Justice for the Damned mm-4

by Priscilla Royal

  "You have fallen silent, monk. I thought you wanted to talk with me." Sayer raised his hammer with a flourish and whacked a new nail into the slate patch.

  "I wonder at what a man can observe when raised higher than he might otherwise be. Now I see why angels have a far greater understanding of the earth from their vantage point in Paradise." Or so Thomas decided he might have been thinking if his eyes had not slipped from contemplating the heavens to Sayer's muscular stomach. He looked away.

  "A most philosophical monk. Surely you did not wish to talk of angels with me, for I shall confess I much prefer the feel of the earth than any angel's breath." Sayer studied Thomas with mock gravity.

  "Where were you last night?" The monk cursed himself for such an unsubtle question. He should tease the truth from this man, not bludgeon it.

  "Surely anything you might need me to do for you can be done tonight."

  "I am afraid to come to the inn. The ghost has struck again. We had a murder here."

  Sayer froze, then dropped his hammer.

  In silence, the two men watched the tool tumble to the ground.

  "Who died?"

  "Brother Baeda."

  "I grieve." Sayer swiftly rubbed at his eyes. "He was a virtuous man."

  "You knew him well, did you not? So well, in fact, that he told me with what delight he had answered your many questions about the Psalter belonging to Prioress Ida."

  Shifting his crouch, Sayer stared down at the distant ground.

  "Your interest both amazed and pleased him."

  "I may be unlettered, Brother, but I am not stupid."

  "I do not understand what you mean." Thomas cursed himself again. The tips of his fingers burned to touch the man. He hid them in his sleeves.

  "I shall rephrase: I am no fool. Do you wish to cast suspicion on me?"

  "I meant no such thing! Surely you were elsewhere last night. At the inn? With many witnesses?"

  Sayer rose and balanced himself with care. His face reddened. "I was enjoying what you have foresworn, Thomas of Tyndal, and that is more than you need to know."

  "A witness!"

  "None that I will name." He turned away and eased himself from the roof to the scaffolding.

  "Wait!" Thomas called out. "I cannot get down from here."

  "Find your own way out of your predicament, monk. I shall not help you." The man stood on the scaffolding and glared at Thomas, but his expression soon softened. "Although I believe you have some reason for wanting to call me Cain and mark me for his deed, I would not have you die here from your womanish fears." He gestured with a mocking toss of his hand. "Slide on your belly like a snake, and you will slip into the scaffolding like a birthing babe."

  Thomas reached out his hand, but Sayer had already left.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Eleanor sped through Amesbury at such a determined pace that her two attendants were left some distance behind. In a dutifully courteous but clearly anguished tone, one cried out a plea for her to wait. She stopped and, turning, saw a plump young merchant emerge from a path between two houses.

  "I am Bernard the glover, my lady," he said in warm greeting. "Mistress Alys told me what comfort you have been to her family after this tragic murder of her uncle."

  "Grief is part of the human condition, good sir, but God never intended it to come without His comfort." Eleanor's suspicion of the man was briefly tempered with sympathy for young lovers. If he knew of that very recent visit, he and Alys had managed to keep in contact despite Mistress Woolmonger's probable and disapproving watchfulness.

  "Are you returning to visit Mistress Jhone?" he asked, folding one hand over the other before resting both on his heart.

  "Today I go to Mistress Drifa's house." With some amusement, Eleanor noticed that his gesture succeeded in showing off, to much advantage, the hand-stitching on the back of his glove.

  "Alas, poor Wulfstan!"

  His words might have been spoken in a tone more appropriate to a monk in a holy day pageant, but Eleanor sensed no hypocrisy. "Did you know him well?" she asked, uncomfortably aware that something insistent had just bitten her memory like a hungry flea.

  "Since he was Alys' uncle…" The man's concentration wavered. His eyes stared into the distance.

