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Authors: Priscilla Royal
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his methods of investigation in any crime vary according to the rank of the aggrieved. For this killing, we may expect a swift resolution. He will look to the servants.”
The prioress glanced back into the courtyard, seeking the sheriff. None below was dressed with an eye to fashion or elegance, as might be expected of a man filled with ambition. Near the stable and standing by a fine black horse, however, there was one in close conversation with someone whose neck was respectfully bent. “Does he not have a crowner to assist him in his inquiries?”
“Aye, but I would not look to that one for any cleverness. This is no local gossip, for my late husband treated the man often enough for cuts and bruises. The crowner is best known for the amount of ale he drinks than any crime he has solved. I doubt you’ll find him in the company below. He’s rarely sober enough to mount a horse.”
But Eleanor’s attention was suddenly directed away from sheriffs and crowners. Down in the courtyard, to the left of the one she assumed was Sir Reimund, she saw Brother Thomas talking to another man. She might not be able to hear what was said, but the gestures were eloquent enough. The man had shoved her monk, and Thomas had just raised his fist.
The Prioress of Tyndal dashed from the room.
Chapter Twelve
Eleanor stood at the entrance to the manor house and tried to find some safe pathway through the turmoil.
A few paces from her, their piles of soiled linen stuffed into woven baskets, two laundry women chattered, pale faces close together.
To their right, several men argued, their gestures wild and their loud voices suggesting the disagreements were growing less than amicable.
Horses neighed. Babes cried.
And, somewhere in this madness of fear, a man’s unshriven soul had been sent to Hell.
The prioress shuddered, as if Satan himself had just brushed her cheek with impious touch.
“My lady!”
Startled, Eleanor turned to face the stranger who had appeared by her side.
“I am Ranulf, eldest son of Master Stevyn. You should not be in this profane place, even with proper attendance.” He scowled with evident disdain as he looked around. “Of which I see none.”
She stiffened at his presumptuous tone. How dare this man tell her where she should and should not be? On the other hand, she did not want to imagine what he would think if she told him she had come to stop her monk from getting into a fistfight. “A man has been unlawfully slaughtered,” she chose to say. “I wish to bring God’s comfort to his family.” After all, she had intended to seek them out.
“The Devil was his only kin.” He gestured at the crowd. “And here before you are many more the Evil One can claim as his own, vile creatures that should be frying in Hell’s fires.” His jabbing finger stopped to point at a plump, middle-aged woman, whose face was red with weeping as she clutched her fists to her heart.
What cause had this woman to mourn Tobye’s death, Eleanor asked herself, or were her tears born of shock and fear?
“Let me escort you from this obscene display.” Ranulf placed himself in front of the prioress as if intending to herd her backwards like some recalcitrant sheep. “A woman dedicated to God’s service rejects this evil world for good reason, and your presence here is most improper.”
A firestorm of anger at this impudence roared through her. “You are very kind to remind me of the corruption my soul may suffer,” she replied through clenched teeth, “but I…”
Like a prayer answered, the crowd parted and revealed the solution to her predicament. Over by the stable, the prioress saw that her monk was not rolling in the mud, trading blows with another man; he was still standing, albeit with fist firmly held prisoner by his other hand, and shouting. The object of his wrath had turned his back.
“Brother Thomas stands over there,” she said to Ranulf. “I would consider it an act of charity if you brought him
The prioress glanced back into the courtyard, seeking the sheriff. None below was dressed with an eye to fashion or elegance, as might be expected of a man filled with ambition. Near the stable and standing by a fine black horse, however, there was one in close conversation with someone whose neck was respectfully bent. “Does he not have a crowner to assist him in his inquiries?”
“Aye, but I would not look to that one for any cleverness. This is no local gossip, for my late husband treated the man often enough for cuts and bruises. The crowner is best known for the amount of ale he drinks than any crime he has solved. I doubt you’ll find him in the company below. He’s rarely sober enough to mount a horse.”
But Eleanor’s attention was suddenly directed away from sheriffs and crowners. Down in the courtyard, to the left of the one she assumed was Sir Reimund, she saw Brother Thomas talking to another man. She might not be able to hear what was said, but the gestures were eloquent enough. The man had shoved her monk, and Thomas had just raised his fist.
The Prioress of Tyndal dashed from the room.
Chapter Twelve
Eleanor stood at the entrance to the manor house and tried to find some safe pathway through the turmoil.
A few paces from her, their piles of soiled linen stuffed into woven baskets, two laundry women chattered, pale faces close together.
To their right, several men argued, their gestures wild and their loud voices suggesting the disagreements were growing less than amicable.
Horses neighed. Babes cried.
And, somewhere in this madness of fear, a man’s unshriven soul had been sent to Hell.
The prioress shuddered, as if Satan himself had just brushed her cheek with impious touch.
“My lady!”
Startled, Eleanor turned to face the stranger who had appeared by her side.
“I am Ranulf, eldest son of Master Stevyn. You should not be in this profane place, even with proper attendance.” He scowled with evident disdain as he looked around. “Of which I see none.”
She stiffened at his presumptuous tone. How dare this man tell her where she should and should not be? On the other hand, she did not want to imagine what he would think if she told him she had come to stop her monk from getting into a fistfight. “A man has been unlawfully slaughtered,” she chose to say. “I wish to bring God’s comfort to his family.” After all, she had intended to seek them out.
“The Devil was his only kin.” He gestured at the crowd. “And here before you are many more the Evil One can claim as his own, vile creatures that should be frying in Hell’s fires.” His jabbing finger stopped to point at a plump, middle-aged woman, whose face was red with weeping as she clutched her fists to her heart.
What cause had this woman to mourn Tobye’s death, Eleanor asked herself, or were her tears born of shock and fear?
“Let me escort you from this obscene display.” Ranulf placed himself in front of the prioress as if intending to herd her backwards like some recalcitrant sheep. “A woman dedicated to God’s service rejects this evil world for good reason, and your presence here is most improper.”
A firestorm of anger at this impudence roared through her. “You are very kind to remind me of the corruption my soul may suffer,” she replied through clenched teeth, “but I…”
Like a prayer answered, the crowd parted and revealed the solution to her predicament. Over by the stable, the prioress saw that her monk was not rolling in the mud, trading blows with another man; he was still standing, albeit with fist firmly held prisoner by his other hand, and shouting. The object of his wrath had turned his back.
“Brother Thomas stands over there,” she said to Ranulf. “I would consider it an act of charity if you brought him
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