Priscilla Royal - Justice for the Damned

"He is a local man?'

"Salisbury. This work was done about twenty ago and was the prized possession of a nun in our Order. See here how he portrayed her."

Thomas studied the small figure of a woman in plain robes kneeling at a gold lectern on which a book rested, open to a page inscribed with a red "B" for Beatus.

"Forgive me if I misunderstood, but I thought this treasure was here for repair and that few visitors came to see it. I do wonder why the Psalter is left exposed where it might suffer more damage."

The monk shook his head. "You did not misinterpret my words, Brother, but I have chosen not to move the manuscript more than need be, and, over the last few days, the work has drawn interest. You are the second who has asked to see it."

"Second?" Thomas' heart beat faster.

"Aye, young Sayer has visited twice and begged to view it. At first, I thought it odd that Wulfstan's son should care so much about religious works like this, but he had many good questions about it. I was pleased to answer them."

Thomas might not have been so well pleased, but he was also not quite as surprised as Brother Baeda.

Mistress Jhone poured a dark red wine into a plain pewter cup and handed it to the Prioress of Tyndal.

On the nearby table a servant had placed a generously filled plate of thickly cut apples, so carefully preserved that their skins were still brightly splashed with red and green; a huge wedge of green-veined orange cheese; and a large loaf of grainy bread, hot from the baking. In a tone suggesting that the welfare of her soul depended upon the nun's assent, the widow begged the prioress to sample everything.

Eleanor voiced courteous appreciation for the bounty presented to her, then carefully selected a slice of cheese, one of apple, and positioned each on top of the fragrant bread according to some obscure plan. In this manner, she disguised her scrutiny of the woman before her.

Jhone's face and hands were as devoid of color as her robe. A narrow scar, shining white, sliced through the woman's upper lip; another cut through her left eyebrow. Tiny wrinkles crossed her forehead, and the looseness around her neck suggested that she should be two decades older than her undimmed brown hair and her daughters sixteen years would support. Only the corners of her eyes and the skin around her mouth lacked any mark, an absence Eleanor found distressing. Had the woman never laughed?

Alys may not have exaggerated in the tale about her father, Eleanor concluded. The signs of grief gouged into the face of this widow might well be explained by the death of a husband, but she saw no evidence that any joy for his life had preceded it. As the prioress glanced at the widow's pale eyes, she wondered how Mistress Jhone could lament the death of such a spouse. Newly freed of a brutish mate, the widow remained subdued as if afraid any speech might still invite pain.

The law permitted a man to strike his wife, for cert, but there were limits. Although some secular and religious men suggested there was merit in these beatings, Eleanor knew of no rule requiring such cruel treatment. In any case, she had known few men who did not honor their wives, even those they no longer loved or perhaps never had. Compared to this woolmonger, godless beasts showed more tenderness in their mating than he had to his wife.

Eleanor suddenly realized that she had let the silence linger too long. "Your generosity in sharing this gift from God is praiseworthy," she said, looking up at the widow with a smile.

"You are kind to grace us with a visit, my lady," Jhone whispered.

"I could do no less. Your sister's husband was foully murdered outside the priory. We all grieved to hear of this worthy man's death."

Jhone's eyes shifted nervously from left to right. Her face flushed in uneven splotches of pink. Clearing her throat, she raised her mazer of wine and drank deeply.

"Sister Beatrice knew that the discovery of his body made the horrible blow twice as painful to you. I have come to offer God's comfort and soothing prayer."

The widow set her cup down on the table with excessive care but remained silent.

Eleanor shook her head. "No one at the priory could imagine who could have hated him so much, for the act was not one of common violence."

"The ghost."

Eleanor blinked at the hushed accusation. "Forgive me, but I do not understand."

Her color now a mottled crimson, the woman jumped up, grabbed the plate of food from the table, and thrust it at the prioress. "Please have more!"

Eleanor rescued the plate from the widow's shaking hands. "Surely his death was caused by a mortal creature. Although I have heard of this spirit, I cannot imagine what quarrel Queen Elfrida might have with Wulfstan."

"Master Herbert believes the ghost is not the ancient queen but the wronged soul of his dead wife, Eda. As evidence, he says witnesses claim the specter's crown is made of glowing spikes, not gems or gold." The widow's usual pallor returned. "He must be right."

Eleanor raised her eyebrows with encouraging curiosity. "Did Mistress Eda have reason to harm Wulfstan?"

"He died for his sin in begetting such an evil son as Sayer, a man whom Satan most surely favors."

Eleanor noted that moisture now glistened on the woman's forehead. "Is this the same man who repairs the priory roofs?"

Jhone's eyes flashed with reflective anger. "The very one, my lady. As we all know in Amesbury village, he is a rogue."

Eleanor looked down at her hands. She was still holding the plate. "Wherein lies his sin? If he is so evil, I must wonder why he is allowed to work within the monastery walls," she asked, setting the serving dish back on the table.

The widow licked her lips. "I believe my husband asked the same question, my lady. He considered Sayer a worthless fellow in all respects, although one deemed uncommon handsome. When my nephew was hired by the priory, my husband joked that the nuns must have enjoyed seeing him up on the rooftops, near naked…" The woman covered her mouth, her eyes widening with fearful distress.

That gesture must be an habitual one after many years of marriage to such an evil-minded man, Eleanor concluded. What right did the woolmonger have to cast any stones? Some nuns most certainly did sin in the heart but rarely willingly and almost never with any joy. With difficulty she managed not to counter a dead man's lewd accusation with the outrage she felt. It would serve no purpose.

"Forgive me, my lady, he said that only for my ears. I should not have repeated it." She extended her hands as if begging for mercy. "My heart knew differently."

"What did Prioress Ida say when he spoke to her about this threat to religious chastity?" Eleanor took care to ban indignation from her tone.

"He did not do so, believing there was no purpose." Jhone quickly lowered her head. "Women's minds are incapable of reason, he said, because their bodies itch constantly for coupling."

Eleanor shut her eyes as she felt her face grow hot. This woman did not deserve her wrath for repeating what a husband had said, and those cast down eyes spoke eloquently enough of the widow's own shame at his words. Women sin, Eleanor thought. We are mortal, but neither my aunt nor Prioress Ida is a fool. They would not allow any man to behave in such a bawdy manner around the religious of the priory. She took a deep breath. It calmed her.

"Queen Elfrida's spirit might be angry with the roofer if Sayer tempted the religious with unchaste imaginings. Of that, I can conceive. Why she would extend her quarrel to the man who sired him is less clear to me." Eleanor's lips turned up with a thin smile. "But perhaps a queen may have reasons we cannot comprehend. Yet you say that the ghost is that of Mistress Eda. Why would she murder Wulfstan for fathering a rogue?"