Priscilla Royal - Chambers of Death

He quickly checked the donkey to make sure he had finished with him.

These recent nights had been innocent enough. The two men slept in each other’s arms, nothing more. Thomas, however, had found too much comfort when Huet held him closer and wondered whether the man had really done so just for the greater warmth it provided.

Did Huet know his weakness? Was he using his wiles to seduce Thomas? Or did he hope that giving him such a minor pleasure would distract him from seeing some other evil that Huet had committed? Painful though the recollection might be, Thomas did remember that the man had left the hearth the night Tobye was killed. What he could not recall was exactly when he had disappeared. The absence was far too long for any trip to the privy and long enough to commit murder. But was it early enough to have left a corpse barely stiffened?

He cursed himself. Huet might well be as innocent of evil intent as a babe, while he, an accused sodomite, cloaked the poor man with his own frailties. And hadn’t the man’s sweet songs and skillful lute playing given Thomas as much pleasure as the music at Tyndal Priory? The stableman was right when he said the steward’s younger son had the voice of an angel. How could such a creature be wicked?

But his next thought chilled. Was he confusing pleasure in sacred things with some shallow and lewd semblance? “Dare I trust myself to know the difference?” he muttered.

As he stroked the donkey’s neck, Thomas concluded he must not be taken in by Huet’s clever manner and engaging talents. Nightmares born in his prison days might have effectively unmanned him, but he had cause enough to fear the aching sweetness he found in Huet’s arms. Since the day he had lost Giles, his heart had never ceased to weep with loneliness, although he had become more skilled at deafening the sound. Nevertheless, he knew how liable he was to grasp at false suggestions of ease.

“I cannot think more on this,” he whispered, swallowing bitter-tasting tears. Then he forced his thoughts to another purpose, looked around, and discovered that he was quite alone.

Kneeling in the straw, Thomas retrieved the blood-stained knife he had hidden in a corner of the donkey’s stall, just before Master Stevyn and his son entered the stable, and wished he had been wrong in suspecting the sheriff’s men had failed to look for it.

Although the usual merriment was well-muted that night, the manor hall was filled for supper. Even if a murder had taken place in the nearby stable, Master Stevyn was determined to honor his guests.

A blazing fire and the stifling warmth from so many bodies weighed down on Eleanor. Her eyes grew heavy. Might she close them for just a moment? But her head dropped, and she started awake. Fortunately, her companions on either side had turned to speak with others. Her discourtesy had gone unnoticed.

A servant bent to pour more wine into her cup, then noted it was still full. In truth, the prioress had drunk but little, nor did she have much appetite.

“Does the meal displease, my lady?” The man beside her turned around, his brow etched with concern as he gestured at her trencher.

“Envy is a sin, Master Stevyn, and I am jealous that you possess such an excellent cook. Her talents are remarkable.” Eleanor’s smile was gracious. “If my appetite seems dulled, the cause lies in my need to do penance for covetous thoughts, nothing more.”

The sound of his rumbling laugh was deep and pleasing, but the frown quickly returned. “I regret that violence has tainted your stay here, my lady.”

“I grieve that this house should suffer it,” she replied, trying to read the expression in his deep-set eyes.

He turned his face away.

“Sir Reimund has provided both protection and his assurance that the guilty one will soon be found. Fear does not disquiet us.”

“Had our sheriff not done so, I would have guaranteed your safety, but he is a very dutiful servant of the king’s justice. His diligence and concern do not surprise me.” The steward studied his folded hands and still did not look the prioress in the eye.

Should she be troubled by an answer that suggested he agreed with Sir Reimund’s methods, ways she found questionable because of their self-serving motivation? Or were his words nothing but the conventional phrases spoken to one who did not reside in the shire? Of course she dared not forget that this steward might be Tobye’s killer and thus his motive in saying anything relative to the crime must be examined.

Caution was due, but she also found Master Stevyn likeable, although she had certainly heard enough about him to suggest he could be a hard man. Yet he reminded her of her father, brusque in manner but equally capable of easy humor, sincere courtesy, and kind acts. The comparison softened her heart further, and she pitied the steward even more for the horns his wife had bestowed upon him.

“Are you sure your cook does not hold a secret desire in her heart to serve God?” Thus she pointedly shifted the subject from the problems of murder and hospitality. Her look spoke only of goodwill. “If so, I would welcome her to Tyndal Priory.”

“I will convey your willingness to have her, but I fear she finds passion primarily in the kitchen where she has served us for many years.” He gestured at a servant to bring the platter of roasted fowl and to replenish nearby trenchers. “She is quite proud of her chicken, swearing she can make the oldest hen pass for a much younger one.”

Eleanor nodded in appreciation but her thoughts stubbornly returned to what she had witnessed between Mistress Luce and the now dead groom.

Although she would not have called Master Stevyn a handsome man, with his pitted skin and angular features, the prioress thought he carried his late middle years with ease, and there was no aged dullness in his gray-streaked, brown hair. He radiated confidence and most certainly knew how to treat high ranking guests with warm hospitality but without extravagance.

These were all good qualities. Had Master Stevyn been her father’s steward, she believed the Wynethorpe family would be well-pleased with his blend of courtesy and prudence, rewarding him accordingly. Although she assumed he had been a younger son, perhaps of some landed knight, he had the competence to gain the attention and favor of good connections. Without question, he was successful and would be a good match for any woman of proper rank like his current wife.

That might be the practical and logical view, but Eleanor knew the heart was rarely either. There was still the matter of a young wife facing the marriage bed with a husband who might disgust her. Thus she asked herself how she would have felt, had her path in life led to such an arranged marriage rather than service to God.

Considering how fiercely she had fought to take religious vows rather than marry, she feared she might not have been as compliant about the choice of groom either. Once married, however, she would have served her husband with more honor than Mistress Luce had and borne the couplings if the spouse was otherwise a worthy man. Of that she felt some certitude. Although she had suffered unbearable lust as a prioress, she had still fought to keep her vows.

Fearing her musing had kept her silent too long, Eleanor hastily added a good-humored question: “Does her secret work for mortal women? If so, I know few on this earth who would not beg for her recipe!”

Mistress Luce, seated on the other side of her husband, suddenly bent forward and laughed. “My stepson’s wife, for one!” Her tone suggested no merry jest.

“If you cannot control injudicious speech, wife, be silent,” Stevyn snapped, his eyes narrowing until their color resembled burnt greenwood.