Forsaken Soul

Chapter Eight

Thomas twitched. His eyes opened wide. Had he fallen asleep?

His arms were stretched out in the shape of a cross; his feet were folded on top of each other, all in imitation of the crucified Jesus hanging upon the cross on the altar in front of him.

None of this brought the comfort he longed for, or even the condemnation he expected. All he felt were the sharp edges of the rough, uneven stone floor pressing into his body.

He rose awkwardly and carefully stretched the stiffness from his legs. His arms tingled as they recovered from their numbness. “Might I do better if I went back to the hospital and served the sick?” he asked the twisted figure above him.

After waiting for some response, he shook his head at his obviously vain hope and left the chapel.

Had he truly slept? He asked the question again as he shut the door to the church behind him. If so, the sleep was not restful, images from the inn last night flashing in his mind like a hobby-lantern in the fens. Each time he had breathed deeply, the dead man’s stench assaulted his nostrils, and the figure of trembling Ivetta filled his heart with a troubling, albeit vague, apprehension.

Now that he was awake, however, what bothered him most was a change he had seen in Ralf. Although the pair had worked together in the past, and even called each other friend, this was the first time Thomas had noted deliberate callousness in the man. The crowner was harsh with scoundrels, and his rough ways had often caused unintended offense or hurt feelings, but the monk had never seen him act with cruelty to an obviously frightened witness.

The cooper’s death quite literally reeked of murder. Why, then, would Ralf dismiss a good witness like Ivetta with such mockery when he had always sought as much information as he could obtain? Surely he knew that scorn would only silence her? Ivetta might be a prostitute, but the crowner had never cared much about such things, especially when he was in full cry after the truth of a crime. Yet last night he had acted no differently than his brothers might have done, either sheriff or the churchman.

As for Ivetta, she had good reason to assume that any representative of the king’s justice would treat with little kindness those who plied her trade. Her expectation that a crowner would simply cart her off to some dank place, where she might rot of the damp long before she ever came to trial, was not unreasonable. Thomas had expected Ralf to calm her fears, at least long enough to get her tale, even if he suspected her of murder. Instead, he had rained abuse down on her head, effectively stopping any attempt at defense she might make or willingness to give information pointing to a killer.

On the other hand, Ivetta and Ralf had surely known each other from childhood. Thomas had come but recently to Tyndal. Perhaps the crowner had reason to assume her guilt-and maybe she had cause to mistrust him. Whatever the truth, Ralf had been gentler to the innkeeper.

Since the monk had stayed last night to assure the crowd outside the inn that the Devil had been permanently routed back to his home in Hell, Thomas heard the outraged roar from the merchant when he was told that the room upstairs must remain untouched, corpse included, until further notice.

“Do you have any idea how this will affect my purse?” the innkeeper shouted.

In the past, Ralf would have had little patience with anyone who worried more about coin than solving a murder-and taken less care to hide his contempt. Instead, the formerly gruff crowner eased the man into agreement with smooth grace.

Had his friend chosen to learn the delicate skills of diplomacy during his time at court? Or had his nature changed? Was there a side to the man that Thomas had never seen, one that others, who had grown up with him, knew well?

If the crowner did have a part touched by the Devil, why had Tostig remained his devoted friend-or Sister Anne for that matter? The brewer of ale might be called a good man, but the monk believed the sub-infirmarian to be most saintly.

Thomas frowned in perplexed thought as he trudged along the path to the hospital. “None of this is my worry,” he concluded at last. The murder may have sent a spirit to God’s judgement uncleansed, and he might even pray for the cooper’s soul, but the crime itself was a matter for secular justice.

“Nonetheless, I am uneasy,” he whispered, “although I do not understand why.”

Thomas turned and gazed back at the dark-stoned church he had just left. Although the shimmering white sun had not yet reached its zenith, the air was growing thick with damp heat. The black curtain in Sister Juliana’s anchorage window barely moved with the weak sea breeze, and the white cross emblazoned on it almost sparkled in the sunlight.

What was she doing? he wondered, distracting himself from his troubling thoughts. Was she in prayer, or had she sought rest on her stone bed after her night vigil?

Ever since he had met the woman at Wynethorpe Castle, he had felt both attraction and revulsion whenever he was in her presence. These warring emotions were complicated by his inability to decide whether she was simply mad or truly touched by God. Even his astute prioress might have no answer to this debate either, or so he suspected. She and Juliana may have been girlhood friends, but Thomas guessed much had changed between them in the intervening years.

Whatever his opinion of her, Sister Juliana had arrived here in the spring and was permanently entombed as an anchoress. Soon after the last rites were performed to symbolize her death to the world, and the door to her small cell slammed shut, the distressed from the village began arriving at her window.

This was not unusual. Anchoresses often received those tormented by their sins, but they did so primarily during the daylight hours. This anchoress received only at night.

He had learned of this quite early on. When he had grown weary of his nocturnal pacing around the silent walkways of the monks’ cloister garth, Thomas went to the church to beg for comfort. Her anchorage was near the path he took, and he grew much amazed at how many others were rendered sleepless by their sorrows. There was always some shadow pressed against the wall, whispering at the curtain. Once he caught himself concluding with some irreverence that the Church might soon proclaim her the patron saint of the sleepless.

Yet, for all his discomfort with her, he had been tempted to kneel at the window himself and seek what she might advise. Then a dark shape would approach, and he had scurried off to the gloomy chapel. At Wynethorpe, he feared she had glimpsed his soul in all its pitiful nakedness. If that were the case, he wondered what her response would be if he came to that small and curtained opening. Would she offer gentle comfort or call for God’s flaming wraith to scorch his soul? He shook these musings aside with a shiver and turned his thoughts to those who had visited her.

Sister Juliana did not seem to mind if someone came more than once. Thomas had seen the baker’s wife every night for awhile, although not of late. Hadn’t Signy approached her for some reason, and maybe old Tibia as well? And now that he thought more on it, he wondered if he had seen Ivetta at the window too. Tostig had sought her advice, although fewer men than women came to the anchoress’ window.

Why did women seem to come more often than men? Was the cause to be found in their greater mortal frailty? Nay, as he thought more on it, he realized that men were more likely to seek wisdom from pious hermits while women sought out the anchoress’ window. God must not care who gave moral direction as long as souls were saved.

But what could an innkeeper’s niece and a village whore have sought from an anchoress? Ivetta had continued her trade. Her soul was as fouled by lust as it had ever been, so the road to chastity had not been her concern. And what had troubled the innkeeper’s niece? Signy seemed no more sinful than any other woman in the village. On the other hand, the baker’s wife had certainly found some answer because her husband’s bread began to rise again shortly after her visits to Sister Juliana-or so the story went. Perhaps Signy’s woes had more in common with those of the baker’s wife, something to do with stews and ale.

“Ah, well,” Thomas said, entering the hospital courtyard. “I have sins enough of my own with which to struggle. Whatever problems bring Ivetta and Signy to see the anchoress are not mine to solve. It is time I got back to His service.”

But the monk, like any other man, was still nibbled by curiosity. As he started down the rows of straw beds, filled with bodies whimpering in pain and terror, he caught himself asking again why Sister Juliana sat by her curtain only after the sun set. Unlike most mortals, she must be very bold to defy the Prince of Darkness, when he tortured man’s spirit the most, and offer refuge to quivering souls during such bleak hours.

As he recalled his meeting with her, in the swirling snow on the walls of Wynethorpe Castle, he decided Sister Juliana most certainly did have that courage.