Was it a scream that woke Eleanor, or the shouting from the courtyard?
She sat up and stared through the darkness of morning toward a flickering light. Someone was standing in the doorway.
“Have you heard, my lady?” Maud’s voice trembled.
“What has happened?” Eleanor slipped out of the linen cover on her mattress and quickly glanced at Mariota.
The girl turned over and mumbled but did not fully awaken.
“I’m not sure,” the widow continued in a low voice. “Yet I did hear a cry of murder and knew you must be told.” She pressed a hand to her throat and leaned back to look outside the door toward the stone stairs.
An old servant, puffing and red-faced even in the torch light, appeared at Maud’s side. “Stay within, for God’s sake,” she hissed. “There is evil about!”
“Wait!” Eleanor said, hurrying to the entrance. “Explain what evil you mean?”
“Tobye, the groom, is dead.”
The widow remained expressionless for a long moment, then gasped. “What cause? I noted no signs of illness when I saw him yesterday.”
“Murdered, my ladies, murdered.” With the promise of an interested audience, the servant began to elaborate, waving a dimpled hand in enthusiastic emphasis. “Blood splattered everywhere. Gutted like a deer, I’ve heard.” She bent forward, fingers cupped at her mouth as she whispered hoarsely: “Someone else said his privates were chopped…” Suddenly remembering that one of her listeners was a nun, the servant coughed, then finished her tale but omitted the other rumored details. “Master Stevyn had ordered horses for an early hunt. When they were not at the manor door, he went to the stable and found the body. Now, Sir Reimund is here with his men.”
“Then he shall want the hall made ready, with table and benches down and ale for his throat, so he can speak with us all,” Maud interrupted. “On what task were you sent?”
“To tell the mistress the news.”
“Do not forget to ask her what orders she has for preparing the hall downstairs.”
“She won’t…” The servant’s mouth puckered eloquently enough, but she fell silent as she looked sideways at Eleanor, perhaps fearing further speech would reveal a household secret to a stranger, even if the outsider was a religious.
“Then seek Mistress Constance.”
The woman grimaced.
“And if you cannot find her, come see me here.”
“That I shall,” the woman replied before scurrying off.
Eleanor and Maud retreated into the chamber and shut the door. “Methinks she will return soon enough for direction from you,” the prioress said, splashing icy water on her face, then reaching for her wimple.
From the courtyard, they could hear increasing commotion.
“I am an old friend of the family, known by the household servants even before Mistress Luce was born. Although I hold no authority here and do know my place…But you have met both Mistress Luce and Mistress Constance, thus most certainly understand the difficulty.”
The dilemma I do, even if the root cause remains hidden from me, Eleanor thought as she touched her face around the wimple to make sure both head and neck were properly covered. “The servants will need your guidance and counsel today. Mariota seems well enough to be left alone in my care. If you will instruct me on the dosage of her medicine and…”
“You are most kind, my lady, but I would be wise to remain here myself. In doing so, I may escape condemnation as a meddling creature but shall be where any servant, who needs advice, can find me swiftly.”
“Then I will seek those who may need God’s comfort in the face of this horrible and most unnatural deed,” the prioress replied, keeping her expression free of her appreciation for Maud’s clever ploy.
The widow looked away as if fearing her blunter views of the two women might be read in her eyes.
What was her true opinion of Mistress Luce? The steward’s wife had referred to Maud’s assumption of authority with sarcasm, albeit with a hint of respect compared to the blundering of Constance, but the widow had been reasonably cautious in her own comments about the true mistress of the household. Was Maud aware of the relationship between Tobye and the steward’s wife? If so, she must know how Luce would react to the news of her lover’s death.
How grieved might the master’s wife be? As the image of Brother Thomas came to mind, Eleanor knew that his death would shatter her heart. On the other hand, if Luce’s affair with the groom was simply a means to ease a throbbing between the legs…
She decided to change the subject and walked to the window. “Who is Sir Reimund?” she asked, gazing down at those milling about in the courtyard.
“The sheriff of this county.”
Hearing hesitancy in the widow’s voice, Eleanor was reminded of the ever-absent sheriff in her own land. The dead King Henry displayed many virtues in her opinion, but his sheriffs had grown notoriously corrupt during his reign. Raising an eyebrow, she turned around. “Forgive me, but might I ask if he is a man not known for his energy in pursuit of justice, or even one lacking in some honesty?”
Maud took a sudden interest in one broken thread in her sleeve. “He serves the needs of this manor well enough, my lady, for he knows to whom the land belongs. As for honesty, the sheriff has never taken a bribe to my knowledge.” She snapped the thread in two, then met the prioress’ gaze. “We have learned that his methods of investigation in any crime vary according to the rank of the aggrieved. For this killing, we may expect a swift resolution. He will look to the servants.”
The prioress glanced back into the courtyard, seeking the sheriff. None below was dressed with an eye to fashion or elegance, as might be expected of a man filled with ambition. Near the stable and standing by a fine black horse, however, there was one in close conversation with someone whose neck was respectfully bent. “Does he not have a crowner to assist him in his inquiries?”
“Aye, but I would not look to that one for any cleverness. This is no local gossip, for my late husband treated the man often enough for cuts and bruises. The crowner is best known for the amount of ale he drinks than any crime he has solved. I doubt you’ll find him in the company below. He’s rarely sober enough to mount a horse.”
But Eleanor’s attention was suddenly directed away from sheriffs and crowners. Down in the courtyard, to the left of the one she assumed was Sir Reimund, she saw Brother Thomas talking to another man. She might not be able to hear what was said, but the gestures were eloquent enough. The man had shoved her monk, and Thomas had just raised his fist.
The Prioress of Tyndal dashed from the room.