Leaning back into her chair, Eleanor stared at Adam and Eve in the tapestry above the chamber door and pondered the news of Wulfstan’s murder.
Her first reaction had been outrage. Not only was her beloved priory troubled with this vile and unlawful act, but had she not come here to escape death? For the last two years, she had been forced to deal with murders and had nearly died of a fever herself. Could God not grant her some respite?
Quickly, her indignation had turned to shame. A man had been slain like a criminal and his wife and children left to grieve. He was a laborer. Would they have food and shelter now that he was dead? How could she put her own selfish concerns first?
For this sin, she spent an hour in prayer, time she yearned to increase, but she had grown too weak to concentrate longer on God.
Despite her mortal frailty, He had been merciful, sending both understanding and the calm of forgiveness. With the peace she felt descending on her, Eleanor became convinced that God had no quarrel with her longing to escape worldly violence, nor had He deemed Amesbury Priory worthy of this foul assault. Even her wish to turn her back on Death’s grinning arrogance was innocent enough.
Her failure lay in not directing her anger against the Prince of Darkness. Death had been a pawn of Satan in this murder. Was it not her duty to deny the dark angel his pleasure in wronging the innocent? She should find a way to bring justice to the bereaved family. In so doing, she could restore order to priory life as well. Surely God would grant her the tranquility she herself prayed for later.
As she had gripped the prie-dieu and painfully pulled herself from her knees, however, she doubted her ability to do anything to resolve this issue. What a pitifully weak creature she had become! Once seated, she shook her head in despair. Nay, she did not have the strength to fight the Devil in this situation. Someone else must do it.
Suddenly her foot grazed something next to her chair and she glanced down. The object was a woven basket, fitted with a smooth cushion that was coated with brindle-colored hair. It belonged to the greyhound Prioress Ida kept as companion, a dog she had taken with her on her journey.
Eleanor studied the basket.
Her own creature, a great orange cat left at Tyndal to protect the kitchens from pillaging rodents, would never tolerate such a soft thing, she thought. Ignoring snow or wild storms, he went out each day to hunt vermin. Had he been born a man, he would have been the perfect knight, embracing any hardship in the performance of whatever his liege lord might require.
“Dare I be less dutiful than my cat?” she asked herself in a voice tinged with both humor and self-mockery. “Here I sit, in the warm comfort of these rooms, like a pampered pet. I should be ashamed!”
She rose from her chair and walked with determination to the chamber window. Leaning to her left, she could see just a bit of the River Avon now flowing with enthusiasm, free from winter’s icy grasp. The Saxon cross was invisible from here, as were those strange hillocks across the river that she remembered from her youth.
Were the barrows sacred or profane? Opinions amongst adults were varied, but a younger Eleanor and her childhood friends had loved frightening each other in the dark with tales of pale spirits that danced on the mounds and longed to capture a young Amesbury novice.
Did they really believe in such phantoms, Eleanor now wondered, or was it mostly pretense? “Maybe it was both,” she said aloud, “for there seems to be a place in all mortal souls that longs for ghosts even as we fear them or logic dismisses them.”
Now she must seek the truth about wandering souls. Her aunt may have discounted the current ghost as both playful and quite mortal earlier, but the murder of Wulfstan had changed that. The spirit had been accused. It had ceased to be an innocent thing.
Had an angry soul escaped from Hell and killed Wulfstan? Or was the specter the diabolical creation of a mortal who wished to hide behind engendered fear to slay with greater ease? If she succeeded in discovering the truth, would she be faced with a nightmarish sight so horrible that no human could survive it, or with a craven killer deserving of the hangman’s rope?
Her grip on the window weakened. She turned away and went back to sit in the chair placed near the fire. Leaning her head against the carved wood, she almost slipped into sleep, then forced her eyes open. How could she engage in battle against such foes when she could not even stay awake?
When would she regain her strength? she asked God. Was she not a grown woman? It had been many years since she had been a babe that needed a wet nurse to watch, feed, and bathe her. She had suffered from too much frailty over the last many months, not just as a result of her illness but from her sinful soul as well.
“And I am tired of it,” she declared. “Weary of it all!”
Without doubt, her aunt was quite able to deal with the nature of the ghost without her help. If anyone could get that sheriff to do his job and investigate whatever lay behind the malicious acts, Sister Beatrice was the one. But Eleanor knew full well why her aunt had fashioned the original plan with Sister Anne to involve her in the investigation.
Even as a girl, Eleanor had loved solving problems, and her aunt would have known that this phantom was the very thing to strengthen her niece’s hold on life. “We may all yearn for heaven,” the novice mistress had once said to her, “but our hearts desire with equal passion to keep loved ones on earth.” By setting her this task, her aunt had hoped to bind Eleanor firmly to the world she had almost abandoned.
Now that the specter had turned deadly, however, her aunt might change her mind about her niece’s involvement, but that did not daunt Eleanor in the slightest. Her resolve hardened, and she sat upright. She had a duty to honor.
Willing herself to her feet, the prioress rose and looked toward the chamber door. Rather than just sit and muse on ashes in the hearth, she would take her sub-infirmarian’s advice and start walking to improve the balance in her humors.
“It might be harder to regain health than lose it, as Anne so often says” she said, stiffening her back, “but I am a Wynethorpe, a breed as strong-willed as any of Angevin descent.”
She would walk.
***
As the May sun warmed her face, Eleanor lost all doubt. The dead did not come back to trouble the living. Raised on the works of Saint Augustine, Eleanor had never quarreled with his logic. Even after she had attained enough education to allow some disputation, she had found him persuasive in this matter. Because of this, she was reasonably convinced that the spirit had a man’s body.
