The current storm had passed, even the weakening rainfall had ended, but the air remained heavy with moisture. Looking across the courtyard, Eleanor wondered if she should chance a walk through that chill mist.
Mariota had fallen asleep. A servant, rhythmically twirling a spindle to twist wool into thread, sat nearby and watched over the girl. There was no reason for the prioress to stay inside after chapel, and she was never inclined to remain sedentary for long. Even if the ground was sodden, she longed for the exercise. It would help her think, and she had much to ponder.
As she walked down the steeply curving staircase to the hall below, she forced herself to confront the question of why she had gotten involved in this matter of murder. It was no business of hers. This was not priory land. The king’s law ruled here. Although the sheriff may have offended her, and he did prefer the easy answer to problems, he was not dull-witted. That young guard he had assigned to make sure she did not meddle in his affairs was one proof of that.
Why did she not remember her teachings and step away, forgiving Sir Reimund his offense as she should? He could easily solve this crime—if he chose justice over furthering his own ambition. She bit her lip. Of course she doubted he would choose truth over self-interest and thus ached to thwart him. But was her reason based in a desire to render justice or was the motivation born of vanity?
After her successes in similar affairs, she may have grown conceited, believing that only she would be disinterested enough to discover the truth. If so, she must cease her involvement immediately and confess her overfed arrogance.
Yet the more she learned about the circumstances surrounding the groom’s death, the more she feared some innocent would be hanged, and her soul balked at the very thought. Although she had not spoken with the cook, both Huet and Brother Thomas had argued forcefully for her innocence, and the steward had shown frank disbelief when she was arrested.
If the sheriff was finally convinced to release her, would he substitute another innocent victim of low rank? The speedy choice of Hilda suggested he would follow that pattern again and ignore the possible involvement of both the steward and his younger son. Eleanor knew she could not sit back and let that happen.
As the prioress walked through the entry door to the courtyard, she glanced behind her and realized her faithful guard was not in attendance. Then she heard a girlish squeal and saw a child race toward her, skidding to a stop just before she collided with the Prioress of Tyndal.
“My lady, please forgive my daughter! She meant no harm.” The young guard was red-faced as he approached the girl and put a hand gently but firmly on her shoulder.
The child dutifully bobbed but stared round-eyed at the woman before her.
“Now ask politely for what you wanted,” the father bent to whisper.
The girl, surely no more than four, put one finger in her mouth.
Eleanor knelt. A small woman by any measure, her eyes were now on a level with those of the child.
The girl grinned. “Blessing?” she asked without removing the finger.
The guard shifted nervously. “She begged to come with me today and meet you, my lady. She is usually a good child and knows how to behave with her betters. I don’t know what has caused this.”
“Our Lord said we should all be more like children.” Eleanor smiled and made her fingers walk like a playful spider on her palm.
The girl giggled.
The prioress picked the girl up and hugged her. “She is beautiful,” she said, handing her over to the guard. “Am I correct in concluding she favors her mother?”
The young man nodded but moisture rimmed his eyes. “God’s angels required that her mother go into their service over a year ago. We know it was her duty, but we still miss her.”
Her heart ached to learn that news, and Eleanor pressed a hand against her breast. In truth, it mattered little to the wee ones that a mother was now safely with God. A father might try to sooth the absence with gentleness, but a mother’s death was a wound that never quite healed. It was a feeling Eleanor knew well. With especial tenderness, she blessed the child as she had been asked.
“Now that we have your daughter’s company for my honor’s sake, shall we take a walk?” The sheriff had assigned this man to watch her, but the guard had shown only courtesy to her. He seemed a good, well-intended country fellow. His help moving her through the crowd and several other small gestures had demonstrated that a soft heart came with duty.
As they gingerly stepped around puddles and over piles of multi-hued muck, Eleanor smiled at her guard who now held his daughter firmly by the hand. “Have you both eaten yet?”
He nodded. “When she knew we’d be here, Hilda always saved a trencher from the evening meal, or the harder crusts from fresh bread soaked in milk for my child. The kitchen may be in turmoil now with Hilda locked away, but one of the servants was kind enough to feed us.”
“You’ve known the cook long?”
“She and my mother grew up together, and they remained good friends.”
