Forsaken Soul

Chapter Eleven

Ivetta grumbled as she focused on the callused heels of the lay brother leading the way. Walking through the nuns’ cloister made her nervous, and she was not at all pleased about coming to the priory. There was something unnatural about all this hush, she concluded, but then she was happiest surrounded by the deep voices of men and the soaring laughter of women.

Her bad-temper had begun even before Brother Beorn arrived at her hovel. Ivetta had just awakened, a time of day not reckoned her most cheerful, and then vomited. She felt as sour as her mouth tasted when the lay brother informed her that Prioress Eleanor had some questions about the cooper’s death. Would she come with him to the prioress’ chambers?

As if she had had any choice!

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched two nuns pass her in the walkway. The elder was short and square. The younger still possessed a soft, youthful roundness. “And that blank stare of holiness,” Ivetta muttered, not quite under her breath.

The older nun glared, twitching her nose as if she had smelled the smoke of Hell emanating from the whore’s robe.

Brother Beorn turned around. “Did you ask a question?”

Ivetta shook her head, and the unlikely pair continued on. At least the dark frown with which he had graced her was no different from the glare he gave everyone else. In all the time she had known him, Brother Beorn had never suffered from hypocrisy. Other than children, to whom he showed a saintly patience, he disliked all mortals equally.

When they reached the stairs that led to the prioress’ chambers, Ivetta grimaced. The very thought of climbing them exhausted her. Nor did she want to talk about Martin Cooper’s death. Who would, under the circumstances? Just as he had gotten into bed with her, he had begun his death throes. Ivetta dry-retched as the memory returned. Sweat began to drip down her cheeks.

These holy virgins would never understand what she had suffered that night. What did they care about a woman’s passions? Martin had been different from her other men. When he took her in that open field the summer she turned thirteen, she forgot the weeds that scratched her back and remembered only the sweet scent of flowers. Since that day, she did whatever he wished, opening her legs for a price and giving him the coin. None of that mattered. Other men might ride her, but they all remained faceless and transitory. Martin had possessed her.

Brother Beorn cleared his throat.

Ivetta began to climb the stairs.

***

“Thank you for coming here, Mistress,” the Prioress of Tyndal said.

Mistress, was it? Ivetta spat out the bitten-off nail she had been worrying about with her tongue.

With a courteous manner but inscrutable tone, the prioress began to introduce her companions.

Gytha smiled, a look completely lacking in condescension.

Tostig’s sister and a decent enough sort, Ivetta had always heard. The brother had never sought her services, and he was polite enough when he passed her on the road.

“Sister Anne, our sub-infirmarian.”

So this was the famous healer? Ivetta had never met her. The only time she had ever needed potions and herbs was when she missed her courses. In her profession, that meant one thing, and she knew well enough how to handle the problem. A priory hospital would not serve her there.

“I am called Eleanor, Prioress of Tyndal.”

A woman reputed to see any evil that skulked behind men’s eyes. Ivetta quickly lowered hers and bobbed an awkward obeisance. But surely this prioress was too far removed from earthly concerns to recognize all the imps that squirmed in her soul? Most of her sins were common enough and well-known anyway. As for the uncommon ones, what did she have to fear from a woman who had rejected the world?

Ivetta’s brief impudence withered the moment she looked up. She most certainly had much to fear, and those grey eyes now studying her did hold a scorching heat. Unless some priest came fast enough to forgive her on her deathbed, she knew she would instantly fall into the deepest regions of Hell. But she had little choice, did she? She could not afford to repent just yet.

“You have nothing to be frightened of here,” the prioress said. “Our only purpose is to hear details of Martin’s death.”

Ivetta realized how tense her muscles had been. She shrugged her shoulders to ease the tightness.

“The crowner can be harsh…”

“He wants to hang me.”

“He is a fair man. You grew up in this village so must know him well…”

“With respect, my lady, you were not there last night. He wants to hang me because I am a harlot.”

“As was the sainted Magdalene. Our Lord did not turn his back on her, nor do we. Will you have some refreshment?”

The Prioress of Tyndal rose, carried a mazer of wine to Ivetta, and offered both bread and cheese.

The woman snatched the wine and gulped it down.

The prioress carefully refilled her cup, then placed the platter near enough for Ivetta to reach. “Should you be hungry,” Eleanor said with a nod as she settled herself back into her chair.

Ivetta stuffed some cheese into her mouth. Hungry or not, she could no longer afford to turn down any offer of food.

“Please answer honestly. We are not here to condemn, indeed we wish you no harm. Anything you remember of the cooper’s murder might be helpful in finding the one who killed him.”

“I know nothing of murder, my lady.”

“But Sister Anne does. You may mention something, no matter how small, that would help her piece together what killed the man. I do not expect you to know how it happened, only to relate the events of that night. Will you answer the questions I must ask?”

Ivetta nodded, snagged another hunk of cheese and reached back to tear off a large piece of bread. Taking a bite, she discovered that the heavy loaf was no lordly one. Instead it was rough with bits of broken grain. She looked at the prioress holding a similar dark-colored bit in her hand. Contrary to tales she had heard from some of the men she served, these religious were neither fat nor arrogant. Not only had this prioress personally served her, but the monks and nuns of Tyndal must eat no better than villeins.

“Do not fear plain speech,” the prioress said. “As for your trade, who amongst us is not a sinner?”

Her smile is not the haughty look with which one of her station might greet one of mine, Ivetta noted.

