Priscilla Royal - Chambers of Death

“Nay, Brother. My father gestured for me to be quiet, which I obeyed, but I did roll toward the window and look out with due caution. The Devil was outside!”

“You were a brave lad. How did you recognize the Fiend?”

The boy cocked his head and took a man’s stance with legs apart and fists on his waist. That the limbs were like twigs and the fists no bigger than apples made the gesture even more poignant. “Wasn’t our master’s cook slain by Satan himself? That’s what I heard this morning, and I did see the Devil unbar the door to the shed where she was and disappear inside. My parents told me to say nothing lest the Evil One seek revenge on anyone who saw him.” The boy glanced up at the monk with a troubling look. “But it is safe to tell a monk, isn’t it?”

Thomas rose and reached over to grasp the boy by the shoulder. “Nothing sends the Devil dancing away faster than the protection of someone in God’s service.” He painted a cross on the lad’s forehead. “You are wise to listen to your parents and should not tell anyone else of what you saw, but this mark will keep Satan’s hand from harming you for what you have told me.”

The boy grinned.

“Did you note any details about this Evil One? He takes on various shapes, you know, and sometimes the likeness of someone we have met.” The question was worth asking, even if the boy had seen nothing more.

Shaking his head, the lad first denied seeing anything unusual, then frowned. His face suddenly brightened with one thought: “He was the darkest shadow I have ever seen, Brother! But the Devil would be, wouldn’t he?”

Thomas ruffled the boy’s hair and sent him back to the game with his dog. As he watched the pair walk away, Thomas almost danced for joy.

Although his discovery of the knife in the stable had proven of little value, he now had a sighting of the killer and a time when the deed was done. All he had to do was learn the names of the few who were abroad at that bleak hour, winnow out those with legitimate cause to be so, and question the chaff.

Eleanor was impatient for a walk by herself but knew propriety forbade it. A prioress, being of high rank, might bend rules if she did so with probity and reason, but the border between acceptance and condemnation was always narrow for any woman, whether she was bound to God or some mortal man.

When she insisted on traveling across a courtyard, filled with men, to the hut where Hilda was found, she had already challenged that boundary. The shock of seeing her determined march through their midst had caused those rough-mannered men to lean away from her like the waves of the Red Sea when Moses led the Israelites to safety, but she dared not chance censure again just because she was restless. Sighing, she longed for the freedom she possessed behind the walls of Tyndal Priory.

Eleanor looked over her shoulder and saw that her devoted shadow was standing a courteous distance behind her. Just a few feet beyond, the door to Mariota’s room remained open, and the servant woman could be seen embroidering a simple pattern on a cloth held taut within a small wooden frame.

The man leaned against the wall and bowed his head, thus indicating his thoughts were elsewhere and that she could assume greater privacy than his presence would otherwise suggest.

As the prioress sat down on the bench near the window, her heart softened toward the young man. He had been both sympathetic and respectful in his attendance, while remaining obedient to the orders of Sir Reimund.

She put a hand over her mouth to hide a smile. Indeed, the guard had taken those commands more literally than the sheriff had intended, diligently keeping her from harm while allowing her some freedom to do as she willed. Had he done otherwise, she feared she might well have made him suffer for it. It would have been wicked of her, and most unwomanly to rebel against his purported protection, but her tolerance for interference had become brittle of late.

Perhaps she should write Sister Beatrice for advice on how to thwart this growing obstinacy, for her aunt was a woman who also shared the attribute but had conquered it with penance by taking a far lesser position at Amesbury Priory than her abilities would have allowed. On the other hand, as Eleanor recalled her aunt’s adamant refusal to change her mind about taking on the leadership of that ancient priory, she did wonder, albeit with much affection, if her aunt had truly subjugated her stubbornness or just reframed the definition.

The breeze surging through the window felt chill and damp with the promise of yet another storm. Looking outside, she watched clouds layer one upon another, like wispy veils in several shades of gray, as they scudded across the sky from the sea not that many miles away. A small patch of blue sky did peek out to the west, but the brief view only taunted the earth with hints of the warmer seasons. Indeed, as the days grew darker, icy gales would become relentless.

Eleanor shivered.

In contrast, crusaders, returned from Outremer, had told her tales of the merciless sun that blistered their skin, although the nights could be so chill that soldiers had died of the cold. Some of these men, now home and faced with autumns like this, longed to go back to such brightness. Others thanked God that they had escaped Hell. What would her brother, Hugh, think whenever he returned? Eleanor closed her eyes and offered a brief prayer for her eldest brother, a man who had grown strangely silent since the new king had left Acre.

Prayer for her brother had calmed her, and she leaned against the damp stone. Walking abroad when the air would soon grow misty with rain was ill-advised for many reasons. She would be wiser to remember that these troubling events had prevented her from honoring many Offices. A walk to the chapel would be in order.

As she rose, Eleanor glanced down on the courtyard. In one corner, she saw Brother Thomas tossing a stick for a crippled dog. Next to him was a small boy whose laughter was merry enough to cut through the activity around them. She rested her chin on her hand and watched the monk crouch down and talk with the boy who seemed quite pleased to be telling him some tale. Then the pair parted, and her monk walked briskly toward the manor house.

What a good man he was, she thought, and what pleasure she had had in his company during this journey. Although she had not been able to banish lust entirely, she had found some chaste joy in his wit and clever arguments when they debated together. Shared jests had been common, and the laughter they enjoyed seemed as effective in chasing away Satan’s temptations as lying on a cold floor for an hour of prayer.

She most certainly had cause enough to bemoan this trip, and looked forward to seeing the entrance gate of Tyndal, but she would also regret trading his sweet companionship for that of accounting rolls, which were possessed of far less wit than her monk whatever their other estimable qualities.

Musing on this, she began to turn away from the window when something below abruptly drew her attention back.

Side by side, Mistress Luce and the physician’s widow were walking past the hut where Hilda had been kept. The way they gestured and talked, one might almost conclude they were boon companions. Yet the prioress knew well enough, from a brief encounter with them together and several remarks made by each, that there was a dearth of affection between them.

But could she trust that conclusion? Hadn’t she been proven wrong about much-or at least hadn’t many of her opinions been placed in doubt?

She had erred in her judgment of Mistress Maud. The woman had seemed competent and possessed of balanced humors. After what Mariota had witnessed, however, that good impression was shattered.