The man’s eyes widened in shock as if the monk had awakened him suddenly from a deep sleep.
“Forgive me if I startled you.”
“You only surprised me, Brother. I was just thinking how I longed to go back home. I have been here too long.”
“Your hands pain you.” Thomas reached out for them.
After a moment’s hesitation, the man let the monk examine them. The skin was scaly and thick with tiny red lumps and a few blisters. The man winced.
“Did that hurt?” Thomas had been gentle with his touch, but he also noted that the hands felt unusually warm. This could be chilblains, but the scaly skin argued against that conclusion.
“They have gotten more sensitive as the blisters break.” The man shrugged with attempted indifference.
“Our healers might have a salve that would soothe the discomfort.”
He drew back his hands. “I have heard of your hospital’s renown, Brother, but I have no desire to go into the cold to go there. Surely these hands will heal if God wills it.”
“There is no need to leave the inn. I can explain to our sub-infirmarian what the rash looks like and how it feels. Barring a snowstorm, I will bring the remedy to you tomorrow.”
The man’s dark eyes brightened. “I confess that would be a true charity,” he replied.
Thomas stood. “Are you far from home?”
“Very far.” The man truly looked too weary to even contemplate the distance of the needed journey. He bowed his head as if longing for sleep.
Thomas wanted to ask if he had traveled with the abbots, but there was something in the man’s eyes that made him hesitate. He seemed exhausted and was most likely not sleeping because of the pain in his hands.
Tomorrow would be soon enough to further question this man as well as the young couple, the monk decided. They were all suffering, and he chose not to add a hard interrogation to their pains before bringing some relief.
It was not a decision Ralf would necessarily approve, but Thomas saw no reason to forego mercy. Signy would identify others who had joined the abbots on their journey. As for this young couple, neither was likely to have noticed much after the wife began to bleed. The man with the blistered hands probably had little to offer either.
With courtesy, he wished the man the mercy of God’s grace and left the inn to hurry back to the priory.
Chapter Fourteen
Eda served Prioress Eleanor a cup of ale and quietly left the anchorage to gather firewood.
The thick door thudded shut, and they heard the lock turned from the outside. This time, Eleanor had brought her key to allow exit, but she shuddered at the irrevocable sound of that closing door.
I do not have the great faith needed to become an anchoress, she thought. I could not bear entombment. Aloud, she remarked, “She could have remained. I have nothing to say to you that she may not hear.”
Juliana glanced at the formidable door with a fond look. “She is humble beyond any need. When Gytha suggested she become my maid, I fought your decision to accept the offer, but you were far wiser than I. Even now, I am shamed by my benightedness. Eda’s virtue and kindness remind me daily of my imperfections and teach me how to strive to be a better servant to God. I shall always be grateful to you and Gytha, as well as Eda for her willingness to join me in this place.”
Eleanor was also grateful for another reason. Eda had calmed the anchoress, a woman whom many had always considered holy but one who had long warred against the torments of violent internal demons. Juliana still bore physical scars on her body of those battles.
“She is also sharp-witted,” the prioress said. “I am grateful she mentioned your visitor to Gracia.”
“I would not have thought to tell you otherwise. On further reflection, I confess that the visitor struck me as more troubled than most who come to me seeking advice.” She bowed her head and shut her eyes. “Before I can explain further, let me think back on the moment when he knelt outside my window. I must recall everything.”
Eleanor waited and prayed that the anchoress held a clue that might bring an answer to these sad deaths.
Juliana looked up. “His voice was not familiar, his accent was not local, and his speech suggested a man of low birth. It was growing dark, but I could not have seen his face anyway. He kept it hidden by a hood. Not an aged man, from the strength and tenor of his voice.”
“His hands? The cloth of his hood?”
“As I said, the light had fled, and I could see little. He did not show his hands. I think the cloth of his hood was coarse, but the impression might be based on his rough speech more than the hood I could barely see.” She gazed upward as if begging for brighter memory, then shook her head. “The air was cold, and I did not lean forward to hear him as I do in summer. My weak flesh longed for warmth, a transgression that will be included in my next shriving.”
“Gracia has repeated the words he spoke at your window. Have you remembered anything more? You said his grief was vague but sharp.”
“Little else, I fear, but the deep pain in his voice still catches at my heart. Many say they have sinned, and truly grieve, but this man sounded as if he were clinging by his fingertips over the maw of Hell.”
“He told you nothing about his particular sin?”
“I hoped he would. All he said, and he repeated this, was that he feared he had committed a terrible act but also wondered if it had been God’s will and thus no sin. When I asked what it was, he refused to tell me. I suspect he knew it must be confessed to a priest, yet I urged him to say more to bring balm to his heart. Although a sinner must seek a priest to gain forgiveness, even a woman might learn from God if the sin was at least pardonable.” The anchoress bowed her head. “His distress was so intense and his longing for tranquility so sincere that I wanted to give him a little peace until he could gain a priest’s solace.”
“Brother Thomas could hear his confession.”
