Or was Ivetta killed by the person who killed Martin? According to Sister Anne, the poison was probably the same, although she had expressed cautious doubt and would not firmly decide that such was the case. “I am inclined to conclude that Ivetta was murdered as well,” Eleanor said, reaching down to draw a single line in the gravel. “I met with the woman. She was proud of her pregnancy! Even if I wanted to suppose she killed her bawd, a man she inexplicably followed like Hob’s dog does his master, I cannot believe that she would kill that babe. Surely she would not have taken a draught of yew willingly, knowing full well what the properties were,” she decided, “and therefore I think it unlikely that she killed Martin and tried to abort later.”
If she eliminated Ivetta as the culprit, was it Signy? Once again, Eleanor bent down and drew another line next to the first. Thoughts swirled in her head like squalling mews looking for a safe landing after a fright. Attempting to bring back rational order to her mind, Eleanor took in a deep breath and let the pleasant scent of budding fruit from nearby trees fill her.
“Aye,” she mused thoughtfully, “this is God’s blessing to us, His bountiful season, full of life’s vigor.” In just a short while, however, the frosts would come to give apples that sharpness needed for Sister Matilda’s tarts, simple treats to delight monastics. Then the snows would fall, breaking branches with cruel weight and killing young trees with bitter cold.
Wasn’t the innkeeper’s niece much like that, Eleanor asked herself, a woman cruelly hurt who had rebounded like a hardy tree blossoming after a hard winter. Could such a person be a killer, a woman whose strength made a mockery of cowards like the cooper? And if he had pushed her beyond her ability to endure, might not Signy be more likely to take a broom to him, or even a knife? She was a strong woman, after all, and might well have surprised him enough to injure if not kill him.
“Signy has faults enough,” Eleanor continued softly. “Lust has a strong hold on her, but she has never sworn herself to a chaste bed, only to break the vows as I have. Yet she has virtue enough, as I have heard. Many men have been cheered innocently enough at the inn with her merry ways, and no wives betrayed. And she has shown charity as well. Old Tibia is one whom she feeds without charge as God demands.”
Yet the innkeeper’s niece had reason enough to hate Martin. He had taken her against her will as a girl, and then recently filled her womb with a child in her moment of blind weakness. When he threatened to make all this public, if she did not bring him the inn with marriage, she had reason to fear her uncle might cast her out. Whether or not the innkeeper would have done so, Eleanor understood Signy’s terror at being faced with following Ivetta’s trade to stay alive.
Viewed rationally, many must know that Signy was no virgin. Surely her brief affair with Ralf had been suspected, even if not mentioned above a whisper. Now there were rumors about Tostig. Although Gytha did not think he had bedded the woman, others must have concluded otherwise. As for the abortion, old Tibia would never speak of that, and, sin though it might be, many women shared her guilt. Surely Signy had confessed the deed and done penance.
Overall, Eleanor could understand why the villagers saw little cause to condemn Signy and why they chose to keep their gossip to a murmur. The innkeeper’s niece brought no grief to any, only laughter to those whose lives were hard. Although people often damned others whom they did not like, they rarely had a quarrel with those that brought them cheer at the end of a tiring day. Besides, how many would care to encourage Martin’s lewd tales when they had suffered themselves from his stories?
Was she making a similar mistake, ignoring sins and assuming innocence just because she found the woman pleasant? Gytha and Tostig also found her worthy enough. Until recently, that might have settled the issue since both were people whose judgements she respected. Now she had cause to distrust the good opinion of honest folk. After all, didn’t the two speak of Brother Thomas with high regard? Yet wasn’t he no better than a venomous snake, treacherously enjoying warmth in her breast?
She rubbed her forehead just over her left eye. One of her severe headaches was coming on, and she knew she must quickly seek Sister Anne and take that feverfew remedy before the pain got worse. “This is not the time to be distracted by the blinding pain daylight causes.” She rose hurriedly to seek ease in the more subdued light of her chambers.
Closing her door carefully behind her, Eleanor lowered her head to keep the brightness of the day from searing her eyes. Circles of color drifted in front of her, and, had she not known what these auras of beauty presaged, she might have taken them for revelations from God. Instead, she knew well enough that she was too sinful a creature for visions. She cupped a hand over her eyes to lessen the throbbing pain.
“Very well,” Eleanor muttered, as the headache forced her to deal more efficiently with this problem of murder. “Perhaps I should retain confidence in the wisdom of those whom I respect. Despite my aunt’s disclosure about Brother Thomas’ falseness, she has carefully reminded me that I may still have reason to trust him and win his complete and true loyalty. This knowledge of his treachery has unbalanced my better judgement and let Satan whisper ill counsel. I must trust as I have before and not dismiss either Gytha’s or Tostig’s opinion about Signy’s character, for they both have known her for many years. But if she did not kill Ivetta and Martin, who else had cause?”
The prioress slipped gingerly into her chair and held her head as the pain began to pound with more insistence. “Who knew poisons well enough? Ivetta did, and may have been skilled enough about yew to know dosages. I do not believe she was the killer,” she whispered. “Signy went to old Tibia when she quickened. That suggests she is ignorant of such matters. Who, then, knew herbs and potions and understood them well enough that she could kill with efficiency and stealth? Who had no one to seek revenge for some hurt on her behalf…?”
Suddenly a possible answer came to her, and she begged God to forgive her for caring more about her petty jealousies and pride than putting facts together to catch a killer.
Headache now forgotten, the prioress called to Gytha and, when the maid arrived, told her to summon both Crowner Ralf and Brother Thomas to her chambers as quickly as possible. The sharing of everything each had learned and what the sum of those facts might mean was long overdue.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“She was in her hut, I swear it!” The young thatcher trembled under Ralf’s fierce look.
Hands on hips, Signy’s eyes glittered with equal fury. “Why should you not believe him?” she retorted, tossing her head at the youth. “Tibia was in great pain, and I asked him to carry her home until Brother Thomas could come. He did so as a mercy. Has kindness now become a crime, Crowner?”
Ralf opened his mouth to reply, then opted for the wiser choice and shut it.
“There is no cause to disbelieve him,” Thomas suggested gently.
“I did not say he had lied,” the crowner growled, attempting to retain a semblance of control in this discussion.
Gaining courage from so much support, the young man bravely turned indignant. “When I laid old Tibia on her pallet, she sent me away, telling me her son would come to care for her.”
“Her son is dead,” Ralf countered.
“When her mind wanders with pain or age, she often thinks I am he,” Thomas explained.
“In any case, she is gone.” Ralf gestured at the miserable hovel. “Where did she go? Did someone come for her? Where are witnesses?”
Signy’s expression shifted to one of concern. “What could have happened to her? I have rarely seen anyone in such pain. How could she have walked anywhere?”