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Authors: Priscilla Royal
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and went back to sit in the chair
placed near the fire. Leaning her head against the carved wood, she almost
slipped into sleep, then forced her eyes open. How could she engage in battle
against such foes when she could not even stay awake?
When
would she regain her strength? she asked God. Was she not a grown woman? It had
been many years since she had been a babe that needed a wet nurse to watch,
feed, and bathe her. She had suffered from too much frailty over the last many
months, not just as a result of her illness but from her sinful soul as well.
"And
I am tired of it," she declared. "Weary of it all!"
Without
doubt, her aunt was quite able to deal with the nature of the ghost without her
help. If anyone could get that sheriff to do his job and investigate whatever
lay behind the malicious acts, Sister Beatrice was the one. But Eleanor knew
full well why her aunt had fashioned the original plan with Sister Anne to
involve her in the investigation.
Even
as a girl, Eleanor had loved solving problems, and her aunt would have known
that this phantom was the very thing to strengthen her niece's hold on life.
"We may all yearn for heaven," the novice mistress had once said to
her, "but our hearts desire with equal passion to keep loved ones on
earth." By setting her this task, her aunt had hoped to bind Eleanor
firmly to the world she had almost abandoned.
Now
that the specter had turned deadly, however, her aunt might change her mind
about her niece's involvement, but that did not daunt Eleanor in the slightest.
Her resolve hardened, and she sat upright. She had a duty to honor.
Willing
herself to her feet, the prioress rose and looked toward the chamber door.
Rather than just sit and muse on ashes in the hearth, she would take her
sub-infirmarian's advice and start walking to improve the balance in her
humors.
"It
might be harder to regain health than lose it, as Anne so often says" she
said, stiffening her back, "but I am a Wynethorpe, a breed as
strong-willed as any of Angevin descent."
She
would walk.
As
the May sun warmed her face, Eleanor lost all doubt. The dead did not come back
to trouble the living. Raised on the works of Saint Augustine, Eleanor had
never quarreled with his logic. Even after she had attained enough education to
allow some disputation, she had found him persuasive in this matter. Because of
this, she was reasonably convinced that the spirit had a man's body.
Or a
woman's? Before the murder, she would have concluded that this sort of jape was
more likely a boy's game. Now she must ask what kind of a woman was capable of
killing a strong man like Wulfstan and beheading him. Had not the shape been
described as a queen or a local wife? "How very odd," she muttered.
It was difficult to imagine many women able to commit this particular crime—and
even harder to see how a man, one easily mistaken for a weak woman, could do so
either.
Maybe
she was wrong to assume the ghost and the murderer were the same. The specter
had been accused by both the dead man's son and those who had found the body,
but this charge might be based solely in shock and grief. Not to separate
phantom from killer might be a mistake and in defiance of reason. She needed
more facts.
Meanwhile,
Brother Thomas had been charged with identification of the ghost when she and her
aunt believed the creature was annoying but not threatening. Would he be in
danger now? A chill shook her. Her own decision to find an answer in this was
one thing, but she did not wish to put the monk in peril.
She
clenched her fist, once again cursing her weakness. Had she not given in and
brought the monk to Amesbury, this would not be a concern. She had not wanted
him here at all. After her fever had burned all lust from her body, she had
hoped to escape from the man, while she was still free of her sinful passions,
and seek the wise counsel she knew Sister Beatrice would give.
This
she would have done had she not had a visitor before she left
placed near the fire. Leaning her head against the carved wood, she almost
slipped into sleep, then forced her eyes open. How could she engage in battle
against such foes when she could not even stay awake?
When
would she regain her strength? she asked God. Was she not a grown woman? It had
been many years since she had been a babe that needed a wet nurse to watch,
feed, and bathe her. She had suffered from too much frailty over the last many
months, not just as a result of her illness but from her sinful soul as well.
"And
I am tired of it," she declared. "Weary of it all!"
Without
doubt, her aunt was quite able to deal with the nature of the ghost without her
help. If anyone could get that sheriff to do his job and investigate whatever
lay behind the malicious acts, Sister Beatrice was the one. But Eleanor knew
full well why her aunt had fashioned the original plan with Sister Anne to
involve her in the investigation.
Even
as a girl, Eleanor had loved solving problems, and her aunt would have known
that this phantom was the very thing to strengthen her niece's hold on life.
"We may all yearn for heaven," the novice mistress had once said to
her, "but our hearts desire with equal passion to keep loved ones on
earth." By setting her this task, her aunt had hoped to bind Eleanor
firmly to the world she had almost abandoned.
Now
that the specter had turned deadly, however, her aunt might change her mind
about her niece's involvement, but that did not daunt Eleanor in the slightest.
Her resolve hardened, and she sat upright. She had a duty to honor.
Willing
herself to her feet, the prioress rose and looked toward the chamber door.
Rather than just sit and muse on ashes in the hearth, she would take her
sub-infirmarian's advice and start walking to improve the balance in her
humors.
"It
might be harder to regain health than lose it, as Anne so often says" she
said, stiffening her back, "but I am a Wynethorpe, a breed as
strong-willed as any of Angevin descent."
She
would walk.
As
the May sun warmed her face, Eleanor lost all doubt. The dead did not come back
to trouble the living. Raised on the works of Saint Augustine, Eleanor had
never quarreled with his logic. Even after she had attained enough education to
allow some disputation, she had found him persuasive in this matter. Because of
this, she was reasonably convinced that the spirit had a man's body.
Or a
woman's? Before the murder, she would have concluded that this sort of jape was
more likely a boy's game. Now she must ask what kind of a woman was capable of
killing a strong man like Wulfstan and beheading him. Had not the shape been
described as a queen or a local wife? "How very odd," she muttered.
It was difficult to imagine many women able to commit this particular crime—and
even harder to see how a man, one easily mistaken for a weak woman, could do so
either.
Maybe
she was wrong to assume the ghost and the murderer were the same. The specter
had been accused by both the dead man's son and those who had found the body,
but this charge might be based solely in shock and grief. Not to separate
phantom from killer might be a mistake and in defiance of reason. She needed
more facts.
Meanwhile,
Brother Thomas had been charged with identification of the ghost when she and her
aunt believed the creature was annoying but not threatening. Would he be in
danger now? A chill shook her. Her own decision to find an answer in this was
one thing, but she did not wish to put the monk in peril.
She
clenched her fist, once again cursing her weakness. Had she not given in and
brought the monk to Amesbury, this would not be a concern. She had not wanted
him here at all. After her fever had burned all lust from her body, she had
hoped to escape from the man, while she was still free of her sinful passions,
and seek the wise counsel she knew Sister Beatrice would give.
This
she would have done had she not had a visitor before she left
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