Priscilla Royal - Chambers of Death

“This creature howled at a certain hour last night as if possessed. The boy’s parents were awakened, but only the boy saw the shadow of wickedness enter the place where our poor sinner lay. His parents said it must be Satan and that their son should say nothing about it, lest the Devil seek vengeance.”

“Let us praise God for granting them such wisdom.” The prioress nodded, continuing along the corridor.

“But I told him he could safely tell his tale to a priest but only to me.”

“God will surely reveal who was abroad with the Devil at that hour, for there must be some other sinner as witness.”

“Amen,” Thomas replied.

Eleanor gestured for him to stay back while she approached the chambers of the steward’s wife. She raised her hand to rap at a closed door.

“You needn’t disturb my mistress. She has no wish to see anyone.”

Eleanor spun around.

A heavy-set woman stood behind them, her narrow brow furrowed. In her hands was a tray with a pitcher and two cups.

The prioress swallowed her indignation at the servant’s curt manner. Perhaps this woman had been trained in service to the sheriff’s household where she learned to treat God’s servants with such disrespect?

The woman pushed past Thomas and the guard. Now face to face with the angry prioress, however, she paled. “I’ll ask if she will receive you, my lady,” she muttered, her voice dropping nervously, and then she knocked at the door.

It opened just far enough to let the servant edge her way through before shutting with a firm thud.

Eleanor raised an eyebrow. From behind the door, she heard raised voices, although nothing of the words spoken. Close by, her guard shuffled uneasily. Her monk was silent.

Then the door opened wide enough to let Mistress Luce emerge. She stood before them without speaking, hands folded across her stomach as if protecting a quickened womb.

Eleanor gestured at the two men with her. They stepped away to give the women privacy. “I did not wish to disturb you,” she said gently, “but if I might offer some words of peace…”

“You are kind, Prioress Eleanor, and I fear my servant has been less so. For her offense, I do beg pardon and have admonished her. She will not repeat that affront. As for God’s peace…” She bit her lip.

What has troubled you so, Eleanor wondered, noting that the woman’s eyes were red with weeping and her face pale as if she had just received some shocking news.

“I regret that I am unable to speak with you at the moment. This is the time of day I have vowed to remain silent in contemplation of my sins.” Luce turned away as if eager to be alone, then looked back with an expression drastically changed. “Might you come again tomorrow?” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Your comfort would be most welcome then.”

“Of course,” Eleanor replied. She wished to say more, but caution held her back. She had read two conflicting messages in the wife’s manner: dismissive annoyance and a deep need for the solace offered. Since she had just chastised herself for giving too much credence to flawed impressions, she decided she must obey the wife’s reasonable request to return tomorrow even though her heart suggested otherwise.

The steward’s wife bowed her head and quickly slipped back into her room.

Eleanor stared at the closed door. Again she heard speech from within but no distinct words. Did one of the voices belong to a man, or was it the servant, whose quality of voice had sounded deeper than most women? Realizing that she had stood there too long, she walked away, gesturing for Thomas to approach.

“We should go to the chapel, Brother,” she said. “I fear we have often missed the Offices with all the turmoil since our arrival.” She switched to Latin. “I have news for you as well, but let us truly turn our souls to God for a while. All of a sudden, I have grown very weary of the world.”

And the deceitful nature of mortals, she thought as a curious detail suddenly came to mind. If Mistress Luce had dedicated this time to solitary silence, why had the servant just arrived with two cups?

***

The time spent on her knees did nothing to ease Eleanor’s spirit. That night she slept fitfully, her overwrought mind racing in frantic circles like some kitten chasing his tail-and with just as much effect. If only she were back at Tyndal in her chambers where her own cat, a creature far too wise to chase anything without purpose, might settle into her arms and soothe her path to sweet dreams with his rumbling purrs.

Instead, a dog barked outside. Half in jest, she blamed the beast for chasing away what remained of slumber, as it most likely had some wandering nocturnal thing.

She sat up, arms about her knees, and listened to the rasping breath of Mariota sleeping nearby. Not wishing to awaken the recuperating young woman, Eleanor did not rise and pace, a method she often used to increase fatigue and thus fall back asleep with ease.

So she prayed, then prayed some more. There were enough sins of which she was guilty to spend many dark hours telling God how much she abhorred her mortal weaknesses. Yet her remorse was forced this night, and she knew God would not be fooled. Her thoughts were less on her sinful nature than on the guilt of whoever had attacked two people and had most certainly killed one of them.

In any case, Mariota is safe enough, Eleanor concluded, as long as I am with her. The killer has only attacked solitary souls, at least so far.

Panic grabbed at her heart. All around her, wavering shadows taunted her. Satan owned the bleak hours and peopled them with his imps who took joy in infecting men with terror. Shaking her head to dispel fear, she repeated what her aunt had taught, that shadows were but illusions, crafted by demons, and would melt away with the sun’s rising. She willed her thoughts away from fallen angels and back to mortal murder.

What was she missing? She felt as if she had been given a skein of spun threads, knotted and hopelessly tangled, to unwind. There were too many answers to the question of who killed Tobye, although perhaps too few to the identity of Hilda’s attacker.

The most obvious choice for the groom’s murderer remained the steward, but his demonstrated concern for the cook argued against his involvement in the violence against her. Perhaps he was unaware of the adultery, although Eleanor found it odd that he would be. Yet some husbands did refuse to give credence to slanderous tales for reasons known only to themselves, and others in this place certainly had equal cause to kill.

Tobye might have tried to gain something from either Mistress Luce or Mistress Maud in exchange for his silence. As for the steward’s wife, she could have killed him if he had grown bored with her body and had found a fresh bed partner. If either woman was guilty of cutting his throat, however, the only reason for attacking Hilda was if she were witness to the crime. That was not improbable. Sadly, the possibility that the cook might soon regain consciousness and reveal the name of the person she saw was growing ever more unlikely.

Yet Maud had surrendered her own bed to Hilda, swearing to stay by her side until Death came or God granted a healing hand. That act still spoke more of kindness than murderous guilt, especially since Hilda had not yet been conveniently smothered. Eleanor did not discount the use of clever deception, but her heart refused to cease its strong argument for innocence behind caring acts.

On the other hand, had the steward’s wife shown any interest in Hilda one way or the other? Eleanor had not raised the matter with Mistress Luce, but wasn’t it odd that the steward’s wife had not even mentioned that she would add Hilda’s name to her solitary prayers today? Whatever their own sins, most wives cared enough about those who served them to at least list their names for God’s attention whenever something dire occurred. This omission by the steward’s wife therefore troubled the prioress.