Safely on the path back to her mistress, Gracia saw two men coming toward her. One was Brother Thomas and the other Crowner Ralf. She waved with enthusiasm and ran to meet them.
Seeing the girl’s happy expression, Thomas called out to her. “Do you bear good tidings?”
“I wish better, Brother, but I do have some news.” She nodded at the crowner with a friendly smile but reserved her highest regard for the auburn-haired monk.
“The missing pot containing autumn crocus was about this big.” She studiously replicated the young nun’s estimation. “It was dark brown and had an ill-fitting lid.” She hesitated and looked hopefully at her favored monk before adding, “Sister Christina could not see the pot well but said it was round, dark, and about this big.” She frowned and drew a bigger circle with her hands.
“Well done!” Thomas grinned.
“Hearing this news from you is fortunate,” the crowner added. “I have just searched Jean’s room and found no pot there.”
Gracia’s enthusiasm vanished like the flame on a snuffed candle.
Ralf reached into his pouch and pulled forth a brown pottery lid. Holding it out to Gracia, he said, “But I did find this just outside the guest quarters in the tall grass close to the stables.”
She took it in her hand and studied it. “Sister Oliva said the pot had an ill-fitting lid.” Running a finger around the edge, she grinned. “This would be ill-fitting,” she said. “It turns up just here.” She pointed out the flaw and handed it back to the crowner. “That lid would not sit firmly on any jar.”
Thomas thanked her for her observations.
Gracia blushed.
“I questioned Renaud,” the crowner said, “but he could not recall anything about the pot. It was he who was given the responsibility to administer the required dosage to Jean. He was outraged over my questions and swore he did not care about the shape of any container, only that it held a cure. He did remember how much he had been instructed to mete out by the elusive Brother Imbert. After Jean’s death, he paid even less attention to the pot because he saw no cause to do so. When I noticed the absence, he said he did not know when he last saw it.” Ralf snorted. “Davoir claims he never saw the jar or the monk who brought it.”
“I share your disdain for this priest, Ralf, and know what you are thinking,” Thomas said. “But I agree with our prioress in this matter. No matter how unkind and unobservant he seems, Father Etienne has excellent motives not to have killed his clerk.”
“I more than dislike him, Brother,” Ralf replied. “I despise the man for his vindictive treatment of Sister Anne and his irrational refusal to disallow the obvious lies told about you and our prioress. Yet I reluctantly concur with your opinion.”
“He loved his dead clerk,” Thomas said, “although that might not be one of the best reasons to conclude his innocence.”
“Love? That requires a heart, and, if the man had one, I’d agree that affection precluded violence. Family honor? I accept this as justification not to murder Jean. In addition, my court-loving brother says that King Philip has been negotiating for peace with our king for years. This would argue against any conclusion that Davoir was sent from the French court to trouble the sister of one of King Edward’s favored knights by committing murder in her priory in addition to the slander from an unnamed source.” He took a deep breath. “That would not be politic.”
“Although he accused Prioress Eleanor of ordering Sister Anne to kill Jean, he did so in anger and has not pursued that matter with any vigor,” Thomas said.
Ralf shrugged. “And this man will go home to receive a miter?” He chuckled. “The French claim we are governed by kings so raving mad they chew the rushes on the floor, yet they choose bishops who condemn the innocent with no better cause than spite. If these are the men the French believe to be holy, they shall soon burn saints and praise God when the bishops excommunicate angels!”
Gracia listened with fascination to the two men. Although she had rarely heard any good spoken of the French, she did not know much about them, except that they were not English. Once, when she asked her mistress about these strange people, she learned that Prioress Eleanor’s maternal family had come to England from the Aquitaine with King Edward’s great-grandmother and had spent some time at the French court. “When we speak of French kings descended from King Louis VII,” the prioress had said, “we do so with sympathy, my child. Those ruled by these kings deserve our compassion, not contempt.” What her mistress did not explain was why she had smiled when she spoke those words.
“I think we better tell Prioress Eleanor what Gracia and I have found,” Ralf said.
Thomas agreed, but his expression became thoughtful. “While you are doing that, I will go to the hospital and ask questions. I cannot believe that no one saw this Brother Imbert. Any detail might prove useful in our efforts to release Sister Anne, if not find the clerk’s killer.”
“Go, Brother!” Ralf said, turning pale. “Annie must be freed. My wife will give birth any day!”
Chapter Twenty-five
Thomas hastened down the path to the hospital.
The tale of Brother Imbert troubled him. The name was uncommon in East Anglia, which suggested he was not a local man. Prior Andrew certainly knew nothing of him, but Father Etienne had not recognized the name as belonging to one of his clerks either. Was the hooded one, who had visited Sister Anne, Brother Imbert? If his existence wasn’t a complete lie, the mysterious monk owned a corporal body.
Although many claimed to have seen ghosts, Thomas never had and often doubted there were such creatures. Even if this Imbert was a damned soul, condemned to restless wandering and the tormenting of wayward mortals, he was more likely to inhabit dreams than steal a lethal dose of autumn crocus for a clerk who, by all accounts, was a gentle lad.
Sensible as this sounded, it was also the case that reason has always been a matter for debate amongst those with differing interpretations. After Thomas had spent much time at the hospital, engaged in lengthy questioning of lay brothers, lay sisters, and even a few of the patients, he begin to question how sensible his beliefs were about the character and existence of the wandering damned. Brother Imbert was very elusive indeed.
One patient said he might have seen a shadowy figure come from the direction of the apothecary hut and pass by his bed on the night in question. But he had had a fever and also swore that a fiend danced around his bed, forked tail twitching in response to an unheard melody.
Another man thought for a moment and then recalled that he had seen a hooded man rush by his cousin’s cot. He remembered because he called out to him to pray for the soul of his dying kin. When the figure did not stop, he screamed at him, for he knew no lay brother would ever deny prayer to a soul about to face God. The hooded one disappeared, but another lay brother had come to his aid and his cousin was able to die a good death. The man was now convinced the hooded creature was no man at all but rather Satan, fleeing the sight of the cross.
Just as Thomas was about to give up, a lay brother suggested that he might ask the pilgrim who had come here with a twisted ankle. Although the injury was not severe, the lay brother noted with a hint of sarcasm, the pilgrim had been given a place to sleep near the apothecary hut. “He is well enough to see and hear as clearly as you or I, Brother. He was in the right place to notice a hooded man holding a pot too large to put in a pouch.” He rubbed his chin as if wondering whether it was time for his shave. “I asked him about this matter once before, and he claimed to know nothing.” He grinned. “Looking up at you as you ask stern questions might brighten his memory.”