“Then Hilda is of local birth?”
“Aye, and her parents served the manor as did theirs before them.”
“If your mother calls the cook friend, Hilda must be a good woman.”
He started to answer but then hesitated.
Perhaps he fears a reply would be against the sheriff’s wishes, Eleanor realized. “I am not seeking any information about the crime of which she is accused. Master Stevyn said she was talented at her work, and such a woman could easily have earned enough to save for marriage. I wonder that she never found a husband. Or is she a widow? I was not sure.”
The tension went out of his shoulders. “I think a cooper wanted to marry her years ago, but he died when a cart turned over and broke his back. My mother sometimes jested that Hilda liked running a kitchen better than being run by any husband and thus chased all young men away with words as sharp as her carcass cleaver. Yet my mother never quite understood why the cook didn’t marry. She was well-known for her gentle heart and liked by all, especially when she fed us!”
Her impression of Hilda confirmed, Eleanor decided not to pursue any more questions and laughed at the guard’s jest. “Your mother sounds like a most loving friend. Tell me of your family.”
And thus the two chatted companionably as they walked through the manor house gate to the bumpy road and empty fields beyond. The guard let his daughter run free but never so far that he didn’t call her back to a safer distance. Eleanor was touched by how much the young widower loved his child. Although she learned that his sister had taken them in to give his motherless girl a woman’s care, she saw how he delighted in the time he spent with her himself. Indeed, her guard reminded her of a younger Crowner Ralf, a man fierce enough with felons who became soft as lamb’s wool when holding his baby daughter.
The prioress pointed out a low stone wall near a cluster of trees and asked if the way was treacherous. The young man assured her that the grass might be wet but the ground was firm enough, and so they walked toward it.
As they approached the trees, Eleanor noticed with some surprise that a figure was sitting on that fence in the shadow of the grove. It was a woman, bent over with her head buried in her hands.
“Forgive me,” the prioress said, “but I believe that is the steward’s wife. May I speak with her privately? She seems distressed and might be embarrassed, or even frightened, if you were to accompany me. Yet I do beg that you not go too far away should she be ill or otherwise need your assistance.”
When he bowed and stepped back, Eleanor was touched that he so quickly understood a woman’s need to speak only in another woman’s ear and watched him lead his daughter into the grove where he began pointing out things for her to see and learn thereby.
Now drawing closer, the prioress saw that the woman was certainly Luce and that the woman wept. “Mistress?” she said with a gentle tone. “May I bring comfort?”
Luce leapt down to the ground but, when she saw who it was, sank against the rough stone and stared in silence at the dark, sodden earth.
Eleanor reached out with concern. “Are you ill?”
The wife’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “If grief be a sickness, then I am ill. If…oh, what is the use in living?”
“If you can speak to me of your sorrow, we may find an answer together with God’s help.”
Luce made a fist and began to pound the damp rock with increasing force until a sharp pain caused her to cry out.
Eleanor saw a dark stain of blood on the wall. “Please, Mistress, do not let anguish conquer your soul. God weeps when His creatures suffer too much.” She lingered over the choice of her next words before concluding, “And demands that we who serve Him remember that all mortals are sinners, and thus no one may cast stones of condemnation.”
“Does not God curse us when we sin, even out of suffering?”
“Only if we do not regret those errors.”
“What would He say, do you think, if a woman lied to her husband about a quickening womb?”
That question most certainly caught Eleanor’s interest. The woman’s words were cutting with sarcasm, but the question required honest reply. “If the lie was given in hope and kindness, the sin is minor enough and might be overbalanced by good intentions.” She hesitated, weighing the chance of an answer if she continued. “Are you not pregnant?”
“I have demanded payment of the marriage debt often enough, but my husband has not filled my womb with life.”
“Why did you tell your husband otherwise?”
“I had hoped to give him a son anyway.”
“By other means.”
“You are perceptive, my lady.”
“And that means has gone…”
“…to Hell.”
“Your husband has two sons. Was he so eager for another?”
Luce’s mouth twisted with anger. “He was not, even though his eldest has no issue and his youngest was sent to be a priest. It was I who needed the son to be my comfort and support.”