  Eleanor suspected that distraction was caused only by the word Alys. "Thus dear to her, I am sure, and a man quite without enemies?" To her dismay, whatever the gnawing thing was, it had vanished like the ghosts haunting Amesbury Priory.

  Bernard blinked. "I believe he had none." His eyes focused again on the prioress.

  "Although I had understood he was a poor man who labored in the priory fields, I have learned that his widow and children were left some land. What noteworthy good fortune! Or was he possessed of a hidden but remarkable prudence?"

  "Everything he gained went to benefit his family, my lady. Whatever tales you may hear, let me assure you that I believe, along with most in our village, that he repented any sins long ago."

  "No ancient quarrels with former companions who might have held a grudge when Wulfstan chose a different tune for his dance?"

  Bernard laughed. "Or else his sinful ways caused little harm to those in Amesbury, as he himself claimed."

  "And does the village consider what his son has been doing harmless as well?"

  The glovers expression faded to one more vacant of meaning.

  "I ask only to understand what danger Wulfstan might have courted that could have led to his death."

  "I am not sure of your meaning, my lady."

  "Come, Master Glover, I cannot imagine you have not heard that Sayer arranged for agreeable women and strong drink for any monk who leapt the priory walls. This is no boyish prank. It is against God's commandments. I must ask if Wulfstan joined with his son in this particular and recent disregard for the law."

  "God is a far sterner sheriff than die man sent by the king, I fear. King Henry may turn his thoughts from the demands of secular rule whenever the bells ring for prayer, but our sheriff finds the cry of his hunting dogs more compelling. Wulfstan feared God's justice more than the king's law and with good reason."

  "So Wulfstan's sins were counter only to the king's edicts while his son's offended only God?"

  "Please, my lady, I am a glover, not a man learned in the art of debate! All I can tell you is that Wulfstan tried to honor the lords of both earth and heaven in his last years. He may have associated with robbers, but, after his wife persuaded him to reform, he lived within secular law. As for details of his past, the village chose to know as little as possible should anyone ever be called to testify. The merchants affected, you see, were never local men."

  "If Wulfstan's past sins have been cleansed and he has not fouled his soul with new ones, I have no desire to delve into any links to lawless men. I do, however, have both the right and duty to inquire into ghosts, creatures that plague monastic peace for supposed sins against God and which may have turned to killing. The priory has suffered two deaths. Wulfstan was a laborer on monastic lands. Brother Baeda was a monk."

  "Brother Baeda?"

  "Last night he was found murdered in the library."

  "God forgive us all!" Bernard's cheeks blanched to a wan pink, and he staggered back a step. "Disinclined to action or not, the sheriff must be summoned. We have no other choice."

  "He has been delayed."

  The glover grimaced with apparent frustration. "This news does not surprise me, but what else can we do?"

  "You may have answers to my concerns." She waited for a response, debating how frank she should be in her questions. If he were involved, the direct approach would gain her naught. The indirect, on the other hand…

  Silently, he nodded.

  "Since his father is innocent of offending God's law, I thought Sayer might have followed his sire's example and longed to atone for his own evil ways. What might you know of this?"

  Bernard's eyes narrowed. "Again I fail to understand your question, my lady."
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  "If the spirits have turned murderous because of some offense committed against God, the son's especial sinning may be connected to these deaths. If Sayer is truly repentant, he might provide information that will protect the priory from further violence."

  "I am not the one to ask about his thoughts, actions, or ability to do what you seem to wish." He looked up at the sky, his expression a study in reluctance. "You had best ask his mother or else Sayer himself, for I do not know the man well."

  "I shall," she replied.

  "I fear I am late back to my shop."

  "It would be discourteous to detain you further."

  Bernard bowed abruptly and, without further word, quickly walked away.

