Surely the man was not cruel, Eleanor thought, and is unaware of the violent mating between the girl's parents. Yet there was something in the way Alys had repeated the man's words that troubled her. "This Master Herbert may not possess skilled phrasing, but surely… Was he not acquainted with your father?"
"Aye, and must have known full well what manner of a husband he was to my mother. Only she believed that she hid the bruises from the neighbors, and, if I could hear her piercing cries outside the house, they did as well. Master Herbert cannot be ignorant of any of this."
After hearing this tale, I shall always be grateful that I knew how tenderly my parents loved each other before my mother's cruel death, Eleanor thought. Children are not without ears or eyes, although many seem to think they are.
Alys looked up at the sky in shock. "Sister, I did not hear the bells, but the time must be past None! I promised my mother that I would accompany her to prayers, and she will be worried." She reached out her hand and grasped Eleanor's much smaller one in hers. "I thank you for listening to my woes."
The prioress squeezed the hand that held hers. "Should you wish to speak further, ask Brother Porter to summon Eleanor of Tyndal."
Watching the girl rush away along the path to the gate, Eleanor knew she had not served her well. She must seek the young woman out on the morrow, before fatigue had dulled her wits, and provide wiser and more comforting advice.
Anne helped her rise, and the two walked slowly back through the gardens. Alys' sadness over the death of her uncle reminded Eleanor of the black humors cursing Brother Thomas.
He should go into the village to seek the truth behind these apparitions, she decided, and do so tonight. The sub-infirmarian had been right about the eagerness that had returned to his eyes when Sister Beatrice suggested he find meaning behind the ghost. If she did not have to snatch that joy from him, she would not. A crowded inn was safe enough. The task should not pose any danger.
Before Wulfstan's death, the hauntings had been benign. Why would they have suddenly turned deadly? She could see no apparent reason, which surely suggested there was no connection between some jape and murder. The sooner the two things were separated, the better. Cautious fear of a mortal killer was reasonable, but rumors of ghosts often allowed Dread to let loose her most foul child, Panic.
She had already warned the monk to take care lest the spirit turn out to be a man or imp with malicious intent. Now she would order him to leave the inn if he began to suspect that the phantom and slayer were the same, or if he learned something that pointed to the murderer's identity. Under no circumstances was he to investigate further. She would not allow it. That was the work of the sheriff.
After all, Wulfstan had been killed outside religious walls. Once the ghost had been revealed as a man, the sheriff would no longer have his pretence of an argument and must drag himself back from his boar hunting.
Eleanor brightened at the thought. Then she might consider her own duty to Wulfstan's family done and retreat to her sanctuary from the world's violence with a clear conscience. She grew eager to resolve this matter quickly.
Chapter Eleven
Thomas waited for Brother Porter to open the massive wooden gate and wondered what the old monk thought of this strange command to let him go into the village when he should be at prayer.
"God be with you," the porter whispered.
"Pray for me," Thomas replied with sincerity, noting only benevolence in the old man's eyes. With a sigh, he wondered if he would ever be capable of such unquestioning obedience.
At least the air was mild tonight, he noted, as he walked toward the bridge leading to the inn. Had God tempered it as a kindness, wishing to remind all mortals that the season of life was upon them despite Wulfstan's cruel death?
Looking around, the monk saw nothing that resembled any ghost. He felt a momentary disappointment, almost as if he had been found unworthy of some crucial test. Reasoned arguments may have proven that no such spirit could exist, but he, Thomas, was troubled by Sayer's fears and even by the merchant's suggestion. Men of accepted wisdom have been wrong before, he thought with some irreverence, although he would not voice his fleeting doubts about wandering souls to either Sister Beatrice or her niece.
When he reached the bridge, he stopped. He would have no problem finding the inn. Even at this distance, he could hear the laughter, shouts, and snatches of song. A memory flashed through his mind of another inn, one in London where he and Giles had often found a woman to share for an evening. Something twisted painfully inside him. He struck his heart with his fist, and the image shattered like some fragile object.
"I should never have decided to go to this inn as a traveling monk," he muttered aloud as he started across the Avon. Belatedly, he realized that he had been wrong about a disguise. He should have hidden his tonsure with a hood and dressed as a farmer on pilgrimage. In religious robes, he would stand out in the crowd, and the sight of monks at an inn either shut men's mouths or opened them with rude jests. It was too late to return, and he strongly doubted that either his prioress or her aunt would approve of a secular disguise.
He ground his teeth in frustration. Was he wasting his time tonight? He would certainly try to discover what was behind this haunting of the priory, but his real purpose was to find out anything he could about threats to the Amesbury Psalter. His prioress was troubled over Wulfstan's death, but she had no idea that the man was reputed to be a thief or at the very least had associated with robbers many years ago.
When he told her about the conversation with Mistress Jhone and Master Herbert, he had omitted that bit of information. He understood her clever mind well. After all, he was forbidden to tell her of his mission, and he feared she might begin to ask too many questions if she knew this detail. Although it was unlikely she would conclude the Psalter was in peril or guess his involvement in its protection, he could not chance it. Her mind was capable of amazing leaps of logic, an observation he had had frequent opportunities to make during the last two years.
Fortunately, Prioress Eleanor seemed most concerned that Wulfstan's death was being linked to the phantom and shared his own suspicion that the ghost was but a boy's sport, a mischievous act beginning to turn nasty. As for murder, she had forbidden him to pursue any such thread on the reasonable assumption that it was the sheriff's job to do so, despite the man's blatant disinclination to investigate much of anything.
Thomas was grateful that Amesbury's sheriff had decided to go off hunting. This gave him time to look into any possible relationship between the murder and this manuscript theft. It troubled him that he would be disobeying his prioress. Had he been able to explain what he had been sent to do, she might well have approved and aided him in his task. Once again, he cursed his spy master for refusing to inform her of his role for the Church.
Even if he resolved the ghost issue tonight, Thomas decided he must keep this knowledge to himself, at least for a short while. If he claimed that someone, who might know the facts about the jape, would be at the inn the next evening-or even the next-he could provide reason for being outside the priory again if need be. The deceit would be innocent enough, but he did hate lying to Prioress Eleanor, whom he held in such high regard.
Thomas spat. He could do little as he willed in this matter. Had he been able to choose what action to take first, he would not be on the way to the inn. He would be visiting Jhone for answers to some questions without the presence of Herbert, a man he strongly disliked.
A loud splash startled Thomas, and he stopped by the side of the bridge to peer into the darkness. Had a dead limb from some winter-damaged tree fallen into the river, or was the cause something more sinister? Seeing nothing, he shuddered and continued on.