“I know your husband is much older and may well leave you a widow. Yet surely you could remarry, if he dies before you, and thus gain the protection of another spouse?”
“And how old may I be then? Will not another man hesitate to wed me if I prove barren in this marriage? And if I fail to have a son, who must tend me when I am so aged that I can only sit in a corner and drool like some babe myself?”
Although the words rang with anger, Eleanor heard terror quivering just behind them. “Master Stevyn has two sons,” she said, “either of whom must take care of you. In addition, you will inherit a widow’s due.”
Luce snorted. “A widow’s due? Aye, that might pay for a servant to feed me pap, should I grow helpless, but only blood kin care enough to make sure toothless crones are handled with kindness.” She shuddered. “As for Master Ranulf, it might be a mercy if he left such charity to his wife. Yet there would be little benevolence in that. You have met her. Do you think her hands know aught of tenderness?”
Eleanor tilted her head to suggest sympathy.
“A dry husk inhabits the place where her heart should beat. The servants even jest that her husband must crawl on his knees and beg like a dog before she’ll ever lie with him.” She hugged herself as if chilled.
“What of Master Huet?” Eleanor shifted the object of the discussion, yet she wondered why Luce spoke in such a venomous tone and what had caused the hatred to grow between the two women.
“What should I think of him? He went off to be a priest. Now he is back, his tonsure gone, and he drifts without purpose, plucking his lute with a plectrum of horn. Perhaps he is not as eager for chastity as he once was, but I know not the direction he will take. A handsome man, for cert, but…” Falling silent, she lowered her eyes.
Eleanor shivered with a horrible thought. Might the steward’s wife and her son-by-marriage have just become lovers? Huet had seemed indifferent to his stepmother at dinner, when she boldly tried to get his attention, but that lack of interest could have been feigned.
Might Tobye have become jealous and threatened to tell tales if they continued their incestuous beddings? Or did he demand coin? Might Huet have killed to silence the groom?
Growing frustrated with the ever-changing nature of the crime, Eleanor suddenly lost patience. There were so many evasions and veiled hints, too many paths to follow. Or was her imagination simply becoming overheated to compensate for this cold weather and thus she was making matters out to be worse than they were?
“You have committed adultery, Mistress,” she snapped, tucking her hands into her sleeves to ease the chill. “Confess and repent, if you have not done so already. God forgives the contrite soul, and you may yet find yourself pregnant by your lawful husband.”
“And if I do not quicken with a boy?”
And why should you be so terrified of this? Eleanor wondered, hearing the tremor in Luce’s voice.
“I do not think you understand, my lady. When you are aged, you will have the priory nuns to care for you. I did not have your vocation and must depend on offspring for gentleness when I can no longer tend my needs.”
“Why fear such a distant thing? How could it be worth the sin you committed in trying to ease it?”
Luce sighed with annoyance. “My parents both lost their wits. Sadly, they had borne only two girls, and it fell to my younger sister to care for them. Soon after our mother died, our father wandered into a stream and drowned. My sister had fallen asleep under a nearby tree and suffered so because of her failure to prevent his death that she hanged herself.”
The prioress winced. “Surely there were servants to ease the burden. Kin? Why was she obliged to take on such a labor by herself?” She gestured at the manor lands. “They could have come here and been easily watched over.”
“There were servants, but my sister did not trust them enough. We had no other living kin, and I was about to be married, my lady. How many husbands want to take on the tending of some woman’s parents in their dotage? Even if willing, wouldn’t an older man suffer from such daily reminders of rotting age? I believed Master Stevyn might choose another to wed, one who did not bring thoughts of mortal decay to the marriage bed, if I raised the subject of my parents with him. As you must certainly understand, I had to hide the truth and thus could do nothing to help my sister.”
This time Eleanor knew that her chill had nothing to do with the dampness in the air.
“I would remain alone here for awhile.” Luce now looked at the prioress with narrowed eyes, her manner bordering on insolence.
Eleanor rose and took her leave with more courtesy than was owed. As she, her guard, and his daughter walked back toward the manor house gate, she grieved that she had failed to bring either peace or contrition to the twisted heart of the steward’s wife and feared the evil in this place of refuge was more sinister than she had imagined.