Free Chambers of Death by Priscilla Royal Page B

for mercy. Your immediate intercession with Him shall give us the strength needed to find the perpetrator.”
    “Pray, I most certainly shall. First, however, I must beg a favor.”
    “If you want a gift for your convent, I will consider it amongst the other worthy requests I receive almost daily.” He stared down into the gray eyes looking up at him. “I will send a suitable person to the chapel later to hear you out on this.” He turned away, feeling oddly discomfited by her look.
    “My request has nothing to do with gold or property.”
    He squeezed his eyes shut against a deluge of frustration. “A most persistent member of her ilk,” he muttered under his breath. “God preserve me from that kind.”
    “Sir Reimund…”
    He spun around. “This is no place for a woman dedicated to God’s gentler service. I will have you escorted away immediately.” While seeking out one of his men to attend him, he gripped her arm as he might any common woman who had gotten in his way.
    As if a lightning bolt had just coursed through her, Eleanor went rigid with shock.
    Perhaps it was the stiffening of her arm that awoke him to the profanity of his act, but Sir Reimund suddenly froze, then painfully willed open each offending finger and stepped back.
    Eyes blazing with fury, the prioress remained speechless.
    Sweating despite the chill air, the sheriff looked around. A monk stood just beyond a circle of men. Sir Reimund sighed as if a sharp attack of indigestion had just eased. “Brother,” he called out in a voice tight with tension, “will you please lead this lost sister to a safer haven?”
    Thomas looked at the woman in question. “If my lady wills it.”
    “My lady?” Sir Reimund gazed around the courtyard. What woman of rank had just arrived? Then he looked down at the nun he had so offended, and, for the first time, noted the signet ring on her now exposed finger.
    ***
    Watching apprehension blanch his face, Eleanor willfully allowed wicked pleasure to fill her soul. “I am Prioress Eleanor of Tyndal,” she said, “granted hospitality here when a member of my party fell too ill to travel farther in the storm.”
    “I know of your father, my lady.” The sheriff’s cheeks now became mottled. “I hope I have not offended for such was never meant.” He stiffly bowed.
    Eleanor answered his concern with an ambiguous inclination of her head and caught the mild curse he muttered under his breath. “The favor I ask is a simple thing. I did not wish to interrupt your work, but the poor dead body, lying there in the mud, cries out for pity. I beg your permission to have it borne to the chapel. If you and your men are finished examining the sad corpse for clues, will you not allow the mercy? It seems a cruelty to let the body lie there in public view as if it belonged to some common criminal.”
    “Gladly.” He shouted for two men close by to approach. “These will carry the dead man away as you wish. In fact, there is little enough the body has to reveal. The method of killing is common enough amongst those of low rank, and I expect we shall have the murderer in custody before long.”
    Which poor, and most probably innocent soul will you weigh down with chains, the prioress wondered, the thought chilling her. Mistress Maud seemed to have the true measure of this man. Although she had intended to tell him what she had witnessed from that window, doubts stopped all speech. The sheriff’s outrageous behavior to her, when he knew she was a religious but not her rank, suggested he had little regard for those he deemed of little merit. Would he not toss aside any information that threatened an easy solution and one that would offend no one of high station?
    There was another concern that troubled her as well. With the death of King Henry, a shift in power at court was inevitable. There was no guarantee that her father’s former influence would continue under King Edward. If the winds were changing even before the