Justice for the Damned (9 page)

"I
pray your cousin will find consolation. Surely the argument was minor and soon
forgotten?"

Alys
brightened a bit. "I do not know the cause of their disagreement, but it
must have been a petty thing. Sayer is a sweet lad."

Eleanor
hesitated, feeling her fatigue. Her usual quickness of mind was another
casualty of her illness, and the moment to pursue any more questions under the
guise of innocence passed. Taking a deep breath of regret, she continued.
"You have been quite brave in this matter. Were you out walking with your
mother and affianced.

The
girl covered her face and moaned with renewed anguish.

Anne
and Eleanor stared at each other. What had Eleanor said to expose even greater
grief? Had Brother Thomas failed to tell them something?

"Please
forgive me," the prioress begged, clasping the girl to her for comforting.

After
a few minutes, Alys calmed. "You said nothing amiss, Sister. I sorrow most
for my uncle's death and hope God will have mercy on his blemished soul. I pray
as well that my mother, whose husband died most recently, may find ease. Yet I
have a secret grief as well."

Anne
stepped away so they could speak privately.

"I
will keep your tale in confidence," Eleanor said.

"My
mother wants me to marry a man I hate!" she burst out. "I confess
that my feelings may do him some injustice. Were my heart not joined with that
of another, I might feel..." Giving up the struggle to find a word, she
went on. "I can view no other man with joy. If I did not say so, I would
not be truthful."

Eleanor
liked the young woman for that. Her blunt speech reminded the prioress of
Gytha, her maid at Tyndal and a woman not much different in age. "Will you
join us?" She gestured toward the gardens where she knew she could sit.

Alys
agreed, her face slowly regaining its natural rosy color.

The
trio set off along a path, the stones worn deep by the rough elements and soft
shoes of many nuns over even more centuries. With silent discretion, Anne
dropped back to examine a yellow-flowered Planta Genista, the Broom plant
doubtless placed in the garden to honor the current king's grandfather who had
rededicated the priory to the Order of Fontevraud.

Eleanor
drew Alys into a corner of the garden, bounded by a trinity of ancient yews.
"A woman has the legal right to refuse a husband, for cert, but our
parents often see things with more wisdom than we do," she said. "Do
not misunderstand. I have not chosen to ignore your grief, but you seem a
sensible woman. I would hear why you have concluded that your heart is wiser
than your mother."

"I
long to do as commanded, Sister, but I fear I am much confused. I do not understand
why my parents decided Master Herbert must be the only choice. He is older,
although not without favor, and dresses well, which speaks of wealth. I can see
the merit in that. My father, before he died, had apparently found in him a
proper match for me."

Eleanor
laid a sympathetic hand on Alys' arm.

Gaining
solace from the supportive touch, the young woman continued. "My Bernard
is the son of a glover in the village, one who had an established business when
he died last year..."

"..
.a man closer to your age who has not yet acquired much or any wealth?"
The failure to add the word
profitable
had not escaped Eleanor's notice.

"But
one who will in due course! Of that I am confident. If my parents had found him
so unacceptable as a husband, why was he never discouraged, even barred from
coming to court me? Surely our blushes must have spoken the truth of our desire
to marry. We did nothing to hide our feelings. We had no cause. Yet, after my
father's death, my mother became obsessed with this vintner and now claims
Bernard is unsuitable!"

"Did
your father never speak of this arrangement to you?"

"No."

The
prioress noted with curiosity that the girl's eyes remained quite dry when she
spoke of this recently deceased father. "Was his death sudden?" she
asked softly. "Perhaps he did not have time..."

Alys
turned away from Eleanor. "He and I spoke together as little as possible.
What he wished to convey to me, he usually did through my mother. You need not
waste comforting words on me, Sister. Although I sought to obey the man's will,
as one must a sire, I bore no love for him. For that I shall gladly serve my
time in Purgatory, but I cannot feel repentant." She pressed tight fists
into her thighs, before continuing in a hoarse whisper: "He beat my mother
when he drank more than he ought and mounted her with as little tenderness as
if she were a common whore rather than his wife. My first memory of them both
was this."

The
cruelty in the tale hit Eleanor's heart with brutal force. She closed her eyes
but could not stop herself from exclaiming, "You poor child!"

When
Alys turned back to face the nun, all adult defiance had faded from her voice,
replaced with a child's confusion. "When my father died, I thought my
mother would see Bernard's fine qualities and how kind he is to me. My mother
is a loving woman, Sister! After she had suffered so, I was sure she would wish
just such a sweet man as husband for her daughter, but I was mistaken. She
holds to Master Herbert as if her very soul depended on our marriage. Had I not
known otherwise, I would now think my mother, not my dead father, had chosen
him for me."

The
deep exhaustion, which Eleanor had tried firmly to will away, now returned with
unavoidable force. Quickly, she gestured toward the stone seats. When they sat,
Eleanor hid the trembling of her body by bracing herself on the stone and
bending toward Alys as if encouraging the confidential talk. "What lack do
you see in the man your mother is so set on?"

"Oh,
he has enough of his teeth left," Alys said, her anger glowing in the
bright spots on her cheeks, "and his breath does not reek of the
grave!" She wilted into the seat with utter defeat. "I cannot explain
my objections. When I am with him, he makes sure my mother is in attendance. He
has never tried to dishonor me, yet he whispers things in my ears that I do not
care for. When I protest, he claims I have misunderstood, and his reasons are
well expressed. I often conclude I am misjudging him." Her lips twisted as
if she had just tasted something foul. "Nonetheless, I draw back from him
and cannot bear even the touch of his robe. I am unable to explain further,
Sister. Truly I cannot!"

"What
sort of things does he say?"

