Justice for the Damned mm-4

by Priscilla Royal

  "That was what Brother Jerome said. He was quite distraught when he saw it under the corpse but waited until I was done to see if the work had suffered damage."

  "Brother Jerome waited? A minor miracle," Beatrice muttered.

  "From the way his body lay, the librarian was kneeling or bending over when he died. I could not tell if he had been holding the Psalter, and then dropped it, or was retrieving it from the floor when the killer struck."

  Thomas' eyes narrowed. "Was the Psalter damaged?"

  "Apparently not. When he examined it, Brother Jerome expressed relief that there were no bloodstains."

  "I find it odd that the Psalter was not stored safely away until the monk came to do repairs," Beatrice said.

  Thomas cleared his throat. "I might be at fault for that, Sister. When I came to give an account of my evening at the inn, Brother Porter told me that Prioress Eleanor had left the priory. Since I had heard your monks speak of this wondrous Psalter, I went to the library to see it. Brother Baeda was kind enough to show me the work."

  Eleanor frowned. "Yet you and I met together later in the afternoon. There was time to put the Psalter in the manuscript chest afterward. Had Brother Baeda grown so careless about the works under his care? I remember him as a most meticulous man."

  "He had not changed. Our brother loved the books like a father might his children." Beatrice turned with a wry smile to Thomas. "He must have been pleased at your unexpected interest."

  Thomas met her gaze. For a moment they studied each other, and then he nodded as if conceding some private debate. "The Psalter was open on the table when I entered the library. Brother Baeda mentioned that word of its presence there must have spread, for I was the second to beg leave to see the book of late. Perhaps a third came later, and the brother did not have time to return the treasure to a less public place."

  "Or else the first returned?" Eleanor suggested. "Who was this person?"

  Thomas looked down at the floor and worried the rushes with his foot. "Sayer."

  "Did Brother Baeda say what sort of interest our roofer showed?" Beatrice asked.

  "Sayer expressed delight with the work itself and asked how such a valuable item was stored to protect it from accidental damage."

  "Wulfstan's son showed a most commendable concern for the safety of our holy works." Beatrice's eyes revealed no shaded meaning in that simple statement.

  "A worry that I share," Eleanor cried out. "Dearest Aunt, I know you believe Sayer to be a harmless rogue, but the direction of all we have learned deeply troubles me. May I have permission to present my concerns?"

  "I wish to hear them."

  "We know that man led weak-fleshed monks into sin for coin. His own father had ties to lawless men when he himself was younger." She turned toward Thomas and Anne. "Today, my aunt and I saw toeholds in the wall Prioress Ida had asked Wulfstan to repair, gouges in the mortar that would allow someone to enter and exit this priory. Even if he was innocent of that foul treachery, someone who helped him was not. I must ask if Sayer was his assistant."

  "A question easily and soon answered. Please continue, my child."

  "A moment ago, we learned that this son, who has followed his father's example of dishonest behavior, asked pointed questions about this priory's treasured Psalter. Soon after, an unknown is seen escaping from the library after slaying a monk, the body found lying on this same book. Why was the killer there? Might these violent deeds be related in some way to the Psalter? Theft of relics and fine works done in God's name is not unusual. Maybe Sayer and his father found a way to benefit from the theft of this manuscript, quarreled over some detail, and the son killed his father as he publicly threatened he would? Now he has killed Brother Baeda who happened upon him while he was attempting to take the Psalter."

  Thomas' face turned a dark red. "You have observed well, my lady, and I cannot dispute your conclusion that Sayer might have killed the monk in a botched attempt to steal the Psalter. Yet I cannot believe he killed his own father, despite the argument at the inn and his drunken threats."

  "Sayer may have had minor differences with his father, but that quarrel is the first I have heard that the two might have had a serious disagreement." Beatrice glanced at Thomas before turning again to her niece. "The idea about a planned theft of our manuscript is most interesting, however."

  "You know more of both men than I, Aunt, and understand the world far better. I beg you to show me where I have erred."

