Justice for the Damned (2 page)

The
sound of running feet interrupted the conversation. As the three women looked
toward the Chapter House, they saw the face of a very young novice appear at
the doorway.

The
girl glanced around in evident distress. When she saw the threesome, her eyes
grew round with relief. "Sister Beatrice!" she shouted, raised the
hem of her woolen robe up around her knobby knees, and bounded toward the
novice mistress.

Just
before the girl skidded to a halt in front of her, Beatrice straightened
herself into a model of proper sternness. "Soft!" she said. "You
are no longer in a castle filled with warriors and hounds. This is a priory,
dedicated to God, a God that loves hushed speech..."

The
girl's manner instantly grew solemn as befitted the gravity of a messenger.
"I ask forgiveness, Sister, but Brother Porter is very upset. He said I
must beg you come to the gates with due haste." The child stopped, gulping
air as if she had been holding her breath along with the message from the
moment she had been sent to find the acting prioress.

Beatrice
laid a calming hand on the girl's shoulder. "Slowly, now. Tell me what has
happened."

"The
ghost! Last night he saw it!"

"Brother
Porter?"

"Nay!
Wulfstan has come!"

Astonished,
Eleanor stared at her aunt. "Ghost?"

"Satan,
it seems, has given our founder leave to trouble us." Beatrice hid her
hands in the sleeves of her robe. "Queen Elfrida's spirit has returned
from Purgatory."

Chapter
Two

Brother
Thomas longed to weep, but his eyes remained dry. They stung as if he had
rubbed them with salt. Had he no tears left, he asked himself, or had he become
like the woman known only as
Lot
's wife?

He
had always assumed God had turned that insubordinate creature into a pillar of
salt for defying Him. Now he wondered. Might He have forbidden Lot's family to look back on the annihilation of their city out of mercy, knowing that
mortals could not survive the grief such slaughter of loved ones would bring?
If that was the truth of the tale, Lot's wife had not turned to salt for her
sin of disobedience. Instead, the cause was her infinite tears of unbearable
sorrow.

As
he now mourned his own bitter loss in utter silence and with no hope of
comfort, Thomas was beginning to understand what this unnamed woman might have
suffered. "Must it ever be so?" he whispered as he seated himself,
cross-legged on the ground. Pounding his fist into the forgiving earth, he
pressed the back of his head into the rough bark of a tree and shut his aching
eyes.

He
had not wanted to come to Amesbury Priory and had fought against doing so, but
his black-clad spy master refused to yield or compromise.

"I
cannot go to Amesbury!" Thomas had cried out, still gasping from the other
news the man had brought.

If
the priest had had lips, he might have smiled. "A change of scenery will
do you good," he said, sipping wine from a beautiful goblet that had once
been used by a less than saintly Tyndal monk whose current residence was
probably Hell.

Despite
that small, gold cross attached to a silken cord around the man's neck, Thomas
wondered if the priest was one of Satan's own. Surely he needed something
larger to remind him that he was supposed to serve a Lord who exemplified
compassion.

"First
you tell me that my father is dead, and then you send me off to hunt manuscript
thieves. Will you not leave me alone so I might grieve a while?"

The
man in black shrugged. "Why such grief? Although your father might have
been most generous to you, a bantling seeded in a serving wench, your choice of
bedmate surely killed his little fondness. You are a sodomite, a sin much akin
to murder in the opinion of some. Surely I need not remind you of that? I am
kind to set a task for you, my son. Sorrow without distraction becomes an
indulgence that festers into sin." He let his words sink in as he swirled
the wine in his goblet, then sniffed at it. "Your prioress has an
exceptional wine merchant."

"And
what sick brother am I to visit this time?" Thomas spat. "If you
continue to send me on these errands, even the Devil himself will find it hard
to devise enough plagues to afflict my mythical family. Or," he lashed
out, "shall I tell Prioress Eleanor that my father has died at
Berkhamsted..." He pointed to a hypothetical location on the table.
".. .which is why I must go to Amesbury?" He banged his fist on
another location far to the west of the first. "Do you know that her aunt
is novice mistress in that priory?"

The
man in black said nothing, continuing instead to study the color of his wine.

"Wouldn't
Sister Beatrice find it odd that a monk from Tyndal had arrived and was showing
much interest in the Amesbury Psalter when Prioress Eleanor did not even know
he was there?

Might
I suggest that one of your other underlings be the wiser choice
to
catch
the thief who wants this precious item? How do you even know... ?"

"We
received warning." The man in black savored the last of his wine, then
stared into the empty goblet with evident regret. When at last he looked up, he
blinked, and his expression slowly developed into mild surprise. "Did I
not tell you? Your prioress will be traveling with you," he said. "It
is all arranged."

The
raucous cawing of a large crow dragged Thomas out of his miserable reflections,
and he glanced up to see the cause of such avian rage. What he witnessed
brought him to his feet in horror.

Lying
flat on the severely pitched roof of the priory library and scriptorium, a man
clung by his fingers to some invisible groove in the slate covering. The great
black bird swooped at him, circled, and flew once more at the man's head.

"Help!"
Thomas shouted, but there was no one near to heed his cry. He ran to the wall,
searching the ground with frantic haste for some fallen ladder.

Above
him, he heard a scrabbling sound and next a voice: "Thank you, Brother!
You scared the fiendish fowl away. I am safe enough and most grateful to
you."

Thomas
looked up.

The
young man, now standing with both feet firmly planted on the narrow
scaffolding, was lean, muscular, and dressed only in his braes. Although his
naked chest was still heaving from the exertion and his long brown hair was
dark with sweat, the fellow was grinning.

Despite
his pounding heart, Thomas returned the man's infectious smile. "A
miracle!" he shouted back.

