Priscilla Royal - Chambers of Death

As for Huet, she dare not dismiss the possibility that he was a killer. He had lied, knowing Brother Thomas would catch him out, a likelihood he seemed not to mind. On brief acquaintance, he appeared a clever, talented, and pleasing young man, but the Devil was charming too, Eleanor thought ruefully, and the reasons for Huet’s abandonment of his priestly education as well as the details of his wanderings outside England remained unknown. Perhaps he lied simply to see what her monk would do. This younger son might yet prove to possess a heart grown cancerous with disinterest toward anything not of direct value to himself.

Now, of course, there was reason to suspect he was the widow’s lover-or perhaps his stepmother’s-or even both. Eleanor cringed at the latter. Like his father, however, he had also defended Hilda, albeit with a lie, and she truly could see no reason to do so if he had then tried to kill her.

The prioress could no longer bear to remain so still. She rose and quietly slipped to the window. Easing open the wooden shutters, she looked down on the silent courtyard. Storm clouds must have shrouded the moon, she thought. Even that dim light had been banished.

A rude wind from the north nipped at her cheeks, and she drew back. Shuttering the window to keep the cold from her sleeping charge, Eleanor sat back on her heels and rubbed grit from the corners of her eyes.

And what should she conclude about the quarrel she had witnessed earlier between the steward’s wife and Mistress Maud? Why had Luce summarily ordered the older woman from the manor grounds? Was it a petty thing or had she learned something malign such as an affair between the widow and Huet? Was the cause of the dispute something else entirely with nothing to do with murder? Perhaps she would learn more from Luce in a few hours.

In any case, Maud had not left that night. The prioress had seen her enter the room, where Hilda lay, with a small tray containing the ingredients needed for potions and poultices. Perhaps this quarrel was nothing new between the two women and Eleanor should dismiss it as irrelevant.

As for Mariota’s care, the usual servant had arrived with instructions from the widow on the herbal doses needed for her recovery. Both herbs and portions seemed safe enough, she thought, grateful to Sister Anne for teaching her something more of healing than a woman’s usual knowledge.

And then there was the question of the second cup on the servant’s tray when Eleanor was refused entrance to Mistress Luce’s chambers. Was there someone in that room, a person the steward’s wife did not want the prioress to see? Or was she expecting another visitor soon whom she did not want Eleanor to meet on the way? She shrugged and hoped she did not really need to resolve this particular question.

At least Brother Thomas had found a witness who saw a person enter the storage hut. With a start, however, Eleanor realized that she did not know what shape the presumed imp had assumed. Was it a man’s or a woman’s? The boy had not said. Would he have mentioned it if he thought it was a woman’s?

“How could I have been so foolish?” she groaned softly. They could have eliminated suspects if only she had thought of this one simple question. Brother Thomas might have gone back to ask the boy yesterday, but now that detail must wait for resolution until morning. Could he find the boy alone again? In fact, despite his argument that the lad might safely tell tales of seeing the Devil to a priest, the boy’s parents might not want their son to speak anymore on this matter.

If only she could count on Sir Reimund to seek the truth of what had happened here, a man far more knowledgeable about the details of life and relationships in this manor than any stranger. Even if she and Brother Thomas discovered the killer’s identity, would the sheriff listen unless the perpetrator was someone guaranteed not to offend the owner of this manor or his steward? How could she force him to render honest justice? She must find a way.

All logic still demanded that she let this matter go, but her heart clenched in outrage at the very thought. Hilda had been chosen to hang, yet her guilt might rest only in the witnessing of something that could reveal the true killer-that and a woman’s weakness for a handsome man.

But the latter was God’s business alone. Tobye had had no wife and thus Hilda’s only sin was a passing but secret lust. Sin enough, for cert, but a minor one and easily purged with confession and penance. Neither king nor bishop would have demanded death for that.

Eleanor stilled her rushing thoughts, but silently staring into the graying darkness did not enlighten her. Everything she had considered was far too complicated and must be hiding the simpler answer, but her mind baulked from further pursuit. She would give up the attempt until dawn broke.

Eleanor slipped back to her bed, lay down, and shut her aching eyes against the growing light. Perhaps sleep would come now, although it was surely time for the Morning Office.

And thus it might have been, had God wanted his prioress to rest.

Instead, loud shouting from the courtyard sent Eleanor out of her bed and back to her feet.

The naked body of Mistress Luce twisted with each gust of wind that surged through the stable. Her face was a dusky red, her legs stained brown with foul-smelling excrement.

The steward turned away. “Cut her down,” he ordered.

Sir Reimund gestured at one of his men to climb into the loft to the beam where the hanging rope was tied.

Near the open door, Thomas stood next to his prioress and looked up at the body. He was often drawn to a corpse’s unblinking eyes. Sometimes he could read fear in a dead man’s stare, while others left the world with wonder frozen in their gaze, but Mistress Luce seemed to have greeted Death with incredulity. Was there meaning in this difference, he asked himself, or did no one quite comprehend the nature of eternity until the soul first looked into it? He shook the thought away and concentrated on details more pertinent to the dangling corpse. And indeed he found an interesting one.

“My lady, I do not think she…” he began.

She put a finger to her closed lips. “I concur.”

Mistress Constance, who stood near the ladder to the loft, began to sob, the sound akin to a wailing hiccup. The physician’s widow walked to her side and put an arm around the woman’s shoulders, but Constance shook off her attempt at comfort and moaned yet louder.

The steward glared at his daughter-in-law and muttered something incomprehensible, but whatever he said failed to moderate the woman’s cries.

Again, Eleanor cursed herself for ignorance of common practice in this place. She had learned that it was Constance who had discovered the body, rather than a groom. What reason had she to come to the stable at such an early hour? Surely her duties did not extend to the care of horses.

The man sent up to the loft had reached the beam where the rope was knotted. He pointed to it and shouted a question down to Sir Reimund.

“Just cut through it,” the sheriff replied, then put his hand sympathetically on Master Stevyn’s shoulder. “Might she have killed herself?” the sheriff asked in a hopeful voice.

“She had no cause,” the steward replied, facing the man with an angry look.

“Nor was she likely to have done so,” Thomas added, then looked down at his prioress with silent apology for speaking against her command.

“Continue,” she murmured. “As Eve’s daughter, I am bereft of logic. While you and the sheriff engage in disputation, I shall seek to give Mistress Constance a woman’s comfort.” With a conspiratorial smile, she walked off toward the two women by the ladder.