here,” Geoffrey said. “My loyalty is to Justice Campion, to assist with this inquiry. I owe him a very great deal.”
“Oh?”
Geoffrey looked uncomfortable but continued. “He pays most of my monthly wages from his own private accounts. The job of constable is unpaid—I don’t know if you are aware of that. The chief constable of Rochester is a man of means. But I am not. If it weren’t for Master Campion, I certainly could not hold this position.”
There was the sound of women talking outside, in the passageway. I thought it was Sister Eleanor, returning with Sister Agatha, but the chatter died away.
“Geoffrey, I have something to say,” I began.
His eyes widened at my use of his name.
“What I said about you, in the Tower, when you were brought in—it wasn’t true.” There, at last I had managed it. But Geoffrey still looked dissatisfied.
“Then why did you say it?” he asked.
“The Duke of Norfolk—you don’t know him as I do. I couldn’t speak up for you; it would have set him off.”
Geoffrey narrowed his eyes. “But you spoke up for Brother Edmund—there was no impediment to that.”
“There are far different circumstances,” I protested.
“What is he doing in the middle of a priory? That’s what I want to find out,” Geoffrey said. “My understanding is that nuns are supposed to be kept very separate from friars and monks.”
“We don’t pray together or work together or eat together,” I said.
“Or sleep together?”
Fast as a whip, my hand shot out. The cracking sound of a slap rang out across the chapter house. I stared at my reddened palm, horrified.
Geoffrey held his cheek. “I wager I deserved that.” He laughed. “For a religious house, you all hand out a fair number of blows.”
Before I could respond, Sister Eleanor led in a nervous, flustered Sister Agatha.
“I don’t know how I can be of assistance,” protested the novice mistress.
Geoffrey pointed at the tapestry. “Who is that girl?”
Sister Agatha looked confused. “Daphne. The girl from the fable. She was turned into a tree by her father to save her.”
“Save her from what?” Geoffrey asked.
She pointed at the three hunters. “Them. The men who were hunting her.” She glanced at me and lowered her voice. “We do not discuss why.”
“And the girl was modeled on someone real?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” said Sister Agatha. “We don’t work that way.”
“But you and Sister Eleanor have both said she looks familiar,” he pressed.
Sister Agatha looked at the beautiful blond girl in the tapestry, her legs winding into a trunk, her arms sprouting leaves. “I didn’t see it when we were weaving the tapestry, but now, these months later, when I look at her, I see . . . Sister Beatrice.”
“Yes,” Sister Eleanor gasped. “That’s it.”
His voice hard, Geoffrey said, “Who is Sister Beatrice?”
“She left the priory in 1535,” said Sister Agatha. “When the king’s commissioners came, they brought us all together. They said anyone younger than twenty-five years of age must be released. No one was. Then the commissioners asked if anyone wanted to leave. They said that question was being posed at every priory and abbey, and Sister Beatrice came forward. She was a novice, and she said she wanted to go. She didn’t give any reasons. Once she—”
“That’s enough,” Sister Eleanor hissed.
“Did Sister Beatrice know Lord Chester?”
“Of course not,” said Sister Eleanor.
“Where is she now?” asked Geoffrey.
“I don’t know. With her family, I assume. They had a home near Canterbury.”
Sister Agatha gave a cry and pointed, not at the girl this time but at the corner of the tapestry, where the head of the old river god peered out of the weeds. “Do you know who that looks like? Prioress Elizabeth.”
“Who?” asked Geoffrey.
“Our former prioress, who died last month,” said Sister Eleanor. “But that’s ludicrous. She was my aunt, and I should know that . . . Her voice trailed away. I peered at the figure. And suddenly, to my shock, I saw it: white hair, hooked nose, large blue eyes. There was no denying it: the river god resembled Prioress Elizabeth Croessner.
“Who is in charge of the tapestries?” asked Geoffrey.
We all looked at one another.
Reluctantly, Sister Eleanor said, “Sister Helen. She plans the designs and personally weaves the faces of the figures. I will fetch her and bring her here, although she—”
Geoffrey broke in. “No, you will take me to her now.”
“That would not be appropriate, Master Scovill.”
“We were told we would have all your cooperation, Sister,” he said. “I don’t want any of you to speak to