Priscilla Royal - Chambers of Death

She decided to change the subject and walked to the window. “Who is Sir Reimund?” she asked, gazing down at those milling about in the courtyard.

“The sheriff of this county.”

Hearing hesitancy in the widow’s voice, Eleanor was reminded of the ever-absent sheriff in her own land. The dead King Henry displayed many virtues in her opinion, but his sheriffs had grown notoriously corrupt during his reign. Raising an eyebrow, she turned around. “Forgive me, but might I ask if he is a man not known for his energy in pursuit of justice, or even one lacking in some honesty?”

Maud took a sudden interest in one broken thread in her sleeve. “He serves the needs of this manor well enough, my lady, for he knows to whom the land belongs. As for honesty, the sheriff has never taken a bribe to my knowledge.” She snapped the thread in two, then met the prioress’ gaze. “We have learned that his methods of investigation in any crime vary according to the rank of the aggrieved. For this killing, we may expect a swift resolution. He will look to the servants.”

The prioress glanced back into the courtyard, seeking the sheriff. None below was dressed with an eye to fashion or elegance, as might be expected of a man filled with ambition. Near the stable and standing by a fine black horse, however, there was one in close conversation with someone whose neck was respectfully bent. “Does he not have a crowner to assist him in his inquiries?”

“Aye, but I would not look to that one for any cleverness. This is no local gossip, for my late husband treated the man often enough for cuts and bruises. The crowner is best known for the amount of ale he drinks than any crime he has solved. I doubt you’ll find him in the company below. He’s rarely sober enough to mount a horse.”

But Eleanor’s attention was suddenly directed away from sheriffs and crowners. Down in the courtyard, to the left of the one she assumed was Sir Reimund, she saw Brother Thomas talking to another man. She might not be able to hear what was said, but the gestures were eloquent enough. The man had shoved her monk, and Thomas had just raised his fist.

The Prioress of Tyndal dashed from the room.

Eleanor stood at the entrance to the manor house and tried to find some safe pathway through the turmoil.

A few paces from her, their piles of soiled linen stuffed into woven baskets, two laundry women chattered, pale faces close together.

To their right, several men argued, their gestures wild and their loud voices suggesting the disagreements were growing less than amicable.

Horses neighed. Babes cried.

And, somewhere in this madness of fear, a man’s unshriven soul had been sent to Hell.

The prioress shuddered, as if Satan himself had just brushed her cheek with impious touch.

“My lady!”

Startled, Eleanor turned to face the stranger who had appeared by her side.

“I am Ranulf, eldest son of Master Stevyn. You should not be in this profane place, even with proper attendance.” He scowled with evident disdain as he looked around. “Of which I see none.”

She stiffened at his presumptuous tone. How dare this man tell her where she should and should not be? On the other hand, she did not want to imagine what he would think if she told him she had come to stop her monk from getting into a fistfight. “A man has been unlawfully slaughtered,” she chose to say. “I wish to bring God’s comfort to his family.” After all, she had intended to seek them out.

“The Devil was his only kin.” He gestured at the crowd. “And here before you are many more the Evil One can claim as his own, vile creatures that should be frying in Hell’s fires.” His jabbing finger stopped to point at a plump, middle-aged woman, whose face was red with weeping as she clutched her fists to her heart.

What cause had this woman to mourn Tobye’s death, Eleanor asked herself, or were her tears born of shock and fear?

“Let me escort you from this obscene display.” Ranulf placed himself in front of the prioress as if intending to herd her backwards like some recalcitrant sheep. “A woman dedicated to God’s service rejects this evil world for good reason, and your presence here is most improper.”

A firestorm of anger at this impudence roared through her. “You are very kind to remind me of the corruption my soul may suffer,” she replied through clenched teeth, “but I…”

Like a prayer answered, the crowd parted and revealed the solution to her predicament. Over by the stable, the prioress saw that her monk was not rolling in the mud, trading blows with another man; he was still standing, albeit with fist firmly held prisoner by his other hand, and shouting. The object of his wrath had turned his back.

“Brother Thomas stands over there,” she said to Ranulf. “I would consider it an act of charity if you brought him to my side.”

Refusing to budge from his position in front of the prioress, he muttered, “I cannot leave you without protection here.”

She glared and folded her arms into her sleeves.

“Brother Thomas!” the man bellowed. The pitch was high enough to penetrate the crowd noise.

When the monk spun around and saw Eleanor, his expression shifted from anger to a thankful obedience.

She exhaled with relief and gestured for him to join her. “I owe you gratitude, Master Ranulf,” she said when Thomas was a few steps away. “I must no longer keep you from your more pressing duties. As you will agree, with a priest by my side, I now have suitable protection from the wickedness here.”

Ranulf hesitated longer than was proper, but he did finally bow and march off.

Thomas frowned as he watched the man leave.

“The steward’s eldest son,” Eleanor explained, her eyes following Ranulf’s progress across the courtyard.

“A grim face,” Thomas said. “When I heard him shout, I first thought someone had stepped on a goat’s teat.”

The prioress swiftly covered her mouth to keep laughter back, but the monk had seen the smile and grinned with companionable amusement.

“For this lack of charity, we must both do penance, Brother,” Eleanor replied, recognizing that she had failed to color her words with proper sternness. Ranulf might have been rude, but he had only meant to offer her protection and an escort away from harm. It was cruel to mock the steward’s son. After all, she was a nun and had no obvious cause to be in this place. If she were to point her finger at the greatest sin in this brief encounter, she would have to choose her own puffed-up pride.

“I have met his wife,” Thomas said.

“As have I.”

The two glanced at each other.

“Methinks he merits our prayers, Brother,” Eleanor replied.

The monk nodded, having the grace to turn away and hide this grin. “What may I do to serve you, my lady?”

“The reason I am here, thus causing Master Ranulf such distress, was something I saw from that window.” She tilted her head. “Please explain why you were about to strike that man?”

“I beg forgiveness…”

“When we return to our priory, I am sure Brother John will provide his usual wise counsel and remind you that it is the meek who shall inherit the earth. However, even though no monk, especially a religious of Tyndal, should ever trade blows with another mortal, I must hear the cause for your singular behavior today.”

“You have been told that a man was murdered?”

“One who worked in the stables: Tobye.”

“When I heard the commotion, I rushed into the courtyard and learned that his body had been found in the stable. Then I saw the sheriff’s men pulling the corpse outside.” He gestured toward the stable door. “I feared evidence had been destroyed by that thoughtless act and tried to explain my concerns to one of the men involved.”