Or a woman’s? Before the murder, she would have concluded that this sort of jape was more likely a boy’s game. Now she must ask what kind of a woman was capable of killing a strong man like Wulfstan and beheading him. Had not the shape been described as a queen or a local wife? “How very odd,” she muttered. It was difficult to imagine many women able to commit this particular crime—and even harder to see how a man, one easily mistaken for a weak woman, could do so either.
Maybe she was wrong to assume the ghost and the murderer were the same. The specter had been accused by both the dead man’s son and those who had found the body, but this charge might be based solely in shock and grief. Not to separate phantom from killer might be a mistake and in defiance of reason. She needed more facts.
Meanwhile, Brother Thomas had been charged with identification of the ghost when she and her aunt believed the creature was annoying but not threatening. Would he be in danger now? A chill shook her. Her own decision to find an answer in this was one thing, but she did not wish to put the monk in peril.
She clenched her fist, once again cursing her weakness. Had she not given in and brought the monk to Amesbury, this would not be a concern. She had not wanted him here at all. After her fever had burned all lust from her body, she had hoped to escape from the man, while she was still free of her sinful passions, and seek the wise counsel she knew Sister Beatrice would give.
This she would have done had she not had a visitor before she left Tyndal. It was a man she had seen before, a priest who sometimes brought Thomas news of family matters. The last time, he had summoned Thomas to a sick brother’s bedside. On this occasion, he had come with word that the monk’s father had died at the beginning of April.
How had this priest managed to change her mind? Closing her eyes, she pictured the man’s concerned look as he told her the news, explaining that the monk would not travel to be with his family for reasons that were never made quite clear.
“It is such a pity that he cannot be distracted from his grief,” the man said. “A journey would bring him much benefit,” he finished, his eyebrows rising as if surprised that he had come up with the idea. Then the man’s expression changed, his eyes intense with a gaze much like that wolves used to stun rabbits into stillness.
What a strange image, she thought at the time, considering the man’s priestly vocation.
“Are you not traveling to Amesbury, my lady?” he asked. “God would surely be most pleased if you showered pity on our poor brother and took him with you.”
Having suffered her own mother’s death, Eleanor understood the sharpness of Thomas’ pain and suspected that his particular anguish might have been even bleaker due to an estrangement. She may also have been so weakened from her illness that she had little strength to argue against this reasonable request no matter how much she wanted to refuse. Whatever the cause, she had agreed to the priest’s suggestion.
Her decision had delighted Sister Anne, who held the same opinion that a change of scenery might chase away some of the monk’s dark sorrow. Although Eleanor feared that his presence would only add to her grave weariness, she reminded herself that she would not have to see him at all after their arrival until the time came for their return to Tyndal. Not at all, that is, until the appearance of this cursed Amesbury ghost…
A hand, gentle but firm, came to rest on her arm.
“You should let me know when you are going to take exercise.” Sister Anne’s expression was troubled.
Lost in her musings, Eleanor had not realized she had walked all the way into the cloister garth. Fatigue made her feel momentarily faint, and her comfortable chair seemed so very far away. “I am not a child’s plaything,” she snapped.
“Some toys may be unbreakable. You are not. Have you forgotten how close you came to death last winter? Nor have you recovered either your strength or customary weight. None of this can be ignored without risk.” Anne shook her head to silence her prioress’ expected protest. “Would you not chastise any sub-infirmarian who disregarded these details with another patient?”
Eleanor looked down at the hand on her arm. It was the same one that had held her head so she could sip broth and drink watered wine, a hand that had soothed her feverish brow for weeks to keep her in this world. She looked up at her friend with deep affection. “I would that.”
Anne’s expression softened as she saw a healthy color return to her friend’s cheeks. “You promised to show me some of your favorite places at the priory. If they are not far, would you take my arm and guide me to them?”
In companionable silence, the two nuns started walking slowly toward the parish church.
“Has Brother Thomas told you much about his father’s death?” Anne suddenly asked. That their thoughts were often in accord might be one of the comforts of their friendship, but a slight tremor in her friend’s hand made Anne look down with concern.
Eleanor’s face betrayed nothing. “Nay,” she replied, pausing to point out a lush bed of mint that had been carefully enclosed to prevent any undisciplined spread in the monastic garden. “I hoped he might have confided in you.”
“He has not. Although he has grown gaunt with grief, he refuses to speak of it. It was not until he was asked to investigate this ghost that he brightened for the first time.”
With a thoughtful frown, Eleanor gently disengaged herself and walked toward the mint, bending to pick a leaf. “I was told that his father died near St. Albans,” she said, inhaling the bracing scent.
“I had not heard that. Our brother told me only that he prayed his father had been shriven in time.”
Eleanor put the mint leaf into her mouth and chewed it with evident enjoyment. “He did not ask leave to spend any time with his family, either then or when we passed nearby on our way here.”
“Maybe they are no longer in St. Albans?”
Eleanor nodded. “My aunt told me that Richard of Almayne died near there as well. What a sad coincidence. I wonder if Brother Thomas’ father was in the service of our king’s most noble brother?”
With that question, the two women fell silent, for both knew that the absence of Thomas from any ceremony to honor his father might well be proof that he not only merited a bar sinister but had somehow lost favor with his sire.
“There it is!” Eleanor said in a low voice as they entered the parish church. With a show of strength that both amazed and pleased the sub-infirmarian, the prioress pulled her friend toward a corner and pointed out a much worn stone. “This part is so ancient that some believe it dates to Queen Guinevere’s death. Others say Queen Elfrida ordered it set as the cornerstone of her new abbey when she presented the relics of Saint Melor. It is his feast day we shall celebrate…”
Suddenly she fell silent, gesturing to Anne to do the same.
At the nearby altar, a young woman knelt, sobbing as if her heart had been shattered with grief.