Justice for the Damned mm-4

by Priscilla Royal

  Bernard bent across the wooden table, his voice lowered as if he feared someone would overhear. "Some weeks ago, men first reported seeing a ghost near the River Avon, just around dusk or early dawn. Soon after, a few monks claimed that the phantom had drifted within the walls of the priory as well." Bernard sat back, drank deeply from his cup, and stared in silence at a spot over Thomas' shoulder. "This morning a man's body was found, beheaded. Now men say that this ghost must be a most vengeful spirit for it has turned murderous."

  "Why has this hellish thing come to Amesbury? What sin could the village or, God forbid, the priory have committed that Satan would let loose this creature from his domain?" Thomas shook his head. "Pardon my questions but I am filled with wonder at your story!"

  Bernard gave him a thin smile. "Forgive me if my words offend, Brother, but some from the priory came to this inn to satisfy worldly longings. Did you note the reaction to your presence? I hope no one approached you with base intent?"

  "I fear I might not understand their meaning if they did, Master Glover, for I came to my vocation as a youth…" Thomas lowered his head to suggest modest innocence while praying that the lie that should have shone in his eyes would remain hidden.

  Bernard straightened his back. "The lapse in monastic chastity was but a momentary one! Since the grandfather of our current king cast the sinful Benedictines out and invited those of your Order to take their place, this priory has been steadfast in God's service. If He was offended by the weakness of a few, He would have been pleased when Prioress Ida swiftly made amends and chased the Devil back to Hell. I do believe, if Queen Elfrida's spirit was the one loosed by Satan as some have claimed, that she would have returned to Purgatory by now and not slain this man."

  "You do not believe a ghost killed him?"

  "There is another spirit that might be abroad, that of a local merchant's wife. She drowned in the Avon. Although some believe she committed self-murder, others think she was unfairly condemned by the crowner's jury to be buried in unsanctified ground as a suicide."

  "So her ghost might blame both village and priory for her place in Hell." Thomas rested his chin on folded hands. "Was the murdered man the one who brought witness against this dead woman?"

  "He had no part in the verdict," Bernard snapped. "I do not know why she should have any quarrel with him."

  Thomas sipped more wine, unsure of where he should go from here. "Might the killer be mortal?" he asked at last, deciding that the direct question might not seem strange.

  "Wulfstan had no enemies."

  How can a man be slaughtered so brutally, yet have no foe? Thomas wondered. "Then he must have been killed by this heinous phantom of a woman."

  The man's knuckles turned white as he gripped his cup. "Eda was ever a virtuous creature. Although no mortal can live without sin, she came near enough in her devotion to God's commandments. I cannot believe she would ever commit such a crime, even after suffering the tortures of Hell."

  Thomas blinked at the sharpness in tone. The boyishness had fled and left behind an angry man.

  The glover silently filled the monk's cup and poured a modest amount of wine for himself. His hand was steady.

  The man is quite calm, Thomas thought, almost too calm.

  Suddenly, Bernard slammed the cup down on the table and covered his face with his hands. "Cursed be that priory! It brings grief to mortal men."

  Stunned at the outburst, Thomas sat back. What contradictory views of the priory! After what he had overheard between Bernard and Sayer, he wondered if some wish for vengeance was the cause of this passionate cry. Might a clue to the identity of the ghost be found in it or even something about the Psalter theft? He reached out and touched the man's arm in sympathy but said nothing. Silence was the better tool for bringing truth to a man's lips.

  "Ah, forgive me, Brother," Bernard said at last, his now exposed eyes wet with tears. "I should not burden you with minor woes. You asked about ghosts, but I cannot imagine who would stalk innocent men and kill them so cruelly. I can only suggest that it could not be sweet Eda."

  Sincerity colors that speech, Thomas decided. "Are there any strangers in town or at the priory, Master Bernard? Might the phantom be found amongst them?"

  "Our town is known for hospitality, else we would not have this well-stocked inn, nor is the priory ungenerous to travelers. There are always strangers here, but they come and go. A few in their late years have made accommodation with the priory for care in exchange for lands or other wealth, but I cannot see any silver-haired man or his hunched dame playing a cruel spirit that beheads innocent men."

