Priscilla Royal - Chambers of Death

As he considered the next logical step in his analysis, Thomas rounded the corner of the stable-and found himself face to face with the steward himself.

***

“Master Stevyn.” Thomas bowed his head in greeting.

The steward’s eyes were sunken deep into their sockets with weariness, and his hair had dulled to a grayer shade. He seemed a man of little joy, one who walked the earth solely out of habit.

“Ah, Brother,” he sighed, “tell me the limits on God’s forgiveness.”

Thomas hoped his surprise at such a remark was well hidden. “If a man is contrite and understands the horror of his sin,” he carefully replied, “God forgives much. Hard penance may be required, but such a man will welcome it to lift the unbearable guilt from his soul and keep it from the flames of Hell.”

Frowning, Stevyn folded his arms. “Then answer me another question, if you would be so kind. Does age make a man more reflective because the stink of death grows stronger in his nostrils? It seems we care little about what we do until our strength falters, our bellies sag, and our hair drops out.” He smiled, but the expression was a melancholy thing. “For most of my life, I never thought of myself as an especially evil creature. Like most men, I spent my youth in lusty pleasures. When a man dared to jab at my pride, I fought him. Yet I have worked faithfully for my lord and honored my marriage vows more than many other men do.” He fell silent and studied the monk as if expecting something.

This speech was a far longer one than Thomas had ever heard before from this man. Hopeful that the steward would say more, he emulated Stevyn’s firm silence.

“I fear you are waiting for a confession, Brother.”

“If that is your wish, I suggest we go to the quiet of the chapel where others will not overhear what is rightly said in private by a man to a priest and thus on to God’s ears.”

The steward laughed, the sound akin to that of an angry hound’s barking. “Why should I seek privacy? To admit that I am one of God’s more flawed creatures?” He jabbed his thumb at the stable. “If the servants and craftsmen of this manor dare not say to my face that I am imperfect, the horses will be honest enough.”

“God demands it, Master Stevyn. When we sin, we forget His might, but silence chases away all worldly concerns and distractions. In silence, His power may be rediscovered to the benefit of our souls.”

“You speak well, Brother, and I beg forgiveness for my mocking tone. Nothing ill was intended, but I am a simple man, one who spends his days considering whether seeds should be planted now or a week hence, whether the harvest will provide enough for the beasts to eat over winter, and, as leisure, where the conies are that my lord allows me to hunt on his land. I do not have a scholar’s skill in disputation. To men like me, a matter is either this.” He gestured with one hand. “Or that.” He raised the other. “I have little understanding of much in between.”

Thomas was not fooled by this demonstrably false claim of simplicity, but he did hear acute sorrow in the man’s voice and to that he responded. “I heard only the cry of a tired spirit, longing to find lost peace.”

Master Stevyn’s lids closed with fatigue so heavy that he struggled to reopen his eyes. “Would you go to the manor hall and wait for me, Brother? I have one matter requiring my immediate attention but shall join you soon. Then we will share some wine, and I will beg your patience in hearing my tale.” He stretched out his arms with evident discomfort. “Aye, this air is very chill with rain. My old joints ache today more than usual.”

Sympathetic to the man’s complaints, Thomas smiled, nodded his concurrence, and walked back toward the hall. As he reached the steps of the manor, he turned around to see where Stevyn had gone.

The steward had disappeared.

The monk cursed himself. Had the man’s light jesting about the aches of old age lulled him into complacence? Thomas had reason enough to suspect the steward of murder. Should he seek him out to make sure he did not escape? At the very least, he ought to have noted where Stevyn went.

The monk shook his head and turned again in the direction of the manor hall. After all, where could a man of his reputation go to hide and what more ill would he cause, assuming he was guilty of murder, now that his faithless wife and her lover were dead? As he had thought before, Stevyn might even be innocent.

Walking into the house, Thomas decided that the steward would keep his word and meet him soon. His conscience did seem troubled enough and eager to confess something. And Thomas would not fail to ask where the steward had been last night, about the time of his wife’s murder.

Constance lay on the chapel floor and clawed at the rough stone. Her nails might be ripped and bleeding, but she felt only the writhing agony of her soul. What should she do? Dare she speak out? Where did her duty to God lie?

“Lust,” she groaned. “All this has been caused by it. Punishment I may deserve, but surely my sins have been fewer than most. Do I not spend more time than other women on my knees in prayer? Did I not urge my husband to brighten the parish church with chalices and drape the priest in fine robes? Haven’t I valiantly fought for virtue, railing against festering sin, and did I not argue for abstinence in my marriage? And do I not loudly condemn the wickedness of creatures like Master Stevyn’s wife and the physician’s widow?” She turned her gaze to the base of the altar and cried out: “My mortal body may be sinful, but my soul is virtuous. I deserve better than this from You!”

From the soft shadows came a brittle laugh.

Constance fell silent, unsure she had heard that sound. “Who dares to ridicule my righteous longings?” she whispered. “If it is the Prince of Darkness, you shall not claim victory over my soul because of one little weakness, vile though it was!”

“One? You lie, Mistress,” the voice mocked, “and that is a black enough sin.”

Dragging herself to her knees, she turned and squinted into the darkness.

Nothing moved.

Had that been the voice of Satan, she wondered, her body trembling. Or did it belong to a mortal? The rasping sound was familiar, but she could not identify it, coarsened as the whispering was with cruel scorn. Surely it was the Devil, she decided. He was attempting to trick her, and she raised her chin in defiance.

“I do not understand what fiendish ploy lies in your accusation, Wicked One, but you know I tell the truth. Aye, I may have followed the adulterous wife more than once and watched as Tobye swyved her. But evil should have a witness, for it must not remain secret, and did they not couple like dogs or perversely with Eve above Adam?” Her voice hoarse, she licked her dry lips. “It sickened me!”

“Why then did you go to him and beg to be taken yourself in stable straw as filthy as your lust?”

Clutching her breast, Constance roared in protest. “Never did I grow so weak in flesh that I went to Tobye and asked…”

“Ask? Nay, Mistress, you did not ask . You beseeched him! Then, like any wanton, you dragged him down on you, spread your legs wide, and bucked…”

“A lie!” She threw back her head and wailed. “You mock me!”

“Do not deny what you did. Adam’s sons may be weak in flesh, but the progeny of Eve light Hell’s fire in men’s groins and drive them wild. Oh, didn’t you make the Devil dance that night with your writhing!”

“You and your imps had but little cause to frolic for that,” she whimpered.

Silence fell. Then the voice continued with a tremor. “You did not couple with the groom?”