Ned looked at his hands as if surprised by the question. “Well enough,” he growled. “They will improve when I get to my journey’s end.”
“The air feels as if another storm may come soon,” Thomas replied and knew his pleasure at bringing unwelcome news was probably a wicked thing.
The man glared into his jack of ale as if it had offended him.
“I would like to ask some questions,” Thomas said and sipped at his own ale.
“Why?”
“I am looking for a man who traveled with the party of abbots.”
“I was with them myself. For what reason are you looking for this man?”
“One of the abbots was worried about him because he disappeared.” That is a lie, Thomas thought, but Abbot Mordredus might have expressed such a concern if he had thought to do so.
Ned returned to staring at his drink.
Thomas vaguely described the person he sought. It was so general that almost any man in England might fit it, including, as the old woman noted, the one in front of him.
Swallowing the last of his ale, Ned awkwardly poured another drink from the jug. When he clutched the pitcher, it was obvious that his hands pained him. After a hesitation, he shoved the jug toward the monk.
Refusing the offer, Thomas added, “Have you seen the one I seek?”
“Maybe he has left. A few have given up their journey and gone back to their villages.” He pursed his lips in thought. “A couple of men certainly did. They generally match your description. Rude, they were. Never bought a drink for anyone.”
“When did they join your party? Was it the same time and place as you did?”
The man closed one eye and, with the other, stared at the monk with a look that suggested he might refuse to respond if questioned much longer. “Why would I care enough to notice?” he said and gestured at the elderly couple. “Ask the old busybodies. They notice everything and chatter endlessly between themselves about each of us. He can’t hear. She is nigh witless.” He mimicked speaking with his fingers. “I think they must talk even in their sleep.”
Thomas watched as Ned clenched his mouth shut, curled his arms around his jack, tilted it, and lowered his head so he could drink without using his hands. His forehead was creased with dark displeasure or, the monk suspected, with pain.
I shall get nothing further from him now, Thomas decided. I am not the crowner and have no authority to pressure a man for answers. He rose from the bench with thanks.
The man grunted in reply, but the sound suggested less malice than rudeness.
Before Thomas left, he found Signy and told her he would be back. As usual, she refused to let him pay for his ale and sent him back to the priory with a coin for the poor at the hospital.
As Thomas stepped outside the inn, he looked up at the grey sky, felt the dampness in the air prick his skin, and sighed. Would this dark season never end?
Chapter Thirty
Prioress Eleanor and Sister Anne stood near the fire in the prioress’ chambers and warmed their reddened hands while the dark orange cat rubbed his wet fur against their legs. Arthur had followed them out of the wind, eagerly bounding up the stairs in anticipation of a warm nap after ridding the priory kitchen of rodents. With the coming of winter, he often burrowed into the blanket that covered Eleanor’s bed in her private room.
“At least this time my bed will remain dry,” the prioress said to her friend, as she glanced at the wet spot left on her robe by her beloved cat.
Sister Anne laughed as she watched the splendid feline trot with single-minded purpose into the private chamber.
Eleanor sought the ewer of wine, poured two small mazers, and handed one to her friend. “This is Master Durant’s latest discovery which he sent last month as a gift to the priory. His message included the ardent hope that it be served to our religious here. Prior Andrew confirms that it adds efficacy to the fire in chasing away the chill.”
The sub-infirmarian sipped, and a look of appreciation brightened her expression. “A gift to God that truly brings much joy to mere mortals.”
“From your cheerful mood, I suspect you have brought good news. What have you discovered?”
Sister Anne sipped again, and then put her cup on the nearby table. “I hope I have. Once we decided that all the deaths must be the result of poison, I narrowed my study when I looked through the herbals. Sister Oliva took half and I the rest to speed our search.”
Eleanor finished her wine as she listened. This may be an excellent vintage, she thought, but I pray that the news will be even better.