  "No younger strangers who have shown a special interest in the priory?"

  "Other than you, Brother? Nay."

  "And I but long to learn more of the Evil One's devious ways!" The monk folded his hands and lowered his eyes. "Does anyone local have a quarrel with the monks and nuns there?"

  Bernard snorted and quickly swallowed his cup of wine. "You are looking at the only man who might."

  Thomas' eyes widened with hope.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The glover rose hastily from his seat. "I have grown too merry, Brother, and must seek my bed. Morning comes early for those of us who live by trade, and gloves need a steady hand at stitching if they are to please a woman's critical eye."

  "Nay, not yet!" Thomas reached out in genuine supplication. "Your words have struck fear in my heart. If this priory has brought grief to mortals, I question whether I dare approach the gates without meeting with evil spirits."

  "Do not be alarmed. My remark was but a common complaint amongst men who have no wives but see so many eligible women encloistered. Take my words as the poor jests they were. The wine made me forget that becoming a nun is a holier choice than wedding a man like me."

  "I hope one of those who chose God did not betray your hopes…"

  The glover shoved the nearly full wine pitcher toward Thomas. "I will not offend your ears with the meaningless speech of a sinful man, Brother. Please finish this and remember me in your prayers." With that, he dropped a coin into the monk's hand, bowed, and disappeared through the crowd.

  Thomas hit the table with clenched fist. "I have let myself be fooled by a boyish face," he growled. "I should have pressed him harder. Surely this glover has some quarrel with the priory. Does it involve a woman?" He stared at the coin the man had donated to him. It was not the meager offering of those given to the token gestures of superficial faith. "No one who fears for his soul, like this man may, plans to steal a nun for his bed. Nay, if Master Bernard and Sayer have some plot together, it must mean profit for them both. After all, the glover is a merchant and the roofer is a rogue."

  Growing gloomy with frustration, the monk tilted the pitcher and contemplated the large quantity of wine remaining. Quickly, he downed what was in his cup, poured another, and listened to the raucous joyfulness that filled Amesbury's best hostel.

  Had Thomas been possessed of a more selfish nature, he might have viewed such merry crowds with envy. Were he a man of greater faith, he would have leapt upon this table and screamed abuse at the people, describing how they would look as they tottered on the maw of Hell. He was neither, however, and all he could feel was distance from any kind of happiness, a profound melancholy that he blamed only on himself.

  "I have failed," he muttered, finishing the wine he had just poured and replenishing his cup. Now that the glover had escaped him, he felt defeated and did not know what he should do next. Without a clear purpose to occupy his thoughts, Thomas grew increasingly uneasy sitting in the inn. "I should never have come here," he said to his crudely wrought mazer.

  In his days as a clerk, he had often partaken of an inn's particular joys. The darkness of his prison may have dimmed the shimmering lure of enjoyable ale and willing women, but Thomas would never pretend his past had been other than what it was or that he had become a monk as penance. Perhaps, he thought with some bitterness, he was too sober to find the women her
e as attractive as they had seemed when he and Giles had shared them.

  He finished the cup, poured another, then another, and tried to force such memories away. He did not succeed. With the energy of some dark will, the past roared back into his soul. Even his normally quiescent flesh had inexplicably hardened, mocking his long impotence.

  Thomas summoned the serving wench. With only a brief glance at the coin in his open hand, she put another pitcher in front of him. He drank deeply.

  A voice began to hiss in his ear. Was it his dead father? "No son of mine would ever release his seed in another man's body," it echoed with contempt. Thomas shook his head and the voice faded, replaced by laughter. Surely that belonged to the Prince of Darkness.

  "We haven't seen any of your vocation for some time, Brother."

  Thomas looked up.

  The innkeeper stood over him. As the man bent his head in the direction of a woman beside him, his grin seemed unnaturally wide.

  Thomas turned his head carefully from one side to the other. "I am a monk," he enunciated carefully.