“I was about to suggest this when the man jumped back from my window and fled into the night. I could not see where he went. Then another came to speak with me, a woman who was worried that her husband was unfaithful.”
“She did not say anything about this prior suppliant?”
“I doubt she noticed anything, my lady. Her voice was familiar, as was her complaint. Villagers are used to seeing others in front of them at the window and approach only when the space is vacant. No one pays attention to those kneeling there. They may love gossip, but they honor the need for secrecy with a penitent.” A brief smile of humor mellowed her sharp features. “I often wonder if their virtue lies more in the hope that their own sins not be distributed like seed around the village than any wish to honor another’s secrets in such moments.”
With the anchoress unable to provide further details, Eleanor followed her usual practice of blessing Juliana before leaving her to the prayers she had dedicated her life to performing. Should the man come back, or the anchoress remember anything more, Eleanor knew she would be informed.
A priest might be forbidden to divulge the secrets of confessions, but an anchoress was under no such obligation to remain silent about what she heard in confidence. Juliana never spoke of village sins, or the transgressions committed by strangers, but the suspicious deaths of two abbots required her to break that custom.
After the prioress had escaped the narrow walls of the anchorage and dutifully locked the door behind her, Eleanor walked slowly through the silence of the church. Perhaps, she thought, I should have taken the opportunity to talk to Juliana about Gracia.
But she quickly dismissed the regret. When this matter of the abbots was done, she would concentrate again on how to prepare herself for the frightening moment when Gracia chose to speak about her future. Murder always seems to take precedence over other human problems, she thought, and allowed herself a flash of resentment before concentrating again on th
e crime she must solve.
Going over all the anchoress had told her, Eleanor wondered about the man’s hood. It was a detail mentioned by the innkeeper to Ralf. But most men wore hoods in the cold and wet. It may have been odd for a man to keep his hood on in the kitchen of an inn. It would have been equally strange if the visitor to the anchorage had not worn one in the raw cold.
Perhaps this man who had visited Juliana had nothing to do with murder. Yet a stranger at this time of the year who suffered such agonies over a possible sin when a poisoner lurked nearby? She sighed. She could not dismiss this tale even if its significance was unclear.
Emerging into the cloister garth, she looked up. The light was dull. Was another snowstorm coming? The question turned her mood as dreary as the light.
She hoped Brother Thomas would hurry back from the village before snow began to fall and felt anxious for his safety. Of late, he had appeared more pensive than usual, and Prior Andrew mentioned that the good monk had been seen pacing the monks’ cloister long after Compline.
In the early days of his life here, he had often slept badly and reports came to her that he frequently remained awake between the night and morning Offices, shaking his fist at the moon during Satan’s hours. In recent years, he had rarely done this, and even Sister Anne had commented that his soul seemed more at peace.
What had happened to disquiet him so deeply again? The change troubled her.
Yet this investigation into the abbots’ deaths seemed to have refreshed his spirit. She wondered if murder was a challenge he enjoyed tilting against since he could not fight in battle as other men did. A secret worldly pleasure for this good servant of God?
She smiled as she climbed the stairs to her chambers. Although her beloved monk was revered by all who knew him for his gentleness and wisdom, she was secretly glad he might have one tiny flaw. It was a possibility she would put in a hidden part of her heart and cherish. If anything, it made her love him more.
Chapter Fifteen
Prior Andrew sat with the five living abbots and tried to encourage a reverential discourse during the midday dinner.
Now he wished he had brought a monk to read from a holy work and forced the usual mealtime silence on these men. His choice to allow these monastic guests the worldly habit of conversation was not only a common practice of priory hospitality but was meant to soften the grimness of the recent deaths.
The prior’s decision turned out to be a regrettable one.
Instead of remembering the godly works of their dead brothers in faith, or musing on the transitory nature of mortal life, these men were determined to criticize all the perceived deficiencies of the dead abbots, especially those possessed by Abbot Tristram.
Prior Andrew abandoned all hope, fell silent, and let them talk.
“How he managed to rise to the position of abbot fills me with amazement.” Gifre had made a small pile of roasted root vegetables in the middle of the bread slice sitting atop his wooden trencher. With great care, he began to mash down the sides of the mound with a crust as if he were erecting an unassailable castle.
With fascination, Prior Andrew watched this exercise in construction. If Gifre did not eat his vegetarian fortification, the prior decided, the poor would at least benefit from the food.
“His family has served the local baron well,” Odo replied, half opening his eyes. He had been leaning back with eyes shut. Except for bits of parsnip, his trencher was empty.
“I thought you were asleep,” Mordredus said with derision. He looked around for a lay brother and then pointed to his own empty cup.
“His prior did all the work.” Didier had devoured his portion of the first cooked dish and gazed over his shoulder as if anticipating the next course. When none seemed imminent, he shrugged, placed his elbows on the table, and leaned forward. “His most recent subordinate was heard to complain that he was so burdened with the abbot’s work that he lacked time to take care of his own responsibilities.”
“That was true, Abbot.” Mordredus sipped the fresh ale, sighed with appreciation over the quality of the second serving, and eagerly drank more. “I learned of the problem from a reliable source.”
