A Killing Season mm-8

by Priscilla Royal

  The lute player’s string snapped, cutting his finger and ending the diversion. The ballads had been melancholy, but the music did mask the absence of conversation. Only the shuffling of servants’ feet, the clunk of platters, and an occasional cough now echoed through the Great Hall.

  Sir Leonel offered Eleanor a choice slice of cold rabbit.

  After a graceful refusal, she looked away. Her prior attraction to him had been swiftly countered with painful sessions as she implored forgiveness on her knees in a damp chapel. Tonight, when she saw he was seated next to her, she was unhappy. His presence had initially rekindled uncomfortable pleasure before the memory of aching knees ended it. Mild annoyance replaced desire, but she was not certain how long that would last.

  Her longing for Brother Thomas was difficult enough, but the monk had shown such virtue in women’s company that she doubted any could ever tempt him into bed. She felt safe with him, no matter how wicked her lust. Glancing up at Sir Leonel, she was not as sure about him. She shivered.

  “Are you chilled, my lady?”

  “A draft,” she replied and said no more.

  Instead of pursuing conversation, Leonel grew quiet. Reaching out with his boxwood-handled eating knife, he speared a thigh from the platter and concentrated on tearing the meat into small bits on his trencher.

  She watched him out of the corner of her eye and was perplexed that he had so quickly chosen to honor her assumed preference for silence, born of habit from priory meals. More likely he has been infected with the settling gloom, she concluded. All others had been this night.

  The gathered company was a small one. Although she was surprised that Raoul had not attended this supper, she took no umbrage. He had been wise to avoid it. As for Umfrey, Brother Thomas told her that the current heir was still cowering in the chapel. Eleanor did not think the cold rabbit enough to tempt him forth. As for the baron, she had learned his habits and expected his absence.

  Eleanor stifled a yawn. She had little appetite for food, drink, or even company, but courtesy demanded she remain until Lady Margaret rose. Nuns might be excused for additional prayers; prioresses had secular responsibilities. This was one occasion when she regretted that obligation.

  Closing her eyes, she recalled Naaman’s story, a man healed by Elisha. Although he wished it otherwise, Naaman continued to bow before idols because his king, an honorable man, required his support. She sympathized with his grief over not taking the more righteous path as much as she understood his predicament.

  A woman’s laugh shattered her reflections. Surprised by the unexpected levity, Eleanor looked up to discover what had amused the Lady Margaret.

  Sitting next to the baron’s wife was Sir Hugh. When they first took their seats for supper, the prioress noted that her brother had tried to engage the lady in conversation. Margaret responded then with minimal courtesy, but now he had apparently succeeded in lifting her melancholy mood.

  Again, the lady laughed.

  Few sisters believe their brothers to be captivating, yet Eleanor had been well entertained on the journey by Hugh. He had become a fine teller of tales after his years in Outremer. With so many adventures behind him, he could draw upon countless stories to inspire wonder, delight, and even terror in his listeners. As she studied Margaret’s face, however, the prioress feared that Hugh had done more than amuse. There was a new sparkle in the lady’s eyes.

  Eleanor frowned. Surely Hugh had not meant to seduce the wife of his friend, yet Margaret was responding as if that had been his intent. The lady turned her head to expose the smooth whiteness of her neck. Her face colored a pleasing light pink as she gazed back with half-open eyes at the knight.

  This was not the conduct of a virtuous wife. Perhaps the baron’s wife had been trying to seduce Hugh? Eleanor wished she had paid more attention to their conversation.

  Sir Leonel muttered something under his breath.

  Stealing a look at this nephew, she saw him scowl in disapproval at his aunt and her guest. Eleanor knew she must devise a way to warn her brother against continuing on this dangerous path. Cuckolding a friend was always dishonorable. Doing so after the death of a son was unforgivable.

  She could think of nothing to do. Frustrated, she reminded herself that Hugh was no callow youth. He was several years older than she and had fathered at least one child. Sister though she was, Eleanor knew he was handsome enough to attract women into his bed and was probably skilled in the arts of both pleasing and rejecting them.

  She shut her eyes and sat back in the chair. May he be wise enough not to pursue the seduction of this one, she prayed, then picked up her short eating knife and pretended to find something on her trencher of interest.

  Sir Leonel mumbled an apology, rose, and left the hall.

  She watched him stride off. Had she not been worried about Hugh’s behavior, the prioress might have sighed with relief at the man’s departure. Again, she cautiously looked over at her brother and the baron’s wife.

  This time the lady sat with her eyes modestly lowered. Hugh was talking to the guest on his other side.

  Perhaps she had misjudged what was happening between the two. Assuming lack of virtue based on a moment or mere glance was ill-advised. Eleanor gritted her teeth, chided herself for making rash assumptions, and turned her attention to Sister Anne who was on the other side of Sir Leonel’s vacant chair.

  The sub-infirmarian’s head was bent, her eyes half-closed. She coughed.