  The pair disappeared.

  He finished his cup and poured more from the new pitcher. A soft wall was slowly surrounding him, and the noise of the inn began to fade. The wine was acting like a balm on the deep bruises in his soul. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, the world was muted, blessedly so.

  Thomas looked into his cup. He should not be drinking like this. Did he think he was still some boyish clerk, unburdened by a man's responsibility? Whatever his pain, honor was at stake. Both his prioress and his spy master had set him tasks, and he had given his word that he would carry them out. Maybe he had learned nothing from Master Bernard, but surely there were other men here with looser tongues. He shoved the pitcher away and focused his aching eyes on the figures in front of him.

  Many in the crowd had grown quite cheerful with drink. In one corner, several sang with ragged harmony. Despite the press of bodies, with little room for privacy, two men sat nearby, heads almost touching as they spoke with some apparent urgency.

  What were they talking about? Women? Thievery? Crops? Were any of them plotting to steal the Amesbury Psalter?

  Thomas sat forward and pretended to sip his wine. Could he ease himself toward the pair and listen in on what they were saying? If he heard something of interest, how could he join them?

  He swore under his breath. Even if he posed as a wayward monk, and a drunken one at that, he would learn nothing. Like the red-faced man who had mocked him when he first arrived, these men would never treat him like a fellow. Instead, they would surround him, taunting with ribald jests, pressing and grabbing at him, jabbing their fingers…

  "God save me!" he gasped as reawakened pain and humiliation raged through his soul like flames shot from Hell. Grabbing the pitcher, he threw back his head and gulped the wine, praying that would extinguish the inferno, but the fire seemed unquenchable. He set the empty jug down and, trembling, covered his face with his hands.

  He knew he must leave, but he could not move. Satan had stunned his will. Thomas tilted the pitcher back once more. It was empty. He dropped it. In despair, he tried to pray, but his charred soul had grown numb with tortured memories.

  A hand pushed a tankard of ale toward him, and a man slid onto the bench beside him.

  "I am pleased to see you here, Brother, and quite admire your cleverness in discovering a way out of the priory." Sayer's face was red, his look unfocused.

  God had most assuredly forsaken him. "Nor am I surprised to find you," Thomas replied softly.

  The young man gestured at a nearby serving wench. "You can do better than that one," he said. "Every man has her."

  "She does not interest me." Thomas had not even noticed her.

  "A monk who is particular about how he breaks his vows?"

  "Most are not?" A cold spot of sobriety was emerging just behind his eyes.

  "Contrary to common jest, few of your monks ever leapt over the wall, and most of those were so shocked when their feet touched profane earth that their manhood wilted." Sayer put his hand on Thomas' shoulder. "The others jumped on any willing woman, after which they ran back to the priory, cupping themselves as if their sex might fall off from the sinning." His words slurred.

  "I am not looking for a woman."

  "What are you looking for, monk?" The man's hand slipped down Thomas' back and came to rest on his thigh.

  Thomas froze, shock now chasing off his remaining drunkenness.

  Sayer stared across the room and drank his ale in silence. His fingers briefly stroked the monk's leg with a light caress.

  Why had God so abandoned him? Sweat began to pour down Thomas' sides. Was he not on a quest for His Church? With his last ounce of mortal will, the monk silently removed Sayer's hand. All speech had turned to ash in his throat.

  Sayer's expression did not change. A passing serving wench slammed a full tankard of ale in front of him. Without a word, he drained it dry and dropped it on the table. As the vessel tumbled onto the floor, the roofer swayed for a moment, then passed out.

  Thomas sprang from the bench and elbowed his way through the crowd, not caring what pain he might cause any man. He had to get as far from Sayer as he could. Although the inn was hot, Thomas knew the heated air was not the cause for the sweat that now bathed his entire body. Surely it was rage that filled him, he thought, but something within him laughed.