“And made good use of it, no doubt.” Odo reached out for his cup and glared at his empty trencher. “I am weary of this Lenten food when the season is not even upon us.”
“What are you implying about me?” Mordredus glared at him. “I do not like your tone.”
The Abbot of Caldwell belched.
“Hush, good men.” Abbot Ancell wagged a skeletal finger at the men surrounding him. “Prior Andrew will think we care more about a man’s weaknesses, from which all mortals suffer, than the state of his soul when it must face God.”
“The state of Tristram’s soul was the responsibility of his confessor. His laziness was a burden to us all,” Mordredus replied. “Even on this journey I had to lend my servant to help Tristram’s man load the abbot’s prie-dieu. His master had delayed the effort with belated tasks. His servant had to mend a small tear in Abbot Tristram’s sleeve. That could not wait until we arrived at our destination? A spot of mud on his boot? The servant must stop everything and clean it off.”
Odo looked around with surprise. “In order to allow us more time to serve God, servants should mend and clean everything for us. I see no sin in letting men of lesser rank serve Him in the ways He intended them to do. My servants take my boots off. Am I not weary from many hours of laboring to the glory of the Lord?”
“You are too fat to take your boots off, let alone bend to clean away a mud stain,” Didier muttered but winced as if hoping he had not been overheard.
Ancell shut his eyes, bemused by whatever he was privately thinking.
“Surely the papal envoy would not be so unwise as to have considered the man worthy of a bishopric—were one to fall open, of course.” Mordredus looked for the expected agreement from his companions. “In truth, Tristram never did any task that he could not find another to perform.”
There were nods enough, and silence fell for a few moments while lay brothers refreshed cups and offered second servings of well-seasoned roasted parsnips, some soft beans, succulent onions, and turnips. Only Didier accepted another small portion.
Odo laid his fist on the table and looked at Prior Andrew. “Will you explain why we have been served no meat? And do not tell me that your priory is too poor. These guest quarters are new, as are the stables where our beasts are tended. Perhaps you find our rank insufficient to warrant the courtesy of a proper diet?”
Prior Andrew tried not to stare in disdain at the abbot’s massive hand. With great effort he lifted his eyes to gaze at the deep furrows of discontent in Odo’s forehead. “Our prioress requires all to adhere strictly to the Benedictine diet. Fowl and fish are served, but our kitchen does not prepare meat as it heats the blood which leads to lust-filled thoughts.”
Odo snorted. “Meat gives men strength to fight the wiles of Satan. Prioress Eleanor should be educated in these matters. The Rule has been modified to include the consumption of meat, Prior Andrew.”
“Only for the weak, aged, and ill,” Andrew replied, belatedly realizing he had rudely contradicted this man who outranked him.
The Abbot of Caldwell did not respond to the insult, or else chose to ignore it. “We are no longer young men,” he said, “and may therefore eat meat to maintain our strength as we valiantly do battle in God’s service against all evil.”
Andrew bowed his head in what he hoped was a sufficient display of humility in the face of greater wisdom. “Indeed, my lord,” he murmured, “but I think you shall find that the next course, although lacking in red flesh, is most pleasing. Others have praised it to Queen Eleanor with such fervor that she sent a cook to learn how to prepare it. Later, we received word that the queen was greatly pleased with the dish.”
Odo brightened.
“Wh
ere is this marvel of kitchen perfection, Prior?” Gifre waved at a lay brother to remove from his wooden trencher the vegetarian citadel.
Prior Andrew turned to the server standing behind him and gave the order to bring the promised delight.
After a short interval, a lay brother arrived with a small, steaming mushroom tart which was quickly sliced for serving.
The dish was first presented to Abbot Ancell, who looked at the rising steam with amazement and spread his hands over it to feel the surprising heat. Looking at the prior with awe, he expressed appreciation for the unusually hot dish. “But I am not worthy to be served first,” he said, gesturing at the others around the table. “Let…” He hesitated, then bowed his head to Abbot Gifre. “Let he who has served God longest be the first to receive this special bounty.”
As the tart was carried to the abbot, Mordredus stopped the lay brother and stared for a moment at the tart before also reaching out to test the warmth. “Even in my abbey, we have been unable to serve food this hot. You have created a miracle, Prior Andrew, and must reveal your secret!”
Gifre also held his hand over the tart to enjoy the heat but paused before accepting the honor of being the first served. The others, struck with the need to emulate Ancell’s act of humility, urged him to do so.
“Have mercy, Abbot, and take it. The food is getting cold,” Odo muttered. “We acknowledge your virtuous reluctance. Accept your portion and pass it on.”
“More is on the way,” Prior Andrew said. “Eat all you wish.”
Gifre took him at his word, asked for most of the dish to be served on a fresh slice on bread over his wooden trencher, and immediately took a large bite. His eyebrows arched in amazement. “It is most certainly a dish worthy of a queen,” he said. “Although I have eaten many mushrooms, these must have special seasonings for I have never tasted a finer creation! Was a local cheese added? And mustard?”
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