Justice for the Damned (10 page)

"I
should never have decided to go to this inn as a traveling monk," he
muttered aloud as he started across the Avon. Belatedly, he realized that he
had been wrong about a disguise. He should have hidden his tonsure with a hood
and dressed as a farmer on pilgrimage. In religious robes, he would stand out
in the crowd, and the sight of monks at an inn either shut men's mouths or
opened them with rude jests. It was too late to return, and he strongly doubted
that either his prioress or her aunt would approve of a secular disguise.

He
ground his teeth in frustration. Was he wasting his time tonight? He would
certainly try to discover what was behind this haunting of the priory, but his
real purpose was to find out anything he could about threats to the Amesbury
Psalter. His prioress was troubled over Wulfstan's death, but she had no idea that
the man was reputed to be a thief or at the very least had associated with
robbers many years ago.

When
he told her about the conversation with Mistress Jhone and Master Herbert, he
had omitted that bit of information. He understood her clever mind well. After
all, he was forbidden to tell her of his mission, and he feared she might begin
to ask too many questions if she knew this detail. Although it was unlikely she
would conclude the Psalter was in peril or guess his involvement in its
protection, he could not chance it. Her mind was capable of amazing leaps of
logic, an observation he had had frequent opportunities to make during the last
two years.

Fortunately,
Prioress Eleanor seemed most concerned that Wulfstan's death was being linked
to the phantom and shared his own suspicion that the ghost was but a boy's
sport, a mischievous act beginning to turn nasty. As for murder, she had
forbidden him to pursue any such thread on the reasonable assumption that it
was the sheriff's job to do so, despite the man's blatant disinclination to
investigate much of anything.

Thomas
was grateful that Amesbury's sheriff had decided to go off hunting. This gave
him time to look into any possible relationship between the murder and this manuscript
theft. It troubled him that he would be disobeying his prioress. Had he been
able to explain what he had been sent to do, she might well have approved and
aided him in his task. Once again, he cursed his spy master for refusing to
inform her of his role for the Church.

Even
if he resolved the ghost issue tonight, Thomas decided he must keep this
knowledge to himself, at least for a short while. If he claimed that someone,
who might know the facts about the jape, would be at the inn the next evening—or
even the next—he could provide reason for being outside the priory again if
need be. The deceit would be innocent enough, but he did hate lying to Prioress
Eleanor, whom he held in such high regard.

Thomas
spat. He could do little as he willed in this matter. Had he been able to
choose what action to take first, he would not be on the way to the inn. He
would be visiting Jhone for answers to some questions without the presence of
Herbert, a man he strongly disliked.

A
loud splash startled Thomas, and he stopped by the side of the bridge to peer
into the darkness. Had a dead limb from some winter-damaged tree fallen into
the river, or was the cause something more sinister? Seeing nothing, he
shuddered and continued on.

Of
course he did not trust the man. Herbert was of the prosperous merchant class,
a greedy lot as far as the monk was concerned, demanding prompt payment of
debts from those for whom coin was scarce. No student or poor clerk liked them,
and Thomas had been both. As far as he was concerned, the fellow would say
anything to make a profit. When Herbert mentioned the ghost, Thomas could not
imagine what gain a wandering spirit might bring, but he would not dismiss his
belief that there might be something.

His
strongest reason for disliking the tradesman was the indisputable fact that he
had bested Thomas in their battle of wills. His honor had been befouled, and he
was disinclined to let that pass. "I should turn the other cheek as a monk
with a true calling would," he muttered aloud, "but I likely shall
not and, without question, not tonight."

He
was falling into a black mood and disinclined to benevolence. Satisfying his
pride must wait, of course, until he had pleased his masters in the Church, but
he would make sure the eventual restitution would be even sweeter for the
delay. In the meantime, he had been granted freedom by Sister Beatrice that
allowed him to look into the Psalter theft. For that he would have to be
grateful even if he was annoyed by the restrictions placed on him.

He
shrugged his shoulders. He would make the best of the situation, discovering
what he could. If he listened with discretion, he might still hear something of
use. Maybe he would learn more from ale-loosened village tongues in gossip as
the night wore on than from anything Mistress Jhone might tell him. After all,
the shock of seeing her brother-in-law's headless corpse was surely cause
enough for horror. The merchant's snide comments aside, Thomas had no wish to
increase the poor woman's pain.

Deep
in thought, the monk arrived at the village side of the river and headed toward
the inn. Suddenly a movement caught his attention, and he paused to peer into
the shifting patches of shadow.

Two
men emerged from a gloomy lane just in front of him. One he did not recognize,
but the other he most certainly did.

Keeping
a safe distance, he slowly followed.

The
men leaned toward each other in earnest but whispered conversation before
stopping some yards away from the inn door.

Thomas
slipped into the darkness between two houses.

"It
would not be wise if we were seen together," he heard Sayer say to the
plump young man beside him.

"Aye,
you have the right of that. This matter is too important to have anyone suspect
we are in it together. Yet are you sure...?"

"I
am your man on this and shall not fail you, but let us not seem friendly or be
seen to speak together in public."

"Aye.
Go into the inn, although I shall follow in a while and find myself a quiet
corner. This talk of plots and plans has made me thirsty." He put
something into Sayer's hand. "Something for your thirst as well, my
friend."

As
the roofer opened the inn door, enough light fell on the other man's face for
Thomas to note his features well.

A
merchant by his dress, the monk thought. If this one had some guilty secret he
wanted no one else in the village to discover, he might welcome the distracting
company of a stranger. Were Thomas particularly fortunate, the man might even
find some comfort for his troubled soul in talking to a man of God.

