Priscilla Royal - Justice for the Damned

"I shall," she replied.

"I fear I am late back to my shop."

"It would be discourteous to detain you further."

Bernard bowed abruptly and, without further word, quickly walked away.

The man lies, Eleanor decided, although he may have fair reason. Her mind insisted that his motive was malicious, but her heart was not as sure. Was he protecting someone? If he loved Alys, he would wish to shift all suspicion from her family, including Cousin Roofer. On the other hand, Bernard had not actually defended Sayer as he had Wulfstan. He had claimed ignorance of Alys' cousin and avoided direct response to any questions about the man.

Eleanor frowned, as her mind chased itself in circles, but suddenly brightened as she grasped the thing nibbling at her memory. Was it not yesterday, crossing the Avon after visiting Mistress Jhone, that she had seen the glover in merry conversation with another man?

Treading on the heels of that recognition was a chilling thought. Unless Bernard had inherited a more profitable trade than would seem to be the case, he would not have many apprentices and certainly not one of such long standing that he would be of much the same age.

The man walking beside Bernard was no fellow merchant, rather a laborer of some ilk by his dress. Was he one of the glover's workmen? Nay, their easy manner with each other made her doubt that. Could it have been Sayer, cousin to his beloved Alys? If the latter, why did the glover deny knowing the man, and had the reason anything to do with murder?

Thomas winced as Brother Infirmarian cleaned his bleeding hand with some stinging liquid.

"I won't ask why you were on the library roof, Brother, but I suggest that there are easier places to talk to God."

Despite the throbbing in his wound, the monk chuckled. "Sayer was showing me some of the skills needed to repair the slate."

The infirmarian raised an eyebrow. "Indeed," he said, resuming with an application of salve. "Is your priory at Tyndal so poor that monks must be trained to do such work?"

"We have lay brothers enough, but, since Sayer is only rarely on the ground at this priory, I had to climb closer to Paradise to offer consolation for his father's death. He continued his labors while I did."

Brother Infirmarian reached for a binding. "His grief must be sharp. A sad thing to quarrel with your father and have him die before you can settle the matter."

"Had it caused so deep a rift between them?"

The monk shrugged. "Sayer is a bit of a rogue, much like his father when he was younger, but I think Mistress Drifa would have forced them to make peace."

"Then the dispute involved nothing that would cause either to harm the other?"

"Oh, you heard that Sayer swore he would kill Wulfstan?" The infirmarian laughed as he finished the binding and sat down beside Thomas. "I wouldn't put much credence in that, Brother. I once told my father I would kill him and he survived four score!"

"And what was your disagreement about?"

The man's eyes twinkled. "There was a girl I wanted to marry. My father was opposed. It was then I threatened him."

"How did you resolve the matter?"

"My beloved died before we could wed, and I took the cowl. With a repentant heart, my father cursed his obstinacy and begged forgiveness. I promised him daily prayers, and we wept together in each other's arms. Fathers and sons have ways of making peace. Had Wulfstan lived, I have no doubt that he and Sayer would have done the same."

"Do you know the cause of their quarrel? If so, I could use that knowledge to bring a more effective comfort to the son."

"Although I listen to gossip like any other wicked mortal, I put little faith in it. True or not, the stories are often entertaining, but I do not repeat what I hear. The Fiend loves those who spread scandal."

Thomas hoped he hid his regret at the infirmarian's admirable restraint. "You are wise not to repeat it," he said. "I grieve that many are not so hesitant about telling tales and pray that no one has spread damaging lies about Sayer and his father."

The monk looked away.

The gesture told Thomas that some story must be abroad. All he had to do was find a man willing to tell him what it was.

As he walked through the garden of the monks' cloister garth, despondency dropped over Thomas like a sodden cloak even as questions raced through his mind. A cawing distracted him. Looking up, he saw the dark shape of a crow. It circled overhead before flying off, perhaps to the nest near the library.

Had Sayer returned to his work? Even if he had, Thomas knew he would not seek him out there. He could not. His face turned hot with an emotion he did not want to name, and he forced his thoughts back to the recent discussion with his prioress and Sister Beatrice.

He hoped he had not betrayed his shock when Prioress Eleanor suggested that someone might be trying to steal the Amesbury Psalter, yet he had also felt relief at her joining the pieces in that way. Even though he could not speak of his own commission from the Church in this matter, he could now count on her cleverness and support as he had longed to do. Of course, he was pleased that he had won this small victory over his spy master. He might owe the man gratitude for saving his life, but he did not always respect his judgement and resented the power the man wielded over him.

His small pleasure quickly soured. Was Sayer the thief Thomas had been sent to catch? Was Drifa's deft-witted son a brutal killer? His heart still rebelled against any conclusion that Sayer might be involved, even though he knew there was cause enough to believe it. A man's reason ordered him to acknowledge that the roofer was implicated in the crime. In this they had all agreed, but another emotion, devoid of logic, shouted otherwise to him.

For Thomas, the world had turned upside down since that night at the inn. Sister Beatrice and Prioress Eleanor bore women's bodies, but their souls housed a man's solid reason. He was afflicted with a woman's perceptions. That these had served him well in the past did not soothe him now. Indeed, he cursed them. When had the Prince of Darkness stolen his manhood and given him a woman's soul? If men became women and women men, he snarled, the end of the world must be close to hand.

Nay, it was his soul that was in disarray, not the world. The novice mistress and her niece were holy women, given strengths beyond their sex by their vocations. On the other hand, God had surely given him to Satan for his plaything.

Even Sayer had taunted him about suffering womanly fear when he sat on the roof. Womanly, was he? The monk uttered an oath. Yet he had reached out for the roofer's hand like some maiden begging a knight to save her from distress. Thomas' stomach roiled with disgust at himself.

That his logic was weak and he had shown cowardice at that great height were less terrifying than the betrayal of his body. He could argue that an incubus had put on Sayer's features when he had swyved the roofer in his dream, but Thomas could not ignore how he trembled on the roof like a virgin on her wedding night, longing for the embrace while fearing the loss of her maidenhead.

"I am no man at all," he cried out. "I am a creature made in the image of Satan with a man's sex and a woman's breasts!"

Amidst the bursting buds and flowering shrubs of that silent monastic garden, he fell to his knees, bent his forehead to the earth, and wept. His howls of pain were as sharp as the wailings of one damned beyond any hope of forgiveness, and he beat his head against the ground as if one torment could numb the other.

At last the roaring in his soul diminished and his sobbing subsided. Gulping air like a man who has almost drowned, he sat back on his heels and swiped angrily at his damp cheeks. "Why have You done this to me?" Thomas raised his eyes heavenward.