But were there to be another rebellion in the land, Durant had learned nothing about Brother Thomas to suggest where the man’s secular allegiance might lie. It was possible that Brother Thomas had no firm opinions on such worldly matters and would choose to follow his prioress in hers. It was equally possible that he might be willing to follow the direction of another, a man who could offer him a position that was not reliant on the whims of a woman or on a legitimate birth.
Which possibility was the most likely? With no clear loyalties, Thomas made the wine merchant nervous.
Durant walked to the sweating ewer placed near his bed and poured himself a mazer of bitter ale. It suited his mood better than wine.
Savoring the taste, he set aside thoughts about monk and prioress for the moment. Master Larcher was another problem to consider.
The man had discovered nothing of use. This might be due to Sister Roysia’s questionable and untimely death. Or perhaps Larcher’s failure suggested that a fatter pouch of coin had been pressed into his hand by the other side in this delicate matter of a king’s assassination.
Durant put down the mazer and studied his hands. They trembled.
He was paid to be the cleverest one in any war between men of opposing factions. But was he? He always feared he would lose these battles, even though he had yet to do so.
Pride whispered that he must win. Humility suggested he would one day fail. His pounding heart longed to believe the former was right, yet feared the latter was more likely. To be the constant doubter was his most persistent weakness. He clutched his hands together to steady them, but his palms were sweating.
He looked up and watched a lazy fly circle the room. On a whim, he dipped his fingers in the ale and flicked some at the creature.
The drop hit his mark.
Amazed, he watched the fly fall to the floor. Believing it would die, he felt an odd grief for this thing without a soul and hoped it would meet death in drunken peace. As he stared at the fly, it began to crawl, then suddenly rose into the air and flew out the window, steering a wobbly course.
He laughed, relieved that he had not killed it, and then wondered if this was meant to be lesson for him.
Like that creature, he could not foresee everything in any given situation. There would be surprises and uncertainties. Yet he need not fail if struck with the unknown. He must simply pause, gather his strength, and take off in another direction. It was paralytic fear that killed a man, not the arrival of the unforeseen. He must never forget that the man who survives is the one best able to cope with whatever comes out of the shadows.
Picking up his mazer, he walked back to the window and looked down.
Brother Thomas had left as well. Had he and his prioress learned anything that might lead them to the elusive and quick-witted Gracia?
He sipped the ale as he stared at the quieter road. He should engage Brother Thomas in his own cause, he thought. That would be a bold measure, and it did not matter what the monk thought of King Edward. If carefully directed, Durant might use the man in place of the incompetent, perhaps treacherous, Master Larcher. If he was clever enough, he could obtain the information he needed and let the monk go on his way, none the wiser about the service he had performed for the merchant and his master.
Durant smiled, feeling a rare contentment. It was a good plan.
Chapter Seventeen
Prioress Eleanor hesitated at the door leading to the bell tower, held her breath, and listened carefully. Looking over her shoulder, then down the hall, she confirmed there were no witnesses to what she was about to do.
She grasped the looped rope that formed the handle on the door and cautiously opened it. The squeaking of the hinges was barely audible, but to Eleanor it was as loud as the squealing of angry pigs. Quickly slipping inside, she pulled the door closed and began climbing the stairs.
Although the prioress was a small woman with tiny feet, the steps were too narrow for easy walking. It was a dangerous climb, and, despite her care, she slipped once. The coarse rope along the wall saved her from a nasty fall.
How clever, she thought. Castle stairs were designed to keep an enemy soldier from effectively swinging his sword at a defender standing above him. This priory stairwell to the bell tower was equally well-planned to keep any man from climbing it unless he crawled slowly on his hands and knees. If another person had been with Sister Roysia in the tower, it was unlikely to have been a man, unless there was another entry besides these stairs.
Halfway to the top, Eleanor stopped to catch her breath. For a moment, she suffered a twinge of guilt. As a guest in this priory, she had no right to abuse their hospitality by wandering about at will and prying into their affairs. It was rank discourtesy. If someone, especially Prioress Ursell, were to discover her in the tower and demand an explanation for her presence, she was unprepared to offer any.
The justification that she had taken the wrong door, and then discovered the fine view of the Walsingham shrines from the height of the bell tower, was so feeble it was an insult to utter it. Not only did everyone in Ryehill know that Sister Roysia had fallen from this place, but they were probably aware that Eleanor and her monk had the reputation for involving themselves in questionable deaths. When the prioress of Tyndal chose to go to the bell tower, she might as well have announced to them all that she believed the death to be murder and that those who ruled Ryehill were either incompetent or entangled in the crime.
Eleanor knew that she would not be here now had she not been so angered by both priory and priest. As she first told her monk, they ought not to pry into something that was neither their responsibility nor concern. Father Vincent’s actions, along with Prioress Ursell’s apparent collusion, had caused her to reverse her argument.
Anger is rarely a good reason for doing anything, she thought, but hers was born from indignation. There had been maltreatment of an innocent, or rather two. Her monk had committed no sin worthy of being reported to Rome, and she doubted Gracia had done anything to warrant curses and a slow death from starvation.
It seems Brother Thomas has been right, she thought. Although God was doing it obliquely, He was pushing them into this investigation.
She sighed and climbed higher. Prioress Ursell still had reason to be outraged if she caught her fellow prioress exploring where she had no reason to be. Were the situation reversed, Eleanor would be offended over a guest’s rude and equally arrogant presumption. Thinking about the insult to her monk and the crime against a child, however, she felt less empathy for the prioress of Ryehill.
Reaching the end of the stairs, she pressed against the wooden panel above her head. It was light in weight. She pushed it to one side, climbed out of the stairwell onto the tower floor, and looked around.
The area was not large. The bell itself was enclosed in a high wooden frame, braced by crudely cut timber. A ladder rose into the loft, presumably to access the bell and wooden headstock for repairs. Although the bell was in shadow, she noted it was a small one and easily rung by a nun. The sound would be lost amidst the deeper tones and melodies from the Walsingham Priory bells, but this bell was only intended to alert the priory nuns to the hours for prayer.
Now that she was here and had seen the space, what did she expect to learn about Sister Roysia’s death? All evidence, pointing to either fair or foul causes, would have vanished for equally acceptable or illicit reasons.