  "In nothing, I fear. Yet neither Wulfstan nor Sayer has ever been a brutish maen. The father was not alone in hungering after another man's fat purse, then joining with friends to equally distribute such wealth." No mirth lightened the novice mistress' laugh. "Do not mistake my meaning in this. A crime was committed, but merchants lost money, not their lives. And, aye, Sayer took advantage of men's weaknesses for his own profit. Both father and son were disgraceful in their wickedness; nonetheless, neither ever added murder to his wrongdoing. Man may be an evil creature by nature, but each mortal has his special vice. Sayer's has never been bloodshed, although theft of a Psalter might not be beyond him."

  "Sayer's mother speaks well of him," Thomas said softly.

  "As did his cousin, Alys," Eleanor conceded.

  "Although many might argue against me on this, I am not so sure we ought to ignore the faith of an innocent girl or the testimony of a mother." Beatrice turned to Anne. "I say this as a woman beyond the age when illusions are common."

  Anne chuckled. "I might have said a woman who had not yet reached those years when she is like to paint the past with the softer colors of delusion."

  "You flatter me, Sister. Yet I fear Sayer is involved in this matter even if I question his role as a killer."

  "If Sayer and his father plotted the theft of the Psalter and argued about it for some reason, the killing might have come about by accident," Eleanor suggested.

  Thomas turned to Beatrice, his hands extended as if pleading with her to agree. "I found Mistress Drifa creditable when she said the quarrel would have been of little consequence had Wulfstan lived. She is not ignorant of her loved ones' wrongdoings, no matter how much she might despise the deeds. Could such a crime as this theft have seemed a petty thing to an honest woman? That said, I suspected that she was hiding something, something she avoided telling me. Whatever that might be, however, I cannot believe it was murder."

  The novice mistress agreed. "Rogue the lad may be, a corrupter of those who long to be seduced and mayhap a thief, but he has always been a gentle man, willing to help the sad recover laughter with merry jests. That is not a man who kills with the cruelty we have seen here."

  Thomas bent his head in concurrence.

  "Do we agree that Sayer is most likely implicated in some way, even if we hold doubt that he slew Wulfstan or Brother Baeda?" Eleanor looked around at her companions.

  They all nodded.

  She went on. "Unless we give credence to ghosts or believe that chance murder has suddenly become the custom here, we must recognize that the killings share a common element. That is the roofer."

  "My lady…"

  Eleanor held up her hand at Thomas' mild protest. "Do not misunderstand me. I am not condemning, but I would be remiss if I did not note the connections. Sayer's father was in charge of repairing the wall, a flawed mending that allowed continued access to the priory. Wulfstan is stabbed and beheaded near the very place. Sayer asks questions about the Psalter. Soon after, Brother Baeda is throttled with a cord in the library."

  "When we met at the inn, Sayer was surprised that I had found a way out of the priory. His reaction may prove he was not the one who left the toeholds in the wall," Thomas said.

  "Or else he was amazed that you discovered his covert path, Brother," Anne replied.

  "If that was true, he could have killed me to preserve the secret after I left the inn," Thomas protested. His face fell. "Or might have done so if he had not passed out from drink."

  Eleanor leaned toward her
aunt. "Is it possible that someone from within the priory is the culprit?"

  "Not of our librarian's death at least. Although Brother Jerome is often too full of righteous zeal, I am grateful that he chose this time to note those present at the Evening Office," Beatrice said. "Only Brother Baeda failed to be there and no one could have left the chapel in time to kill the poor man. If the monks are innocent of that, I cannot imagine any were guilty of Wulfstan's killing."

  Eleanor looked over at Thomas. "And you believe that Sayer is an unlikely father killer?"

  "I do," the monk murmured.

  "I find it hard to believe that Wulfstan wanted to steal our Psalter." Beatrice shook her head. "He had honored the king's law for so many years."

  "Since the birth of his third child." Thomas spoke so softly he might have been talking to himself.

  "Unless he learned of his son's plot and wanted to share some of the profit," Anne suggested.

