Eleanor slipped in the wet gravel, then caught herself. There was another reason to set aside these matters. By releasing Thomas, she had imperiled Ralf. Of course she could recount the tale her monk had confessed, thus proving his innocence, but she would not repeat what she had been told in confidence. Indeed, she had promised Thomas that she would say nothing of their conversation. On the other hand, she did not want the sheriff to replace Ralf because the elder brother decided the crowner was weak in dealing with suspicious behavior and had even allowed a woman to overrule him. Eleanor had no doubt that she had done the right thing in releasing her monk, but now the capture of the murderer was even more imperative.
***
“He weeps, my lady. He stares and weeps.” Sister Christina was wringing her hands as she stood outside the small cell. “Prayer had brought him some peace until Crowner Ralf treated him so cruelly. To force a man with such a troubled spirit to look on a dead man’s face was a brutal act! Shouldn’t that worldly man be hunting a killer and not troubling sick souls?”
Eleanor was surprised at the passion in her infirmarian’s voice. Usually she was possessed of a more saintly calm. “Our crowner should not be here much longer,” she replied, “but I gave him permission to question all travelers who came that day. We could do no less in view of this horrible death. Someone might have seen something of importance.”
Sister Christina bowed her head with appropriate meekness, but Eleanor suspected that the nun would never agree that Ralf had any reason to be in the priory at all. She decided to ignore what her infirmarian might be thinking and looked over the round nun’s head.
A screen provided some privacy, but the prioress could still glimpse the two men. Walter sat on a low stool, arms folded, eyelids shut as if asleep. Sir Maurice was stiffly upright on a simple straw mattress, staring intensely at nothing. Tears dripped from his jaw.
“What has been done for this man?” Eleanor asked softly.
“Sister Anne chose this secluded spot to give him some peace from the cries of the others being cared for here. The lay brother she sent to examine the young knight confirmed that he suffers from no open wound or fever, although the brother was amazed that the man still lived considering his past injuries. Later, I spoke with the servant about the signs Sir Maurice exhibits and do believe that the ill causing his distress lies solely with the young man’s soul. Prayer is the best cure.”
Eleanor nodded. “His man told me that the presence of a woman distresses his master. Have you sent one of our priests…?”
The plump sister was now looking heavenward, eyes shut, and her smooth skin glowed as she fell into spontaneous prayer. When at last she reopened her eyes, Sister Christina blinked as if she were amazed to find herself back on earth.
Eleanor waited for any revelation the infirmarian might have received.
“I believe Our Lord has called on me to pray for him,” the nun said in a firm voice. “Although godly men are right to fear the lusty daughters of Eve, there is a special strength in the prayers of women who have given up the flesh. If this young knight is troubled by imps in the guise of demon women, my prayers will have more power to send these creatures back to their evil master.”
“Then follow God’s guidance, Sister, but do approach Sir Maurice with caution. Were you to do otherwise, the imp might choose to defend her territory most zealously. I would not want either you or the knight injured from the assault.”
“God will protect us from such a thing, my lady. Nonetheless, I do beg that you keep the crowner away from this poor soul to whom he has already done much harm.”
Repressing a sigh, Eleanor reminded herself that this woman might well be on the path to sainthood, a path that she, herself, would never travel. “I will speak to him, but, in the meantime, do not forget that God once held the Evil One in high esteem and for good reason. Satan is clever. You would do well to arm yourself with God-inspired caution as well as prayer.”
Since Sister Christina’s eyes were once again closed, the prioress was unsure that her advice had been heard, let alone heeded. If Sir Maurice had been so upset by the sight of the corpse, however, perhaps she should ask why. The madman could wait a bit longer, Eleanor decided, and gently pushed the screen aside.
***
Walter was not asleep. His eyelids shot open the moment he heard her soft step. As he rose and bowed in silence, Eleanor studied his face. The empty eye socket and gray streaking in his hair she had noted before, but now she wondered if he might be ill himself. Although he was deeply tanned, pallor lurked beneath the high color.
“We are grateful for your hospitality, my lady,” he said. “Our journey has been a long one from shrine to shrine. I feared we would not have the strength to travel farther without some care for,” he looked sadly at the man sitting on the bed, “my master.” His voice was heavy with fatigue.
“Perhaps your master has family to whom I could forward word of his presence here? If so, they might send men to help…”
“None.”
Was it anger or fear that she saw? “The lay brother, who examined your master, said he suffered no physical ill…”
“I have already told you that I wish repairs for my master’s sick soul, not the clay that imprisons it.”
Eleanor felt anger explode inside her. His demeanor might be modest enough, but his bold speech and the mockery twitching at his thin lips were both rude and arrogant.
“With God’s help, then, we shall seek the same,” was her icy reply.
Walter dropped his head, falling into a study of his hands. He turned them over to look at his palms, then turned them back as if to see how the hair grew. The odd silence continued.
“What do you believe is the source of your master’s ill?” she asked at last.
“Being mortal, my lady.”
“We are all that, yet not all mortal men seek out Tyndal.”