  Seated next to her, Master Gamel looked startled and bent to softly ask a question.

  Giving him an equally hushed reply, the nun looked up and, with evident disinterest, studied a group at a lower table.

  Had some wizard cast a charm on this place, causing otherwise honorable people to succumb, one after another, to mortal failings? Or was it Satan who was sending his imps with hell-lit torches to enflame lust in them all? Eleanor looked up at the heavy wooden beams across the ceiling as if expecting to see a fork-tailed creature exuding a foul reek. Looking back at Anne, she swiftly made the sign of the cross as her heart began to ache with growing concern.

  Although the sub-infirmarian served God honorably, she had confessed to Eleanor how much she missed the comforts of the marriage bed with the man they both now called Brother John. Eleanor knew Anne had not come to the religious life with a profound vocation, but this was the first time she feared that her good friend’s obedience to her vows might be sorely tested.

  As she looked at the expression on Master Gamel’s face, both tender and worried, the prioress suspected the man had touched her friend’s heart with his own affection. If so, it was her duty to condemn this, but surely God’s compassion would permit her to be gentle about it-unless, of course, the physician had said or done something to compromise Anne’s virtue.

  Eleanor hoped nothing untoward had happened. When the two healers were introduced, both seemed eager to share information. The nun had always welcomed conversation with those who might teach her more of the healing art. On this journey, the pair had ridden together, often lost in dialogue, but in clear view of everyone in the party. The prioress had not seen anything unseemly in this.

  Brother Thomas would know best, she thought. Since he had ridden close by the physician and nun for propriety’s sake, he surely would have intervened had he seen or heard anything improper. As another who respected Sister Anne and loved her chastely as a friend, Thomas would never let anything occur that might harm her. Eleanor was equally certain he would have told her in confidence had he felt any doubt.

  Stealing another hurried look at Master Gamel, Eleanor now perceived nothing in his expression except a physician’s concern. Maybe he feared the nun was ill and would not admit to it. He raised one hand to his mouth, bit a finger, and carefully studied his quiet companion. His eyes glittered with moisture, but the air was heavy with smoke from burning candles.

  Eleanor reached for her goblet and sipped the excellent red wine. I had best cleanse my own heart of sin,
she decided, before I start accusing anyone else of lust. It may be that the Devil has so filled my soul with unchaste thoughts that I see the fault in all others.

  Another burst of laughter exploded in the hushed room.

  Eleanor looked up in time to see Lady Margaret rest her hand on Hugh’s arm. The baron’s wife put her other hand on her breast and let it slip down her body with a caressing gesture.

  Hugh sat back, his face flaming red.

  That might answer the question of which is seducing the other, Eleanor thought with some relief. Hugh is a frail mortal like us all, she thought, but I am grateful that my brother seems to be resisting the temptation to swyve the baron’s wife.

  Then Eleanor’s anger flashed. How dare Lady Margaret try to deceive her with fine declarations of unyielding virtue? Hadn’t this woman proclaimed just yesterday that she had maintained her chastity under the most trying conditions during the baron’s absence? Now that her husband was home, she seemed eager to wallow in another man’s bed and right after her son had died. This was sin beyond imagination.

  Or had grief and the rejection of her husband so weakened her resolve that temptation found her an easy prey? Eleanor shook her head in confusion. There might be more to this strange behavior than wickedness, unless, as she feared, her own sins were coloring her observations.

  The prioress searched out Brother Thomas at the table to see if he had also witnessed what was happening between her brother and Lady Margaret. Were he as perplexed as she about the interaction between the pair, she would feel more confidence in her conclusions.

  But the monk was lost in thought. The food on his trencher remained untouched. His brow creased, he slowly rocked a wine cup back and forth.

  Everyone seems bewitched, Eleanor decided. Mortals might be the usual perpetrators of evil in her experience, but she was uncomfortably aware that this occasion could be the exception. Each of them acted as if enchanted by some strange charm: she with lust for Sir Leonel, the lady for Sir Hugh, and perhaps Master Gamel and Sister Anne for each other. Brother Thomas, whose virtue had always been strong enough to withstand the lure of women, appeared to be in a trance.

  Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut, but not before the pressure of a throbbing headache begin to build over her left eye. She pressed her fingers against her brow. Not since she was a child and learned of her mother’s death had she felt so vulnerable.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Lady Margaret stood at the window and cursed herself with more vehemence than God ever could.

  No woman had acted more the fool. Cats in heat offered themselves with more dignity than she had done tonight with Sir Hugh. Resting her forehead against the unyielding stone, she wept. The transgression she might have committed was a sin she had not even truly desired. “My most beloved husband, why have you forsaken me?” she murmured. “How did I offend?”

  Lifting her head, she looked out on the black night and let the darkness slide into her empty heart. She grasped her breasts. “When these were still sweet to suck and my flesh bore the blush of roses, men begged to lie with me. I rejected their pleas, not even allowing a single kiss. Why? When you rode through the gate, you turned your back on me, refusing to grant even one kind glance. Shall I pay for cleaving to my vows as God required? Was my constancy so great a sin that I must writhe alone in my bed like the Devil’s whore?”

