Priscilla Royal - Justice for the Damned

"Sadly, I cannot give details of their quarrel. I came too late, and the insults they were throwing at each other might be said by any two men in a heated argument."

"Have you heard from anyone else…?"

Bernard stiffened. "I did not listen to idle talk, nor did I ask questions. As I told you last night, Brother, I am a man without a wife who goes to the inn, not to trade tales of others, but for a decent meal, enjoyed in some solitude, at reasonable cost."

"I did not mean to suggest otherwise, but I am a stranger here in Amesbury and long to bring peace to both Mistress Drifa and her son. For that reason, I hoped you could educate me on the character of both father and son. For instance, if I knew that Sayer was just a foolish youth who would never actually kill his father…" Thomas looked at the glover with an expression he hoped brought meek supplication to mind.

Bernard's eyes still expressed wariness. "Murderer? That is a harsh accusation. Sayer is a maker of mischief and has played boy's games too long, but I do not think his failure to take on a man's duties and estate proves him to be a brutal creature."

Thomas said nothing, praying his silence would encourage the glover to say more. For once, the garrulous merchant was thrifty in speech. "I thank you for telling me what you have, Master Bernard," he said at last.

The two bowed in courtesy, and, as Thomas watched the glover walk away, he groaned in frustration. He was still failing to discover the identity of the ghost, and he was getting nowhere in his mission of finding a manuscript thief.

Or was he? Questions buzzed in his mind like irritating flies, but his attempts to capture their significance failed. Why would a roofer want to learn so much about the Psalter? Was the argument between Wulfstan and his son just a drunken quarrel? Why did he sense that Drifa was lying, and what lay behind the meeting he had witnessed between Bernard and Sayer?

Thomas rubbed at his temples and wondered if his blindness was caused more by his lack of wit or by his contradictory feelings about the man around whom all these questions seemed to revolve.

Surely he had seen a light in that window, Brother Baeda thought as he hurried up the stone stairs to the library. Even though the light had now vanished, he felt obliged to make sure nothing untoward had occurred. He would not have bothered to check, but two nights ago some young novices had slipped in and poured ink on one of Brother Jerome's parchments.

"The brother is such a querulous fellow and so sensitive about his talent with color and design," he muttered. No doubt of that. Jerome did rank his own work more highly than was warranted, his efforts falling far from noteworthy quality, but that did not excuse the lads for what they had done. Just because the monk had unfairly accused them of impure thoughts, after they joked about his drawing of Eve entwined with the snake in Eden, was no reason for them to damage any work done for a holy purpose.

An irreverent chuckle escaped the brother's lips, and he immediately prayed to be forgiven. The snake's tail was most unfortunately placed as he remembered it, and he should have said something to Jerome at the time. Knowing that the monk would roar in fury at the very suggestion of creative incompetence had stopped him, however, so perhaps he ought to have taken some blame for what had happened the other night.

The boys had been quite properly reprimanded for the damage and assigned the penance of scrubbing the stones in the warming room, but might that have been mitigated if he had come to their defense? Now he wondered if they had resented the duty and returned to tweak Jerome's rather pointed nose one more time.

He swung open the library door. His eyes were accustomed to the dark, and he saw no boyish shadows in the room.

Quickly, he walked over to where Jerome worked. All tools had been put away and no undone manuscript left out. Apparently, the monk had not yet started anything after the novices had ruined what he had been toiling over for days. He raised a hand to his mouth, suppressing another laugh. That tail!

Some movement or shifting shadow caught the corner of his eye and he turned toward it. Must have been his imagination, he thought. If the boys had returned, surely they would have betrayed themselves by now with the uncontrollable laughter of mischievous youth.

"Come forth!" he ordered nonetheless, hoping his voice expressed admonition mixed with just the right amount of forgiveness.

Nothing.

"It will be better for you if you come now. No damage has been done and thus no sin committed!"

Nothing.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose. Could the ghost of Queen Elfrida have entered the room? Nonsense, he thought. He had only felt a chill draught from the open door. Spring may have come, but didn't that night air still nip at aged spines?

He shook off the feeling and glanced around the area near Jerome's work place. Something was different, he realized, and then he gasped.

The Amesbury Psalter was lying on the floor.

Surely he had not left this precious work out! He rushed to pick it up, praying that no damage had been done, begging God's forgiveness for being so forgetful, so careless.

As the monk bent to retrieve the Psalter, he heard a sound and raised his head.

He screamed only once.

The young novice, who had brought the news of Brother Baeda's death, trembled as if facing God Himself. Those who knew Sister Beatrice understood why.

"No ghost could have done this deed. How dare anyone suggest that conclusion to me?"

"He is just a boy," Eleanor whispered to her aunt. "Let him tell his tale."

Beatrice sighed. "Forgive me, lad." She closed her eyes and muttered a calming prayer. "Repeat your story, and I shall not interrupt again. Truly, you need not fear my anger nor shall I blame you for the thoughts and words of others. Be assured that I do know the difference between the message and a messenger's belief."

The lad swallowed. "Brother Jerome heard the scream and rushed to the library." His adolescent voice rose to boyish soprano, then cracked into a baritone before falling into nervous silence.

"And did he say why he was so near?" Eleanor's tone was gentle, not only for the sake of the boy but her aunt as well. Sister Beatrice might be silent, but the prioress knew from experience that the novice mistress was probably grinding her teeth.

"My lady, I should not…" The novice was sweating.

"Sister Beatrice has promised that you will not be blamed for anything you say." Eleanor gestured toward the novice mistress. "This murder is a grave matter, and it is a man's duty to tell what he knows of such a vile deed, even if the facts reek with the terrifying stink of the Devil's work." The sharp odor drifting from the quivering novice enhanced the image. "I can see a man's courage in your eyes so do not let your fear of frightening us keep you from frank speech. We may be women but, as leaders in this Order, God graces us with the strength of the Queen of Heaven herself."

"Well said, my lady," Beatrice said, her eyes shining with delight. Pride may harden most hearts into insensate things, but a woman's sin, looking at her child, is a softer one.

The novice straightened his back and pulled in his chin. "Brother Jerome said he was on his way to the library after prayer because…" His face turned scarlet with embarrassment but he went on with only a brief hesitation, "…because he was afraid one of us would return to eke out more vengeance on his work after he revealed we had cast ink on his image of Eden."

Beatrice's lips twitched as she glanced at her niece. The story had given the two a merry moment.