Free Forsaken Soul by Priscilla Royal

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