“Monkshood was surely the method used to kill Abbot Gifre and sicken Abbot Odo.” She tilted her head. “Is it wrong of me to praise gluttony in this situation? Abbot Odo’s insistence on a larger portion of a food more acceptable to him saved his life.”
The prioress stared into the fire. “Your remark holds no malice. As for any accusation against the Abbot of Caldwell, you have the right. You have known him longer than anyone except Ralf. Indeed, I have not yet found any reason to like the man myself. Please continue!”
“I now suspect that Abbot Tristram was killed with a death cap mushroom. For a noxious thing, it reputably has a pleasant taste. The initial symptoms resolve but subsequently return with a fatal conclusion. His early sufferings, as described to me, matched the ones listed in the herbal. His later ones do most certainly.”
“Where might he have eaten the mushroom?”
“At the inn. I sent a lay brother to ask his servant who confirmed that the bowl of stew he was given to take to the abbot was topped with sliced mushrooms, a food of which his master was especially fond.”
“Which means the killer knew his preferences. Did the other abbots have mushrooms in their bowls?”
“I asked about that as well. It seems Abbot Ilbert’s servant noticed that his master did not receive any mushrooms. Abbot Mordredus did and objected, spooning the offending item out. Abbot Didier did not but hates the things, calling the taste akin to the Devil’s midden. Abbot Odo is not fond of them but will eat the food during Lent. He got none, nor were Abbots Gifre and Ancell served mushrooms in their portions.”
Eleanor sat still for a moment, pondering the information that brought her assumption about the murderer’s identity into question. “I pray that Brother Thomas has found this mysterious servant who so eagerly offered to help in the abbots’ service. Why did he choose these men?” She looked over at her friend. “You say that Mordredus was served the poisonous mushroom, yet he avoided death by removing them? That suggests he was another intended victim along with Tristram.”
“Apparently not,” Anne replied. “Abbot Gifre’s servant was ravenous so begged to be given the discarded mushrooms when they were removed from the table and ate them with no fatal results.”
“Which makes this inn supper even more curious.” Once again, Eleanor was reminded of what Abbot Ancell had said. The evidence still suggested Abbot Mordredus, who might have done something to indicate he was a victim while avoiding a fatal end.
“As for Abbot Ilbert, Brother Thomas remembered he had been told the man had complained of flatulence.” Sister Anne reached out for her mazer and finished her wine. “This is the most interesting part. One cure for the problem is tansy, an herb that is most efficacious in small quantities but is fatal in large amounts. Handling it in any significant amount also produces a rash.”
Eleanor flinched as if struck. “A rash?”
“Brother Thomas mentioned that a man at the inn suffered just such a condition on his hands. I sent a salve with him to treat the problem.”
“One of the abbots said that Abbot Ilbert had been advised to ask Abbot Odo for a remedy. The latter vehemently denied the story.”
“Perhaps because tansy, if fatal, would be linked to him?”
“Or he never suggested it,” Eleanor replied.
>
“Where is Brother Thomas?”
“Still at the inn, asking questions about those who had traveled with the abbots.” Eleanor walked over to her window, cautiously opened the shutters enough to peek through, and stared down at the path leading to the village.
No one was on it.
“He should be back here soon,” the prioress said, “but I had best send for Ralf. I think this man with the rash may be our suspect, and the crowner would want to question him further.” What she chose not to mention was her sudden fear that Brother Thomas might come to some harm if the man was the murderer.
“And I should examine his hands. I know the look of a rash caused by tansy.”
“If he is the servant, he must answer the question of whether he acted alone or at the behest of another. I still believe most strongly it is the latter.”
“And let us pray that this man is the servant we seek and has not already fled,” Sister Anne replied.
While Eleanor went to the door to summon a messenger to be sent to the Crowner, the sub-infirmarian poured them both a little more of the wine from Master Durant.
