"She hired a villager, fearing that another weak monk might wish to preserve some way over the wall."
"Who was it?"
"Wulfstan, although he must have had help. The task was too quickly done to be finished by one man."
Eleanor frowned and turned to her aunt. "Please tell me what you think this is and if there are more like it. I cannot reach but believe there might be some…" She pointed toward two places higher up.
Beatrice ran her hand over the mortar, looked up, and touched another place, then another. "Were I younger and more agile, I might easily climb to the top here for these indentations in the mortar are sufficiently deep while the stones protrude enough for toeholds, methinks."
"I feared as much." The prioress walked slowly along the wall for several yards as she studied the mortar for like flaws.
Her aunt did the same in the opposite direction.
At last they turned to face each other, their expressions somber with growing uneasiness.
"We will check the other side of the wall as well," Beatrice said, "but I suspect I know what we will find."
Eleanor looked back to the spot where Wulfstan had died. "Might Wulfstan or one of the men working with him have been paid to leave this path into the priory?"
"I hope I have not been fooled by a fair pretense of honesty, yet I feel certain that Wulfstan was innocent of this."
"We must ask who worked on the repair with him." She touched the wall again. "I dread even to say this, but might he have seen someone who came over this wall, a man who so feared discovery that he killed Wulfstan?"
Beatrice looked back at the rising stonework. "Who in the priory could possibly have been that crazed with fear? The errant monks have been punished, but not cruelly. Their own souls suffered more than their bodies. Even if one monk had a mistress in the village… nay, the prior knew well enough to ask and none of the men confessed to that."
"Or else someone was in the priory who should not have been and did not wish to be seen coming from it. As you taught me, walls were never intended to keep us encloistered but to keep the world from disturbing our prayers. This wall may have failed in its purpose and, worse, Wulfstan might have been the unwitting instrument of his own death."
Chapter Twenty
"Brother Thomas! What a pleasant surprise to see you again. Did you find lodging at the priory?" Bernard clapped his well-clad hands together in apparent pleasure at such an unexpected meeting.
In the brightness of day, the merchant appeared younger than he had in the dimmer light of an inn at eventide. The man's round cheeks wore the pink of youth, and his blond beard looked as soft as a lady's gloves. Although the expression in his eyes still had that sharp watchfulness of an older man, the sparkle of boyish enthusiasm was well mixed in. No wrinkles yet bothered his brow, and he had very white teeth. Thomas probed one of his own that felt a bit uncomfortable.
"I did," the monk replied, "and they have found use for me already. I have just returned from the house of Wulfstan's widow."
Bernard bowed his head with respectful solemnity.
"She is much grieved that her son and husband failed to make peace after their quarrel. It was a most troubling thing between the two." If Drifa would not tell him the details, perhaps this glover would. Thomas felt the bite of hope.
"Sons and fathers do argue," Bernard acknowledged. "Even my honored sire lost his temper with me from time to time, and he was slow to wrath." He hesitated as if considering his next words. "Nonetheless, I never said I wanted to kill him. My heart always knew he was right, and my mother, God bless her sweet soul, would have roasted me before the Devil got me if I had not obeyed him." A grin caught him up. "I think I feared her anger more than my father's!"
Even without wine, the fellow was talkative, Thomas noted happily. He continued. "I was dismayed to hear that Sayer had done so. Do you know the man? I wondered if he was a rebellious son or simply an imprudent one."
Bernard's smile faded quickly. "This is a small village, Brother. We all know each other, but I would not claim that Sayer and I are well acquainted. I cannot give you an answer to that question."
Thomas hoped his expression did not betray his surprise. Not only was he sure that Sayer and this man had been in close conversation at the inn door, but he wondered how the glover could not know the cousin of his beloved Alys. "Did you perchance overhear the argument at the inn?" he asked. "If I knew more about the quarrel, I might give greater comfort to Mistress Drifa, or even offer soothing counsel to her son."
