“What news have you for me?” Eleanor sang softly in Latin as she kept an eye on the guard to her left.
After hesitating over how best to respond, Thomas chanted, “The dagger and some concerns.”
The first part of his answer pleased the prioress. “Tell me of the former.”
“I found it hidden in the straw, where others should have discovered it had they looked, but none did, which is no better than we feared.”
“Alleluia!”
Thomas buried his face in his hands and hoped he could match his prioress’ discretion in this covert conversation. “The crafting is well done, yet the object bears no distinctive mark.”
“Has it kin amongst the cook’s tools?”
“Sadly.”
“Might it have been stolen?”
He hesitated, wanting very much to say it had been. “Or not,” he finally forced himself to reply. “Whether dropped by accident in the rush to escape, or deliberately left as some ruse, remains unclear.”
Eleanor fell silent as she studied the guard. Although he seemed uninterested in their discussion, she began a regular litany of prayers.
Thomas dutifully followed until the final Amen.
The guard remained on his knees, hands clasped tightly, and apparently unaware of his companions.
“Will you ask if anyone recognizes the knife?”
“If so, I shall claim I found it near the kitchen.”
Eleanor gazed up at the cross. “Be careful, lest you ask the man who did this deed. He might choose to silence you.”
The likeness of one immediately came to the monk’s mind, the man’s arms encircling him. Then he imagined a knife pricking his breast. Thomas flinched. The vision vanished, and he nodded concurrence with her plea for caution.
The guard rose to his feet.
Their chance to exchange information had ended, but Eleanor knew her monk had more to say and that something troubled him. After all the crimes they had solved together, she knew Brother Thomas would never recoil at the prospect of facing a murderer. What else was worrying him? She would chance one last question.
“Have you left a concern unspoken?” she chanted.
Thomas visibly paled.
Although the guard’s head was bowed, he now leaned against the chapel wall where he could see what the two religious did.
“Tell me quickly. We must leave.”
“The younger son gave false witness today. He did not return as he claimed in the early morning. I did not see him at all until later in the day.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened. That might well make Huet another suspect in this killing. Yet, if he had done it, his heated defense of the cook suggested he did not want an innocent to suffer for his crime. Might that mean there was a complication to this murder? Might it even have been self-defense? Yet there had been no sign of a struggle.
She frowned. There was something else that bothered her. Why had Huet lied so publicly when he knew Brother Thomas could give witness against him?
Glancing at the guard, she saw he was showing some impatience and knew she could not ask her monk more.
“I pray that God will have mercy on his soul if he is guilty of this sin,” she whispered.
“Amen,” Thomas responded, turning his face away.
Chapter Twenty-Two
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.