  "There is something else to consider." Eleanor reached out and touched her aunt's sleeve. "I do not believe in ghosts any more than you, but we cannot deny that Wulfstan saw something before his death and was most frightened of it. Might this alleged ghost have been Sayer playing a prank?"

  "A man in a woman's dress? That is most unusual." Beatrice glanced at the faces around her. "Very well, it is possible and has been done, but surely the father would have recognized his oldest son. The man was shaking when he told me about the sighting that morning. His rank sweat is not easily faked."

  "Unless he was so convinced because of the tales that it was the ghost he failed to see a familiar face," Anne added. "Fear plays an imp's tricks with mortal eyes."

  "We are circling problems but finding no solutions." Eleanor turned to her aunt. "I beg approval…"

  "Do what is needed," the novice mistress replied. "We will get no assistance from the secular world."

  "Brother Thomas, you are the best one to find Sayer and question him. If the man has not fled, he may be innocent, yet have something to tell us about the wall, the manuscript, and his father that will bring clarity to everything. For your own safety, do this only in a public place and with much caution. If he is not a killer but is guilty of some other crime, we can offer mercy…"

  "Our faith demands it," Beatrice said.

  Thomas agreed. In the weak light, his face was white.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Eleanor hoped the tranquility of the priory gardens would ease the pain this violence had brought to her soul. On those occasions when she was able to fill her spirit with silence, she knew that her position as prioress forced her into the brutality of a secular world far more than was good for any one who had sworn to serve God alone. But He demanded special sacrifices from each follower, and her particular oblation allowed many others the encloistered peace required for concentrated prayer. "We may not quarrel with the road we are set upon," she reminded herself. "We must only pray that God grace us with compassion and understanding."

  If there was ever a time when she needed both, it was now. Eleanor had left the chambers with a mind aching for answers. Never before had she felt so confused by events, by contradictory perceptions, and by the number of people who might be involved.

  What questions would bring truth to the fore in this most complex maze of ghosts, murder, Psalters, and intentions? There was some connection she was failing to see and almost nothing she could dismiss.

  Wulfstan seemed to have no enemies, despite his lawless years, and she could not set aside his equally long record of reliable, honest labor. His son may have led others to sin, but her aunt, who surely knew him best and agreed he might be a thief, thought murder beyond him. Were father and son involved in a plot to steal the Psalter, as she suspected? Was the quarrel but a drunken spat?

  Who was the ghost? Was it a boy playing the fool or a killer in disguise? Mayhap Sayer? Was the spirit a woman or a man dressed up to look like one? Perchance Jhone, seeking to frighten both village and priory into reconsidering the condemnation of her childhood friend? As unlikely as that seemed, it was not something Eleanor could set aside either. And did it matter whether the shape was judged to be a queen or a local spirit back from Hell?

  And what of this Bernard, a man in need of money to win the woolmonger's daughter and a profitable business? His name had not even been mentioned as a suspect, but she wondered if it should be. Was he a dreaming boy who truly loved his Alys, or a scheming thief who sought to sell a stolen manuscript and thus gain what he could not earn as a merchant of gloves? Even if Sayer and his father had planned the theft of the Psalter, they needed someone to sell it for them, a man who could travel with ease.

  The prioress pressed her fingers against her brow. Her courses may have ceased, but a familiar dull ache was now starting over one eye. She must ask Anne to prepare that feverfew potion which helped with the blinding headaches she often suffered.

  Suddenly, she heard a noise and looked up.

  A crow hopped to a landing on the path in front of her.

  If this was the bird nesting near the library, the creature must feel more certain of her brood to leave it unguarded. Or was it stealing just a few minutes away from the high-pitched chirping of demanding and featherless infants? Eleanor chuckled at the thought. The bird was no different from any other mother.

  She stood very still, rinding delight in watching the bird totter along the path as if seeking the quiet to be found between rows of flowering bushes and budding plants. Most called crows ungainly things, their rolling gait like that of drunken men, their feathers askew as if they cared naught for appearances, but Eleanor did not agree. This creature did not remind her of a drunkard or some slovenly woman. Instead, it was like any young mother, stiff and pained from birthing, with little time now for the preening of her maiden days.