“Nothing you say will cause offense. Our desire may be for the chaste and sequestered life, but that does not mean we are less mortal than you or do not suffer from human error. The world is no stranger to us and even less to Sister Anne who was an apothecary with her husband before she joined the Order.”

Ivetta tossed her head in the maid’s direction.

Eleanor nodded. “You may go, Gytha. Should we need anything more, I will send for you.”

When the young woman had closed the door, Ivetta drained her cup again. “Martin said he had a night’s work for me, my lady. This was always done in the same room at the inn. When I arrived, he was already there.”

“Did you contract with the innkeeper for the room or did Martin?” The prioress sipped her wine.

“Martin did.”

“Were you to serve him or others that night?”

“I never knew. He always collected the price first so I was not surprised to see him.”

“Was there anything different about the arrangements last night?”

“Not that I knew.”

“Had the food and wine been brought up before you arrived?” Anne asked.

“No.” Ivetta turned away. “If a man wanted refreshment, he was told to sup with the others downstairs after my allotted time was done.”

“Yet there was food and drink that night…”

“When Martin wanted me for himself, or with special friends, he always ate before we bedded. There was a game we often played when we were alone, you see. I pretended to be a beggar woman…do you want those details?”

“Perhaps you need only say if you shared either food or drink after it had arrived that night,” Anne replied with a hint of amusement in her eyes.

“I did not have the chance. I never ate until I had sated his other needs and he had fallen asleep. That was part of our game.”

“And in this way your life may have been saved,” Eleanor said, her expression growing solemn. “So you came up to the room. Martin was waiting for you, but the food and wine had not been served. He was by himself…”

“He was not alone, my lady.”

“If refreshment was ordered, then they were friends rather than strangers staying at the inn?”

“Friends. Hob and Will, the blacksmith brothers. Many times in the past he has shared me with the elder if there were no others in need of my service.”

“Was that the arrangement for the night?” Anne asked, glancing at Eleanor. No mention had been made of the blacksmith and his brother.

“I assumed as much when I first arrived, but the three were arguing.”

“What was the dispute?”

“Martin was ridiculing Will’s manhood.”

“And Hob’s as well?”

“Nay, only Will’s. His sex had become a cowardly thing on the tilting grounds, as I have oft discovered.” Ivetta snorted. “As for Hob, he has spurned my talents for a long time. For all I know, the heat of the smithy did melt his rod as well.”

Eleanor coughed to hide her mirth.

“You say the three were arguing?” Anne asked.

“When I walked into the room, I heard Martin tell Will that he should dress in women’s attire because his sex was no bigger than…” Ivetta shrugged. “Will’s face was scarlet and he tried to strike out but tripped. Methinks he had drunk too much ale already. Then Hob swung at Martin. I did not want to get hurt so I backed out of the room.”

“Did Martin often insult Will in this manner?” Eleanor asked.

“Often enough.”

“Did you shut the door when you left?” Anne continued.

“I might have done, but the tavern wench arrived just then with a jug and plate. I stood aside to let her enter, and she shut the door behind her.”

“Which woman served?”

“Signy,” Ivetta replied, then spat.

Anne raised an eyebrow at the prioress.

“Did Hob and Will stay in the room with her?” Eleanor continued.

“For a short time. When she shut the door, the men stopped yelling.” Ivetta hesitated. “One must have felt her up because I heard her screeching. Then Hob threw open the door and dragged his brother out by the collar. They went down the stairs, shouting at each other. I paid no further heed to what they said or did since they were well on their way.”

“You went in then?” Eleanor asked.

“Signy slammed the door in my face.”

“You waited outside?”

“For a few minutes. They must have had some heated words because I could hear their voices above the din, but not what they said. When the wench left, I went in to Martin and then shut the door behind me.”

“Did Signy say anything to you?”

“We are not friends. She may be the innkeeper’s niece, but she is still a tavern wench and can handle her own problems with the men.”

Anne nodded. “What do you remember next?”

“When I came in, Martin was sitting on the bed, drinking wine.”

“Was he distraught?” Eleanor asked.

“He was smiling, my lady, as if quite pleased. Had I not seen the fight amongst the men, I would never have imagined it had occurred.”

“Did he both eat and drink, or only drink?” Anne asked.

“I do not know what he did before I came back into the room, Sister. I only saw him drink.”

“Please go on.”

“We did not play beggar girl and knight as we often did. He began to strip me and fumbled at it. He was trembling so, I assumed he was especially impatient to mount me. Then his eyes grew dark, almost black. I recall that because they were always the most beautiful blue…” Ivetta began to chew on a finger. “His trembling changed to fits…” She could not go on.

“Do you remember the color of his skin, lips?” Anne asked.

Ivetta squeezed her eyes shut. “Only his eyes.”

The sub-infirmarian shot a glance at her prioress.

“I know these details are horrible to bring back to mind, but we must hear the whole tale.” Eleanor’s voice was as gentle as a soft touch.

“He began to scream and jerk about. I knew something was horribly wrong.” Ivetta rubbed her hand under her eyes to dry the wetness there. “I screamed for help. He got twisted in the sheet, vomiting and…it seemed forever before the innkeeper came. By then, Martin had stopped breathing… Don’t ask me more, please!”

“I have no wish to be cruel, but God’s justice requires your strength in telling all you can recall.” Eleanor reached out with commiseration to the woman.

“The next thing I remember was the crowner taunting me!” Ivetta shouted, and then began to sob without attempting to hide it. “He was a beast to say what he did, accusing me of murder. Martin was not… Oh, my lady, I may be the vilest of God’s creation, but even soulless creatures know tenderness. I loved him! And I am bearing his child!”