  The man lies, Eleanor decided, although he may have fair reason. Her mind insisted that his motive was malicious, but her heart was not as sure. Was he protecting someone? If he loved Alys, he would wish to shift all suspicion from her family, including Cousin Roofer. On the other hand, Bernard had not actually defended Sayer as he had Wulfstan. He had claimed ignorance of Alys' cousin and avoided direct response to any questions about the man.

  Eleanor frowned, as her mind chased itself in circles, but suddenly brightened as she grasped the thing nibbling at her memory. Was it not yesterday, crossing the Avon after visiting Mistress Jhone, that she had seen the glover in merry conversation with another man?

  Treading on the heels of that recognition was a chilling thought. Unless Bernard had inherited a more profitable trade than would seem to be the case, he would not have many apprentices and certainly not one of such long standing that he would be of much the same age.

  The man walking beside Bernard was no fellow merchant, rather a laborer of some ilk by his dress. Was he one of the glover's workmen? Nay, their easy manner with each other made her doubt that. Could it have been Sayer, cousin to his beloved Alys? If the latter, why did the glover deny knowing the man, and had the reason anything to do with murder?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Thomas winced as Brother Infirmarian cleaned his bleeding hand with some stinging liquid.

  "I won't ask why you were on the library roof, Brother, but I suggest that there are easier places to talk to God."

  Despite the throbbing in his wound, the monk chuckled. "Sayer was showing me some of the skills needed to repair the slate."

  The infirmarian raised an eyebrow. "Indeed," he said, resuming with an application of salve. "Is your priory at Tyndal so poor that monks must be trained to do such work?"

  "We have lay brothers enough, but, since Sayer is only rarely on the ground at this priory, I had to climb closer to Paradise to offer consolation for his father's death. He continued his labors while I did."

  Brother Infirmarian reached for a binding. "His grief must be sharp. A sad thing to quarrel with your father and have him die before you can settle the matter."

  "Had it caused so deep a rift between them?"

  The monk shrugged. "Sayer is a bit of a rogue, much like his father when he was younger, but I think Mistress Drifa would have forced them to make peace."

  "Then the dispute involved nothing that would cause either to harm the other?"

  "Oh, you heard that Sayer swore he would kill Wulfstan?" The infirmarian laughed as he finished the binding and sat down beside Thomas. "I wouldn't put much credence in that, Brother. I once told my father I would kill him and he survived four score!"

  "And what was your disagreement about?"

  The man's eyes twinkled. "There was a girl I wanted to marry. My father was opposed. It was then I threatened him."

  "How did you resolve the matter?"

  "My beloved died before we could wed, and I took the cowl. With a repentant heart, my father cursed his obstinacy and begged forgiveness. I promised him daily prayers, and we wept together in each other's arms. Fathers and sons have ways of making peace. Had Wulfstan lived, I have no doubt that he and Sayer would have done the same."

  "Do you know the cause of their quarrel? If so, I could use that knowledge to bring a more effective comfort to the son."

  "Although I listen to gossip like any other wicked mortal, I put little faith in it. True or not, the stories are often entertaining, but I do not repeat what I hear. The Fiend loves those who spread scandal."

  Thomas hoped he hid his regret at the infirmarian's admirable restraint. "You are wise not to repeat it," he said. "I grieve that many are not so hesitant about telling tales and pray that no one has spread damaging lies about Sayer and his father."

  The monk looked away.

  The gesture told Thomas that some story must be abroad. All he had to do was find a man willing to tell him what it was.

  As he walked through the garden of the monks' cloister garth, despondency dropped over Thomas like a sodden cloak even as questions raced through his mind. A cawing distracted him. Looking up, he saw the dark shape of a crow. It circled overhead before flying off, perhaps to the nest near the library.

  Had Sayer returned to his work? Even if he had, Thomas knew he would not seek him out there. He could not. His face turned hot with an emotion he did not want to name, and he forced his thoughts back to the recent discussion with his prioress and Sister Beatrice.

