Justice For the Damned by Priscilla Royal

Author:Priscilla Royal
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Fiction / Mystery & Detective / General, Suspense
ISBN: 9781590585238
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press
Published: 2007-06-01T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Thomas chose to visit Wulfstan’s widow first. He was purposely delaying any further contact with the son but, with God’s grace, hoped he might learn enough without having to talk to Sayer at all. At the priory gate, he asked the porter for directions to Drifa’s dwelling, explaining that he had been sent by Sister Beatrice to offer comfort.

The place was easy enough to find. Thomas knew what to expect of a home where a husband had been a laborer in the priory fields and one son a bit more skilled. As a consequence, he was surprised to see a house larger than he imagined with a flock of many healthy chickens, watched over by a large and bright-eyed cock with his leg tethered to a stake, in the front of a round poultry hut.

A woman’s voice, raised with mild maternal irritation, caught his attention, and he followed the sound around a corner to a freshly tilled garden. It was with much relief that he did not see Sayer amongst the busily working brood, whom he assumed must be the younger siblings.

“Mistress?” Thomas asked with gentle courtesy. “I pray I have not come at a time inconvenient for you.”

The woman he addressed was jabbing a sharpened stick into the ground while a lad of about thirteen summers followed, carefully dropping and covering seeds.

A spring crop of peas, Thomas concluded.

She turned around and smiled. Lean, with nut-brown hair and an impish tilt to her head, she much resembled the elder son she had borne. Although her skin was roughened from exposure to sun, wind, and most likely her years in this world, the widow’s hazel eyes were bright with affable curiosity.

“You are most welcome, Brother. A visit from the priory is never amiss.” She cast an affectionate look on the lad beside her. “Finish this work. You know how well enough if you set your mind to it. And keep your sisters at their tasks while I offer this holy monk some ale.”

From the expression on the boy’s face, Thomas had no doubt that she would be obeyed—and out of love, not fear.

As the monk followed her through the open door into the dim and smoky house, he noted how alike, yet how dissimilar, Mistress Jhone and her sister were. Their height, coloring, and head shape might be the same, but there all resemblance ceased. Jhone’s eyes were dull. Wulfstan’s widow had a sparkle yet in hers. Both may have lost the support of husbands, he thought, but Drifa lacked the scars that marked the face of the woolmonger’s widow. Hard though this woman’s life may have been, Thomas doubted she would have thought her sister’s possessions worth the price.

“I come to offer consolation on the death of your husband.”

She nodded, pulled a rough bench from against the wall, and gestured for the monk to sit. A mottled cat yowled protest at the disruption in his nap and skittered across the floor to the door, scattering straw as he ran.

“I am called Drifa,” she said, disappearing behind a partition.

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