The man’s one dark eye turned cold. “You are both mortal and far from home, yet you have come to Tyndal as well.”
“I fear I do not know you, sir. Have we met in the distant past?”
“Nay, my lady.” His expression softened. “Forgive me for being so rough of speech. It has been long since I had occasion to speak with gentle ladies.”
“You and your master have both suffered grievous wounds. Have you been in battle?”
“A hunting accident.” Walter pointed to his eye. “My master…”
Eleanor looked over at Sir Maurice. The young man stared at her, then turned his back. He had been a handsome man, she thought. With that God-given beauty, the angry scar that divided his face was a double outrage.
“Caring for my lord has been arduous, and I have lost the skill of hiding it. I do beg your patience,” he said with a grimace.
Was he in pain, she wondered, or had some unhappy thought just struck him? Eleanor waited for him to continue, but the man said nothing more, bowing his head so she could learn nothing from his look.
It was obvious that he wished to avoid any further answer to her question. Despite this and his rudeness, she did not sense any real malice in the man, only a genuine concern for the man he called master. Tending him was clearly an onerous task, yet he performed it with gentle devotion.
“You are easily forgiven, but do say how else we may help your master. Prayers we do offer and potions as well; but, if there is something else, speak, so we may address it.”
The man lifted his head, his look much softened with an obvious sorrow. “On my master’s behalf, my lady, I am most grateful for your kind attention and that of Sister Christina.”
“I have been told that Crowner Ralf caused your master much grief.”
Walter said nothing.
“Was there something about the sight of the corpse that especially disturbed his spirit?”
“Does the sight of a butchered man give pleasure to any mortal?”
It was Eleanor’s turn to fall silent.
/> “Very well, my lady, I will grant you that a dead enemy might give joy to a man’s soul. In this case, my master did scream, but no one would claim it was a joyous sound.”
And thus you read my next question and answered it, Eleanor thought. This Walter was a clever man for cert. “I feared that the sound of the dying would trouble your master since the sight of a corpse caused this much pain.”
The servant nodded. “I would beg of you a separate place to rest, my lady, for Sir Maurice is troubled by evil dreams. On some nights, his howls would waken all. On others, he paces.”
Eleanor gestured around the small space. “I fear this small, screened cell is all we have. We do not yet have guesthouses for those, like your master, who require them. The monks’ dormitory would not be an adequate alternative either. From what you have told me, his cries and nocturnal pacing would disrupt the monks’ sleep.”
“Might you assign a lay brother to watch over him while I sleep?” The man staggered, his deep weariness now so very obvious. “Meanwhile, Sister Christina’s prayers seem to be the balm my master needs as long as the crowner leaves him in peace. I tried to warn the man what would happen but he would not hear me.”
“I shall do my best to find someone,” she replied, knowing full well that she had few men to spare. “Of course Sister Christina will come for prayer, and I shall talk to Crowner Ralf about that unfortunate incident.” She studied Walter in silence for a moment, wanting to ask more questions but deciding she would get little from a man so tired he was almost asleep on his feet.
Perhaps Ralf had already questioned Walter by now. After Sir Maurice reacted so strongly to the dead man, he must have. Thus she might be wise to talk to the crowner and find out what he had learned. It was, after all, the madman he had dismissed, not these men.
Yet she could not help asking herself if either the knight or his servant could be a killer. A dead-weary servant with a master who was little more than a mute child? Unlikely, perhaps, but she sensed there was much Walter was hiding. Although she might hope that they were as innocent of the murder as Thomas had been, she would return if Ralf had not spoken to them. Not only did she seek a murderer, she was also losing patience with secrets.
Chapter Thirty
Anger and black humors alternately boiled inside Thomas. Despite the damp air, sweat dripped down his sides as he paced the cloister walk. He slowed, wiping his face with his sleeve. It would be unwise to catch a chill, then die with the Evil One in control of his soul.
Although his prioress had ordered him to spend this day praying for the peace she believed God would grant him, his spirit had rebelled and driven him from his knees. In the past he would have gone to clean the stables, tend the beasts therein, and bank the fires of his choler with physical labor. Unfortunately, the buildings had been expanded in his absence, and the work, deemed too much for one man now, assigned to others. That saddened him for he could no longer go there for solitude. In this foul mood he most certainly did not want company.
“What have I done?” he moaned. “Have I given Prioress Eleanor the key to secrets I have no right to reveal? And how can I make peace with Ralf without telling him some fantastic tale?” Thomas ground a wet clod of earth into muddy bits. Had he betrayed his master or had he managed to keep the fine balance between deception and truth? Everything had seemed much clearer in that cell, his decisions so right. Now that he was free, he was filled with doubt.
The thick clouds above Tyndal were the color of slate. His mood took on the same hue. Perhaps he should see if the novices were practicing. That often soothed him. “Nay,” he said, looking up at the heavens, “it may be too late for song, and with this humor I’d hear only the sour notes.” He shut his eyes. They hurt. His anger had dried all his tears to rough salt.
