Priscilla Royal - Justice for the Damned

"She does not interest me." Thomas had not even noticed her.

"A monk who is particular about how he breaks his vows?"

"Most are not?" A cold spot of sobriety was emerging just behind his eyes.

"Contrary to common jest, few of your monks ever leapt over the wall, and most of those were so shocked when their feet touched profane earth that their manhood wilted." Sayer put his hand on Thomas' shoulder. "The others jumped on any willing woman, after which they ran back to the priory, cupping themselves as if their sex might fall off from the sinning." His words slurred.

"I am not looking for a woman."

"What are you looking for, monk?" The man's hand slipped down Thomas' back and came to rest on his thigh.

Thomas froze, shock now chasing off his remaining drunkenness.

Sayer stared across the room and drank his ale in silence. His fingers briefly stroked the monk's leg with a light caress.

Why had God so abandoned him? Sweat began to pour down Thomas' sides. Was he not on a quest for His Church? With his last ounce of mortal will, the monk silently removed Sayer's hand. All speech had turned to ash in his throat.

Sayer's expression did not change. A passing serving wench slammed a full tankard of ale in front of him. Without a word, he drained it dry and dropped it on the table. As the vessel tumbled onto the floor, the roofer swayed for a moment, then passed out.

Thomas sprang from the bench and elbowed his way through the crowd, not caring what pain he might cause any man. He had to get as far from Sayer as he could. Although the inn was hot, Thomas knew the heated air was not the cause for the sweat that now bathed his entire body. Surely it was rage that filled him, he thought, but something within him laughed.

Thomas rubbed his coarse sleeve over his face and leaned against a rough support beam. His humors were just out of balance. That was the reason for his strange mood tonight. He had had no time to mourn his own father, then Sayer's had been murdered, and the roofer's grief rekindled his own unhappiness. He had had too much to drink. Sayer had as well. Surely the man had been too drunk to know what he was doing. With God's grace, he thought, Sayer would not even remember meeting him at the inn this night.

As he pressed his back against the beam, Thomas breathed in the rank stench of inn air, finding comfort in the smell of living men. Satan had best take his imps back to Hell, he growled to himself, for he would not fall prey to them again. He had work to do and valuable time had been lost.

With all that now firmly decided, he shouldered his way through the inn door and plunged into night's restless and less-defined shadows.

It was following the midday meal that Eleanor set off for Amesbury village.

In the morning she had risen with an unusual eagerness to face the day, and, when she joined the others for prayer, she felt a fresh surge of strength. Like any mortal who has stood with one foot raised to step into the dark mouth of Death, she savored the sensation while likewise fearing it would recede. Thankfully the vigor remained and she gained hope. Besides, the weather was too sweet for bleak imaginings.

As she walked through the cloister garth after Chapter, she had lifted her gaze to the blue sky and expressed gratitude to God for the warmth of this day so near to Saint Melor's feast. Despite Death's recent dance for her soul, as he pleaded to win it before her hair turned white, Sister Anne had dropped a portcullis on his grim supplication, and Eleanor had no wish to raise the gate.

Lest the clattering creature hold onto any illusion that Eleanor might still be his, the prioress of Tyndal had sipped with determination her dark, meaty broth at dinner and even found appetite for the eel with herbs and onions. The religious in charge of Amesbury's kitchens had done well with the dish, she had thought with appreciation, although she did prefer the defter hand of Sister Matilda at Tyndal.

It was afterward she told Anne and her aunt of her plans to visit Alys' mother. She should offer that family comfort considering their kinsman's horrible death, she said. It was her duty, and, if she happened to find out anything about the ghost, Brother Thomas could pursue the details.

The distance to the house of Mistress Jhone was not far, the novice mistress reluctantly confirmed, and Eleanor promised to stay only as long as her strength allowed. Needless to say, she would take two religious with her as proper attendants, but they could be from the priory. After all, the Prioress of Tyndal said with a playful smile, hadn't her aunt just expressed concern about cankerworm in the fruit trees and wasn't Anne planning to teach Brother Infirmarian how to make some of her most effective potions?

As she kissed her aunt and hugged her dear friend, Eleanor felt a deep joy as if she had just been freed from some dark prison. Eternity in the embrace of God is a thing for which we all long, she thought, but surely it is not a sin to look upon the earth He made so sweet with particular delight after hearing the hushed and seductive voice of Death.

Now outside the parish church, she turned to her attendants and asked to be given a moment alone. Bowing her head in reverence, she continued on a few steps and looked up at the ancient Saxon Cross, the wheelhead shape embracing the symbol of her faith like the arms of a mother about her child.

She rested the tips of her fingers against the weathered sandstone, closed her eyes, and imagined the countless monks or nuns that must have done the same, even before Queen Elfrida had founded Amesbury Priory. Had Edgar's queen also touched this stone, her soul raw with guilt and grief? Or had Guinevere, weary with age and ancient lust, before she begged entrance to a religious house nearby?

Eleanor's fingers tingled. Was it a coincidence that each story involved a woman burdened by violence and passion? Might there be a message for her in their stories? Was she herself not a woman guilty of lust and sick of bloodshed. Did she not long for God's peace too? A sense of comfort and understanding slowly filled her, and Eleanor began to believe that the invisible spirits of these two, long-dead women might be beside her. For just one moment, she wondered if her aunt could be wrong about ghosts.

"I, too, have done this, my lady, but not since I was a lad. Do you think the cross was here when King Arthur rode to his death on the plain?"

Eleanor swung around to face a well-favored man, well into his third decade of life, with eyes so brown they reminded her of good English earth. A merchant of some wealth, she decided after a brief inspection of the fur trimming on his very soft robe. Nor is he too modest to flaunt it, she concluded wryly.

"You have the advantage of me, sir."

He bowed with grace. "Herbert of Amesbury, my lady, a wine merchant by trade."

Alys' suitor? How providential, Eleanor thought. "I am…"

"Prioress Eleanor of Tyndal." His smile conveyed pleasant warmth. "News of your arrival has spread, my lady. Your reputation as prioress of a Fontevraudine daughter house is well-known in Amesbury. We are proud of you in the village as well as at the priory that nurtured you."

"Proud?" Eleanor raised her eyebrows with mock dismay.

Herbert bent his head in courteous concession. "A sin and not a sentiment that your fellow religious would express, but we secular creatures, with more errant souls, indulge in it with frequency. Pride we may feel, but the priory gains greater honor as more tales of your competence reach us." He noted her attendants with some curiosity. "You have business outside the walls, my lady?"

"Sister Beatrice bade me visit the sister-in-law and niece of one Wulfstan, a laborer in this priory's fields." She gestured toward a house but a short distance away.