Priscilla Royal - Chambers of Death

Thomas knew that anyone in that busy courtyard might find profit in relaying information to the sheriff. He inclined his head slightly in the direction of the small hut. “She witnessed the adultery, of which we were aware, and thus confirmed how wide-spread the knowledge was.”

Eleanor bowed her head and nodded.

“She continues to maintain her innocence.”

“Do you believe her?”

“I would swear to it for many reasons, but she does corroborate what one other claimed to have seen. Although it was not the night of the murder, she also saw an unknown woman meet the man long after sunset. She never heard her words, only the tenor of the plea, and thus she concluded that the woman was quite sotted with him. He, on the other hand, rejected her cruelly, telling her that he would never bed a woman too old to bear children.”

“Did she recognize the voice?”

“She hesitated to guess, but when I pressed her further, she was about to suggest a name. Then her master entered, and she drew back. With him there, she would say nothing more to me.”

“I saw you speaking at length with him. Did you learn something in that?”

Thomas frowned. “I tried to determine if he was vexed about the conversation I had had with his cook, but I failed. Either he is clever at hiding his thoughts or he had no concern. My own belief is that he is not a man to betray his feelings. Although he must surely know that his wife has been unfaithful, for instance, I have seen little evidence of it.”

“Amen.”

“He did tell me that the cook will be removed from here in the morning. The king’s man claims there is little more to learn about the murder. Although I have stood witness to her innocence, as has another, he believes there is cause enough in other testimony to hold her in the castle prison.”

“How quickly he decides such things,” Eleanor snapped. “Does he think this frightened woman will flee to the forest and seek protection from brutish and lawless men?”

“Perhaps he hopes she may die of a fever in a dank cell,” Thomas replied, remembering all too well some who had. “If that happens before a hearing, the true wrongdoer will escape.”

Eleanor frowned as she pondered whether that person was Master Stevyn, his younger son, or even the unknown woman. “I do wonder who she thought visited a man at such a dark hour and begged so piteously.” She glanced at Thomas, her eyes questioning.

“Before she is taken away, she might long for a priest to comfort her, my lady. With your permission, I will go to her.” He bowed.

Her lips curled into a thin smile. “The moment for confiding a mere guess may have passed, Brother. Fear of dungeons and hanging cause mortals such terror that the need to cleanse the soul predominates over such matters, but let us pray that she still clings sufficiently to hope and thus confides the name. In any case, convey my blessing. Tonight I shall beg God to let us find the true killer before this poor innocent is condemned to an undeserved and shameful death.”

The night before execution, some condemned may fall asleep, hoping to awaken from the nightmare of certainty into the dawn of improbable reprieve. Others stare with unblinking eyes at the dark walls of their prisons, begging for sweet moonlight’s conquest over the blood-red sun.

Hilda saw little difference between an immediate hanging and a slow death, gnawed by rats in a dripping cell beneath a castle moat. She beat her fists against the hard, indifferent earth, her eyes wept dry and her heart drumming with terror. Words for prayer had long since failed her. Instead her soul quivered, unable to think any longer on her many sins that might send her to Hell, even if she was innocent of murder.

Suddenly, she froze.

There was a scraping noise outside the door.

That was no rodent, she realized. Was someone unbarring the door?

The wood creaked, and the door did open slowly.

A shadow slipped inside. It had a clear and mortal form.

The cook began to sweat, first from fear and then irrational hope. “Why…?”

“To save you from hanging,” was the warm reply.

“You believe me?” She gasped. Her hand now pressed against a heart thundering with inexpressible gratitude.

“Are you not innocent?”

“Full of sin I most certainly am but not of the crime of murder.”

“But are you guilty of unseemly gossip?”

“I do not understand.” Hilda shook uncontrollably.

“Come now! Women are wont to chatter like squirrels, accusing anyone, not in their current company, of sins born solely in the fens of their unreasoned minds. Have you never done that? Do not lie, for I have overheard the chittering often enough amongst the servants.”

The cook opened her mouth to speak, but she was unable to form words.

“What did you say to that priest from Tyndal? Did you prate on and on as is the wont of creatures like you?”

“He took my confession, only that!”

“Only a confession of your own frailties? Nothing of your fevered imaginings about the sins of other souls? I think you are lying, Hilda.”

She shook her head.

“Give me your hand.”

The cook did so but felt no comfort in the warmth of the strong grip.

“Do you swear that you did not impugn anyone?”

Eagerly, she nodded. Her hand was released.

“But you wanted to do so, didn’t you?”

Hilda looked away.

“Of course you did, you frightened and wretched one. Most people would be willing enough to point the finger at someone else to save themselves from choking on the noose.” The laughter that followed held no mirth.

“I did not try to save myself by so doing,” the cook whispered. Her words were greeted with a long silence.

“Come with me then. You shall be freed of this place.”

Hilda now eagerly took the proffered hand, rose, and turned toward the door.

That was the last thing she saw.

When Thomas saw the gate to the courtyard open and the sheriff with his company ride in, he uttered a curse for which he would surely owe penance. Sunlight was still but a promise. Sir Reimund had arrived earlier than expected.

“Shouldn’t you be in the chapel praying, Brother? As we approached the manor, I heard bells announce the Office.”

“This woman’s soul cried out to me,” the monk replied, gesturing at the dark outline of the hut. “For such a cause, God may allow postponement of my prayers.”

The saddle creaked as Sir Reimund twisted to look around. “And where is your prioress? Have you sent her off to pray in the chapel, a place most proper for her to remain?”

Itching to pull this man off his horse and strike him for his insolence, Thomas folded his hands firmly into his sleeves and let his heavy silence be the sole expression of his fury.

The sheriff grinned, his teeth white against the gray light of morning. “Forgive me, Brother. I did forget the ways of your Order. Unnatural as the practice may be to most of us, she rules you , does she not?”

“Do not all men honor their mothers and bow to the Queen of Heaven?”

Reimund nodded, his assent perfunctory.

“In like manner, I obey my prioress, a woman who represents our Lord’s mother on earth.”

“Then I must beg her prayers on my behalf,” the sheriff replied with a brusque courtesy that did little to hide his impatience to get on with the task at hand. “I have come for the accused. Will someone announce my arrival to Master Stevyn?”

“I need no servant to roust me from my bed at this hour,” the steward called out as he rounded the side of the hut. Even against the dreary light of a struggling morning, his face was pale.