Bernard frowned in thought.
Is he trying to remember the night, Thomas wondered, or is he making up some lie?
"I had just walked in. It would have been difficult not to hear the fight between the men. They bellowed like bulls and swung fists at each other like drunken bears."
"Over what?"
A shadow passed over the young man's face. "Wulfstan's widow is a good woman, and I would not spread stories to add to her sorrow."
"I do not seek gossip for idle reason. Mistress Drifa feared many heard the nature of their hot words and she is shamed. Of course, her son's arrangement with the innkeeper…"
The glover looked around to make sure no one stood close by, then bent to speak more privately into the monk's ear. "If you know that, I will not offend by confirming that Wulfstan liked not some of the things his son did to gain coin. Sayer was paid fairly by the priory for his work there, but many in the village knew that he had, at one time, arranged worldly pleasures for monks who climbed the priory walls." He straightened. "I repeat that only to point out the merit of Sayer's repentance. The man had not led monks into sin of late, and we all believed that he had reformed. His father might not have been so convinced."
That easy reply was but a simple rephrasing of the knowledge I suggested I have, Thomas thought. The man does not evade direct answers with much skill, but how am I failing to get the information I need? "Surely the father was not so virtuous himself?" he said, trying another path.
"I see the old tales are still about! My father claimed that Wulfstan was well rewarded for letting certain local men know when a fat mercantile purse would be riding through Amesbury, the owner of which he also made sure enjoyed much ale before departing the inn."
"How dare Wulfstan condemn his son so cruelly then when he had committed crimes himself? Sayer might have laughed at him for his belated discovery of virtue, but I find it hard to imagine he would have threatened to kill him for it."
"Sadly, I cannot give details of their quarrel. I came too late, and the insults they were throwing at each other might be said by any two men in a heated argument."
"Have you heard from anyone else…?"
Bernard stiffened. "I did not listen to idle talk, nor did I ask questions. As I told you last night, Brother, I am a man without a wife who goes to the inn, not to trade tales of others, but for a decent meal, enjoyed in some solitude, at reasonable cost."
"I did not mean to suggest otherwise, but I am a stranger here in Amesbury and long to bring peace to both Mistress Drifa and her son. For that reason, I hoped you could educate me on the character of both father and son. For instance, if I knew that Sayer was just a foolish youth who would never actually kill his father…" Thomas looked at the glover with an expression he hoped brought meek supplication to mind.
Bernard's eyes still expressed wariness. "Murderer? That is a harsh accusation. Sayer is a maker of mischief and has played boy's games too long, but I do not think his failure to take on a man's duties and estate proves him to be a brutal creature."
Thomas said nothing, praying his silence would encourage the glover to say more. For once, the garrulous merchant was thrifty in speech. "I thank you for telling me what you have, Master Bernard," he said at last.
The two bowed in courtesy, and, as Thomas watched the glover walk away, he groaned in frustration. He was still failing to discover the identity of the ghost, and he was getting nowhere in his mission of finding a manuscript
thief.
Or was he? Questions buzzed in his mind like irritating flies, but his attempts to capture their significance failed. Why would a roofer want to learn so much about the Psalter? Was the argument between Wulfstan and his son just a drunken quarrel? Why did he sense that Drifa was lying, and what lay behind the meeting he had witnessed between Bernard and Sayer?
Thomas rubbed at his temples and wondered if his blindness was caused more by his lack of wit or by his contradictory feelings about the man around whom all these questions seemed to revolve.
Chapter Twenty-One
Surely he had seen a light in that window, Brother Baeda thought as he hurried up the stone stairs to the library. Even though the light had now vanished, he felt obliged to make sure nothing untoward had occurred. He would not have bothered to check, but two nights ago some young novices had slipped in and poured ink on one of Brother Jerome's parchments.