"One
peril of my occupation, Brother, but one to which I have become accustomed.
King Henry may have given the priory ten cartloads of lead, but this roof has
too steep a pitch for that and the slate was badly installed. Nails have
rotted.

Leaks
occur. There are manuscripts within that could be damaged. I do my best to keep
that from happening." He put his hands on his hips and gestured with his head
in the direction of a nearby tree. "The crow has a nest there. I had come
too near her young. When she flew at me, I lost my footing." He bent
backward and fell. The scaffolding groaned, and the wooden walkway bent
alarmingly.

Thomas
cried out, instinctively raising his arms as if he might truly and safely catch
a man falling from such a height.

The
roofer jumped up, laughing like a boy caught in an innocent lark. "That
slip was but a jest. The monks lead such dull lives. I do them some service
with a harmless scare from time to time. Something must be done to keep their
humors from growing too sluggish."

"I
fear that
kindness was
lost on me, friend, for I am not from
Amesbury."

"I
did not think I had recognized you. I beg pardon, Brother...?"

"Thomas
of Tyndal. And you?"

"Sayer."
As a gust of wind shook the scaffolding, the man kept his balance like a sailor
on a ship. "Were you to slip over these walls for a bit of joy in the
town, as some of the religious in this priory have been wont to do, you would
hear me called anything from a fellow most fond of japes to an irresponsible
and heartless knave. You may believe most of that but never that I am
heartless." He slowly tightened his braes around the waist. "And
might you be a monk who finds he prays more diligently after refreshing his
sense of sin?"

A
feeling, akin to that of a virgin boy alone for the first time with a girl,
inexplicably hit Thomas. A lump formed in his throat. He swallowed. "And
if I am?" he asked as an idea forced the discomfort aside.

"I
must warn you that the Saxon queen, who founded this priory as penance for her
own misdeeds, has returned to torment the monks here. Some say that the wicked
ways of the religious have angered her, and she roams the path from priory to
village on many a night, bringing the fear of Hell to all she meets." He
shrugged. "Now the monks stay inside and pray for her earlier release to
Heaven as they were paid to do." Sayer's grin destroyed any righteous
meaning to his speech.

Either
this Sayer was only repeating gossip or else he was telling him that he knew
how to provide men, weary of hot dreams, with soft flesh for pleasuring. Might
he also know something about men who lusted after precious manuscripts as well?
"Yet she might not trouble strangers to the priory for these would not be
beholden to her." Thomas wondered what the man would say.

"You
may be correct, Brother, for her quarrel should only be with those who promised
to stay on their knees praying for the peace of her soul. If that is the case,
a stranger could seek me out at the inn without fear of her wrath. I can be
helpful—and discreet."

"Especially
if graced with a flash of the king's face?"

"I
love King Henry, Brother. He looks most noble on silver."

"Such
loyalty is no sin," Thomas replied and smiled back in spite of himself. If
Sayer provided whores for monks, he might well know others who worked outside
the law. Thomas groaned in silence. Such a man would be useful if he could ever
determine how to get outside the walls without provoking either suspicion or
gossip that might get back to the ears of Prioress Eleanor. Coin would also be
needed. Once again he cursed his spy master. The man was a fool to think a monk
in the company of his prioress was suited to this sort of investigation.

"In
the meantime, do not worry about me, Thomas of Tyndal. The fog might make this
surface slippery, but God must love those who repair priory roofing. I have yet
to fall to my death." Sayer tossed his head, his hair falling back to
frame his beardless face.

Somewhere
beyond the priory walls, a man shouted, his words lost in the breeze.

The
sound made Thomas blink, and he realized he had been staring at Sayer. A
handsome fellow, one that would have little trouble finding women to bed, he
thought, then felt his face grow hot with embarrassment. He should not make
such an assumption. After all, the roofer might well have a wife.

He
quickly raised his hand to bless the man in farewell. As he walked away, his
neck began to prickle as if someone was watching him. He spun around and looked
up at the roof.

Sayer
was carefully removing a piece of slate.

Chapter
Three

Although
the morning had promised warmth, the day remained quite chill. Accompanied by
her aunt and Sister Anne, Eleanor retreated to the lodgings belonging to the
prioress of Amesbury. There they found a lively fire. A servant quickly brought
both wine and cheese for refreshment and just as promptly departed to allow the
women private conversation.

As
they all rubbed their hands near the fire, Eleanor looked around at her
temporary residence, rooms she had rarely seen when she was a young novice and
nun. When she had been brought to these chambers some days ago, Eleanor had
commented with due courtesy on how comfortably appointed the quarters were. In
this she had spoken the truth, for her own at the East Anglian priory were
quite poor in comparison.

Three
of the stone walls in this public room were softened with well-crafted and
colorful hangings, whereas Eleanor had but one near her bed at Tyndal. Above
the door here hung a smaller embroidered cloth which depicted Adam and Eve
leaving Eden, a work that must have given Prioress Ida pause for thought each
time she left the tranquility of her quarters for the chaos of the world
without.

Against
the other two walls, full-length tapestries kept any cold at bay. One
illustrated the falling walls of Jericho, beside which stood a blond Joshua
bearing a shield with three lions. Eleanor wondered if this had been a gift
from King Henry or his queen in honor of their son, Edward, who was on crusade.
The other showed a matronly Virgin holding the infant Jesus; the mother's face
vaguely resembled that of the prioress in charge during Eleanor's youth.

Close
to the fourth wall stood an altar and an elaborately carved prie-dieu, the wood
of which glowed with a reddish cast in the firelight.

A
comfortable enough room, Eleanor thought, yet she had discovered one lack. The
Amesbury Psalter was missing, an elegant, illuminated work that had always been
used by the prioress for her own prayers. Or so she remembered.