“None involving mortals. You accused Ivetta. Why?”
“I think she did it. She was alone with Martin the longest.” Ralf gestured back at the inn. “Just talked with our fine innkeeper who said his niece usually took up the meal but that night had a quarrel with him and set the tray down on a table while they argued. Thus the drink and food remained unattended. According to him, someone might have slipped poison into it on the way out of the inn.” He snorted. “That seems unlikely. Too much luck involved.”
“Unless someone did not care when he killed Martin and had the poison ready for just the right moment?”
“The king might have his food tasted for such a reason, but we deal more directly with disagreements on this seaweed covered coast you love so well. That idea would have merit someplace other than Tyndal village.”
Thomas laughed. The ongoing joke between them had become a comfortable thing.
“Martin has been a bully since boyhood,” Ralf continued in a more serious tone. “If he angered someone, he would have been stabbed or beaten bloody coming home drunk from the inn not long after any offense. Who in this village would lie in wait with a vial of poison? Perhaps tied up in the sleeve? I can name no such man.”
“A woman then, as you suggested.”
“Ivetta.”
“You haven’t arrested her.”
Ralf scowled. “I may think her most likely, but I cannot come up with a reason why she would have murdered him. That’s the trouble. She’s followed the man like a bitch in heat ever since he broke her maidenhead years ago in the field over there. If she never cared that he turned her into the village whore afterward instead of marrying her, why would she want to kill him so many years later? She may have had cause, but I have yet to discover a recent one.”
The two men stopped as they came to Tibia’s hut.
“You have not yet talked to Ivetta?” In the growing dark, Thomas could not see the crowner’s face, but the man’s long silence answered eloquently enough.
“Your prioress agreed it was best if she talked to her,” Ralf admitted at last. “Knowing how persuasive Prioress Eleanor can be, I might even hope that she could get the harlot to confess to murder. Or, if not that, persuade her to repent her sinful trade, although I cannot imagine Ivetta in a nun’s habit myself. Your prioress will also speak with the innkeeper’s niece to ask what she might have noticed.” The last was quickly mumbled as if in afterthought.
“As we both have learned, the leader of Tyndal can pry secrets from most men, let alone any woman. Your request for her help was a wise one.”
The crowner flushed. “It was her suggestion, monk. I am grateful.”
Thomas nodded. Having witnessed the harshness with which Ralf had treated Ivetta, he knew his prioress must have greater success gaining the prostitute’s confidence. Why would anyone, especially a frightened woman, confide in a man who gave every sign of wanting to hang someone, anyone, as soon as possible? As for Signy, he had heard rumors enough that the rough-mannered Ralf had offended her deeply not long ago.
Suddenly Ralf’s expression brightened. “As for help, Brother, why don’t you ask old Tibia if she noticed anything that night? I saw her in the inn sucking at a bowl of stew.”
“She suffers great pain, Crowner. I fear the only thing she can see is her path to heaven.”
“I had an aged aunt with eyesight better than any hawk. On her deathbed, she told her son, in front of his wife, to give up the mistress he thought he had well-hidden. Don’t let an old woman fool you into thinking she has one foot in God’s hand.”
“If she is alert enough to remember anything, I shall ask her,” Thomas agreed.
Still grinning at the memory of his cousin’s discomfort, Ralf set off in the direction of the smithy.
***
Thomas peered through the thick darkness of old Tibia’s hut. His heart beat several times before he finally saw her in a corner, sitting on a stool. “It is Brother Thomas,” he said in a soft voice.
“My son!” Tibia’s voice was flat with pain. Her hand reached out toward him, fingers clawing as her breath came in gasps.
“I have the potion,” he replied, quickly pulling the stopper from the neck of the jar.
She grasped the small container and gulped the liquid like a starving babe at its mother’s breast.
When she was done, he helped her ease off the stool and lie on her matted straw.
“I remind God daily to take note of your kindness to this crone,” she whispered.
“God knows everything,” he replied. From the sweetish stench of old urine and the musty smell of decay, Thomas suspected the straw had not been changed for a very long time. Tomorrow he would come earlier and bring fresh straw for a clean bed.
“He needs reminding, Brother! I’d not have Him forget you.” Tibia’s laugh was sharp.
“Have you no family at all?” Thomas asked, looking with pity at the cruel poverty of the small space.
“Hell’s full of my kin.”
“None of your husband’s family…”
“Husband?” She snorted. “My son could’ve been the spawn of many, Brother. When my father and mother died, I lived by whoring. Young flesh draws a high price.” Her voice grew muffled as the mixture began to dull her senses and ease her pain.
Perhaps God did need reminding if a young girl was allowed to suffer the loss of her parents and then all virtue in order to survive, Thomas thought. A chill sadness took hold of him.
“Shocked, holy man? Or disgusted by my sins?”
“Only grieved that you should have so much sorrow.”
“Don’t be, Brother. It doesn’t matter that no one’s alive to call me kin, or would if I had any, but I’ve known some joy. When I quickened with my son, I stopped whoring.” Her eyes glittered in the small light. “Nay, I didn’t find virtue. I fell in love with the babe too quickly to rid myself of him, as I knew well enough how to do.”
Thomas smiled at the softness in her voice, then caught himself wondering if his own mother, a woman he never knew, had felt the same about him. He looked down at Tibia, but she had turned her face from him and did not see his especial sympathy.
“I sold herbs and potions to feed us both. Some say charms as well, but many point out the Devil in others so no one will see the Fiend in themselves.” She turned back with a toothless grin. “Look at me, Brother! Why would I dance naked for the imps at midnight? Satan himself would not couple with this body even if I offered my soul.”
The monk sat back in shock. Surely there were no limits on what the Evil One might do to gain a soul for Hell? “I have seen you consulting with Sister Anne about cures,” he said, quickly changing the subject.
“She is a good woman. Taught me much while I could still walk upright and visit the priory hospital.”
“Did your son not have a wife?”
There was no answer.
Thomas fell silent and listened to Tibia’s breathing deepen into sleep.
His heart now overflowed with compassion for this woman. On impulse he bent to kiss her rough cheek. No matter what his particular distress, he was surrounded by many who would care for him if he suffered the physical pain this woman did, and do so with tenderness. Her lifelong suffering and loneliness was greater than anything he could even imagine, and he quietly berated himself for his own selfish moaning.
As he slipped out the door and walked back to the priory, he remembered that he had not asked old Tibia about what she might have witnessed at the inn. He shrugged. Why trouble the poor woman right now when she endured so much agony. The questioning could surely wait.
Chapter Eighteen
“You’re standing in my light.” Will lowered his hammer as sweat made pale and twisted paths through the black ash on his face, arms, and chest. The air stank of hot metal and unwashed flesh.