"The brother is such a querulous fellow and so sensitive about his talent with color and design," he muttered. No doubt of that. Jerome did rank his own work more highly than was warranted, his efforts falling far from noteworthy quality, but that did not excuse the lads for what they had done. Just because the monk had unfairly accused them of impure thoughts, after they joked about his drawing of Eve entwined with the snake in Eden, was no reason for them to damage any work done for a holy purpose.
An irreverent chuckle escaped the brother's lips, and he immediately prayed to be forgiven. The snake's tail was most unfortunately placed as he remembered it, and he should have said something to Jerome at the time. Knowing that the monk would roar in fury at the very suggestion of creative incompetence had stopped him, however, so perhaps he ought to have taken some blame for what had happened the other night.
The boys had been quite properly reprimanded for the damage and assigned the penance of scrubbing the stones in the warming room, but might that have been mitigated if he had come to their defense? Now he wondered if they had resented the duty and returned to tweak Jerome's rather pointed nose one more time.
He swung open the library door. His eyes were accustomed to the dark, and he saw no boyish shadows in the room.
Quickly, he walked over to where Jerome worked. All tools had been put away and no undone manuscript left out. Apparently, the monk had not yet started anything after the novices had ruined what he had been toiling over for days. He raised a hand to his mouth, suppressing another laugh. That tail!
Some movement or shifting shadow caught the corner of his eye and he turned toward it. Must have been his imagination, he thought. If the boys had returned, surely they would have betrayed themselves by now with the uncontrollable laughter of mischievous youth.
"Come forth!" he ordered nonetheless, hoping his voice expressed admonition mixed with just the right amount of forgiveness.
Nothing.
"It will be better for you if you come now. No damage has been done and thus no sin committed!"
Nothing.
The hairs on the back of his neck rose. Could the ghost of Queen Elfrida have entered the room? Nonsense, he thought. He had only felt a chill draught from the open door. Spring may have come, but didn't that night air still nip at aged spines?
He shook off the feeling and glanced around the area near Jerome's work place. Something was different, he realized, and then he gasped.
The Amesbury Psalter was lying on the floor.
Surely he had not left this precious work out! He rushed to pick it up, praying that no damage had been done, begging God's forgiveness for being so forgetful, so careless.
As the monk bent to retrieve the Psalter, he heard a sound and raised his head.
He screamed only once.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The young novice, who had brought the news of Brother Baeda's death, trembled as if facing God Himself. Those who knew Sister Beatrice understood why.
"No ghost could have done this deed. How dare anyone suggest that conclusion to me?"
"He is just a boy," Eleanor whispered to her aunt. "Let him tell his tale."
Beatrice sighed. "Forgive me, lad." She closed her eyes and muttered a calming prayer. "Repeat your story, and I shall not interrupt again. Truly, you need not fear my anger nor shall I blame you for the thoughts and words of others. Be assured that I do know the difference between the message and a messenger's belief."
The lad swallowed. "Brother Jerome heard the scream and rushed to the library." His adolescent voice rose to boyish soprano, then cracked into a baritone before falling into nervous silence.
"And did he say why he was so near?" Eleanor's tone was gentle, not only for the sake of the boy but her aunt as well. Sister Beatrice might be silent, but the prioress knew from experience that the novice mistress was probably grinding her teeth.
"My lady, I should not…" The novice was sweating.
"Sister Beatrice has promised that you will not be blamed for anything you say." Eleanor gestured toward the novice mistress. "This murder is a grave matter, and it is a man's duty to tell what he knows of such a vile deed, even if the facts reek with the terrifying stink of the Devil's work." The sharp odor drifting from the quivering novice enhanced the image. "I can see a man's courage in your eyes so do not let your fear of frightening us keep you from frank speech. We may be women but, as leaders in this Order, God graces us with the strength of the Queen of Heaven herself."
"Well said, my lady," Beatrice said, her eyes shining with delight. Pride may harden most hearts into insensate things, but a woman's sin, looking at her child, is a softer one.