Alys
flushed, her face now completely scarlet. "He has suggested that Bernard
and I have already bedded."

"Have
you?" Eleanor asked gently.

The
young woman turned her head away as if she were confessing her sins. "I
have fondled him most lovingly, and Bernard has kissed me in such a way that I
have almost swooned. Yet, on my faith, I am still a virgin." She glanced
at the nun beside her as if to gauge her reaction.

Eleanor
compared one sweet summer eve at Wynethorpe Castle, before she took final vows,
with her lustful dreams at Tyndal and knew just how innocent these two young
people were of mortal sin. She nodded.

With
pleased surprise, Alys smiled.

"Was
the vintner married before?"

"Aye,
for some years, but his wife drowned. Master Herbert has always claimed she
slipped. Others say she committed self-murder, for she was in much pain from a
running sore in her womb that refused to heal. The crowner believed she had
willfully drowned and so her soul was cursed and her body laid in an
unsanctified grave."

This
would be Mistress Eda, Eleanor thought. The other ghost. Yet she could see no
way to turn her questions to restless spirits when this girl needed a
compassionate ear. "Might the vintner be unaccustomed to wooing after
years of marriage? Could he have meant well and intended only to show that he
understands the passions of youth?"

Alys
shrugged. "As I have said, I cannot explain why his words trouble me. When
he murmurs in my ear that he is capable of riding me until I scream with joy, I
should conclude that he means to convey how skilled a lover he will be. Yet I
hear only that I will
scream.
In that prospect, I find neither comfort
nor joy."

Surely
the man was not cruel, Eleanor thought, and is unaware of the violent mating
between the girl's parents. Yet there was something in the way Alys had
repeated the man's words that troubled her. "This Master Herbert may not
possess skilled phrasing, but surely... Was he not acquainted with your
father?"

"Aye,
and must have known full well what manner of a husband he was to my mother.
Only she believed that she hid the bruises from the neighbors, and, if I could
hear her piercing cries outside the house, they did as well. Master Herbert
cannot be ignorant of any of this."

After
hearing this tale, I shall always be grateful that I knew how tenderly my
parents loved each other before my mother's cruel death, Eleanor thought.
Children are not without ears or eyes, although many seem to think they are.

Alys
looked up at the sky in shock. "Sister, I did not hear the bells, but the
time must be past None! I promised my mother that I would accompany her to
prayers, and she will be worried." She reached out her hand and grasped
Eleanor's much smaller one in hers. "I thank you for listening to my
woes."

The
prioress squeezed the hand that held hers. "Should you wish to speak
further, ask Brother Porter to summon Eleanor of Tyndal."

Watching
the girl rush away along the path to the gate, Eleanor knew she had not served
her well. She must seek the young woman out on the morrow, before fatigue had
dulled her wits, and provide wiser and more comforting advice.

Anne
helped her rise, and the two walked slowly back through the gardens. Alys'
sadness over the death of her uncle reminded Eleanor of the black humors
cursing Brother Thomas.

He
should go into the village to seek the truth behind these apparitions, she
decided, and do so tonight. The sub-infirmarian had been right about the
eagerness that had returned to his eyes when Sister Beatrice suggested he find
meaning behind the ghost. If she did not have to snatch that joy from him, she
would not. A crowded inn was safe enough. The task should not pose any danger.

Before
Wulfstan's death, the hauntings had been benign. Why would they have suddenly
turned deadly? She could see no apparent reason, which surely suggested there
was no connection between some jape and murder. The sooner the two things were
separated, the better. Cautious fear of a mortal killer was reasonable, but
rumors of ghosts often allowed Dread to let loose her most foul child, Panic.

She
had already warned the monk to take care lest the spirit turn out to be a man
or imp with malicious intent. Now she would order him to leave the inn if he
began to suspect that the phantom and slayer were the same, or if he learned something
that pointed to the murderer's identity. Under no circumstances was he to
investigate further. She would not allow it. That was the work of the sheriff.

After
all, Wulfstan had been killed outside religious walls. Once the ghost had been
revealed as a man, the sheriff would no longer have his pretence of an argument
and must drag himself back from his boar hunting.

Eleanor
brightened at the thought. Then she might consider her own duty to Wulfstan's
family done and retreat to her sanctuary from the world's violence with a clear
conscience. She grew eager to resolve this matter quickly.

Chapter
Eleven

Thomas
waited for Brother Porter to open the massive wooden gate and wondered what the
old monk thought of this strange command to let him go into the village when he
should be at prayer.

"God
be with you," the porter whispered.

"Pray
for me," Thomas replied with sincerity, noting only benevolence in the old
man's eyes. With a sigh, he wondered if he would ever be capable of such unquestioning
obedience.

At
least the air was mild tonight, he noted, as he walked toward the bridge
leading to the inn. Had God tempered it as a kindness, wishing to remind all
mortals that the season of life was upon them despite Wulfstan's cruel death?

Looking
around, the monk saw nothing that resembled any ghost. He felt a momentary
disappointment, almost as if he had been found unworthy of some crucial test.
Reasoned arguments may have proven that no such spirit could exist, but he,
Thomas, was troubled by Sayer's fears and even by the merchant's suggestion.
Men of accepted wisdom have been wrong before, he thought with some
irreverence, although he would not voice his fleeting doubts about wandering
souls to either Sister Beatrice or her niece.

When
he reached the bridge, he stopped. He would have no problem finding the inn.
Even at this distance, he could hear the laughter, shouts, and snatches of
song. A memory flashed through his mind of another inn, one in London where he and Giles had often found a woman to share for an evening. Something
twisted painfully inside him. He struck his heart with his fist, and the image
shattered like some fragile object.