Priscilla Royal - Chambers of Death

“Gladly.” He shouted for two men close by to approach. “These will carry the dead man away as you wish. In fact, there is little enough the body has to reveal. The method of killing is common enough amongst those of low rank, and I expect we shall have the murderer in custody before long.”

Which poor, and most probably innocent soul will you weigh down with chains, the prioress wondered, the thought chilling her. Mistress Maud seemed to have the true measure of this man. Although she had intended to tell him what she had witnessed from that window, doubts stopped all speech. The sheriff’s outrageous behavior to her, when he knew she was a religious but not her rank, suggested he had little regard for those he deemed of little merit. Would he not toss aside any information that threatened an easy solution and one that would offend no one of high station?

There was another concern that troubled her as well. With the death of King Henry, a shift in power at court was inevitable. There was no guarantee that her father’s former influence would continue under King Edward. If the winds were changing even before the new king’s return, and Sir Reimund was cognizant of the fresh direction, he might choose either to ignore her testimony or somehow use it for ill if he saw political advantage in doing just that.

Prudence suggested she delay giving her evidence until she was sure it would be used in a proper manner.

“You said you were staying here because a member of your party had fallen ill?”

Eleanor tensed. Sir Reimund‘s expression reminded her of the look in a feral creature’s eyes before it killed the prey. “One of my charges, a young woman from our priory who seeks advice on entering God’s service with us,” she replied uneasily.

“And does she mend?”

Why would this man suddenly show such interest in the health of a potential nun? Did he know her family? “She remains ill,” she said warily, “although there are hopeful signs of improvement.”

“Ah! That means you must remain here for some time. I shall have a man sent to guard you.”

“There is no need,” she protested. “I was accompanied by several men and am sure you will require the services of all yours.”

“Your safety is my responsibility while you are in this shire, my lady. If I did not assign one of mine to protect you, and you came to some grief, I would suffer well-deserved censure for my carelessness. The man I will select shall be discreet and respect your vocation, but he must remain nearby at all times until this foul killer is captured.”

She had been bested! Eleanor seethed. This man, who must spend time at court, had apparently learned more about her than her father’s position. Why had she not realized this? Her aunt had told her that her exploits against those in Satan’s thrall had reached many ears. Sir Reimund had obviously heard the tales of how she had brought some to justice.

“After these men have removed the corpse to the chapel and out of profane sight, I am sure you will want to follow immediately and pray for the poor man’s soul.” With a deep bow, he turned and walked away, his bearing confident as if he had just won at chess.

Eleanor watched him, grinding her teeth with fury. This sheriff was no fool. Although she had never intended to meddle, he must have feared she might do just that. By placing her under guard, however reasonable that might seem, he effectively prevented her from doing anything that might embarrass him or keep him from making a quick arrest, one made with minimal concern for justice but maximum benefit to his ambitions.

“But you erred in your judgment of me,” she muttered, “and now shall pay both for your insult and your presumption.”

A lanky young man approached, most probably her guard.

She smiled sweetly at the sheriff’s man. As she remembered her brother once saying, an army might lose battles but still win the war.

Eleanor and Thomas knelt by the corpse and begged God’s mercy for Tobye’s soul. Yesterday, the man might have been handsome enough to entice any woman to tumble with him in the stable straw. Today, his mutilated body proved inspiration only to hungry maggots and priests seeking an image for a sermon on mortal decay.

“Might your guard join us here?” the monk asked in Latin, with no change in intonation from that of prayer.

Without hesitation, the prioress answered in Latin as if replying to a priest’s call for a congregational response. “He waits outside and gladly enough. I told him we wished to pray alone for the groom’s unshriven soul. The guard must be new at this work because his face turned green at the sight of this poor man’s slit throat, then paled at the thought that his spirit might still be hovering. Fortunately,” she added with evident amusement, “you do not fear ghosts, as I learned at Amesbury.”

After all this time, Prioress Eleanor’s Latin proficiency should not surprise him, but Thomas knew that most women of religious vocation, even those holding high rank, had little knowledge of it. Now that she had reminded him of the events at Amesbury, however, he remembered Sister Beatrice, a woman possessed of a most formidable mind and education, who had taught Prioress Eleanor and just happened to be her aunt.

“How I wish Sister Anne were here,” he replied, hoping his hesitation did not suggest he had changed his mind about wandering spirits.

“She has tutored you well enough, and I have long trusted your ability to note significant details. Please be quick in your examination of that body, however, lest my guard grow suspicious or someone else joins us in this small chapel. Convey in Latin what this sad corpse tells you.”

Rising quickly, Thomas walked over to the body and stood where he could keep the chapel door in view. He pulled the rough sheet down just far enough to expose Tobye’s naked chest, then began touching his cheeks and neck.

Eleanor continued intoning prayers.

“He has not yet fully stiffened.” He checked the hands, arms, chest, and shoulders. “I cannot be sure, since I did not see the body where it lay, but I see no evidence of a struggle. No blood on the fingers nor obvious flesh under the nails, only the usual mud and dirt. No unusual cuts, bruises or scratches.”

The prioress gave a short answer to suggest they were continuing the call and response of a set prayer.

The monk now bent to study the throat cut. “If the groom was asleep when he was attacked, either a man or a woman might have slit his throat. It was cleanly done, which suggests little or no hesitation about committing the deed. That points to a man, one who hunts or has experience in battle. The killer must be skilled with a knife to cut so efficiently and quickly, nor was it deeper than required to send the soul to judgement. Thus I might conclude the deed was not done in the heat of anger.” Fearing he had heard a sound, he glanced up.

Eleanor looked over her shoulder as she continued her prayers, then gestured for the monk to continue.

Thomas examined the head before quickly pulling the sheet over the body. “That is all my poor skills tell me.” Quietly returning to his prioress’ side, he knelt and whispered, “The lord of this manor could surely have killed the man who had put horns on his head.”

“Or else a woman, skilled with cutlery, who became enraged when another supplanted her in the bedding straw. We must look further into this crime,” she continued to chant.

Puzzled, Thomas looked at his prioress. “I am your servant in all things, my lady, but will you give me leave to ask a question?”

“Granted, Brother.”

“How far will we pursue this? I understand that the king’s man has a certain reputation, but reason also argues that those who live here know the nature and relationships of their fellows better than we. Surely they will provide good evidence and force the king’s man to render a proper justice. As strangers, I question our efficiency in this matter. As guests, do we have the right to interfere?”