Mordredus winced at the memory. “Tristram was sleeping in the middle of our bed and clambered over me to run to the garderobe, or whatever served as such in that place, just as I had fallen asleep. I followed to protect him from any temptation to sin.” He glanced at Didier. “Our brother Odo is right. There were whores at the inn.”
“He was the only one who sickened after supper?”
“He moaned with pain in his gut and suffered diarrhea so foul the stench overcame the reek of the jakes. I sickened at the smell and had to leave him there lest I vomit.”
Ancell shrugged. “But Abbot Tristram was well enough to ride when we were ready to leave, unlike this morning.”
“You all ate the same food and drank the same ale prepared by the inn?”
Gifre nodded.
“And our meal was served by our servants, Brother, with our special plate,” Ancell said, then blinked as he noticed a quizzical look in the monk’s eyes. “Those were simple dishes. Nothing that might tempt a thief.”
Or so lavish as to shock even a papal legate, Thomas thought, then cast the irreverent thought aside. Listening to these men, he feared he was beginning to think too much like Ralf. “I only meant to ask if it had been prepared by your men or the cooks at the inn.”
“It was cooked in a common pot and roasted on a common spit at the inn, but no profane hand touched our food after it was cooked.” Odo looked around at his fellow abbots. “I inquired.”
Thomas wondered if any of the other customers who ate at the inn had sickened. He doubted the abbots would have noticed, but he asked anyway.
“We would not know, Brother. We left as soon as the sun appeared the next morning,” Ancell said.
The others concurred.
“When did Abbot Ilbert become unwell?”
“Just as we arrived at the fork of the road, one of which led to the village and the other to your priory,” Odo said. “He complained of faintness and a racing heart. Next he began to foam at the mouth. Since I knew of the hospital here, I insisted we make haste to the priory and led the way.”
Didier raised his hand. “I recall he made us stop because he wanted to relieve himself. Twice, perhaps? He took so long that light was failing when we reached your priory.”
“Did anything unusual occur at the inn that you can remember?”
“Nothing,” Odo said at once.
Didier quickly agreed.
Gifre looked thoughtful. “There was one odd thing. Abbot Ilbert complained that he suffered attacks of the wind. At the time, I was surprised because it seemed remarkable that a man who ate so little would be stricken by that.”
“Was he taking anything to ease his suffering?” Thomas felt a spark of hope.
Gifre’s lips twisted into a disagreeable grimace as he gestured toward Odo. “He told me that he had sought Abbot Odo’s advice, knowing our brother suffered greatly from the condition, and that our beloved brother had suggested a remedy by which he swore.”
Odo’s face flushed scarlet. “He did not, and I do not! Either he lied to you or you are lying. You have gotten into a habit of spreading malicious tales about me. This is yet another of your attempts to shame me.”
“I cannot imagine what you mean,” Gifre replied with a brief wave of his hand. “I grieved when I learned that you might be in such pain and wondered if a change in diet would ease your distress.”
Odo leapt to his feet with greater speed than most men of his bulk.
Abbot Ancell pulled at the man’s robe to remind him that this was neither the time nor the place for an unseemly altercation between men of God.
Sighing with the force of released steam, Odo sat down.
Thomas might have laughed if the circumstances had been less dire. “Did Abbot Ilbert tell you what the remedy was?”
“He did not mention what Abbot Odo had suggested.” Gifre smirked. “Nor did I ask.”
“He could not because he never approached me.” Odo sneered.
“Does anyone know if Abbot Ilbert found a cure for his discomfort or what it was?” Thomas looked at each man.
They all shook their heads.
“Do any of you take a potion or herb to treat some ailment? Did Abbots Ilbert and Tristram?” If they did, and they took the wrong dose, that might explain the illnesses.
“We all have, on occasion, taken something for a mortal complaint,” Ancell said. “I know of nothing unusual or new that any of us took on this journey.”
All agreed.
Unable to think of further questions, Brother Thomas thanked the abbots for their kindness in answering him. Then he bowed and left them to continue in private whatever quarrels they had among themselves.
Chapter Ten
The wind was icy sharp, but Ralf barely felt it. During this journey, his thoughts had remained behind at his manor near Tyndal village. The sweet smile of his wife as she made sure he was warmly dressed and the laughter of his three children brought him indescribable joy. “It is more than this wicked man deserves,” he murmured to the wind and his horse.
In that murky part of his soul, where sorrow and anger had festered over the years, terror still lurked that something malign would steal all this happiness from him. He grimaced and reminded himself that every moment God gave him with the family he adored must be treasured without the foul contamination of dread.
He shivered uncomfortably. Perhaps it tempted the Evil One to even think this, but he had become a man of greater faith after his marriage. Although his beloved Gytha had never said a word to him about his carelessness in matters of religious practice, he felt easy with her by his side on those occasions when they attended Mass together. He had even made his confessions once a year as was obligatory, a deed that surely made Brother Thomas as glad as it did his wife. On occasion, he caught himself praying to God out of gratitude. Shutting his eyes, he did so now and begged Him to keep his family safe during his absence.
