The priest's face tightened, but he said nothing, only shaking his head.
«She poisoned three people, Father», Alyce went on, outrage in the very softness of her tone. «She murdered two innocent women and an innocent child — and very nearly killed another child. It could as easily have been one of the royal princes! And you would absolve her of that?»
A uneasy murmur rippled among the onlookers, and the priest slowly stood, looking her up and down.
«Are you not one of the heiresses of Corwyn, a Deryni?» he said coldly.
«What difference does that make to the three she killed?» Alyce snapped. «Does it make them any less dead?»
A soldier leaned closer to the priest to whisper in his ear, and the priest's face went very still.
The deaths are regrettable, of course — as is hers», the priest said. «But it is up to God to judge her — not me. And it is not the place of a Deryni to instruct me in my duties».
Alyce only shook her head and turned away, closing her eyes to the sight of him and the dead Muriella. She could hear the muttering following her as she made her way out of the crowd. When she found her way back to the garden arbor where she had left her sister, the body was gone, but as she glanced around in dismay, one of the gardeners approached her awkwardly, cap in hands.
«Monks came to take her away, my lady», he murmured. «Brother Ruslan said to tell you that she would lie in the chapel royal tonight. I'm very sorry. She was very kind, even to a mere gardener».
She stared at him blankly for several seconds, then gave him a grateful nod. His name was Ned, she recalled, and he had always had a gentle word for both her and Marie.
«Thank you, Ned», she whispered.
In a daze, she made her way to the chapel royal, where two black-robed monks were setting up a bier in the aisle before the altar. But of any bodies, there was no sign.
Forlorn, not knowing what else to do, she knelt at the rear of the chapel and said a prayer for her sister's soul — and for Isan, and for Brigetta, and even for the wretched Muriella — then rose and went forward to where the brothers worked.
«Could you tell me where the bodies have been taken?» she asked.
The older man looked up pityingly and gave her a neutral nod.
«You'll be asking after the women?» he said.
She inclined her head in return.
«We're told that some of the sisters from Saint Hilary's are looking after them», he informed her. «But they'll lie here tonight. Except for the one who took her own life, of course».
«What about the boy?» Alyce asked dully.
«There was a boy as well?» the younger brother asked, shocked.
Mutely Alyce nodded.
«Dear Jesu», the elder brother whispered, as both crossed themselves.
«In all fairness», she forced herself to say, «I do not think the boy was meant to die — or the second woman. Or the one who planned the deed — God forgive her, for I cannot. I can only imagine that it was conceived in unreasoning jealousy, and went disastrously wrong. The poison was meant for my sister alone, but four now lie dead as a result of this day's work». She shook her head. «I'll leave you to your duties», she murmured, as she turned and fled.
Grief urged her to look further for her sister, but reason reminded her of other duties to the living. Lady Megory had lost a son, and the young princes had lost a comrade. She returned to the queen's solar to find Richeldis and her ladies helping the bereaved mother wash and prepare her son's body for burial.
Comforted by Zoë and Vera, Alyce wept with them and watched as they tenderly laid young Isan Fitzmartin in the queen's own bed, where the ladies would keep watch beside him during the night. A little while later, now accompanied by Zoë and Vera, she withdrew again to find the body of her dead sister.
They found both Marie and Brigetta now lying in the chapel royal, where the sisters from Saint Hilary’s-Within-the-Walls had lovingly prepared the two for burial, laying them out upon a bier strewn with rose petals. Each had been dressed in her finest gown, crowned with a floral wreath and veiled from head to toe with fine white linen, like brides arrayed for their bridegrooms. Alyce was reminded of the veil Cerys Devane had worn for her novice profession at Arc-en-Ciel; but Marie had never sought such a life.
A lock of Marie's bronzy hair had tumbled loose from under her veil and down the side of the bier, and Alyce gave a sob as she saw it and came to touch it with a trembling hand. At the sound, one of the sisters spreading fresh linens on the altar turned a sympathetic face toward the newcomers. She was hardly older than they, and looked to have been weeping.
But before she could speak, her older companion inclined her head toward Alyce.
«A terrible sadness», she said quietly. «But they are with God now».
Gently Alyce reached out to lay one trembling hand on the bulge of Marie's folded hands beneath the veil covering her, her vision blurred by tears.
«Dear God, I had thought I had no tears left to weep», she whispered, crumpling to her knees to rest her forehead against the edge of the bier.
After a moment, blinking back tears of her own, Vera sank down beside her, one arm around the shoulders of her twin, and Zoë knelt on Alyce's other side.
«Could you please leave us for a moment?» Zoë said softly to the two sisters.
In unison, the pair inclined their heads and padded silently from the chapel, settling to wait outside until the visitors should finish paying their respects.
Not far from the entrance to that chapel, Seisyll Arilan watched for a long moment, then turned to make his way toward the stables.
The day's events, of a certainty, required a report to the Camberian Council, not only to share his impressions regarding young Krispin MacAthan — which easily could have waited until the next regularly scheduled meeting — but now to report the untimely and quite senseless death of Marie de Corwyn. The death of a Deryni heiress of her importance would require the Council to considerably reshuffle their careful strategies regarding desirable marriage alliances. But before he went to tell them, he intended to have a look at the body of the accused poisoner. Because the wretched Muriella had taken her own life, she lay not in the chapel royal or even in one of the side chapels of Saint Hilary’s-Within-the-Walls but in the castle's stables, in one of the loose boxes usually reserved for foaling, laid out on boards across a pair of trestles. Two of the queen's maids had washed away the blood and dressed her in a clean white shift, wrapping her shattered head in linen bandages, so that she looked like a nun.
Now one of the maids was sewing the dead girl into her burial shroud while the other tucked bunches of sweet herbs amid the folds of fabric. A wreath of rosemary lay beside the basket of herbs. Both of the maids looked up guiltily as Seisyll appeared at the stall door, and they dropped him nervous curtsies.
«Is that the girl who fell to her death? Muriella, I believe?» Seisyll asked, jutting his chin toward the corpse.
The girl sewing up the shroud gave him a fearful nod.
«Aye, m'lord — poor lady. She'll get nae better wedding wreath», she added, nodding toward the circlet of rosemary. «But she didna' mean to do it».
«She didn't mean to do it», Seisyll repeated, raising a quizzical eyebrow. «What — she didn't mean to kill herself, or she didn't mean to kill all those people?»
His rapid-fire questions silenced the speaker, but the other girl boldly lifted her chin to him.
«She didna' mean to kill anyone, m'lord! 'Specially not the boy». The other girl was now nodding emphatic agreement. «But she was fair green wi' jealousy!»
«Jealousy of whom?» Seisyll demanded.
«Why, the Lady Marie», came the prompt reply. «Everybody knew that — 'cept Marie an' her sister, o'course. Marie was fair smitten wi' Sir Sé Trelawney, an' too besotted to notice that Muriella fancied him, too».