The two bowed in courtesy, and, as Thomas watched the glover walk away, he groaned in frustration. He was still failing to discover the identity of the ghost, and he was getting nowhere in his mission of finding a manuscript thief.
Or was he? Questions buzzed in his mind like irritating flies, but his attempts to capture their significance failed. Why would a roofer want to learn so much about the Psalter? Was the argument between Wulfstan and his son just a drunken quarrel? Why did he sense that Drifa was lying, and what lay behind the meeting he had witnessed between Bernard and Sayer?
Thomas rubbed at his temples and wondered if his blindness was caused more by his lack of wit or by his contradictory feelings about the man around whom all these questions seemed to revolve.
Chapter Twenty-One
Surely he had seen a light in that window, Brother Baeda thought as he hurried up the stone stairs to the library. Even though the light had now vanished, he felt obliged to make sure nothing untoward had occurred. He would not have bothered to check, but two nights ago some young novices had slipped in and poured ink on one of Brother Jerome's parchments.
"The brother is such a querulous fellow and so sensitive about his talent with color and design," he muttered. No doubt of that. Jerome did rank his own work more highly than was warranted, his efforts falling far from noteworthy quality, but that did not excuse the lads for what they had done. Just because the monk had unfairly accused them of impure thoughts, after they joked about his drawing of Eve entwined with the snake in Eden, was no reason for them to damage any work done for a holy purpose.
An irreverent chuckle escaped the brother's lips, and he immediately prayed to be forgiven. The snake's tail was most unfortunately placed as he remembered it, and he should have said something to Jerome at the time. Knowing that the monk would roar in fury at the very suggestion of creative incompetence had stopped him, however, so perhaps he ought to have taken some blame for what had happened the other night.
The boys had been quite properly reprimanded for the damage and assigned the penance of scrubbing the stones in the warming room, but might that have been mitigated if he had come to their defense? Now he wondered if they had resented the duty and returned to tweak Jerome's rather pointed nose one more time.
He swung open the library door. His eyes were accustomed to the dark, and he saw no boyish shadows in the room.
Quickly, he walked over to where Jerome worked. All tools had been put away and no undone manuscript left out. Apparently, the monk had not yet started anything after the novices had ruined what he had been toiling over for days. He raised a hand to his mouth, suppressing another laugh. That tail!
Some movement or shifting shadow caught the corner of his eye and he turned toward it. Must have been his imagination, he thought. If the boys had returned, surely they would have betrayed themselves by now with the uncontrollable laughter of mischievous youth.
"Come forth!" he ordered nonetheless, hoping his voice expressed admonition mixed with just the right amount of forgiveness.
Nothing.
"It will be better for you if you come now. No damage has been done and thus no sin committed!"
Nothing.
The hairs on the back of his neck rose. Could the ghost of Queen Elfrida have entered the room? Nonsense, he thought. He had only felt a chill draught from the open door. Spring may have come, but didn't that night air still nip at aged spines?
He shook off the feeling and glanced around the area near Jerome's work place. Something was different, he realized, and then he gasped.
The Amesbury Psalter was lying on the floor.
Surely he had not left this precious work out! He rushed to pick it up, praying that no damage had been done, begging God's forgiveness for being so forgetful, so careless.
As the monk bent to retrieve the Psalter, he heard a sound and raised his head.
He screamed only once.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The young novice, who had brought the news of Brother Baeda's death, trembled as if facing God Himself. Those who knew Sister Beatrice understood why.
"No ghost could have done this deed. How dare anyone suggest that conclusion to me?"
"He is just a boy," Eleanor whispered to her aunt. "Let him tell his tale."
Beatrice sighed. "Forgive me, lad." She closed her eyes and muttered a calming prayer. "Repeat your story, and I shall not interrupt again. Truly, you need not fear my anger nor shall I blame you for the thoughts and words of others. Be assured that I do know the difference between the message and a messenger's belief."
The lad swallowed. "Brother Jerome heard the scream and rushed to the library." His adolescent voice rose to boyish soprano, then cracked into a baritone before falling into nervous silence.
"And did he say why he was so near?" Eleanor's tone was gentle, not only for the sake of the boy but her aunt as well. Sister Beatrice might be silent, but the prioress knew from experience that the novice mistress was probably grinding her teeth.
"My lady, I should not…" The novice was sweating.
"Sister Beatrice has promised that you will not be blamed for anything you say." Eleanor gestured toward the novice mistress. "This murder is a grave matter, and it is a man's duty to tell what he knows of such a vile deed, even if the facts reek with the terrifying stink of the Devil's work." The sharp odor drifting from the quivering novice enhanced the image. "I can see a man's courage in your eyes so do not let your fear of frightening us keep you from frank speech. We may be women but, as leaders in this Order, God graces us with the strength of the Queen of Heaven herself."
"Well said, my lady," Beatrice said, her eyes shining with delight. Pride may harden most hearts into insensate things, but a woman's sin, looking at her child, is a softer one.
The novice straightened his back and pulled in his chin. "Brother Jerome said he was on his way to the library after prayer because…" His face turned scarlet with embarrassment but he went on with only a brief hesitation, "…because he was afraid one of us would return to eke out more vengeance on his work after he revealed we had cast ink on his image of Eden."
Beatrice's lips twitched as she glanced at her niece. The story had given the two a merry moment.
"Continue," Eleanor said, hoping her expression suggested encouragement, not the amusement she felt.
"Brother Jerome thought someone had been injured when he heard the cry so he shouted that help was coming. As he approached the building, he saw a monstrous black shape hovering about the door. The creature had no face, only eyes licked by flames." The boy gulped. "Then the stench of Hell struck his nostrils, and he felt his soul grow weak. Quickly he prayed for God's protection from the great Fiend. It was this timely plea, he says, that must have saved him from Brother Baeda's fate. Although he immediately lost all consciousness, he soon awoke, still in this world and lying on the ground. The damned soul was gone. My lady, I beg pardon for saying so, but Brother Jerome claims the creature matched all descriptions of the ghost. Although he had never seen any mortal man quite so huge, he believed it wore a woman's robes. I only repeat…" The boy fell to his knees, shaking like a lone leaf in winter's first storm.
Beatrice spread her arms as if to hug the boy. "Like a man, you have bravely reported the events, and I thank you for that. Fear not. I do bark but rarely bite-or at least rarely bite the innocent. Go to the kitchen and ask for ale and cheese on my orders." She shook her head. "You need filling out, lad. You could pass for a ghost yourself."
The boy stumbled to his feet and ran as if afraid the novice mistress might change her mind and chew on him despite her words to the contrary. He was in such a rush that he would have knocked over Sister Anne as she entered the room if Brother Thomas had not been immediately behind her.