Taking in a deep breath that hurt his lungs, he forced his thoughts back to the world of murder and evil men.
The road curved and as he rode around the bend he saw the inn he sought just ahead. It looked prosperous enough from the outside, he concluded, with extensive stables, sturdy walls, and a fine roof.
For good reason, most inns were in cities and villages. The protection of the king’s law did not always extend to lonely places where outlaws hid. Ralf wondered if this place either welcomed the lawless or paid them a fee to be left in peace.
The moment the crowner rode up to the door, a groomsman raced to meet him. Although the man’s long hair almost hid the disfigurement, Ralf noted that at least one ear was missing, a sign that he had been caught in some crime. Did the man look familiar or was the vague resemblance only an illusion?
Dismounting, the crowner asked to see the innkeeper. The groom described his master and said he would be inside jesting with the inn’s guests as was his wont. Then he quickly led Ralf’s horse away, perhaps sensing that the man with a sword might not treat a one-time felon with any kindness.
Ralf found the innkeeper easily enough. He was a giant of a man with hair as black as an imp’s heart but cheeks ruddy as a fresh apple. Slapping a customer on the back, he roared with laughter that cut through the clamor from other guests.
Sniffing like a hungry dog, the crowner decided that he might have some of whatever was being cooked. Maybe it had poisoned an abbot, Ralf thought, but his stomach had never borne any similarity to one possessed by a monastic claiming temperance. Perhaps it did to his gluttonous brother’s, one with whom he had always fought over portions at the table as a boy, but Odo could never be confused with a man enamored of denial.
When he sat at a table in the corner where he could get a sense of the place, a serving wench took only a moment to arrive at his side. Her warm greeting suggested that she was willing to serve any need, whether food,
drink, or intimate companionship.
Ralf grinned in response, ordered ale and whatever was roasting in the kitchen. The woman looked slightly disappointed but promptly left to bring him what he wished.
A jug of ale arrived first.
The innkeeper was not far behind and now loomed over the crowner. “The groom said you were looking for me.” His eyes narrowed with caution, but his lips were ready to smile if the man with the sword had come with good coin and no wish to trouble him.
“Sit, if you will, and share some ale with me.” Ralf motioned to another serving maid, and she brought the extra cup.
“Tell me your business, and I shall decide if we can be friends.”
Laughing, Ralf poured the ale. “We can. I wish information but nothing that would suggest you bear any fault in what happened.” He gestured at the inn. “You have much business and therefore have a fine reputation. Why should I think any ill of you?”
“I have heard of you, Crowner Ralf. You are not here to spend the night on a journey elsewhere or because you heard that we serve a fine and very legal roasted meat.”
“I am flattered that you know my name.”
“My groom had cause to remember when you once stood by the side of your brother, the sheriff.”
Ralf began to recall the incident. “I repeat. I have no wish to cause you grief, any more than I have any interest in your groom. He was caught, tried, and justice was rendered. I saw the missing ear.”
“Be brief and tell me what you need from me.” The innkeeper drank the cup of ale and refilled it.
“A few days ago, a group of abbots arrived with their servants.”
“How could I forget them? They wanted to send their mewling clerks to clear my inn of customers, all of whom they suspected of wickedness, and dared to require separate rooms and a large, private table acceptable to them for their evening meal. There were seven of them, not including their servants. I was glad to see their backs the next day.”
“Tell me about their stay here.”
“Why?”
Ralf bent forward. “No honest man hesitates to answer the legitimate questions of a king’s man.”
The innkeeper shrugged. “And honest men have been hanged, Crowner. I know the tricks of those like you. You will try to trap me into saying something which could be interpreted one way or the other. Perhaps you hope I will accidentally omit a detail so you can arrest me for a wrongdoing I never committed because you cannot be bothered discovering the truth.”
“If you know my name, Innkeeper, you should also know that I value justice over expediency. Ask your groom who may be grateful that I urged clemency and thus saved him from hanging. I don’t care how many whores you have, how many felons you employ, or how you manage to stay safe in this lonely place without armed men to protect you against outlaws. I could delve more deeply into any of those things, and perhaps find crimes, but I won’t unless you lie to me about what I need to learn.”
The man started to say something but noted Ralf’s sword and the scars he bore from prior battles. He chose to pour himself another drink.
“I refused to cast my guests out,” he said, “and told the abbots that they must all share a room. My inn is not on any route favored by King Edward so I am not a rich man and cannot afford the luxury of providing separate chambers.” He snorted. “The abbots thought I should impoverish myself out of Christian charity, but I know that they have coin enough for comforts in their abbeys yet always lack it when it comes to paying men like me. They were not pleased but had no choice. It was getting dark, and Tyndal village was too far to reach before the woods come alive with outlaws.”
“So they settled into one room. With their servants?”
“Those slept in the stables. The abbots wished to be no more crowded than they were.”