  He hoped he had not betrayed his shock when Prioress Eleanor suggested that someone might be trying to steal the Amesbury Psalter, yet he had also felt relief at her joining the pieces in that way. Even though he could not speak of his own commission from the Church in this matter, he could now count on her cleverness and support as he had longed to do. Of course, he was pleased that he had won this small victory over his spy master. He might owe the man gratitude for saving his life, but he did not always respect his judgement and resented the power the man wielded over him.

  His small pleasure quickly soured. Was Sayer the thief Thomas had been sent to catch? Was Drifa's deft-witted son a brutal killer? His heart still rebelled against any conclusion that Sayer might be involved, even though he knew there was cause enough to believe it. A man's reason ordered him to acknowledge that the roofer was implicated in the crime. In this they had all agreed, but another emotion, devoid of logic, shouted otherwise to him.

  For Thomas, the world had turned upside down since that night at the inn. Sister Beatrice and Prioress Eleanor bore women's bodies, but their souls housed a man's solid reason. He was afflicted with a woman's perceptions. That these had served him well in the past did not soothe him now. Indeed, he cursed them. When had the Prince of Darkness stolen his manhood and given him a woman's soul? If men became women and women men, he snarled, the end of the world must be close to hand.

  Nay, it was his soul that was in disarray, not the world. The novice mistress and her niece were holy women, given strengths beyond their sex by their vocations. On the other hand, God had surely given him to Satan for his plaything.

  Even Sayer had taunted him about suffering womanly fear when he sat on the roof. Womanly, was he? The monk uttered an oath. Yet he had reached out for the roofer's hand like some maiden begging a knight to save her from distress. Thomas' stomach roiled with disgust at himself.

  That his logic was weak and he had shown cowardice at that great height were less terrifying than the betrayal of his body. He could argue that an incubus had put on Sayer's features when he had swyved the roofer in his dream, but Thomas could not ignore how he trembled on the roof like a virgin on her wedding night, longing for the embrace while fearing the loss of her maidenhead.

  "I am no man at all," he cried out. "I am a creature made in the image of Satan with a man's sex and a woman's breasts!"

  Amidst the bursting buds and flowering shrubs of that silent monastic garden, he fell to his knees, bent his forehead to the earth, and wept. His howls of pain were as sharp as the wailings of one damned beyond any hope of forgiveness, and he beat his head against the ground as if one torment could numb the other.

  At last the roaring in his soul diminished and his sobbing subsided. Gulping air like a man who has almost drowned, h
e sat back on his heels and swiped angrily at his damp cheeks. "Why have You done this to me?" Thomas raised his eyes heavenward.

  The light became too bright for his reddened eyes. He covered them.

  "You cannot deny it," he whispered angrily into his hands. "The Prince of Darkness may have sent this cruel affliction, but You allowed it. Did You not let Satan plague Job, jesting that he would never turn his face from You no matter what he suffered? Perhaps Job did not do so, but I am not he. I curse You for this!"

  Thomas uncovered his eyes and bent down to touch the uneven particles of earth while he waited for God's hot wrath to destroy him. Terror of eternal torture for his blasphemy numbed him, but he could not retract his words.

  A hush in the gentle wind and a silence that held neither condemnation nor peace were all that greeted him.

  Thomas looked up. He was alone in the gardens.

  "Torment me as You will then," he said in soft voice, "but surely You cannot hate me more than the one who murdered two innocent men, two unshriven souls howling for justice."

  That said, Thomas rose unsteadily to his feet and set off in the direction of the village.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  A small shadow edged across the garden to the place where Drifa knelt, pulling young weeds from the dark earth. She jumped to her feet.

  "My lady!"

  "I did not mean to frighten you," Eleanor replied. Was the pallor of the widow's face the result of grief, or was another visit from the priory cause for fear?

  Drifa rubbed the soil from her fingers as color returned to her cheeks. "Forgive me, but my thoughts had fled elsewhere. Your visit is most welcome."