Chapter
Twelve

A
spotty-faced serving woman gaped when Thomas walked in, licked her lips, and
tossed her head in the direction of the rooms upstairs. He lowered his gaze and
inched into the mass of sweating men.

One
burgundy-cheeked fellow, a wooden tankard of brown ale in hand, stared
pointedly at the monk's tonsure, poked him in the ribs, and made a lewd
gesture. Feeling his face turn hot, Thomas transformed his blush of outrage
into an expression of sheepish unworldliness. The man snorted but let the monk
edge by.

If
God were willing to grant him just a little grace, Thomas thought, He would
lead him to the plump merchant and keep him away from Sayer. If He were truly
merciful, He would let him get answers to his questions and allow him to escape
this place before he broke some lout's jaw.

When
he had at last untangled himself from the milling crowd, Thomas found himself
in a comparatively quiet corner of the hostel. At a small table, next to a
large pitcher of wine, sat the round young man with dimpled pink face.

He
was in luck.

The
man rested his cup against his lips as if interrupted by a thought in the act
of drinking. Something heavy crashed overhead and he blinked, raising his pale
brown eyes and studying the ceiling, fearing perhaps that those carousing above
might fall into his lap.

Thomas
smiled. "May I join you in what passes for solitude in this worldly
place?"

The
young man's eyes came to rest on the monk's tonsure. "You are new to the
area, Brother?"

"Aye,"
Thomas replied, happy to answer this one question with truthfulness.

"There
is the priory of Amesbury across the river. You would find more congenial
company there." He examined the monk with some curiosity. "Your habit
is not one commonly seen on the king's roads. Is your Order...?"

"...that
of Fontevraud. In truth, I knew about the priory, since I bring a message of
greeting from another daughter house, but my journey has been long. The hour is
now late, and I fear the gates have been closed." Thomas looked around him
with wide-eyed amazement. "I thought I might clear the travel dust from my
throat before I found a stable in which to sleep, but I have long been out of
the world. I had no idea that this inn would be so..."

"Popular?"
The man's laugh was merry and utterly devoid of ridicule. "Forgive my
discourtesy, Brother." He gestured to a seat opposite him. "I am
Bernard of Amesbury, a glover in this town. Will you join me in some
wine?"

Although
this Bernard was as sober as he had looked, he turned out to be a most sociable
man, much inclined to talk as he poured Thomas a generous cup of wine. The
stout fellow might be a merchant, but Thomas warmed to him as he sat back and
listened to the glover tell him about Amesbury and its unusual environs. With
more drink, he thought, the man's tongue would surely loosen, and he could pose
some questions.

"There
is a great stone circle not far away. If you came to Amesbury by the western
road, surely you saw it."

Thomas
shrugged. It was just as well, he decided, to remain vague about his journey.
Even though they had traveled from the east, he had heard talk of this circle
on the way. "The sun was setting, and our party was hurrying to reach the
village before dark. I noted it but little. A strange pile of huge rocks?"

"Perhaps
you were wise not to tarry, for many believe it a haunt of Satan and his
minions. The plain on which it sits is bleak enough for hellish things, and
there are always robbers to beset lone travelers even if the Devil is not
about."

"Robbers,
imps, or both? What is your opinion?" Thomas carefully sipped his drink
and was surprised to find that the wine was a pleasant one. He hoped he was not
sampling Master Herbert's wares.

"Lawless
men are everywhere in England, Brother, but I cannot believe the stones shelter
imps." Bernard shut his eyes and smiled as if falling into a pleasant
dream. "It is a wondrous place. Sometimes I have imagined that a knight of
the Round Table raised it as a monument after King Arthur's death on Salisbury
Plain, or else Brutus of Troy came here, hoping to rebuild the city of his
father. When the days are at their longest, I ride out to watch the light
playing amongst the stones and how the shadows dance. I feel no fear, even when
I walk to the center. Instead, there is only profound silence, one that is as
calming as if God had blessed the place. I doubt any evil lives there." He
laughed, dimples plunging deep into his cheeks. "I burden you with my
fanciful thoughts and beg pardon!"

"Nay,
Master Bernard, do not apologize, but please forgive me if I ask this: do you
write verse? Singing well-turned phrases at court might serve both you and your
gloves well!" Thomas grinned with genuine pleasantry. "I have heard
that King Henry and his queen happily part with coin and gifts for finely
crafted art. Business might come your way as well."

Bernard
quickly sang the one English line from
Dou Way
Robyn.
His voice
grated like a saw on metal. "That may prove my lack of talent in the art
of music, Brother. In truth, one of my neighbors has forbidden me to sing, lest
my voice hurt the ears of his pigs. He claims the sows would miscarry should
they hear me."

"Surely
your neighbor jests."

"He
is my sister's husband."

Thomas
laughed and took another appreciative sip of the wine. "Your stone circle
does intrigue me. If there are no imps in residence, our party had only lawless
men to fear. We must have been most fortunate to avoid them."

"They
do not bother large or armed groups, nor those from our village. I suspect they
are local men." The glover's expression soured. "Were there not some
honor amongst them, we would be severely troubled. Our sheriff fancies boar
chasing more than he does the pursuit of men who break the king's law."

Thomas
raised an eyebrow. "A corrupt sheriff?"

"Nay.
A lazy one."

The
monk fell silent as he pretended to drink. Since he had gained little from the
discussion so far, he had to turn the discussion into another path. "Your
priory here is famous in our Order. Was it not founded by a Saxon queen who
murdered her stepson and sought forgiveness for her sin?"

Bernard
brightened. "Queen Elfrida. She died not long before King William came
from Normandy, yet many claim the site is far older than that. Others in England may say that Queen Guinevere died elsewhere, but we in Amesbury insist it was here.
After all, it would have been fitting that she live her last days in penance
near the place Mordred slew the king she wronged."