Priscilla Royal - Chambers of Death

“He was no greater sinner than most of us, my lady.” She rubbed her forefinger against her chin as she considered the prioress’ question. “A good man with horses. I’ll give him that. Never mistreated the beasts and had skill enough for healing their ills.”

Eleanor leaned forward, desiring to give the impression that she was just enjoying a good gossip, should anyone nearby care.

The guard seemed quite unconcerned as he continued to gnaw his food with evident content. Even the complaints of his growling stomach had muted.

“Had Tobye served this manor long?” the prioress asked. “The loss of a valued servant would be a great one.”

“Valued? Well, I suppose by Master Stevyn, a man that loves his hunting and will forgive much if his horses are healthy.” She shifted her weight on the bench, then quickly sipped her ale. “As for me, I found the fellow rude.”

“Indeed?”

“My words were ill-chosen, my lady. He did what was required and served the steward well. That was all anyone expected of him. In truth, he rarely spoke much, unless a fair woman came by. Then he was all smiles and bows and pleasing phrases.”

Eleanor did not think the widow’s reddened complexion was caused by the warming fire. Was it jealousy or sadness she heard in the woman’s words? As the prioress looked at Mistress Maud’s face, she concluded once again that she might not have been a beauty in her younger days, but surely she had had enough charm with those dimples and pink cheeks that young men smiled, bowed, and graced her with pretty enough phrases. Was it youth the widow now missed, resenting the loss more than she did Tobye’s flattering attention to others? Or did the serpent of jealousy coil around her heart?

A chill now coursed through the prioress as she suddenly realized how quickly youth must pass. For those without her faith and vocation, how did they cope if the heart still longed for love songs after the hair had grayed and the breasts sagged?

“Did the women like him in return?” Eleanor shaded her words with tolerant amusement.

“Master Stevyn’s first wife did not allow idle flirtations.” A shadow played on the widow’s face. “He supported her in this.”

“Yet the groom must have had his conquests nonetheless.”

“There have been rumors, but no wailing babes to prove the truth of them. Perhaps most were innocent enough. The cook took a liking to him, but she is no young girl and has never allowed any lover to come closer than the width of the kitchen table. No aging maidenhead was shattered there.”

Eleanor raised the cup of ale and sipped to hide her interest in this news. A cook was skilled with knives, for cert.

“Hilda may have slipped Tobye the occasional extra tidbit from the kitchen,” Maud continued, “but the master was wise enough to turn his eyes away from such insignificant acts.”

And might this Hilda have lost her reason when she discovered who shared her beloved’s bed?

“Tobye was clever enough to know the peril of offending a good master. He would have been discreet.”

Did Maud not know about Mistress Luce? Or was she aware of the adultery and wished to protect the wife from some stranger’s reproach? Eleanor remained silent about her suspicions and what she had seen near the outlying buildings. “A wise groom for a wiser master,” she replied instead.

“A man who might have had cause to learn hard lessons, my lady, but who amongst us has not?”

The prioress raised an eyebrow at that and was about to ask what she meant, but Maud now pointedly changed the topic to the amount of rain the area was suffering compared to prior years.

Why had she so swiftly moved away from the subject of Tobye’s murder? Not that Eleanor failed to understand why a widow, in particular, might not wish to dwell long on any more death, especially a frightening and cruel murder, but the prioress did wonder whether unease was the motive. Instead, did Maud fear she might let some secret slip?

But now was clearly not the time to pursue the issue further, thus Eleanor chatted amiably, pushing all darker thoughts aside, as if she truly cared about the rain.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?”

Thomas dropped a handful of bloody straw and jumped to his feet.

The man standing in front of him was angular and grizzled, his face scarred with red pits, and his green eyes so deep-set that their color had a darker cast. Master Stevyn was a horse-loving man who bore a marked resemblance to his favored beast. Even his breath came in snorts of evident displeasure.

“I am Brother Thomas, a member of the party accompanying Prioress Eleanor of Tyndal Priory who was given shelter here in your absence.”

The man continued to scowl. “And if you are a monk, tell me what cause you have to be in this stable, kneeling in the dirt like some beggar hunting for scraps inside animal droppings. Have we failed to feed you properly?”

Thomas pointed to the nearby horses and donkey. “This manor has shown us praiseworthy charity. When I learned of your groom’s cruel death, I offered my help and asked permission to tend our extra mounts. With that small service, I hoped to ease the burden our stay has added.”

“It seems to me that Tobye’s filthy soul has greater need of your prayers than the horses have for the currying. Others will benefit from a little extra work, for idleness is never far from being a resident vice here-or so my son insists.” He jabbed his thumb at a man of equally angular shape who stood behind him, stiff as a stick. “Although I confess my nose scents nothing of the Devil’s foul stink. I smell only honest horse shit here.”

As the monk looked around, he realized that the men, who had been working a few stalls away just a few moments ago, were no longer visible. Perhaps they had shown some wisdom. He slipped his hands into his sleeves and remained silent as the younger man stepped forward.

“Ranulf, eldest son of the Earl of Lincoln’s most honored steward,” the narrow-faced man announced.

And, as I remember, a pretentious sort and justly married to the pinch-mouthed Mistress Constance, Thomas concluded. In comparison to Ranulf, the monk preferred the father, despite his boorish speech and crude jests. Master Stevyn might be a rough-hewn man, but his easy bearing also spoke of competence. The son twitched too much.

Without warning, Ranulf threw his head back and bellowed.

“’S Blood,” his father muttered.

A half-dozen men reappeared from stalls. One climbed down a ladder from the loft.

“You lazy sons of bawds and cushions! How dare you let a man of God sully his hands with donkey offal while you sneak off to drink and swyve your pocky whores?”

One man scratched his chin. Another idly kicked at a few bits of broken straw.

Gesturing hither and thither, Ranulf roared his commands.

These were orders for such simple horse care that any man would have learned the tasks as a boy, Thomas realized. These men could probably do them in their sleep, as they may well have done from time to time. He quickly swallowed a chuckle.

At last the steward’s son was satisfied that he had turned chaos to order, and he turned to Thomas. “You may go back to your prayers, Brother. Worry not about these scoundrels. I shall keep close watch on them and make sure your few beasts get proper care.”

With that, he spun on his heel and marched away, robe swaying with his exaggerated swagger.

“Do as your conscience wills, Brother,” the father snorted, his eyes expressing weary displeasure, and then followed his son out of the stable.

Thomas turned to one of the men standing beside him. “My apologies for any grief I have caused by coming here.”