Ralf looked around and noted the number of large-breasted serving wenches who bent low to hear a guest’s order. The pleasure on those men’s faces as they murmured their wishes into so much soft flesh certainly suggested a thriving business in serving more than food and drink. “Few men of God are ignorant of the sins they might witness here.” He raised a hand to stop any protest. “You could not remove all mortal wickedness from their sight. How were they able to sup publicly and protect their claimed virtue while they did?”
The innkeeper pointed to a corner near the passageway to the kitchen. “I cleared a large table there. It was quiet enough, and, grumbling all the while, they ate heartily enough.”
“How were they served?”
“By their servants. They would have no women near them nor allow their supper to be touched by a woman’s hand.” He snorted. “Or at least six of them had issue with that.”
Ralf was not surprised at the suggestion that at least one of the seven was willing to be led into temptation.
“There were six thin ones and one so fat I was surprised he could ride a horse. The abbot I saw thrusting away at Betsy in the stable straw was not the fat one. I never learned his name, nor did she. Ask her if you like, but it was dark and she cares nothing about faces or the length of a cock. She has even learned to squeal at the right moments, but she does love the feel of coin and could confirm how much of that she took.”
The crowner decided the identity of the fornicating abbot would be easily discovered should it become pertinent. His brother might even tell him, if he saw any profit in doing so. He continued his questions. “How was the food collected from the kitchen and served to the abbots?”
“The cook complained to me about that. The fat abbot pushed his way into the kitchen, dragging one of their servants by the arm. He informed the cook that this person would take charge of the meals for the religious. No one else was to be served before they got their supper, he said. Then the other abbatial servants lined up to draw pitchers of ale and returned for the bowls of stew ladled out by this chosen servant. He even sliced extra meat from the roast on the spit. These holy men were locusts and left little for my other guests to eat.”
“Could you describe this special servant?”
“Nay, Crowner. He looked like all the others, except his head was covered with a hood. I could not tell if he was tonsured, but that mattered not to me.”
“He wore a hood in a hot kitchen? Didn’t you think that strange?”
“Perhaps, but I paid little heed. The entire party was odd, to my thinking.”
“So no one from the kitchen or any other person hired by you touched the food served the abbots, other than to roast the meat, simmer the stew, and brew your ale?” All this would have been started long before the abbots arrived. There was no reason to suspect contamination of food until the party was ready to eat.
The innkeeper glared. “I have answered your questions freely, Crowner, but now I fear the cause of them. If I am to continue my willing participation, I must know why you are asking for these troubling details.”
Ralf drank another cup to think before replying. “One of the abbots fell ill the next day and has died. One more claims he was sickened the night he was here, felt better the next day, yet currently lies in the priory hospital with a recurrence of his illness.”
The innkeeper leapt to his feet. “You seek some fault with me, Crowner? I knew you lied when you said you had no problem with me or my inn. This conversation is over!”
“Sit. The priory sub-infirmarian does not think the cause was bad food eaten here. I am trying to find out if it is possible for anyone to have deliberately tainted the food with an herb or even poison. I want to discover when that could have happened, as well as whether any stranger hovered about the party. I need your help, not your arrest.”
Slowly sitting back down, the innkeeper seemed to relax. “And if my information helps you discover the cause, what shall be my reward?”
“My blindness to what may help your inn prosper, apart from drinkable enough ale, cle
an beds, and succulent meat. At least none of the abbots complained of fleas.” His grin resembled that of a wolf contemplating a dinner of rabbit.
“If they were bitten by fleas, they brought their own virginal ones, Crowner. None of mine would have been holy enough to bite their pious flesh. As for any hint that the meat served once wandered in a forbidden forest, I have witnesses to swear that the meat we spitted was from an old ox whose service to a nearby farmer had come to an end but nourished my guests for a pittance.”
Ralf ignored the last remark. “So was there any time at all that the food served the abbots was left unattended? Did anyone else, besides the abbots and their servants, complain of illness? I ask the latter, not because I question the honesty of your cook, but because these things happen everywhere.”
For a moment, the man seemed to truly ponder his response. “The kitchen is too small and busy for any stranger to slip in without being noticed. He’d be chased away with a ladle to the head. My cook was angry about the servants taking over her stew and what was left of her roast. I took her complaint to the fat abbot who almost spat in my face with his contempt. He was lucky I did not send him to the cook. He was fat enough to make a tastier roast than an aged ox.”
Ralf laughed. The image of his despised brother being turned on a roasting spit by a sweating kitchen brat delighted him.
The innkeeper blinked at the reaction, then misinterpreted it and relaxed. “These men claim to be vowed to God, Crowner, but they eat, drink, and whore like those of us who are honest sinners.”
“Indeed, they do,” Ralf said as the serving wench plopped a slice of steaming meat on a trencher in front of him. It smelled wonderful, and the crowner took a moment to cut and eat a few bites. “If this is an old ox, your cook has recreated the miracle at Cana and turned tough meat into a delicious thing.”
The Proud Sinner Page 6