  Many also hated these birds for their sooty color, calling them Deaths servants or Satan's fowl, but Eleanor had always liked their clownish ways, wondering if God had made them dark of hue to remind mortals that laughter must be found in sadness. Or else, she suddenly thought with some irreverence, they contained the souls of jesters condemned to Hell for telling bad jokes in the king's court. She raised a hand to cover her laugh. The thought was impudent, but she knew her aunt would enjoy the image as much as she.

  Her gesture caught the bird's attention. The crow turned and studied the Prioress of Tyndal, its bright black eyes gleaming like tiny polished pebbles. With a raucous and annoyed caw, it spread its wings and napped back in the direction of the tree.

  Eleanor sighed with regret, raising a hand in apologetic farewell as if the bird had been an acquaintance with whom she had shared a few pleasant words before innocently saying something to offend. "At least it succeeded in turning my thoughts from murder," she said, bending over a prickly evergreen shrub with fragrant yellow blossoms.

  How delicate the petals, she noted, yet how fiercely protected by the sharpness of the bush. She laid two fingertips on a flower with caution. Even soulless plants defend their delicate offspring, she realized. What a miracle motherhood was, turning simple shrubs and weak women into creatures capable of the most remarkable feats.

  Hadn't Sister Beatrice just wrought a maternal miracle? Were it not for her aunt's loving cleverness, Eleanor knew she might have succumbed to Death's charms out of indifferent weariness. Yet she had gained strength in the last few days, no longer falling asleep after dinner and requiring someone to wake her for prayer. Look at how much she had walked today without losing breath or growing numb with fatigue.

  As she continued along the path, listening to the soft whoosh of green leaves rising and falling against each other in the sweet-smelling breeze, she remembered thinking, after her fever broke, that those who approach death begin to long for it even though they will leave loved ones. Eleanor had looked forward to dying, deciding that Tyndal could do just as well under Sister Ruth and grateful that she would be freed from the lust she suffered for Brother Thomas. Yet Sister Beatrice had teased her
spirit back to the earthly life with ferocious determination. Like any good mother, her aunt knew well how to save a child from danger.

  In the distance, the crow cawed loudly from her nest.

  Eleanor raised her hands to her mouth. "O slow-witted woman," she gasped. "Surely God sent that crow as messenger, yet I have been standing here, so absorbed by selfish thoughts of my wretched self that I was blind to the insight He granted me."

  Picking up the hem of her robe, she ran from the cloister gardens.

  The priory bells rang out with joy for prayer.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  "Come join me, monk!" Sayer sat on the library roof and waved his hammer. "You will feel closer to God."

  "Come down to earth," Thomas countered, unable to hold back a grin. Then a heavy darkness settled around his heart. "I want to talk to you."

  "I have work to do and what light remains is precious." He gestured for Thomas to go inside. "There is a way to the roof up some stairs. At the top you will find an opening that leads onto the scaffolding. Once there, I will help you climb to a seat, and we can talk while I continue at my task."

  "I have not your firm footing."

  "Afraid of dying, monk? What sins do you fear might send you to Hell if you fall unshriven?" Sayer's smile suggested he was jesting, but his tone did not match the look.

  Thomas recoiled from the blow to his honor. If the man was suggesting he was a coward, he would prove otherwise. "Which stairs am I to climb?"

  The steps were steep, and the window through which he edged was small. Now as he balanced himself on the narrow scaffolding and stared at the sharp angle of the roof, Thomas asked himself whether a true monk would have surrendered his pride and turned down Sayer's implied dare. How often did he betray his insincere calling in just such ways?

  Whatever the roofer's intent, he showed gentle courtesy by helping the monk climb the steep pitch to a safe place. Once settled in, Thomas gazed at the view and understood why some envied soaring birds. From here he could see beyond the walls and across the river to the strange mounds the monks mentioned only in hushed tones. The village was also on the other side, quite tiny from this great height and filled with bustling miniature people. Do we look that small to God, he asked himself.