The novice straightened his back and pulled in his chin. "Brother Jerome said he was on his way to the library after prayer because…" His face turned scarlet with embarrassment but he went on with only a brief hesitation, "…because he was afraid one of us would return to eke out more vengeance on his work after he revealed we had cast ink on his image of Eden."
Beatrice's lips twitched as she glanced at her niece. The story had given the two a merry moment.
"Continue," Eleanor said, hoping her expression suggested encouragement, not the amusement she felt.
"Brother Jerome thought someone had been injured when he heard the cry so he shouted that help was coming. As he approached the building, he saw a monstrous black shape hovering about the door. The creature had no face, only eyes licked by flames." The boy gulped. "Then the stench of Hell struck his nostrils, and he felt his soul grow weak. Quickly he prayed for God's protection from the great Fiend. It was this timely plea, he says, that must have saved him from Brother Baeda's fate. Although he immediately lost all consciousness, he soon awoke, still in this world and lying on the ground. The damned soul was gone. My lady, I beg pardon for saying so, but Brother Jerome claims the creature matched all descriptions of the ghost. Although he had never seen any mortal man quite so huge, he believed it wore a woman's robes. I only repeat…" The boy fell to his knees, shaking like a lone leaf in winter's first storm.
Beatrice spread her arms as if to hug the boy. "Like a man, you have bravely reported the events, and I thank you for that. Fear not. I do bark but rarely bite-or at least rarely bite the innocent. Go to the kitchen and ask for ale and cheese on my orders." She shook her head. "You need filling out, lad. You could pass for a ghost yourself."
The boy stumbled to his feet and ran as if afraid the novice mistress might change her mind and chew on him despite her words to the contrary. He was in such a rush that he would have knocked over Sister Anne as she entered the room if Brother Thomas had not been immediately behind her.
"Two people of calm and reason," Beatrice sighed to her niece. "Are we not grateful after the tales we have just heard?"
"Did the poor corpse provide any hints to the cause of his death?" Eleanor asked.
"A sad sight," Anne replied. "He was choked with such strength that the cord was still embedded in his neck. We left the body in the infirmary where Brother Jerome is now praying for his soul."
"Our librarian was
a modest man in life." Beatrice's voice was edged with weariness. "God will surely keep his spirit but little time in Purgatory."
"This second murder should not have happened." Eleanor's grey eyes turned to an ashen dark as she looked at her aunt. "I have failed you."
"Cast those thoughts from your mind now."
"But I…"
"Hear me out on this. Our priory has only the wits God gave us to bring the vile murderer of these men to justice. As I did after Wulfstan's death, I will send word to the sheriff. As he did then, he will insist that ghosts are outside his authority, especially one that kills within a priory, and his hunting companions will hear much about our presumption in troubling him with this matter!"
"But I am doing…"
"… more than he. At least you and Brother Thomas are asking questions while Sister Anne brings her knowledge and acute observations to our aid." She glanced at Thomas. "Now is the time to tell us what more you have discovered."
The monk repeated the gist of his conversations with Mistress Drifa and Master Bernard, although he continued to omit what he had heard from the dead librarian about the roofer's interest in the Psalter.
"So it would seem that Sayer, our man of many talents, is a possible suspect?" Beatrice raised a cautioning finger. "I am not condemning Wulfstan's son on such weak evidence, but that is more than the representative of King Henry's justice would have discovered even if he had bothered to try. Let us see where our combined knowledge might lead us."
"Did you find anything else of note when you examined the librarian's body?" Eleanor asked Anne.
"Nothing on the body itself, my lady, but the position of the corpse might be of interest. The body was lying on top of a Psalter, a most magnificent work if I can judge from the depiction of Jacob's dream that lay open."
"That could only be the one sent by Prioress Ida for repair," Beatrice suggested. "We have no others with such remarkable images."
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