Chapter Thirty-one
The still-healthy abbots warily eyed each other as they huddled over their midday meal. They sniffed the ale before drinking and had not spoken beyond the obligatory prayers. Despite the reassurances of Prior Andrew that every precaution was taken, no one had even added salt, shunning anything that was not cooked into the food.
Dinner was as dreary as their expressions. Sister Matilda, alternating between worry and fear, had not tried any culinary miracles with the pale slabs of dried fish or the potage of beans and carrots flavored only with onions and desiccated parsley. Since a recent meal had killed one of them, she assumed they would eat only because they must and not to seek the pleasure of finely seasoned dishes. Indeed, they might be suspicious of them after the mushroom tart.
Brother Anthony stood by the door to the dining chamber. Since Brother Thomas had not yet come back from his errand to the village, the young lay brother had taken it upon himself to watch over the final preparation of the food in the new kitchen.
Ashen with terror and praying God would protect him, he had even tasted everything from the potage reheated in an iron pot, hanging by a hook over the fire, to the salty, tough fish kept warm near the hearth. He did not want to wait for the verdict of the caged mice before he let the meal be delivered to the abbots.
Then he insisted the entire meal be served at the same time and watched as the abbots were given their portions before sending the lay brothers back to the kitchen. Extra loaves of barley bread, a bowl of dried fruit, and ewers of ale were placed on a nearby table for him to offer as needed. He also made sure no one entered the hall while the three men ate.
Mordredus looked around. “Is there anything more to drink? This fish is as tough as a badly tanned cow hide and tastes little better.”
Brother Anthony quickly poured a mazer of ale from a ewer he had already sampled. “The fish is from our own ponds, my lord, but it has been air-dried to last through the winter season.”
“In comparison, the potage has no flavor at all, although acceptable enough for Lent, were it the season, which it most certainly is not,” Didier said. “Our brother, Odo, is correct. A little meat is needed in winter. Such is necessary to warm the blood and chase away the cold.” Reaching out politely with three fingers to take another small morsel of fish, he carefully took a bite, grimaced, and rudely spat it out.
Ancell looked at him with disgust.
Didier wiped his mouth with his napkin and ignored the silent rebuke.
One of the kitchen lay brothers knocked at the door and asked if Brother Anthony wished to be relieved. Since Brother Beorn had confirmed him to be a reliable man, the youth agreed. The meal was almost done, and there was only the dried fruit, should the abbots desire it. Brother Anthony did need to visit the garderobe.
Stepping outside the dining hall, he wondered what had caused Brother Thomas this long delay, then hoped it meant he had found an answer to the deaths. But he knew he would regret the resolution to the crimes. Sinful though the thought was, he dreaded returning to the tedious tasks Brother Beorn assigned to the youngest lay brothers.
He had enjoyed working in the new kitchen as well as watching Sister Oliva and Sister Anne in the apothecary, but he had skills in neither task. He sighed as he thought of the many days he would have to spend sweeping walks and, later in the year, pulling weeds. Did God truly believe it was a virtue to be bored?
Trudging off to the garderobe, he relieved himself and then decided to make sure the place was free of danger. It did not take him long to prowl through the latrines, checking for hidden caches of questionable mushrooms or secreted daggers. He regretted that he could not examine the abbots’ individual quarters and prayed that none of their attendants was the killer. Before the dinner was served to their masters, he had seen the servants led off to the church, ordered by the abbots to pray for the souls of the dead men. Soon the men would trudge back for the brief and even more austere dinners they were permitted.
“What are you doing here?” Abbot Didier stood at the entrance to the latrine with his hands on his hips. His expression was grim.
“Making sure the supply of moss is adequate, my lord.” Brother Anthony was surprised he had thought to say that and quickly gestured at the small piles of the essential article near each hole.
The abbot approached one of the holes and looked into it as if expecting to find a hidden spear ready to stab him should he sit.
“I am leaving,” Brother Anthony said and hurried out the door.
