Priscilla Royal - Justice for the Damned

Her thoughts raced on. Sodomy was a most unnatural vice, one akin to murder, or so the Church taught. If Sayer was guilty of this sin, might he be equally capable of killing his own father?

Eleanor took a deep breath. There was one powerful argument against this conclusion. Sister Beatrice was not a woman to suffer evil, or be deceived by it, and she had shown much tolerance for the man. Did she not know that Sayer was a sodomite? What if she did? Her head spun with bewilderment.

God must have given her tongue comforting words despite her own swirling confusion. Eleanor could not remember what she had said to Drifa, but the widow's gaze had shone with weary peace when they parted.

As she turned her steps back to the priory, Eleanor knew she would spend much time tonight on her knees, begging for understanding from the Queen of Heaven.

The smell of sizzling fat made Thomas' stomach growl. As his growing hunger began to temper the anguish he had felt in the garden, he found himself amazed at the resilience of a man's belly. God would surely punish him for his blasphemous insolence in time. Of that, he had no doubts. Meanwhile, he accepted the gift of a hot, dripping pastry from a tradesman. The first bite of that pie was a joy.

The weather for this market day was fine, a balm to the spirit, and the bounty in the stalls was a miracle to behold. To his left was a mound of purple and white carrots just picked from the garden. Fresh yellow onions, causing less torture to sensitive stomachs than those stored over winter, lay next to cream-colored turnips. Although the steam of hot fruit tarts spread a most appealing scent of spice mixed with sweet, Thomas' hunger was now satisfied.

Something brushed by his leg, and he glanced down to see a lean, red cat in pursuit of something small and gray. The sight reminded Thomas that he had his own prey to hunt, a man who had sent two souls to earlier deaths and greater torture than they deserved. Even though he did not have the slightest idea where to start looking, he felt spurred to the task. If he resolved these murders with speed, God might even grant him a little mercy for his own wickedness.

As he pushed his way through the crowd, a thought burst into his mind, the memory of something he had ignored at the time and since forgotten. When his spy master told him of his assignment regarding the Psalter theft, the man mentioned that the Church had received warning about the danger to the manuscript. Now Thomas asked himself who had raised this hue and cry. Was the detail significant?

"I should have had the wits to inquire," the monk muttered, stepping back to avoid a rumbling cart filled with precariously stacked barrels. "But I would have been told if the fact mattered to the quest." Men might be fair sport for the priest, but surely that thin-lipped creature considered the Psalter too valuable to deliberately hide crucial information. In any case, Thomas had not asked, numbed as he was by grief over the news of his father's death.

Important or not to this undertaking, the identity of the informant was provoking his curiosity. Might it be Sister Beatrice? That would not surprise him, and, considering her inquisitive study of him earlier, he thought she suspected more about him than she chose to reveal.

He waited until a woman with two overfilled baskets passed by, several children with lesser burdens in tow.

Since the spy master seemed to view women as beings formed from a mere rib only to serve Adam's sons, the priest might have judged her involvement not worth the noting. A poor decision, Thomas thought. With pleasure he imagined the expression on the man's face should he ever try matching wits with the formidable novice mistress.

"Watch your step!" a voice cried out.

Thomas looked down.

A legless man sat on a cart just in front of him. The man's hollow cheeks spoke eloquently of starvation.

Thomas found a coin meant for tongue-loosening ale, dropped it into the man's hand, and walked on, forcing his thoughts back to the question. If Sister Beatrice had been the one to alert some bishop that the Amesbury Psalter might be stolen, would she not assume that someone would be sent to investigate? But if she knew that, why had she not said anything?

Perhaps she had been ordered to remain silent to prevent alerting the thief. He, too, had been forbidden to speak to anyone about his role here. Nonetheless, she might well have guessed that he was the one. Why else would she have set him on this task of finding the ghost, allowing a monk she did not know to visit the inn and wander about the town like some clerk?

A loud crash made him jump. To his right, a butcher was cutting meat while a spotted bitch with engorged teats danced and whined at his feet. The fellow tossed the creature a bloody bit, and she raced away with her treasure.

Thomas shook his head. Had the novice mistress said anything about her suspicions to Prioress Eleanor? Although he might have preferred that, he doubted Sister Beatrice would have broken a vowed silence even to a loved relative. She seemed as much a woman of strong principles as her niece.

If Sister Beatrice knew about the threat to the Psalter, then someone must have told her. Was the source a man or woman, religious or townsman? How did this person find out? Thomas cursed that his bound silence prevented him from asking her the identity and that her own vow would stop her from answering even if he did.

As he paused to let men driving sheep go by, he looked over the passing flock and discovered that his wanderings had led him back to the inn. He gritted his teeth, trying to banish his dismay.

The source of the tale was most likely a secular man, seated inside that inn and listening to gossip and plots. Both women and monastics were less likely to hear rumors about thievery. As he had already confirmed, men interrupted their conversations to jest at monks in an inn. Serving wenches were an equal distraction and cause for lewd remarks. Only a secular man, and a local one at that, could remain unnoticed while men spoke together of secret things. Although he was unsure how he would find the man out, he knew he had little choice but to try.

Thomas crossed the road to the inn door.

Eleanor halted. As they walked through the market stalls, she had glanced behind and caught the wistful expressions on the faces of her two young attendants. How thoughtless she had been! They were probably hungry.

"Oh, I do remember the delicious fish taken from the river while I was growing up at this priory," she said. "That man over there has pies made from them. Shall we honor God's bounty and eat one?"

When the eyes of her attendants brightened, Prioress Eleanor gestured to the merchant, who brought them a sampling of his wares. He might have given the food as a gift to the benefit of his soul, but Tyndal's leader gave him both blessing and coin.

While her youthful religious chewed with undisguised pleasure, Eleanor turned her attention to the surrounding crowds. Not far to her right, she recognized Bernard and Alys, standing in front of his display of gloves. They were holding hands and gazing at each other with undisguised rapture.

Hearing a shout redolent with outrage, the prioress turned to see a scarlet-faced Jhone elbowing a path through to the pair, their moment of delight now ended.

"How dare you, sir?" the mother exclaimed. "And you, strumpet! Did I not forbid you to come near this man?"

"I wanted to look at his gloves, Mother. That is guiltless enough. Even you admit that his work is of the best quality."

"He had no need to fondle your hand. He had no reason to look upon you with such undisguised lust…"

"Mistress, I was but taking her hand to measure it for a glove. As for any intent to dishonor, I am blameless!"