“If so, He brings no comfort.” Thomas blinked, hearing the anger in his voice. “Forgive me. Those were the Devil’s words.”
“Nay, they were a man’s cry for help. Are you afraid because you curse God? You are not the only one to do so. Priests may teach us to emulate Job and praise God even when He torments the just, but I say that others have cursed Him and gained His sympathy. Remember Jesus when he cried out from the cross: ‘My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?’ If the perfect son speaks so to the perfect father, may you not do the same?”
“None of us is the Son. Surely the wise men are right when they say we must follow Job’s path and his strong faith.”
“Will you listen to men or to God? Those who boast they know God best often fail to understand the sweet humanity of His son.”
Silence fell between them, and a light breeze dried the tears on Thomas’ cheeks to salt. The hot summer air, that had weighed him down earlier, now rested with a light touch on his body, but he had lost all desire to stand. He sank back on his heels.
“Even if God were to forgive a man for railing against Him, there must be sins that He will not forgive,” he whispered.
“And that man sees the sin he committed and begs for mercy with an honest heart? Do you not believe in perfect grace? If you have no faith in flawless mercy, you deny God’s perfection. In this way, you allow that He is capable of sin. Such is blasphemy.”
“Then why will He not bring me solace and the understanding I long for?”
As Thomas waited for her answer, an owl hooted in the distance as if mocking his impatience.
“Surely you have asked this question of your confessor?” Juliana asked. “Tell me what he said.”
“That I have not prayed loudly or long enough. I am too wicked a man…”
“Hush! Perhaps your confessor fails to understand that God cares less about the loud gnashing of teeth than whether the heart is ready to hear Him.”
“My confessor is a priest, through whom God grants wisdom and guidance. If we listen to our own hearts, we may confuse the Devil’s voice with that of God.”
“You are a priest.”
“Aye.”
“Then are you not allowed to know God’s will?”
“I am not worthy.”
“No mortal is, Brother, but understanding how unworthy you are is the first step to cleansing yourself of worldly error.”
“I am frightened.”
“As you should be. Truth’s light shines in men’s eyes with such painful intensity that most turn away from it. It is far easier to look upon the cancerous rot of their willful and arrogant ignorance which Satan has glazed with the sheen of righteousness. Yet are we not commanded to obey the holy spirit of the law, not the imperfect letter, to reject a fine appearance for the plainness of truth? Those who repeat the well-worn phrases of prayer may still be good men, but they will never match the blessedness of those who follow the example of God’s only son.”
“What am I to do?”
“Be silent in God’s presence, and He will send you guidance.”
Surely it was blasphemy to deny the power of spoken prayer? Thomas began to sweat, his head light with dizziness. “Your phrases are sweet in the ear, Sister, but I must listen to you with caution. Do you not recall how Saint Paul said, in a letter to Timothy, that women must be silent and not teach for they are the daughters of that great transgressor, Eve?”
“I would not dare to speak with my own mouth, Brother. Without question, I am a frail woman, a creature of no consequence. Nevertheless, as you know well, I am not the first woman through whom God has chosen to speak.”
Was he wrong or had the tenor of her voice deepened? Women, who swore themselves to God’s service, often acquired a sacred masculinity through their vows and faith. He himself had witnessed this transformation after entering the Order of Fontevraud where women ruled men. If God had chosen this anchoress to convey His wisdom, Thomas should listen and not argue. If not…
“How can I know whether or not you speak with God’s voice?” he whispered.
“Alas, I am unable to prove this to you. When morning comes, my throat is raw from speaking words I cannot even remember. My heart fills with anguish, and I beg God to choose someone else as His voice. No one knows better than I what a foul creature I am, so I spend my days punishing myself for my unworthiness and longing for forgiveness. Give me your blessing, Brother, for I most certainly need it!”
Although his voice shook, Thomas did as she asked, then rose and walked to the chapel. Was this strange woman, who counseled weary souls in dark hours, God’s true instrument? Or was she the handmaid of that most clever Prince of Darkness?
While his manly reason reserved judgement on this, his heart recalled what old Tibia had said earlier that evening, words that now filled him with a rare calm.
Chapter Fifteen
The sound of feminine laughter shattered the concentration of the prioress at prayer. Unlike some of her vocation, Eleanor believed laughter to be one of God’s most gracious gifts to his mortal creatures. Instead of being offended at the interruption, she rose from her prie-dieu and thanked Him for His charity.
When she entered the public chambers, she saw Gytha and Signy standing near the window, their backs turned to the prioress.
How lovely the innkeeper’s niece is, Eleanor thought, as she watched the light dance in Signy’s hair, brightening the red-gold strands scattered amongst the blond. This was a woman who could easily ensnare a man’s heart.
Not long ago, Gytha had confided her suspicions that Tostig might have fallen under the woman’s spell, a development the loving sister found pleasing. Although Ralf had said nothing about it to her, Eleanor knew from other sources that the crowner had also been shown much favor by Signy in the days before he left to join his elder brother. Even now he seemed fiercely protective of her in the matter of the cooper’s death. Did an easy capturing of a man’s affection have any significance in this particular murder?
The women turned.
Signy knelt and asked for a blessing.
“Thank you for coming here,” Eleanor said. “The day is fair, and I regret darkening it with grim questions about a slaying. Nonetheless, justice demands it.”
“As does our crowner,” Signy replied, her voice betraying a hint of discontent.
“A man with many flaws.” Eleanor nodded in acknowledgement of the woman’s displeasure. “In that I would agree, but one of them is not an unwillingness to seek the truth.”
“My lady, I know I am here because I would not answer his questions the night Martin was killed. Despite my anger with the crowner, I most certainly have no quarrel with you. I will cooperate in any way so that justice may be rendered.”
At the prioress’ nod, Gytha slipped out of the room, leaving the two women to talk in private.
Eleanor poured dark golden ale from a sweating jug and passed the cool mazer to the innkeeper’s niece. “We all hold secrets in our hearts,” she said, “and I shall not stand in judgement on anything you might tell me. If it has no relevance to the death of the cooper, I will promptly forget it. Is that fair?”
Signy nodded.
“Then I may conclude that neither of us wants a killer to escape because some detail, no matter how inconsequential or even humiliating, was ignored or kept hidden out of shame or pride?”
Signy lifted the cup to her lips but failed to hide a rising color in her cheeks.
“God knows everything about us. Only His judgement matters, not the flawed opinions of mortals, including prioresses.”
“Ask what you will. I shall be honest in my answers.”
“Please tell me what you remember about the night Martin died.”
Despite the prioress’ encouragement, Signy had very little to tell. Ivetta had given more detail.
“Where did you get the food and drink? Did you deliver them directly to Martin’s room?” Eleanor asked at the end of the brief tale.