Melancholia swung to choler and back again. He might go as mad as the one who had given witness against him, Thomas thought. Perhaps he should search out the madman and keep him company, one lunatic in conversation with another.
He walked over to the edge of the covered walkway, watched the rain tumbling from the sky, then winced as a drop hit his eye. In his panic to escape that cell, he had almost forgotten the fellow, but now he began to wonder why the man had pointed an accusing finger at him. Had the madman not been on that same highway, he would not have seen Thomas. Perhaps this fellow was the real killer?
He had first seen the madman, not on that road, but rather just after he had fainted. When he and Ralf left the chapel, the man had danced around them, making lewd and obscure jests. Not possessed, Thomas had said to Ralf at the time, but now he wondered if the man was even a lunatic. His dancing was strange but, as he thought more on it, his speech had suggested a man of more wit, not less.
Thomas turned toward the door leading to the priory’s public lands and pulled his hood over his head as he started down the path to the hospital. He would seek out the madman and question him. If the man was truly mad, he would leave him to the prayers of Sister Christina and God’s grace. If he was feigning, however, Thomas would learn why he had cast suspicion on him. Then he smiled with somber humor. He need not bother wringing the man’s neck if he was the killer. The hangman would do it for him.
***
As Thomas reached the entrance to the men’s side of the hospital, he stopped to listen. When the light dimmed toward the hour of dusk, the sick grew quiet and the dying slipped closer to a more profound silence. In Thomas’ experience, this and the hours of early morning threatened life the most for those whose souls God might want. Indeed, all men past the heat of youth found the darkening hours ones of weariness, for it was then that the labors of the day were felt in the bones and in the soul.
He turned away from the straw beds of the open ward and walked toward the private cells. Surely that was where the madman had been placed. Was he right to seek the man out now? he wondered. The dark hours brought not only pale horsemen seeking souls but also demons casting tares of doubt into men’s hearts. Perhaps he should not speak with the madman when his own humors were so unbalanced. Could he question him fairly? Demons were known to play with a man, when one humor took precedence, and destroy his reason. How often had these imps chased him into the monks’ cloister garth to pace under the cold moon’s flat brightness until he could banish them?
“I am pleased to see you back in the hospital, Brother.”
Thomas spun around.
“Am I correct in assuming you are seeking one patient in particular?”
“My lady!” Thomas was grateful that Prioress Eleanor could not see the flush he felt rising to his cheeks in the dim light.
The prioress’ smile was gentle. “I was on my way to see this man who has led many of us in circular dances of his own construction. Now that I have met you here, I wonder if you might be the wiser choice to question him than I.”
“As always, my lady, I serve your will.”
“And I seek your opinion, Brother. If this man is guilty of something and believes he has cleverly cast blame upon you, he might say something useful out of fear if he sees you free. If he is innocent, then it matters not whether you question him or I do. In either case, I am a better witness to anything he might say since you are the one he claimed knew more than you would say.”
Thomas bowed. “As is most often the case, my lady, you have the right of it.” Indeed, his compliment was spoken with sincerity.
“Then I will hide behind the screen where I can listen to you both but where he cannot see me. Let us go quietly.”
***
Thomas moved the screen aside and stood in the entrance to the small cell. What an odd motion, Thomas thought as he watched the fellow sway in absolute silence. This was neither a courtly dance nor some common man’s caper. As strange as it looked, there was a grace in the movement, albeit an alien one.
“Peace be with you,” Thomas said softly.
“Ah, the red-haired monk!” the man replied, his body twisting easil
y from side to side. “Sinfully conceived while his mother suffered her monthly courses, methinks.”
Thomas ignored the insult. “You have recognized me, it seems, but I know you not. Who are you, good sir?”
“Cain,” he replied, running one finger across his broken nose. “Or Abel, perhaps, for Cain may be Abel and Abel can be Cain. Does it matter to you which I might be?”
“So much wit is rarely found in lunatics.”
“Perhaps I am a fool then. Fools may be mad. Or not. In this sinful world, are madmen and fools so different? Might they not be born of the same mother?” He rubbed his nose again. “Perhaps God marked me so he could tell me apart from my brother. Is God all-wise, do you think?”
“More than either of us or we would not be having this discussion.”
The man’s eyes twinkled with laughter. “Was God wise when He sat under the apple tree and made both maid and man?” He threw his arms up. “Oh, a pun! God be praised! You are right, good brother, I have not lost all my wits!” Then he bent double with an exaggerated gesture of sadness. “But I fear they are of little use.”
Thomas lost patience with the game. “Wit enough, methinks, but enough of this foolery. Why did you say you had seen me on the road to Tyndal?”
“The road to Damascus, I think, Brother. We were fellow travelers there, although you did not see me. I thought you might be the one God chose to throw from the ass and render sightless with His knowledge, but you left the road and went into the forest of night. It was I who was left to find the blinding light.”
Surely there is sense in these words, Thomas thought, struggling to find what it might be. “You were travelling behind me?” he began.
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