Priscilla Royal - Justice for the Damned

In truth, he did not know exactly what to expect inside the library, although he had ardently beseeched to go there alone. Prioress Eleanor had conceded that one man would be less likely to betray the trap, thus increasing the chances of catching the thief in the act, but she did not think his plan quite safe. Only when he promised to cry out for the aid of others once he had caught the man had she agreed. Thomas prayed she was not angry with him, seeing his stubborn insistence as either disrespectful or disobedient.

He had another reason for wanting to be alone. Although he knew that Sayer would be the one most likely caught with his hand on the Psalter, the monk's unruly heart refused to be silenced, arguing with growing persistence that the roofer was more misguided than evil. Might Thomas not reason with him tonight, persuading the man to reveal who was behind the theft and even agree to give witness to the murderer's deeds? If so, the monk could argue for leniency on Sayer's behalf.

If he was wrong and the roofer was a brutal killer, he should be able to detain him for a short time until the others arrived. The other problem lay in the number he might meet in the darkness of the library. If more than one was there, he would be in great danger. In that case, he must count on his own strength, wits, and the element of surprise to get him out of the situation.

The library was as profoundly silent as it was deep in shadow. Although Thomas' eyes were used to the gloom, he felt his way to a hiding place with difficulty. At least anyone else who came through the darkness would be at equal disadvantage, he thought, settling into a crouch behind Brother Jerome's work area. The book chest was directly in front of him.

His ears prickled. Had he heard a sound or was it just a mouse skittering along the floor? The silence now seemed full of tiny noises, but as he strained to hear, he was almost certain that someone was coming.

The door opened.

A man entered. He was holding a flickering light.

Silently Thomas swore at himself for not considering this possibility. Could he be seen by the light of that flame? He bent down as much as he could.

His pounding heart quieted as he realized that the thief would not have brought light if there was anyone outside to see it. That meant he knew the monk was the only one who might be nearby, and he was supposedly across the river, busily swyving a woman. The lay brothers must have seen it as well and known that the thief had arrived. He should take comfort in that, Thomas decided.

The man hesitated, then silently walked to the book chest.

Thomas was sure it was Sayer. So that there would be no doubt about the man's intent, he would wait until the roofer began to leave with the Psalter in his arms.

The figure bent, holding the light close to the storage box. Within the briefest of moments, he had broken the lock, lifted the lid, and grasped the Psalter. The lid dropped with a dull thud. The man turned and walked toward the monk.

Thomas rose to face him, but something to his left caught his attention. He jerked to one side. The blow struck the side of his head. Light flashed before his eyes, and everything went black.

Thomas blinked. He was lying on his side. His head hurt, and there was something warm trickling down his neck. How long had he been unconscious?

"I said I would bring it to you." The voice was Sayer's.

Thomas shut his eyes and held his breath.

"Stupid pup," a man replied, his hoarse voice barely above a whisper.

Feeling a wave of nausea, Thomas willed himself not to vomit.

"You did not recognize a trap when you saw it." The man kicked at Thomas.

The monk bit his lip but did not groan.

"You are fortunate that foolish women run this place and sent but one monk to stop you."

"Did you kill him?" Sayer asked.

"Bring your light."

As the small flame flickered with weak warmth over his face, Thomas willed himself to look like a man who had just died. He should have seen enough of them, he thought, to feign the expression well. If he failed, he would no longer have to pretend.

"He's bled enough to be a dead man," Sayer said, touching the monk's neck gently with his fingers. The light moved quickly away.

Thomas prayed God would take mercy on his soul.

"I will make sure of it."

"You need not bother. I felt his neck. There is no life in him." Sayer's voice was angry.

"Fancied him, did we?" the man scoffed.

Sayer did not reply, but Thomas heard a noise as if something was being shaken.

"Stop that, whelp! Have you no idea what a valuable work the Psalter is? You'll damage it!"

"Then take the thing if you do not want harm to come to it."

The light went out, and Thomas heard a grunt. As much as he longed to rise, he knew he might faint from his injury. There was nothing he could do but lie in his own blood.

Sayer laughed. "A child could have done more harm with that blow. I think I shall keep this for myself."

"Mock if you will, but the Psalter is worthless without me."

Thomas felt himself drift toward unconsciousness. He willed himself back.

"I might have another buyer."

"Your lies are as wanting as your manhood."

"You are not the only one in Amesbury who needs money and knows the worth of this piece of painted sheep skin."

The man hissed. "You could not have found another."

"Can you afford to doubt me? Or consider this: I might choose to save my soul, rather than take money, and confess who has led me to this crime."

"You would gain nothing by trying to expose me. Who would believe you, blasphemous rogue that you are?"

"Dare you chance that? You have now killed three men, including my own father."

"A robber? Two womanish monks? Killing your father was but long-delayed justice for ancient sins. As for the monks, I was kind, sending them to Heaven sooner than either had dared hope."

"And Eda? Even you dare not claim she killed herself. You drowned her, did you not? She had overheard us talking about plans to steal…"

"I'll kill you!" the man roared.

Sayer laughed.

"Give me the manuscript, cokenay."

"Only if you can catch me."

The sound of running feet echoed in the floor under Thomas' ear. He heard the door crash against the wall.

Slowly he opened one eye. Both men must be gone, he decided, but hesitated a moment to make sure. Weak and dizzy, he began struggling to his knees.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder.

"It seems you are still alive, Brother," a man said.

Brother Infirmarian cursed the clouds that had just covered the moon. His phrasing was most secular.

"Brother Thomas has not called for help, and the light has been extinguished in the library." A lay brother pointed to the now dark window.

"The agreement was to do nothing until our brother gave the signal," the infirmarian whispered back. "We must wait a while longer before going inside." He fell silent and stared with evident unease at the gloomy building. "I dare not spring the trap too soon, but I do not wish harm to come to our brave monk either."

"Wait!" another exclaimed softly. "I heard a man's voice. That must be the sign!"

Brother Infirmarian rose and called for the group of lay brothers to follow him. As he did, the clouds mercifully parted like a fortress gate and the moon shone forth just enough to outline two figures emerging onto the scaffolding high above the band of monastic rescuers.

The first shadow leapt onto the roof, scrambling loudly up the steep incline. The second stumbled, caught himself, and awkwardly crawled after him.

Brother Infirmarian ordered his men to halt.

"Is one Brother Thomas?" a lay brother asked him.