Justice for the Damned

Chapter Five

Wulfstan was an angry man. Had he been less so, he might have felt pain as he stomped along the path to the river, jolting his aging joints as his feet pounded the earth with the force of his just resentment.

"I did see the ghost," he muttered. When he reported this earlier in the day, Sister Beatrice should have listened with both courtesy and respect. Had he not proven to her over the years that he was a reliable man? Instead, her frowning silence had proclaimed her utter disbelief.

Wulfstan snorted. How dare the nun so casually dismiss what he had seen? He was no woman, prone to irrational fantasies and likely to faint if a shadow took on some writhing shape. He had, most certainly he had, seen the ghost.

He shivered. The evening was chill. Now he began to feel the pain in his knees and shins as well. "Fa! This is the priory's fault," he growled, and spat on the damp earth.

Maybe that difficult wife of his would at least have a hot stew ready when he got home. Last night, after the fright the ghost had given him, as it would any mortal man, he had sought ease from her body; but his wife had pushed him off, whining that her courses had come and she would have none of his urges for at least six days.

Or so she claimed. Wulfstan shook his head, his mouth imitating a peevish look. "I will not be humiliated by bearing a red-haired child so the village can mock us for sinful intercourse," he muttered in high-pitched imitation of his reluctant spouse.

Grumbling to himself, he remembered when she could not have enough of his urges, but after the birth of their sixth, she had found far too many excuses to deny him his rights as husband. Tonight he should demand his marriage debt. If he recalled correctly, and he was sure he did, her courses had come quite recently. She must have been lying last night. Women did that, or so his father had told him.

He shivered again but trudged on. From the sound of the Avon, he had reached the part of the path that passed close to the river bank. As he looked up, he could see a few specks of light from Amesbury Priory. Aye, he was getting closer to home. There had better be a warm hearth waiting for him, Wulfstan thought sullenly, or else he would administer a beating to someone for cert. He rubbed a hand under his dripping nose.

With sudden apprehension, he saw how near he was to the place he had seen the ghost. Quietly, he cursed the stubborn pride that had sent him back along this path where the spirit had appeared to him. Last night the phantom may have turned away from him, disappearing into the mist and rushes without causing him harm, but the memory of her black form made him uneasy. Perchance the first sighting had been but a warning. The second time, might she not carry him off to Hell?

Wulfstan quickened his step.

Without a doubt, monks had warm enough hearths, he said to himself, attempting with small success to turn his thoughts away from specters. Not much better than women, they were, groveling on their knees and weeping over their sins to God while others sweated on the land so they could eat. Yet that was not enough for some! He knew about those who had slipped through the hole in the wall to warm their little cocks in the dark chambers of whores. "No wonder Queen Elfrida has returned from Purgatory," he muttered.

He shook his head with indignation. "So why should her spirit trouble me?" he growled, his breath gray against the growing dark. He, Wulfstan, had done her no harm. She should haunt the monks that had lengthened her time in Purgatory when they chose lust over prayer.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He looked around. Nay, it was not yet dark enough for ghosts to be fluttering about, troubling the likes of the honest living. Nevertheless, he could not stop shaking, and his temper began to cool in the darkening light.

Maybe he had no wish to swyve that wife of his tonight after all, he thought. He did not want any red-haired child either, and she had been a good woman to him in so many ways over the years. Briefly he smiled. Aye, she always made sure one of the children put wood on for a fire, and she would have a hot meal waiting for him. And, if he mentioned the ache he had, she would even rub his shoulders with that balm…

A movement on his left caught his eye.

He stopped.

A tall, black figure stood by the priory wall.

Monks! Even with the wall repaired, this one had discovered a way to get through. He cursed. Once more the inn would gain from the ale the man drank to dull his guilt before he found soft breasts to fondle.

The figure remained motionless, watching him.

Wulfstan glared.

The dark and hooded shape glided toward him.

"Off to play at thrusting like a gelded goat," Wulfstan said in a low growl, then raised his voice. "Others might stay silent, but I shall go to Sister Beatrice about this!"

The figure halted in front of him.

Wulfstan stepped back. "What were you doing…?"

The first burst of pain was unbearable, but Death came with compassionate speed.