“I have naught to say,” the woman said. “Why waste the little breath I have left, talking to a man who has already condemned me.” Ivetta fell silent. The sulky expression in her eyes did little to mask the pallor of fear on her face.
“Go back to the priory, Brother. This murder has naught to do with you,” Ralf said as he rose and wiped his hands on his leather tunic. “It has all the common marks of a man’s act, not the Devil’s.”
“Then may I tell the crowd outside that Satan had no direct hand in this?” Thomas asked. If he could not serve God in this matter, he could at least do something for priory business since it was priory ale that the innkeeper bought.
“Aye, this is solely the king’s affair,” the crowner said, glaring at the woman in the corner.
Chapter Six
Signy sat down on the bench near the doorway to the cook shack and turned her face away. She was not pleased.
Ralf was scarlet with anger and frustration. “I only ask to learn what happened.”
“You have already made up your mind.”
“That is what Ivetta claims.”
“As you know, Ralf, I am no friend to the harlot, but I might agree with her in this.”
“I have not determined guilt!”
Signy looked heavenward as if seeking guidance or, more likely, patience. “Very well, the tale is simple enough: I took food and drink to Ivetta and Martin, both of whom were alive when I left.”
Ralf waited for more, then growled, “Did you see anything unusual?”
“Unusual?” she mimicked. “Perhaps you imagine that I stayed to watch them couple?” Her face flushed. “Do you think me the kind of woman who spies on such things? Or maybe you believe my uncle sent me as a third to increase their pleasuring?”
“I meant none of that,” Ralf roared. “Just answer my question. What did you see when you were in that room?”
“First, I knocked at the door,” Signy’s pitch dropped with mock gravity. “Martin opened it. I entered, laid the tray on the table, then left. Question Ivetta. She knows more than I could possibly.”
“She refuses to talk to me.”
“Do you blame her? Even I heard you shout at the woman, and I was below the stairs.”
“She was in the room where he died, and I can count the reasons why she might want to kill him.” Ralf rubbed his fingers as if feeling good coins.
“You have spent too much time with your brother, Crowner. I see that you will now take the easiest route and choose the simplest answer without further care for justice. Is Ivetta not a whore? Are her shameful ways not reason enough to condemn her for other crimes?”
Ralf slammed his fist against the side of the wall and cursed.
Signy jumped to her feet. “Methinks all women are whores to you. You certainly treated me like one. Why should I answer you either? I have no reason to suppose you would believe me any more than you do Ivetta.”
“You are no harlot! I wronged you. I confessed it then. I repeat it now. Is that not enough?”
Signy’s eyes flashed with anger.
“But you have recovered well enough if the tales I hear are true.”
“And what lies do you choose to believe?”
“That Tostig would marry you.”
“Have you heard this from him or, for that matter, from me?”
“What need have I of that, when all others speak of it?” he shouted.
Signy’s blue eyes began to glow like sapphires in the hot sun. “Indeed you have just proven that you are no different from either of your brothers. Rumor becomes truth if it suits you. Otherwise, you might have asked yourself whether Tostig would even consider marriage to a woman like me.” Disloyal tears began to flow down her cheeks. “After all, is he not your friend? As such, he knows you bedded me, and, like all men, he wants his woman unbreached until he comes with his own lance raised.”
“I said nothing…”
“And the moment after a woman does open her gate to the brave knight, he calls her whore and mocks…” She turned away and, with one swipe of her hand, destroyed the tears that had cruelly exposed her vulnerability.
Ralf groaned. “This is getting nowhere. If you hate me still, I cannot blame you, but I must hear from you all you know of what happened tonight.”
Signy folded her arms. “I took food and drink up to the room for Ivetta and her customer, as I said. I shut the door and returned to serve those downstairs. We all heard Ivetta scream. You were there yourself as witness after that.” She turned around and glared at him. “Do you accuse me of murdering the cooper?”
“Did you?” he barked. Immediately both repentant and exasperated, he covered his eyes with his hand.
“I must have, hadn’t I? No one else poured the wine or took it up to the room.”
“This is murder, Signy. Do not mock or I must ask if that is a confession.”
“Mock?”
Ralf waited. A muscle twitched nervously in his cheek. “Why do you say it was the wine that killed him? I did not mention anything.”
“It matters not what I do or do not say, Crowner. Arrest me if you want. Chain Ivetta and me together and take us both off to dance in the air if that suits you best. You’ll hang whomever you wish on this no matter what the truth.”
Ralf pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes as if to numb a very sharp pain.
Chapter Seven
A pottery jug shattered against the wall. Ale splattered across the stone floor, altar, and the prie-dieu. The orange cat flew from his nest on the narrow bed and raced toward the safety of the public rooms.
Prioress Eleanor was suffering from a most uncharacteristic rage.
“I hate him! God curse him!” Her hand shook, but she gripped her aunt’s letter from Amesbury with the force of one who would take it to the grave with her.
Gytha peeked through the entrance at her mistress, then very quietly slipped back from the prioress’ private quarters, and left the chambers.
“May his soul crackle and burst in the bubbling pitch of Hell!” With her free hand, she raised a pewter tray as if to send it after the broken jug, then dropped it, and collapsed to her knees.
Clutching the letter to her heart, the leader of Tyndal began to weep with a rare anguish. “Nay, I did not mean any of that. May God forgive me,” she sobbed. “I do not want him cursed!”
The prioress crawled to her prie-dieu. She laid the letter out as if to read it again and ran her hand over it most gently. Then she slammed her fist down and shoved the offending thing onto the floor. “How dare he do this to me?”
She pressed her forehead against the prie-dieu until the carving bit into her flesh. “My heart broke vows for him. My body suffered lust for him. At night, when Satan sent his imp dressed in the body of that cruel monk, I coupled with the incubus and took joy in it! Now I learn he is a spy, a viper at my breast!” With each phrase, she beat a fist against her heart.
With a cry of almost animal pain, Eleanor flung herself on the floor in front of her altar, covered her face, and howled for mercy and solace.
Comfort was slow in coming, but at last her sobbing did quiet, and reason tentatively slipped back from its brief and unexpected exile.
The prioress of Tyndal raised herself to her knees and sat back. “Should I not be grateful?” she sighed. “I might have learned this secret in any number of other ways.” Someone besides her aunt, some enemy who did not have Eleanor’s best interests in mind, might have used the knowledge against her. Sister Beatrice, however, not only understood the pain and anger her letter would cause but would also keep the revelation close to her heart.
As she knelt, her emotions teetering on the brink of another burst of despair, a soft body bumped against her and rubbed against her hands. Looking down, she did smile and picked up the large orange cat, holding him close to her heart. “Ah, sweet Arthur,” she sighed as he began to purr, “men may be cruel and faithless, but you remain my only perfect knight.” Rising to her feet, the prioress of Tyndal rubbed her cheek against the soft bundle of fur.