  Thomas rubbed his coarse sleeve over his face and leaned against a rough support beam. His humors were just out of balance. That was the reason for his strange mood tonight. He had had no time to mourn his own father, then Sayer's had been murdered, and the roofer's grief rekindled his own unhappiness. He had had too much to drink. Sayer had as well. Surely the man had been too drunk to know what he was doing. With God's grace, he thought, Sayer would not even remember meeting him at the inn this night.

  As he pressed his back against the beam, Thomas breathed in the rank stench of inn air, finding comfort in the smell of living men. Satan had best take his imps back to Hell, he growled to himself, for he would not fall prey to them again. He had work to do and valuable time had been lost.

  With all that now firmly decided, he shouldered his way through the inn door and plunged into night's restless and less-defined shadows.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was following the midday meal that Eleanor set off for Amesbury village.

  In the morning she had risen with an unusual eagerness to face the day, and, when she joined the others for prayer, she felt a fresh surge of strength. Like any mortal who has stood with one foot raised to step into the dark mouth of Death, she savored the sensation while likewise fearing it would recede. Thankfully the vigor remained and she gained hope. Besides, the weather was too sweet for bleak imaginings.

  As she walked through the cloister garth after Chapter, she had lifted her gaze to the blue sky and expressed gratitude to God for the warmth of this day so near to Saint Melor's feast. Despite Death's recent dance for her soul, as he pleaded to win it before her hair turned white, Sister Anne had dropped a portcullis on his grim supplication, and Eleanor had no wish to raise the gate.

  Lest the clattering creature hold onto any illusion that Eleanor might still be his, the prioress of Tyndal had sipped with determination her dark, meaty broth at dinner and even found appetite for the eel with herbs and onions. The religious in charge of Amesbury's kitchens had done well with the dish, she had thought with appreciation, although she did prefer the defter hand of Sister Matilda at Tyndal.

  It was afterward she told Anne and her aunt of her plans to visit Alys' mother. She should offer that family comfort considering their kinsman's horrible death, she said. It was her duty, and, if she happened to find out anything about the ghost, Brother Thomas could pursue the details.

  The distance to the house of Mistress Jhone was not far, the novice mistress reluctantly confirmed, and Eleanor promised to stay only as long as her strength allowed. Needless to say, she wou
ld take two religious with her as proper attendants, but they could be from the priory. After all, the Prioress of Tyndal said with a playful smile, hadn't her aunt just expressed concern about cankerworm in the fruit trees and wasn't Anne planning to teach Brother Infirmarian how to make some of her most effective potions?

  As she kissed her aunt and hugged her dear friend, Eleanor felt a deep joy as if she had just been freed from some dark prison. Eternity in the embrace of God is a thing for which we all long, she thought, but surely it is not a sin to look upon the earth He made so sweet with particular delight after hearing the hushed and seductive voice of Death.

  Now outside the parish church, she turned to her attendants and asked to be given a moment alone. Bowing her head in reverence, she continued on a few steps and looked up at the ancient Saxon Cross, the wheelhead shape embracing the symbol of her faith like the arms of a mother about her child.

  She rested the tips of her fingers against the weathered sandstone, closed her eyes, and imagined the countless monks or nuns that must have done the same, even before Queen Elfrida had founded Amesbury Priory. Had Edgar's queen also touched this stone, her soul raw with guilt and grief? Or had Guinevere, weary with age and ancient lust, before she begged entrance to a religious house nearby?

  Eleanor's fingers tingled. Was it a coincidence that each story involved a woman burdened by violence and passion? Might there be a message for her in their stories? Was she herself not a woman guilty of lust and sick of bloodshed. Did she not long for God's peace too? A sense of comfort and understanding slowly filled her, and Eleanor began to believe that the invisible spirits of these two, long-dead women might be beside her. For just one moment, she wondered if her aunt could be wrong about ghosts.

  "I, too, have done this, my lady, but not since I was a lad. Do you think the cross was here when King Arthur rode to his death on the plain?"

  Eleanor swung around to face a well-favored man, well into his third decade of life, with eyes so brown they reminded her of good English earth. A merchant of some wealth, she decided after a brief inspection of the fur trimming on his very soft robe. Nor is he too modest to flaunt it, she concluded wryly.