Abbot Mordredus greeted him just outside. “Is Didier in the garderobe by himself?”
“He is, my lord.”
“How long has he been alone?”
“I just left him.” Brother Anthony was beginning to wish his bladder had been stronger and he had remained in the dining hall.
“And why were you there?”
“Moss, my lord. I was checking to make sure…”
Mordredus pushed past the youth and hurried into the latrine.
With relief, Brother Anthony went back to the dining hall. The lay brother, who had replaced him, quickly fled with an armload of items to the kitchen.
The table had been cleared of trenchers and platters. The bowl of dried fruit sat in the middle. No one, it seemed, had eaten any. Two ewers of ale had been placed on the table as well. One was empty and the other almost so.
Ancell was staring out the window, a mazer in hand. His expression was pensive.
Compared to the other two, Brother Anthony thought, he seems so calm. Looking outside as well, he saw the line of servants walking slowly from the church. The lay brother bowed his head and backed away from the window to await any requests.
Didier entered the dining hall, went directly to the ale, and poured himself another cup. Looking over his shoulder, he glared at Mordredus, who had just marched in from the garderobe.
Mordredus looked into the ewer. “Greed is a sin,” he muttered. “Of course, Didier took the last of this.”
Abbot Didier walked into his chambers with his cup and slammed the door shut.
Just as he did, a servant of one of the abbots peered cautiously into the hall, his face bright pink from the chill. His expression suggested he hoped none of those men would have any demands so he could eat his meal.
Suddenly, there was a scream of rage. Didier emerged from his room, holding a parchment in his hand. His face was apoplectic red.
“You!” He pointed at Mordredus. “You have done this!” Dropping the item, he raced to the abbot and began striking him with the palm of his hand. “You are the killer! Only you could have committed this blasphemy!”
His contemplations shattered, Ancell spun around and grew pale with either shock or indignation.
Broth
er Anthony shouted at the two men, begging them to stop the violence.
They had fallen to the floor, kicking and scrabbling at each other.
The young man picked up the parchment and ran to the door, summoning servants to separate the two fighting men while sending another to Prioress Eleanor with word of the fray.
As the servants fought to restrain the enraged men, Brother Anthony looked at the object he held.
On the parchment was a crude drawing of a man in an abbot’s outfit, holding up his robes and standing before a kneeling, naked woman who was reaching out for his grotesquely engorged penis.
Stunned by what he saw, the youth squeezed his eyes shut and tried very hard to pray.
Chapter Thirty-two
The offending parchment lay on the table in Prioress Eleanor’s audience chamber.
With a wry smile, Brother Thomas stepped back from viewing it. “I have seen better drawings etched into the walls of churches by bored young clerics,” he said. “But the message is clear enough, and I doubt the one who did this cared about his reputation as an artist.”
Eleanor might have laughed if the situation had been less fraught with danger. “Abbot Didier has been accused of having a mistress and fathering children,” she said. “Abbot Mordredus wrote a letter to Rome in which he revealed his brother abbot’s sins in much detail. If he is the one who left this in Didier’s chamber, what more did he think his act would accomplish?”
Sister Anne’s eyes twinkled with the hint of amusement. “Surely one does not willfully ravage good parchment without excellent cause.”
“Maybe Mordredus is obsessed and considers lust to be the greatest of the seven deadly sins? He wants Didier to suffer even greater humiliation because he so blatantly flaunts his vow of chastity?” Thomas face suggested he had doubts about this suggestion.
“Yet he denies he is culpable and claims he is equally outraged by the insult to his brother in God.” Eleanor looked at Gracia, who was standing with head bowed by the chamber door, and asked her to serve them all something to drink. Then she quickly flipped the parchment over to hide the drawing. In a rural world where farm animals openly rutted, the sexual act was not shocking. Yet Gracia had been raped, and that was reason enough for the prioress to keep the young woman from seeing something that might remind her of the violation.
The Proud Sinner Page 18
