This she would have done had she not had a visitor before she left Tyndal. It was a man she had seen before, a priest who sometimes brought Thomas news of family matters. The last time, he had summoned Thomas to a sick brother's bedside. On this occasion, he had come with word that the monk's father had died at the beginning of April.
How had this priest managed to change her mind? Closing her eyes, she pictured the man's concerned look as he told her the news, explaining that the monk would not travel to be with his family for reasons that were never made quite clear.
"It is such a pity that he cannot be distracted from his grief," the man said. "A journey would bring him much benefit," he finished, his eyebrows rising as if surprised that he had come up with the idea. Then the man's expression changed, his eyes intense with a gaze much like that wolves used to stun rabbits into stillness.
What a strange image, she thought at the time, considering the man's priestly vocation.
"Are you not traveling to Amesbury, my lady?" he asked. "God would surely be most pleased if you showered pity on our poor brother and took him with you."
Having suffered her own mother's death, Eleanor understood the sharpness of Thomas' pain and suspected that his particular anguish might have been even bleaker due to an estrangement. She may also have been so weakened from her illness that she had little strength to argue against this reasonable request no matter how much she wanted to refuse. Whatever the cause, she had agreed to the priest's suggestion.
Her decision had delighted Sister Anne, who held the same opinion that a change of scenery might chase away some of the monk's dark sorrow. Although Eleanor feared that his presence would only add to her grave weariness, she reminded herself that she would not have to see him at all after their arrival until the time came for their return to Tyndal. Not at all, that is, until the appearance of this cursed Amesbury ghost…
A hand, gentle but firm, came to rest on her arm.
"You should let me know when you are going to take exercise." Sister Anne's expression was troubled.
Lost in her musings, Eleanor had not realized she had walked all the way into the cloister garth. Fatigue made her feel momentarily faint, and her comfortable chair seemed so very far away. "I am not a child's plaything," she snapped.
"Some toys may be unbreakable. You are not. Have you forgotten how close you came to death last winter? Nor have you recovered either your strength or customary weight. None of this can be ignored without risk." Anne shook her head to silence her prioress' expected protest. "Would you not chastise any sub-infirmarian who disregarded these details with another patient?"
Eleanor looked down at the hand on her arm. It was the same one that had held her head so she could sip broth and drink watered wine, a hand that had soothed her feverish brow for weeks to keep her in this world. She looked up at her friend with deep affection. "I would that."
Anne's expression softened as she saw a healthy color return to her friend's cheeks. "You promised to show me some of your favorite places at the priory. If they are not far, would you take my arm and guide me to them?"
In companionable silence, the two nuns started walking slowly toward the parish church.
"Has Brother Thomas told you much about his father's death?" Anne suddenly asked. That their thoughts were often in accord might be one of the comforts of their friendship, but a slight tremor in her friend's hand made Anne look down with concern.
Eleanor's face betrayed nothing. "Nay," she replied, pausing to point out a lush bed of mint that had been carefully enclosed to prevent any undisciplined spread in the monastic garden. "I hoped he might have confided in you."
"He has not. Although he has grown gaunt with grief, he refuses to speak of it. It was not until he was asked to investigate this ghost that he brightened for the first time."
With a thoughtful frown, Eleanor gently disengaged herself and walked toward the mint, bending to pick a leaf. "I was told that his father died near St. Albans," she said, inhaling the bracing scent.
"I had not heard that. Our brother told me only that he prayed his father had been shriven in time."
Eleanor put the mint leaf into her mouth and chewed it with evident enjoyment. "He did not ask leave to spend any time with his family, either then or when we passed nearby on our way here."
"Maybe they are no longer in St. Albans?"
Eleanor nodded. "My aunt told me that Richard of Almayne died near there as well. What a sad coincidence. I wonder if Brother Thomas' father was in the service of our king's most noble brother?"
With that question, the two women fell silent, for both knew that the absence of Thomas from any ceremony to honor his father might well be proof that he not only merited a bar sinister but had somehow lost favor with his sire.
"There it is!" Eleanor said in a low voice as they entered the parish church. With a show of strength that both amazed and pleased the sub-infirmarian, the prioress pulled her friend toward a corner and pointed out a much worn stone. "This part is so ancient that some believe it dates to Queen Guinevere's death. Others say Queen Elfrida ordered it set as the cornerstone of her new abbey when she presented the relics of Saint Melor. It is his feast day we shall celebrate.
Suddenly she fell silent, gesturing to Anne to do the same.
At the nearby altar, a young woman knelt, sobbing as if her heart had been shattered with grief.
Chapter Ten
"My name is Alys," the girl said, wiping her cheeks dry with her fingers. "I live with my widowed mother in Amesbury village, just beyond the bridge in a house near the inn."
"Come walk in the nearby garden," Eleanor said. "Your prayers must have drawn us to you. Speaking of your sadness might give you some ease."
Although her look lacked any disdain, Alys' expression reflected much doubt.
Eleanor read the look well. "No cloister ever put a wall around a woman's heart, and surely I have been on this earth only a few summers longer than you. I might understand your plight." Her laughter was soft with caring.
The young woman had the grace to blush. "I meant no discourtesy, Sister."
"Nor did I think otherwise. This is Sister Anne. I am called Eleanor. We are both members of this Order but not of this priory, rather visitors from another daughter house on the coast near Norwich." She gestured in the direction of the priory gates. "Anything you wish to say leaves Amesbury with us."
"Your words are sweet like balm on a wound, Sister Eleanor, but the cause of my grief is well known." Another tear crested in the corner of the young woman's eye. "You have not heard the news, methinks, but a man was found murdered outside this priory." With firm determination, she tossed her head to chase any tears back. "The man so cruelly slaughtered was my uncle, Wulfstan. I was the one to discover his body."
"God grant you solace! I heard the story, although not your name until now. We were horrified. No one in the priory could imagine who might have so hated your uncle that he was driven to do such a terrible thing."
"It must have been Satan's imp. My uncle has no enemies, or rather no more than any man does who has reached his age. Although my mother claims he is a rude man, he is always sweet-natured to me."
Eleanor noted the young woman's use of the present tense. How we do cling to our loved ones even as Death drags their souls away, she thought.
Tears resumed their course down Alys' cheeks. "I weep for his son, my cousin, as well. Sayer must be bitter with grief for he had quarreled with his father just the other night. My uncle is quick to anger but does not stay so for long." She sobbed, then resolutely faced what had happened. "The time was too short, and they were never able to make peace!"
"I pray your cousin will find consolation. Surely the argument was minor and soon forgotten?"