Justice for the Damned (12 page)

"I
am not looking for a woman."

"What
are you looking for, monk?" The man's hand slipped down Thomas' back and
came to rest on his thigh.

Thomas
froze, shock now chasing off his remaining drunkenness.

Sayer
stared across the room and drank his ale in silence. His fingers briefly
stroked the monk's leg with a light caress.

Why
had God so abandoned him? Sweat began to pour down Thomas' sides. Was he not on
a quest for His Church? With his last ounce of mortal will, the monk silently
removed Sayer's hand. All speech had turned to ash in his throat.

Sayer's
expression did not change. A passing serving wench slammed a full tankard of
ale in front of him. Without a word, he drained it dry and dropped it on the
table. As the vessel tumbled onto the floor, the roofer swayed for a moment,
then passed out.

Thomas
sprang from the bench and elbowed his way through the crowd, not caring what
pain he might cause any man. He had to get as far from Sayer as he could.
Although the inn was hot, Thomas knew the heated air was not the cause for the
sweat that now bathed his entire body. Surely it was rage that filled him, he
thought, but something within him laughed.

Thomas
rubbed his coarse sleeve over his face and leaned against a rough support beam.
His humors were just out of balance. That was the reason for his strange mood
tonight. He had had no time to mourn his own father, then Sayer's had been murdered,
and the roofer's grief rekindled his own unhappiness. He had had too much to
drink. Sayer had as well. Surely the man had been too drunk to know what he was
doing. With God's grace, he thought, Sayer would not even remember meeting him
at the inn this night.

As
he pressed his back against the beam, Thomas breathed in the rank stench of inn
air, finding comfort in the smell of living men. Satan had best take his imps
back to Hell, he growled to himself, for he would not fall prey to them again.
He had work to do and valuable time had been lost.

With
all that now firmly decided, he shouldered his way through the inn door and
plunged into night's restless and less-defined shadows.

Chapter
Fourteen

It
was following the midday meal that Eleanor set off for Amesbury village.

In
the morning she had risen with an unusual eagerness to face the day, and, when
she joined the others for prayer, she felt a fresh surge of strength. Like any
mortal who has stood with one foot raised to step into the dark mouth of Death,
she savored the sensation while likewise fearing it would recede. Thankfully
the vigor remained and she gained hope. Besides, the weather was too sweet for
bleak imaginings.

As
she walked through the cloister garth after Chapter, she had lifted her gaze to
the blue sky and expressed gratitude to God for the warmth of this day so near
to Saint Melor's feast. Despite Death's recent dance for her soul, as he
pleaded to win it before her hair turned white, Sister Anne had dropped a portcullis
on his grim supplication, and Eleanor had no wish to raise the gate.

Lest
the clattering creature hold onto any illusion that Eleanor might still be his,
the prioress of Tyndal had sipped with determination her dark, meaty broth at
dinner and even found appetite for the eel with herbs and onions. The religious
in charge of Amesbury's kitchens had done well with the dish, she had thought
with appreciation, although she did prefer the defter hand of Sister Matilda at
Tyndal.

It
was afterward she told Anne and her aunt of her plans to visit Alys' mother.
She should offer that family comfort considering their kinsman's horrible
death, she said. It was her duty, and, if she happened to find out anything
about the ghost, Brother Thomas could pursue the details.

The
distance to the house of Mistress Jhone was not far, the novice mistress
reluctantly confirmed, and Eleanor promised to stay only as long as her
strength allowed. Needless to say, she would take two religious with her as
proper attendants, but they could be from the priory. After all, the Prioress
of Tyndal said with a playful smile, hadn't her aunt just expressed concern
about cankerworm in the fruit trees and wasn't Anne planning to teach Brother
Infirmarian how to make some of her most effective potions?

As
she kissed her aunt and hugged her dear friend, Eleanor felt a deep joy as if
she had just been freed from some dark prison. Eternity in the embrace of God
is a thing for which we all long, she thought, but surely it is not a sin to
look upon the earth He made so sweet with particular delight after hearing the
hushed and seductive voice of Death.

Now
outside the parish church, she turned to her attendants and asked to be given a
moment alone. Bowing her head in reverence, she continued on a few steps and
looked up at the ancient Saxon Cross, the wheelhead shape embracing the symbol
of her faith like the arms of a mother about her child.

She
rested the tips of her fingers against the weathered sandstone, closed her eyes,
and imagined the countless monks or nuns that must have done the same, even
before Queen Elfrida had founded Amesbury Priory. Had Edgar's queen also
touched this stone, her soul raw with guilt and grief? Or had Guinevere, weary
with age and ancient lust, before she begged entrance to a religious house
nearby?

Eleanor's
fingers tingled. Was it a coincidence that each story involved a woman burdened
by violence and passion? Might there be a message for her in their stories? Was
she herself not a woman guilty of lust and sick of bloodshed. Did she not long
for God's peace too? A sense of comfort and understanding slowly filled her,
and Eleanor began to believe that the invisible spirits of these two, long-dead
women might be beside her. For just one moment, she wondered if her aunt could
be wrong about ghosts.

"I,
too, have done this, my lady, but not since I was a lad. Do you think the cross
was here when King Arthur rode to his death on the plain?"

Eleanor
swung around to face a well-favored man, well into his third decade of life,
with eyes so brown they reminded her of good English earth. A merchant of some
wealth, she decided after a brief inspection of the fur trimming on his very
soft robe. Nor is he too modest to flaunt it, she concluded wryly.

"You
have the advantage of me, sir."

He
bowed with grace. "Herbert of Amesbury, my lady, a wine merchant by
trade."

Alys'
suitor? How providential, Eleanor thought. "I am..."

