The naked body of Mistress Luce twisted with each gust of wind that surged through the stable. Her face was a dusky red, her legs stained brown with foul-smelling excrement.
The steward turned away. “Cut her down,” he ordered.
Sir Reimund gestured at one of his men to climb into the loft to the beam where the hanging rope was tied.
Near the open door, Thomas stood next to his prioress and looked up at the body. He was often drawn to a corpse’s unblinking eyes. Sometimes he could read fear in a dead man’s stare, while others left the world with wonder frozen in their gaze, but Mistress Luce seemed to have greeted Death with incredulity. Was there meaning in this difference, he asked himself, or did no one quite comprehend the nature of eternity until the soul first looked into it? He shook the thought away and concentrated on details more pertinent to the dangling corpse. And indeed he found an interesting one.
“My lady, I do not think she…” he began.
She put a finger to her closed lips. “I concur.”
Mistress Constance, who stood near the ladder to the loft, began to sob, the sound akin to a wailing hiccup. The physician’s widow walked to her side and put an arm around the woman’s shoulders, but Constance shook off her attempt at comfort and moaned yet louder.
The steward glared at his daughter-in-law and muttered something incomprehensible, but whatever he said failed to moderate the woman’s cries.
Again, Eleanor cursed herself for ignorance of common practice in this place. She had learned that it was Constance who had discovered the body, rather than a groom. What reason had she to come to the stable at such an early hour? Surely her duties did not extend to the care of horses.
The man sent up to the loft had reached the beam where the rope was knotted. He pointed to it and shouted a question down to Sir Reimund.
“Just cut through it,” the sheriff replied, then put his hand sympathetically on Master Stevyn’s shoulder. “Might she have killed herself?” the sheriff asked in a hopeful voice.
“She had no cause,” the steward replied, facing the man with an angry look.
“Nor was she likely to have done so,” Thomas added, then looked down at his prioress with silent apology for speaking against her command.
“Continue,” she murmured. “As Eve’s daughter, I am bereft of logic. While you and the sheriff engage in disputation, I shall seek to give Mistress Constance a woman’s comfort.” With a conspiratorial smile, she walked off toward the two women by the ladder.
“Shouldn’t you be on your knees in the chapel, praying for Mistress Luce’s soul?” Reimund snarled at the monk. “Leave this matter to me. You have a most unfortunate tendency to interfere in secular matters, Brother.”
“If she committed self-murder, she cannot be buried in sanctified ground,” Thomas replied, his voice tense with defiance. “Surely Master Stevyn would find some comfort in knowing that his wife was both innocent of this particular sin and might find rest in a proper grave. Would you deny him that?”
“On what do you base your belief, Brother?” The steward gestured for the sheriff to remain silent.
“If we look at the position of the body in relation to the loft, we can see that she could not have jumped from there and killed herself.”
“Stop!” Master Stevyn shouted up to the man who had begun sawing at the rope from which the dead wife was suspended.
The man hesitated.
Sir Reimund quickly nodded concurrence although his expression suggested reluctance.
“Go on, Brother,” Master Stevyn said.
“If she was determined to kill herself, she would have made sure the rope stretched down far enough to break her neck as she jumped from the loft. Instead, the noose was only a few inches below the planks of the loft. Had she wanted, she could have pulled herself back to safety when she began to choke. In any case, she would have dropped only far enough to bruise her neck and perhaps frighten herself but not to die.”
“Women are deficient in logic, Brother. As distressed as it makes me to conclude this about Master Stevyn’s wife, I fear she may not have understood what she was doing and thus bungled the entire matter.” Reimund did manage to look suitably grieved.
The steward snorted in disgust. “Have you all noted what Brother Thomas has observed and heard his skillful argument?” Stevyn pointed to each man standing nearby. All nodded concurrence. Now satisfied that there would be no finding of self-murder in his wife’s death, he turned in triumph to Sir Reimund. “You may now cut her down.”
The sheriff allowed his man to finish cutting the rope. Mistress Luce’s body dropped to the stable floor with a dull thud, her legs spread and her sex exposed.
Her husband covered his eyes.
Several gaped.
“Have none of you a charitable heart?” Mistress Maud hurried out of the shadows and threw her cloak over the corpse. Then she spun around and glared at the sheriff. “As mortals, women may be both foolish and sinful creatures, Sir Reimund, but that does not mean the body of Master Stevyn’s wife should be left exposed and gazed upon as if she were no more than some common whore.”
“I want her prepared for honorable burial,” the steward said, his voice catching in a swallowed sob.
Maud gave instructions to those who came forward to take the body away.
The crowd began to disperse, their curiosity sated.
“This was no accident?” Maud suddenly cried out to Thomas. “You believe it to be murder?”
Heads quickly turned, and faces lit up at the prospect of more fodder for gossip.
“That is the most likely conclusion,” the monk replied. “Lacking in reason or not, most mortals of any gender are more likely to grab at the chance for life when they find themselves unable to breath. She would have saved herself.”
The sheriff still looked eager to argue the point.
“Let the monk finish,” Stevyn growled, his fist raised as if longing to find something to strike.
Sir Reimund wisely stepped away.
“Even assuming she wanted to die, she would not have chosen to choke slowly to death. She would have pulled herself up and reset the rope so she would drop farther and commit the act quickly. If we examine the body, I think we will find that she was dead before she was hanged and the killer bungled the deception.”
Reimund bent to pull the temporary shroud back.
“In the name of God’s mercy, let a woman do that!” Maud snapped. “She is the steward’s wife!”
Eleanor left Constance and walked toward the physician’s widow. “Mistress Maud could examine the body for any signs of foul play,” she said. “With her experience as apothecary under the guidance of her physician husband, she has learned good skills, and I will be happy to assist. Thus propriety will be maintained.”
Maud nodded. In the weak light, her face was a faded gray.
“We will share our observations with Brother Thomas, and he can resolve questions or doubts as well as correct our faults. His work at Tyndal’s hospital is well known,” the prioress carefully added.
“Then do so,” the steward said, looking at both women with pitiful gratitude. “After you finish, your monk should bring the findings to me. I must attend other matters until he has need of me, and Sir Reimund is free to return to his many other pressing duties until summoned.”
Looking into Stevyn’s narrowed eyes, the sheriff must have known he had little choice but to agree.