"The crowner did, based on evidence given by several villagers."
"Yet someone believes the decision was in error or else the rumor would not be rife that Mistress Eda is the ghost." Eleanor smiled at Anne in thanks and took a piece.
"Her childhood friend, Mistress Jhone, is the source of that, and the widower agrees with her. Few others concur." Beatrice watched her niece eat one bite of cheese and then another.
"Mistress Jhone and the bereaved husband think…?"
"…that Mistress Eda slipped, but was so weakened by her illness that she was unable to pull herself from the water."
"Why did the crowner's verdict find otherwise?" Anne said, casually placing the plate of food closer to her prioress' elbow.
"Everyone here knew that Mistress Eda hated the river and would never have walked there willingly. When she was young, she had taken her younger brother down to the Avon but fell asleep in the sun. The boy decided to go swimming and drowned. She never forgave herself," Beatrice replied. "After she grew ill, all knew her pain. When her body was found, they concluded that she had given up all hope and turned against God in her suffering. Satan, they said, must have seen his chance to gain her soul and lured her to the river in the guise of her brother."
Eleanor now tore off a small bit of bread and nibbled at it thoughtfully.
"All these rumors and tales are nonsense." Beatrice slammed her fist down on the table. "There is no ghost. No matter what is claimed, imagined, or believed, Saint Augustine taught us that there is no communication between the world of the living and that of the dead."
"Spirits seen are more likely Satan's imps dressed up as mortals to fool us than truly tortured souls of the dead," Eleanor finished. "Although you taught me to seek out mortals more than imps when evil has been done."
"And I have not changed my mind. Mortal and flawed as we are, we see what we expect to see and in the guise we most fear. In using our frailties against us, Satan is a most clever creature." Beatrice's anger gave way to a merrier laugh. "Nor have I forgotten what I taught you, dearest one! I am not yet so aged that my memory has begun to drift into that tranquil land many find before death."
"Were I even to suggest such a thing, my father would come roaring to your defense all the way from Wales!"
"He and I have always butted heads like goats, but that is how we show our love for each other. As for our haunting, I do suspect the ghost is made less of spirit than flesh, but, if the acts were intended as a jest, the game has turned cruel. Those who work hard in the priory fields now fear to take the shorter path to the village along the river and return home even wearier. Honest men should not be made to suffer so."
"Then you must dispel these rumors and the growing fear." Eleanor smiled at her aunt with fond expectation.
The novice mistress looked heavenward and gave an immense sigh. "I would, but I have no time to devote to this pagan nonsense. With Prioress Ida gone, I must continue with my old duties, plus hers, and a few other tasks as well. The spring planting season is full upon us…"
Eleanor blinked. "Might the prior take this matter in hand?"
"He could, if he were not such a fool and inclined to believe in ghosts himself." Beatrice folded her hands and placed them in her lap. Still gazing at the ceiling, her features slowly formed into what one might call a study in perplexity.
Anne and Eleanor looked at each other in silence. The sub-infirmarian raised one questioning eyebrow at her friend.
"If you will allow it, Aunt, I might look into this matter for you," Eleanor said, her voice showing an enthusiasm that had been much lacking of late.
The novice mistress waved one hand in a dismissive gesture. "You are too weak."
Eleanor's face turned scarlet. "I am not…"
Anne laid a hand on her friend's sleeve. "Might I make a suggestion? You could conserve your strength but still help."
The aunt continued to look upward as if in deep thought, then replied with a measured hesitation. "How so, Sister?"
"Accompanying us was Brother Thomas, a brave and clever man who has been of great service to your family as well as Tyndal in matters of justice. Might Prioress Eleanor set him to the task of finding the source of these apparitions?"
Eleanor paled. "I would rather not…"
"Ah!" Beatrice brightened. "A most original idea! My noble brother was uncharacteristically fulsome in his praise of your monk as I recall." Her lips twitched and her eyebrows rose. "I, too, found your Brother Thomas quite memorable." The novice mistress' expression could only be described as appreciative. "A man with hair the color of Satan's own fire and a body so muscular that Sir Lancelot would be jealous? I would guess he might be bored with no better company than our aging and placid monks on the other side of the priory. Perchance he would welcome a bit of innocent adventure outside the walls, searching for a jester who must have strayed from court?" She clapped her hands with a merry vigor. "Set him to the task, child, and report to me on his success. Or failure. I do think you could help me so much in this matter without exhausting yourself. Meanwhile, I can see to the planting of our herb garden…" Her voice trailed off as she gazed with affectionate delight at her niece.
Eleanor bowed her head. Although the gesture spoke of respect to her aunt, it succeeded in hiding her troubled expression.
"It is a task that should be started soon," the novice mistress declared, rising with evident stiffness from the table. "Now, I fear, I must go to our infirmarian for something to give me some ease. I am an old woman whose joints ache more than I would wish, and I need something to help me sleep."
"It shall be done." Eleanor rose as well, kissed her aunt, and watched in silence as she limped away.
Suddenly, Anne leapt up and turned to Eleanor. "I might have a remedy for your aunt.
"Go to her then." Eleanor gestured toward the disappearing nun. "Quickly!"
"Sister," Anne called out, running after the elder nun. "We have found something at Tyndal that has proven successful.
When the two tall nuns were far enough from Eleanor to speak without being overheard, Sister Anne asked, "Do you think she is strong enough to handle this matter?"
Beatrice nodded. "My niece has ever been one to gain strength from a challenge. Did you not see pink return to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes? She even ate more than has been her wont. This task may be just the medicine she needs, and it is an easy enough one with your Brother Thomas doing the work of investigating. If I had thought otherwise, I would not have whined so about my trifling duties and aged joints. Now return before she suspects we are conspiring!"
But when Anne reentered the room and Eleanor greeted her with one eyebrow arched, the sub-infirmarian of Tyndal knew full well that she and the novice mistress had utterly failed to deceive.
Chapter Four
With that supple grace common to youth, sixteen-year-old Alys spun on the heel of her soft leather shoe and marched precisely five steps away from her mother. "I cannot accept this, and I shall not." Despite her resolute tone, her eyes were moist when she turned to face the woman she loved but longed to disobey.
The tumult in the daughter's heart was lost on her mother. Mistress Jhone, widow of a local woolmonger, was glowering instead at a round young man standing nearby.
Bernard, a maker of gloves, shifted uneasily and lowered his very pink face.
Turning her glare from him, Jhone now cast the full force of her disapproval upon her daughter. "A child's duty is to obey her parent: honor thy father and thy mother. I did not create that law. It comes from God Himself!" Although the mother's face was wan, her robe of rough brown russet suggested that her widowhood was recent and a disobedient daughter was not the sole reason for her pallor.