"Prioress
Eleanor of Tyndal." His smile conveyed pleasant warmth. "News of your
arrival has spread, my lady. Your reputation as prioress of a Fontevraudine
daughter house is well-known in Amesbury. We are proud of you in the village as
well as at the priory that nurtured you."

"Proud?"
Eleanor raised her eyebrows with mock dismay.

Herbert
bent his head in courteous concession. "A sin and not a sentiment that
your fellow religious would express, but we secular creatures, with more errant
souls, indulge in it with frequency. Pride we may feel, but the priory gains
greater honor as more tales of your competence reach us." He noted her
attendants with some curiosity. "You have business outside the walls, my
lady?"

"Sister
Beatrice bade me visit the sister-in-law and niece of one Wulfstan, a laborer
in this priory's fields." She gestured toward a house but a short distance
away.

"Ah!
The young woman is my affianced."

Not
as
affianced as
you would like to assume, Eleanor said to herself.
Careful to conceal her thoughts, she quickly changed the subject. "You are
a purveyor of wine, Master Herbert. Does your family supply the priory with its
most excellent vintages?"

He
closed his eyes. "Nay, another has always had that honor. I pray that God
has given my father's soul peace, but I fear that he was not as clever at
worldly business as he might have been while he lived. There were markets he
failed to capture."

"I
see that you have improved on the family fortunes, however." The prioress
inclined her head to indicate his fine attire.

"Indeed."
Master Herbert bestowed on her a most dazzling smile.

A
man who does not wish to hide the light of his talents beneath any bushel,
Eleanor thought. Alys had also been correct. The man did have a full complement
of teeth.

"Nonetheless,
wine is a business that requires travel to my vineyards in Gascony, and I had
hoped to settle more permanently in Amesbury once my dear Alys and I were
married. Before her father's death, he and I had agreed that some of my many
contacts, acquired over the years outside of England, might be useful in
improving his wool profits as well, but he knew men in London who could act on
my behalf in those places."

Eleanor
nodded. When she and her new prior had agreed to increase the number of sheep
owned by Tyndal, he, too, had acquired such agents for the foreign trade.

"After
the marriage, I had planned to find another to run the vintner trade, perhaps a
man without family, and spend more of my time closer to home and devoted to
wool. After the sad death of Alys' father, I feel compelled to avoid dangerous
sea travel and remain in Amesbury, for he not only left my affianced but a
widow as well. Both women need the security of my presence."

He
might be a tradesman over fond of his success, Eleanor thought, but she liked
his show of consideration for the needs of his new family. A man not without
compassion, she decided, glancing up at him.

"Were
you coming to see Mistress Jhone and her daughter as well, Master
Vintner?"

"It
would be wiser if I came later," he replied, his lips twitching with
presumed humor. "My purpose was to woo, but I fear that might not be
seemly when the Prioress of Tyndal visits. Would you not agree?"

With
grace, Eleanor laughed.

Herbert
bowed, accepted the blessing of the young monk in attendance, and dropped
something into his hand. A moment and he was gone.

Eleanor
slid her hands into the sleeves of her robe and watched him walk away. Their
meeting had been too brief for more than a hasty assessment, although she
acknowledged that she had enjoyed the man's clever and blunt speech. What she
found troubling was his attire: a soft woolen robe, with nap so new it was
still long and had never been brushed; fur-trimmed, and decorated with gold
pins. All this suggested vanity and excessive pride in worldly gain.

She
was a nun, of course. Having rejected even the simplest feminine ornament, she
knew that she might be disposed to see sin in any blatant display of wealth;
but she had also learned to distrust men, when it came to business matters, who
preened like peacocks. Unlike Tostig, her direct-dealing partner in the ale
trade and a man who cared more for the beasts he also bred than any personal
adornment, these well-clad merchants often tried to hide less than honorable
practices behind the blinding light of their gold jewelry.

Nevertheless,
there were always exceptions to any rule amongst mortal men, and Master Herbert
had jested about pride himself, a quality she found refreshing. There was
something else she liked about the vintner: his desire to care for what was
left of a sadly bereaved family. That had touched her heart. Maybe the man
truly was just a new widower, awkward in his courting of a girl not much more
than half his age who he must know was in love with another man.

To
Eleanor, albeit an old woman of twenty-two summers and not of the merchant
class, Master Herbert was agreeable in appearance, with a head full of dark
hair and lean enough in body to suggest he did not spend too long at table.
Besides excellent teeth, he had taut, clear skin on his face that argued
against a greater fondness for his wares than was wise. Eleanor realized with
mild surprise that she might not have minded giving her troth to such a man had
she been the affianced.

The
image of a certain red-haired monk now flooded the prioress' heart with dulled
but still palpable pain. Nun she might be, she said to herself, but she was a
daughter of Eve and knew how reason melted in the flames of a woman's passion.
Nay, had she been told to marry this vintner when her heart and body longed for
another, she would be as distraught as Alys. A more rational man might find it
easy to view this situation with cool logic, but Eleanor of Tyndal understood
all too well how the young woman felt in this matter.

The
prioress leaned against the house and vigorously shook the image of the
handsome monk from her head.

"Are
you ill, Sister?"

Eleanor
jumped away from the wall and quickly turned to face the speaker.

Standing
in the doorway was a gray-fleshed woman, dressed in robes of equal drabness,
who looked much as Alys might when she had reached near two score years.

Chapter
Fifteen

Thomas
strode to the library, his expression cheerless, his gaze determined, and his
tongue thick as if wrapped in rough cloth. Not only did his head hurt but he
ached all over after spending the night on the other side of the priory walls,
passed out on the damp ground with only a grass nest for bedding.