Suddenly, he felt the hair on his neck prickle. He looked up, thinking he had heard a sound.
Near the far corner of the priory, the inn’s light outlined the edge of an extended shadow, and he thought he saw movement. “Father Vincent!” he shouted. But there was no reply and no further suggestion that a mortal stood there.
“I was mistaken,” he whispered to the corpse. His eyes, now more accustomed to the darkness, focused on the body. It was a young woman, and, if Thomas was not mistaken, she was the nun who had announced their arrival to Prioress Ursell. He looked straight up. From her injuries and the position of the body, he guessed she had fallen from the priory bell tower. Was this death an accident, a self-killing, or…
It was not his place to question and he began to rise, but something caught his eye and he slid back onto his knees. Reaching out, he tugged at an item clutched in the woman’s hand. It was a piece of cloth, soft and finely woven. Bending closer, he decided the color must be brown or black. A brighter or light shade would have been clearer in this darkness. Feeling it, he noted that the edges were uneven, torn as if the dead woman had grasped something in a futile attempt to save herself from falling. That suggested another person might have been with her in the tower, yet he heard no second voice crying out in dismay.
He tucked the cloth back into the corpse’s fist and placed her hand under her body to keep the item safe. Then he left to seek help. As sad as it was, this death and its cause were not his responsibility. Someone else must look at the evidence and decide what had occurred.
Thomas hurried toward the priory entrance with the news. Rounding the corner of the building, he collided with Father Vincent. Before the priest could express outrage at the unintentional assault, the monk told him he had found the body of a woman, one he feared was a nun, under the bell tower.
The man gasped. “Go back to the chapel and pray for the creature’s soul, Brother Thomas,” he said. “I will alert Prioress Ursell. This tragedy is our grief.” Then he spun around and ran back the way he had come.
Thomas watched the priest disappear into the priory. If he had seen someone in the shadows, might it have been Father Vincent?
He shook his head. He had called out his name, when a shadow seemed to move, but no one had replied. As much as he disliked the man, Thomas was sure the priest had more important tasks than to lurk in the darkness near the inn. A more logical explanation for Father Vincent’s absence from his bed and chapel was an errand of mercy somewhere nearby or in the priory itself.
Thomas walked back along the narrow street to wait by the dead woman until the priory could retrieve her corpse. Although Father Vincent had told him to go back to the chapel, he thought it cruel to let her hovering soul fear her body had been abandoned to foraging animals in the night. He could pray beside her corpse just as well as if he knelt in front of the altar.
Rain had begun to fall. The drops felt sharp as ice against his face. If God were grieving, Thomas thought, surely His tears would feel like this. As deep fatigue seeped through him, he knew sleep would come once he returned to his bed.
It was a prospect he did not welcome. Too many troubling things had happened this day. Any dreams would slay all hope of rest.
Chapter Five
“My lady.”
Prioress Eleanor struggled to remain within that sweet embrace of sleep. She was about to hear something important, an answer she desperately needed to learn.
“Please, my lady, awaken!”
Why did this rude and annoying voice not cease? She opened her mouth to protest, but no sound came forth.
A hand gently shook her shoulder.
Her dream fled like a stag before a hunter and with it all hope for the peace of revelation.
Feeling a bitter cold, she reached for her blanket, but the covering she grasped was thin and rough. When she sought the comforting softness of her orange cat, he was missing from his usual spot on her bed.
All was not as it should be. The chill was now joined by ill-defined foreboding. Apprehension dragged her with merciless persistence toward raw consciousness.
“You must awaken.” The voice spoke close to her ear, its sound both familiar and troubling.
Eleanor opened her eyes.
The gray light revealed bare stone walls. The beloved tapestry that hung in front of her bed was missing; the air was heavy with damp. Taking a deep breath, she winced at the pervasive reek of unwashed bodies. Had she drifted into a cruel nightmare? This was not her chamber at Tyndal Priory. She rubbed her fingers to bring back feeling.
“You must rise.”
The woman kneeling next to her looked more like a wraith in the dull light than anything earthbound, but Eleanor recognized her as mortal. She was a fellow pilgrim, a merchant’s widow called Mistress Emelyne, who shared this room and their straw pallet. As part of her penance, Eleanor had rejected the offer of chambers suited to her rank and instead asked to stay in the quarters assigned to women of lower status. In this moment, that choice felt very austere indeed.
“Is it time again for prayer?” The prioress was sure she had just fallen asleep, but perhaps the journey from Tyndal had wearied her more than she realized. Or else this damp cold had sapped her strength. What weak faith I own, she thought, if these minor discomforts are greater than I can bear.
“It is not, my lady.” The woman nervously wrung her hands together and bowed her head. “Prioress Ursell has summoned you.”
Eleanor blinked in confusion. What cause had Ryehill’s prioress to ask for her at such a strange hour? Had a dire tragedy struck Tyndal? Her sub-prioress would never beg her to come back for anything less.
She struggled to rise, but every part of her ached. When she finally stood, she bit her lip but could not prevent a small cry of pain. The soles of her feet felt as if they had been beaten raw. What a fool she had been.
Insisting on this thin straw mat laid over a stone floor might have been acceptable as atonement for her sins, but walking bare-footed along the pilgrim’s road for that last mile had been imprudent. Penitential humility often masked pride. Now she feared she had fallen victim to the vice. In any case, she was too soft a creature to have removed her shoes and walked that far over the rutted, stone-littered road. Meant as a singular act of piety, she had only confirmed her foolishness.
Reaching out to brace herself against the wall, she implored God to forgive her for the luxuries she allowed herself in her own priory. And if this absolution was not too much to ask, she also begged Him to accept her pain as atonement.
Now she grimly attempted to ignore her tender feet. The effort was more than she could manage, and tears rolled down her cheeks.
The widow braced Eleanor’s elbow to help her stay upright. “Shall I bring some shoes for you, my lady? I own a soft pair that might fit.” Glancing down at her own feet, she added, “We are much the same size.”
The offer was kind, but the prioress did not welcome the charity. Gritting her teeth, she brusquely refused the offer, then the woman’s assistance in walking, and stubbornly limped toward the chest provided by the nuns for those pilgrims who had worldly possessions to store.
As she reached the chest, she bent over and braced her hands against it for support. “Pride,” she muttered. “Pride is sin.” A hand lightly grasped her shoulder. Annoyed, the prioress looked around, sharp words ready to punish such impertinence.
“Forgive me, my lady, but I anticipated your wishes and found the ones you had brought.” The merchant’s widow pointed to a pair of shoes on the ground. “I do have others that might be softer. Yours are sturdy, meant for mud or snow.”
Eleanor closed her eyes in defeat, murmured gratitude, and sat down on the chest. One of her feet had left a bloody mark on the floor.