored hair. It belonged to the greyhound Prioress Ida kept as companion, a dog she had taken with her on her journey.

  Eleanor studied the basket.

  Her own creature, a great orange cat left at Tyndal to protect the kitchens from pillaging rodents, would never tolerate such a soft thing, she thought. Ignoring snow or wild storms, he went out each day to hunt vermin. Had he been born a man, he would have been the perfect knight, embracing any hardship in the performance of whatever his liege lord might require.

  "Dare I be less dutiful than my cat?" she asked herself in a voice tinged with both humor and self-mockery. "Here I sit, in the warm comfort of these rooms, like a pampered pet. I should be ashamed!"

  She rose from her chair and walked with determination to the chamber window. Leaning to her left, she could see just a bit of the River Avon now flowing with enthusiasm, free from winter's icy grasp. The Saxon cross was invisible from here, as were those strange hillocks across the river that she remem
bered from her youth.

  Were the barrows sacred or profane? Opinions amongst adults were varied, but a younger Eleanor and her childhood friends had loved frightening each other in the dark with tales of pale spirits that danced on the mounds and longed to capture a young Amesbury novice.

  Did they really believe in such phantoms, Eleanor now wondered, or was it mostly pretense? "Maybe it was both," she said aloud, "for there seems to be a place in all mortal souls that longs for ghosts even as we fear them or logic dismisses them."

  Now she must seek the truth about wandering souls. Her aunt may have discounted the current ghost as both playful and quite mortal earlier, but the murder of Wulfstan had changed that. The spirit had been accused. It had ceased to be an innocent thing.

  Had an angry soul escaped from Hell and killed Wulfstan? Or was the specter the diabolical creation of a mortal who wished to hide behind engendered fear to slay with greater ease? If she succeeded in discovering the truth, would she be faced with a nightmarish sight so horrible that no human could survive it, or with a craven killer deserving of the hangman's rope?

  Her grip on the window weakened. She turned away and went back to sit in the chair placed near the fire. Leaning her head against the carved wood, she almost slipped into sleep, then forced her eyes open. How could she engage in battle against such foes when she could not even stay awake?

  When would she regain her strength? she asked God. Was she not a grown woman? It had been many years since she had been a babe that needed a wet nurse to watch, feed, and bathe her. She had suffered from too much frailty over the last many months, not just as a result of her illness but from her sinful soul as well.

  "And I am tired of it," she declared. "Weary of it all!"

  Without doubt, her aunt was quite able to deal with the nature of the ghost without her help. If anyone could get that sheriff to do his job and investigate whatever lay behind the malicious acts, Sister Beatrice was the one. But Eleanor knew full well why her aunt had fashioned the original plan with Sister Anne to involve her in the investigation.