Eleanor glanced back at the room she had just left. Was it Maud? Hadn’t this woman seemed troubled when she mentioned lust burning in one past such foolishness? Didn’t that understanding sing of experience? Was she an older woman who longed for the embrace of a handsome man, a woman too old to bear a child?
“No,” she whispered, “surely not Maud.”
Despite her fears that there was some collusion between sheriff and physician’s widow, Eleanor owed Maud gratitude for her care of Mariota. Had Maud’s one good deed blinded her to darker elements in the woman’s nature? Was Maud’s name the one Hilda meant to whisper in Brother Thomas’ ear?
“All mortals are sinners,” she groaned, resting her cheek against the rough stone, “but some dance the earth, shouting of sweet virtue to disguise the stench of their own rotting hearts. Others suffer men’s mockery because they gently embrace lepers and defend the suffering or weak with the compassion God intended. The rest wander through their lives, doing no greater evil and owning no finer virtue than any other man. Which is she?”
There were other suspects. She had not dismissed the strong possibility that Master Stevyn knew of his wife’s adultery and had killed the man who set horns on his forehead. But could he be guilty of the attack on Hilda? The steward might have struck her down because she knew or had witnessed something that would send him to the hangman.
Or did Mistress Luce kill her lover because he threatened to tell her husband, should she grow quick with child, unless she gave him bright coin for his silence? Or had she faced being replaced in his bed?
Had Huet killed the groom because he was his step-mother’s lover? Again, perhaps Hilda had been a witness or knew more than was safe for her.
And what about this older woman?
There was too much to consider.
“Nor do I know these people,” Eleanor complained softly, “and this manor is even smaller than the village of Tyndal. Surely the perpetrator is suspected. I should no longer question Sir Reimund’s arrests for he must know far better than I who might have committed these crimes.”
Yet she could not escape the fact that he had chosen to put Hilda in chains for no other apparent reason than she was convenient and would offend no one of rank. Surely he had heard rumor enough about Mistress Luce’s adultery, even if it was from the bawdy jests of his men. That said, to accuse her or her husband of this crime might bring down on his head the wrath of an earl. Master Stevyn was esteemed for his skilled running of this estate. Henry de Lacy would not look kindly on the man who hanged his steward or caused Stevyn deep humiliation by publicly crowning him as a cuckold.
Eleanor pressed her fist against the stone. “My primary responsibility is for the safety of those who came with me, a journey that grows even more ill-advised each day that I insist on meddling in affairs that are not mine to resolve,” she muttered. “And shall I repay the kindness of hospitality by pointing an accusing finger at those same good souls just because their motivations in killing this groom have not been questioned? What arrogance to think that I know better than those who have far greater understanding of the ways of this place! Since when has ignorance proven wiser than knowledge? And have I forgotten that I have authority over others in Tyndal Priory only because I stand as the symbol of a perfect woman and not because I am less frail than others of my sex? Dare I endanger my priory and my family with this wild imprudence?”
Having now presented herself with logical reasons why she should not continue this ill-advised pursuit of justice, she fell silent. But her heart had ever been rebellious, and in that stillness, she knew it had conceded nothing to logic or any of these reasonable concerns.
Feeling her face turn hot with frustration and fury, the prioress spun away and marched toward the room where her young charge lay healing from the winter fever.
As many had learned in the past, Prioress Eleanor was most dangerous when she was angry.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“You look downcast, Brother. Shall I sing you a bawdy song to make you laugh, although you may have to do penance for it after?” Huet mimed a young man wooing an invisible maiden. “Or would you prefer a more prayerful one to please your soul?” The steward’s younger son became an old man, bent with the pain of his sins, praying for God’s forgiveness.
Thomas leaned back on the bench in the kitchen and watched with admiration. “Where did you learn such skills, Master Huet? Surely they were not taught as part of your priestly training?”
The young man’s smile was enigmatic. “Have you been a monk since boyhood?”
“I became a clerk first,” Thomas answered. This was not the first time he had been asked this question and had an easy enough half-truth prepared should he be asked for whom he had served and where. As his spymaster, a man who preferred more skilled deception, had warned, Thomas might be caught out with this crude stratagem one day. So far, few had ever cared to delve deeper than his first reply.
“And you were God’s most dutiful servant, never sinning?”
“I sinned eagerly and often enough.”
“And thus took these vows as penance?”
Thomas bowed his head, knowing silence suggested an adequate enough answer.
“Forgive me, Brother, for I meant no ill by that question. I oft speak before reason can advise otherwise.”
“Nor was I offended. It was I who erred by inquiring into matters I had no right to know.”
“And thus we each allow the other his secrets.” Huet winked, then laughed to suggest his comment was only a jest.
Thomas was not fooled by the contrived lightness of the man’s tone and turned his gaze away to conceal his wariness. Huet had lied about returning to see Hilda asleep on the bench and thus Thomas had cause to be distrustful, forcing himself to maintain an objective distance. In truth, had the circumstances of their meeting been different, he knew he would have enjoyed joisting wits with this man, whom he found both talented and companionable, but this situation did not permit such relaxation.
“Did you hear the latest news about Hilda?” Thomas asked, deliberately changing the subject.
“She is dead?”
The monk let Huet’s response resonate in his ears to catch what meanings he could, but all he heard was sorrow. “Near enough, I fear,” he said. Perhaps his suspicions of the man were ill-conceived. The steward’s son seemed very fond of the cook and may well have lied only to save her life. “I felt some trembling in her neck and a little breath of life from her mouth, but she had bled much. I have too little skill to help her and must pray that God lets her stay a while longer on earth and identify the one who did this unconscionable act.”
Huet frowned.
Involuntarily, the monk shivered. Surely Huet knew that Thomas was aware of the lie told and thus could expose the steward’s son any time he wished. If the man had made up the tale solely to keep the cook from hanging, he would expect Thomas to remain silent. After all, Huet’s words only provided support to the monk’s and thus the lie was well-intended. Thomas had no reason to speak up.
Or was this man malevolently clever? If this son of Master Stevyn had lied because it somehow placed him safely away from both time and place of the murder, Thomas was in danger. Perhaps Huet thought the monk would remain silent out of fear that he might be the next victim if he revealed the lie, an unlikely conclusion since most murderers killed witnesses.
Suddenly, Thomas became aware of just how vulnerable he was. The two of them were alone, and leaning against the table as he was, he was off balance should Huet wish to attack him. He had no wish to die with a knife shoved into his belly before he could defend himself. Slowly, he straightened up.