Justice for the Damned mm-4
Page 21
After Eleanor had ridden back to Tyndal, she promised to confess. There would be time enough then to deal with her mortal failings. Beatrice knew she would face the parting with a stern will, after which she would escape to the cloister gardens where she could weep without restraint. Life was such a fragile thing, she said to herself, looking down at the wrinkled skin on the back of her hand. She might never see her beloved Eleanor again.
A few rude tears stung the corners of her eyes, and she angrily wiped them away, willing her mind from such indulgent imaginings. Instead, she concentrated on a butterfly hovering nearby, its delicate wings vibrant with orange, black, and white markings. Quickly it fluttered off, landing on a yellow flower some distance away. In its beauty, Beatrice found comfort. There was, after all, much to be grateful for in this moment.
Master Herbert had been buried in the dark earth, his broken body now food for worms. Few had come to watch as dirt was cast on his bones. No one had grieved. The village and priory were content, believing that justice had been carried out. The vintner's soul, befouled with his murderous and most grievous sins, was facing God's wrath, while the soul of his innocent wife had been snatched from the Devil's claws.
Beatrice knew she would add Eda's soul to her own prayers. After all, the priory had erred along with the crowner in deciding the woman's body must be placed in ground filled with noxious weeds and the rot of unrepentant corpses. We should have known better, she thought, and must bear the greater guilt. After all, such blindness was more heinous when committed by those who had vowed to serve a perfect Lord.
Yet these sad events had brought forth some happiness. Besides the release of Eda's soul to God's hand, Alys and her Bernard would be married with Mistress Jhone's blessing as they had long wished. The bridegroom would surely take over the wool business, promoting one of the more talented workmen to manage it, while he continued to design his beautiful gloves.
Beatrice smiled as she thought about Alys and Bernard. The girl might be willful, but she was possessed of both intelligence and a caring heart. In fact, her spirited insistence that she be allowed to marry a man of her own choice reminded the novice mistress of the days she herself had spent persuading a father that the young knight she had fancied was an acceptable match. Although Master Bernard might not be quite prepared to be ruled by his wife, any more than her own adored husband had been, the novice mistress suspected the glover's love would teach him just as quickly when it was wise to surrender his will. If God granted them no more trials than any other mortal, Beatrice believed the pair would prosper, growing old together in the glow and warmth that love can bring in later years.
Beatrice sighed, a sharp regret stabbing at her heart. Although she rarely looked at her past with remorse, she did grieve over her husband's death. He had left her fine sons, and he had died as he would have wanted in a soldier's armor, but her woman's soul resented that he had gone to God far from her arms and without a last kiss. At least she had had joy of him while he lived, and for that love she would always thank God.
Love? Ah, what a glorious but foolish thing it was, the novice mistress thought, turning her eyes toward a certain young monk nearby. Brother Thomas was a handsome man for cert, and she understood quite well why her niece had fallen in love with him. Were I in the first heat of my youth, she decided, I might well have done so myself.
Not that Eleanor had yet confided this passion to her, but she had seen the blushes, the averted eyes, and the gaze that shone with adoration when the monk's back was turned. It was a fever she had hoped her niece might be spared, but God seemed to give these burdens to those He deemed most precious.
Several in the Church believed that those who did not twist and groan with Job's afflictions could never be found worthy of Heaven. Indeed, suffering did infuse some with God's more absolute understanding. Others, however, it infected with bitterness, jealousy, and the longing to make happier souls suffer as well. She might hate that her niece was enduring this pain, but she knew Eleanor was not one to grow petty with her affliction.
My dear one is no longer a child, she reminded herself, but that cannot stop me from worrying about her. Although she had full confidence that Eleanor was sincere in her vows, she wondered whether this handsome monk felt quite the same about his.
When Sayer had come that night to warn her that the Amesbury Psalter might be stolen, she had alerted Prioress Ida, who relayed the message on to Church authorities. They had promised to protect the holy object and even capture the thief, but no one had come until Brother Thomas arrived with a marked enthusiasm to investigate ghosts. Her niece might have voiced the thought that there could be a link between spirit and theft, but the red-haired monk had concurred with remarkable speed.
She caught herself smiling at this monk who was staring at the earth beneath his feet like a scholar lost in thoughtful debate about the nature of the world. All she had heard from Sister Anne and her own brother suggested he was an honorable man, although one around whom some mystery drifted.
Had his mother been of low birth, seized in the dark staircase of a castle or in the open fields? Or was she a beloved concubine of some rank? In either case, Beatrice knew he must have been sufficiently cherished by a high ranking father, one who could demand placement of an intelligent but bastard son where the boy might rise by the strength of his wits.
Had Thomas come to the cowl with any calling? What ambitions did he now hold, and what would he be willing to do to gain them? To whom might he be bound? Which man's advancement would prove beneficial to his own?
As she looked back across the cemetery of the damned and watched Eleanor walk toward her with Jhone by her side, Beatrice knew she had a duty to perform on behalf of a dead sister-in-law, one who had never seen this beautiful daughter mature into such an incomparable young woman. In addition, she owed it to her own heart that had so joyfully taken on a mother's role.
Thus the novice mistress of Amesbury Priory resolved to learn more about this Thomas of Tyndal, a man with the power to destroy the creature she loved most in the world.
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