Frevisse shifted to put an arm around her waist, guided her to her choir stall, and eased her down into it. In all the priory, each nun’s seat in the choir was her own, the one thing that was hers alone for all of her life as a professed nun-unless, like Domina Edith, she rose to be prioress and took the more elaborately carved and prominent one that belonged to that office. But the prioress’s choir stall had been Domina Edith’s for over thirty years now, and was probably as familiar to her as her own bed. She sank back on it and bent her head in prayer, for no one in this sinful world dies without needing prayers to speed her soul, no matter how forewarned.
Frevisse went back to Dame Claire, and the two of them performed the grisly task of removing Sister Fiacre’s veil and wimple. Frevisse was surprised to note how gray Fiacre’s short hair was; she was not yet forty. But at the back, it was dark, thick with blood already almost dry.
“This is strange,” said Dame Claire after a few minutes.
“I agree,” said Frevisse. “Here, and here, the skull is cut, but here it looks smashed, as if by a club.”
“Two murderers?” Dame Claire’s deep voice was sick with dismay.
“Two weapons, anyway. It’s hard to think two people came together to murder Sister Fiacre. I pray we find out the truth of this, for I doubt Master Montfort is able.” Frevisse stood. “I’ll go collect what is needed. Domina, do you wish to join the others at Vespers?”
“No. Not yet, anyway. Go on, and you also, Sister Thomasine.”
“Yes, Domina.” Thomasine crossed herself and stood.
What they needed to ready the body was in the infirmary. But once out into the cloister walk, Frevisse said, “You go ahead to fetch the wimple and veil. I’ll tell Master Naylor we need a coffin.”
Somewhere in the priory’s storerooms there was at least one coffin, kept against the likelihood of winter death at the priory. Two weeks ago there had been fear that Domina Edith was marked for it, before she began to better from her cough. Now it would be used after all for the one thought most likely to be next to die, though not like this.
At this time of day Roger Naylor should still be somewhere around the priory, seeing that all was in order for the night. Frevisse went into the courtyard, looking for a servant to send for him. Instead she saw the man himself, crossing toward her in his firm, stolid walk, casting a long shadow to one side in the failing light.
He called to her, “What’s amiss in there? I hear nothing from the church when there should be singing.” Seeing her face he lengthened his stride. “What is it?”
“Sister Fiacre is dead. Can you bring a coffin to the church? That’s where we found her, and Domina Edith wants her taken care of there.”
Naylor crossed himself. “God take her soul into His hands. I didn’t know she was that close to dying.”
“She wasn’t,” Frevisse said. “Can the coffin be brought? And someone sent for Father Henry, wherever he is?”
Naylor’s look was sharp on her face, but he only nodded and went away.
Frevisse returned to the cloister. Sister Thomasine was just ahead of her with a clumsy burden: a basin of water with two cloths floating in it, a wimple, veil, and towels over one arm. Frevisse hurried to catch up and took all but the basin, then went ahead to hold the door open ahead of her.
Sister Fiacre’s body was cleaned, dressed again, and ready for her coffin when Naylor led in two of the abbey servants carrying it and a third man bearing the trestles it would rest on in front of the altar. Without seeming to do so, Dame Claire and Frevisse moved to block Sister Fiacre’s body from view while the men put the coffin down and set up the trestles. Naylor dismissed them, and when they were gone, asked, “Shall I help put her into this, or do I go away, also?”
At this strong hint, Dame Claire said, “She was killed. Someone struck her from behind as she knelt on these steps.”
“You’re sure she was struck down? That she didn’t fall?”
“We’re sure,” said Dame Frevisse. “Have you seen any strangers within our walls today?”
“Nay, Dame. Except the players, of course. I hear they had words with Sister Fiacre here in the church earlier today.”
He produced this bit of gossip without rancor or arrogance, but Frevisse felt herself bristle. Before she could say anything, Domina Edith said, “If you will kindly assist in our sad task of coffining Sister Fiacre, Master Naylor. We would have it done before the end of Vespers.”
“As you wish, Domina.”
They stepped aside and let him go to the body. It was lying on its back now, the blood-stained bands covered with fresh ones, the blood-soaked veil replaced. Eyes closed, no trace of blood or agony, Sister Fiacre was simply lying there. Only the slightly unnatural angle of the head because there was no longer a curved back to the skull to hold it up betrayed how grievously wrong things were.
“The crowner is coming anyway, for the village death,” he said toward Domina Edith. “It won’t be possible to keep it secret after his arrival that this death was murder.”
Domina Edith shook her head slowly. “To keep it secret she was murdered-no. That would be neither honest nor safe. Yet we hope to keep the full ugliness of how she died from the others. That she was killed will come hard enough.”
Frevisse raised her hand a little, asking for attention. “There’s something else.” Sister Thomasine, Domina Edith, and Naylor all turned to her; Dame Claire looked away. Frevisse tucked her hands into her sleeves and straightened her spine, taking the formal pose to steady her voice. “The death of Sym was murder, too.”
Naylor was the first to speak. “How can you be sure?”
Dame Claire replied. “Because there are two wounds on the boy’s body. One of them is nothing much. He took it at the alehouse and walked home afterwards. The other one was struck while he was lying down.”
Domina Edith suggested mildly, “But suppose the second, too, came at the alehouse, while he was brawling?”
Frevisse said, “It was to the heart and would have killed him almost on the instant. He went walking nowhere after it was struck.”
Naylor brooded silently a moment, then said to her, “I’ll want to look at him. I know something of knife wounds. In the meanwhile”-he turned back to Domina Edith-“best you see that no one is anywhere alone if they can help it until I’ve seen to having those players locked away for Montfort’s coming.”
Again Frevisse had to bite down on an angry response. Naturally the players were an obvious choice for both murders, and she had yet to find a way to clear them. But it hurt to see Domina Edith accept his statement without question, inclining her head forward in agreement.
“But now the coffin,” she said.
Dame Claire stepped aside so that Frevisse and Naylor could raise it to the trestles.
As they finished and stepped back, one of the servants who had brought in the coffin returned at a scurry up the nave. Red-nosed and short of breath, he pulled a swift bow to all of them in general and said, “It’s the crowner! He’s riding into the yard, he and his men.”
“Sooner than expected,” Dame Claire remarked.
Frevisse went taut but only said, “By your leave, Domina, I will go see that he is properly settled in our guesthall. Doubtless he will want his supper, and I will have to explain that his untimely arrival caught us unprepared.”
The church’s side door opened, and Sister Juliana came in. Her eyes widened at the sight of the coffin, and again at seeing Master Naylor, but she curtsied to Domina Edith in her stall and said, “Dame Alys sent me to say that we have finished Vespers and want to know should we come back here or go to supper.”