  A squall of hard rain hit the open window, stinging her face.

  She laughed.

  A servant, passing through the corridor, abruptly halted in alarm. The tray in her hands tilted. Struggling, she righted it before the vessels tumbled to the floor. “My lady, are you ill?”

  Spinning around, Margaret pressed her back to the wall and screamed maledictions at the woman.

  The maid gripped the tray and ran down the corridor, not stopping until she had reached the safety of a door. Only then did she dare look back, her eyes wide with terror.

  Margaret slid to the floor and bent forward, fists pressed into her womb. “I can bear this no longer,” she whispered. “My sons are dying. My husband refuses to lend me the comfort of his arms. My loneliness eats into my soul where it rots like a rat’s corpse. What grave transgression have I committed to deserve these curses?”

  The wind howled in reply.

  “When I was young,” she whispered to whatever spirit might care to listen, “our union was blessed. I was as fruitful as my lord was virile. Then he left to take the cross. Should I have abandoned my children and taken holy vows myself? Is that my sin?”

  She waited for a response but could feel no warmth of God’s love in the icy air.

  “Am I to be condemned for lust because my womb begins to wither?” She looked up at the unrelenting darkness outside the window, then screamed: “Is it just, my lord, that I must suffer because we grew old apart?”

  ***

  At the end of the corridor, two servants peeked around the corner. The wizened maid drew the sign of the cross; the young one shook her head in dismay.

  “I see the Devil himself hovering over there. See? Just behind the mistress,” the former whispered and pointed toward Lady Margaret. “He’ll be riding the mistress tonight in her bed for cert, leaving our master to walk the ramparts alone again.”

  The young one shuddered.

  Hastily, they both scurried away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hugh nodded to the soldier on watch.

  The man was eager to talk, but Hugh’s spirit begged for silence. With a terse reply, he passed the man by, then grieved that he had not been kinder. Sentry duty on windswept nights was a lonely task, one he understood well. How many nights had he stared into the blackness, fearing a muffled sound was the enemy and wishing it so in equal measure?

  Turning around, he shouted encouragement and a jest to the motionless shadow behind him.

  The soldier raised his hand and resumed his slow walk along the wall.

  The coming storm confirmed Hugh’s troubled mood. The wind was wild, the air so cold it nipped painfully at his face. He knew he should not be here on these exposed ramparts; neither could he bear any longer the softer company he had escaped. As the untamed elements lashed him, he doubted that any effort to retain his reason would last. He surrendered to failure. His warm, fur-lined cloak might protect his body from those elements, but his maimed spirit trembled.

  He had been foolish to leave Lucas behind, the only person who could pull him out of the whirlpool that often threatened to drown him in memories of blood. But the baron hated the very sight of the man, and, when Hugh received Herbert’s message and discerned the man’s evident suffering, he had chosen to honor the baron’s prejudice over his own need. Tonight, he feared the consequences of that decision and begged God to hold back the madness clawing at his soul.

  The brutish wind’s high shriek against the stone wall echoed a dying soldier’s scream. The waves crashed on the shore below like a trebuchet-flung rock smashing a fortress wall. The world was at war again. He could never quite escape it, even in sleep when the memories of battle rushed back in dreams.

  Herbert was right. No one could comprehend this mix of terror, excitement, madness, and triumph except a man who had sliced another in half, then seen the expression as the dying man realized what had been done to him. No one else could understand how it felt, at the end of the battle, to be the one who remained alive, surrounded by the mutilated bodies of other sons of Adam. He was not the only one who had raised his sword and roared, the orgasm of feeling never quite matched by the bedding of any woman.

  But with peace came the ghostly horsemen: skeletal, pale, and dotted with clots of gore. They drove away the bloodlust and burned into his soul the images of what he had done to mortals like himself. Now the dead men came to him in dreams or, like tonight, slipped out of shadows on lonely walls. That was one reason he had spoken so abruptly to the soldier: he had briefly mistaken him for a ghost.

  He paused and walked over to the crenel in the wall. Staring out
into the darkness, he forced himself to remember, as Lucas taught him, that it was the sea crashing against the shore, not some giant engine of destruction, and it was the wind howling, not men dying too slowly of unimaginable wounds. Tonight the effort failed. The fear remained and his stomach knotted. Breaking out in clammy sweat, he bent forward and vomited away from the wind.

  As usual, God failed to bring him peace.

  Hugh sought a sheltered spot under the watchtower and shivered. Soldiers never spoke of these things. When a man’s dreams bled into daylight visions, driving him mad, his comrades called him possessed. He remembered when one had been slain by friends as he swung his sword at phantoms. Afterward, the men claimed they had killed the demon, but Hugh suspected their act had been a kindness. He had never seen any soldier recover his reason when he ceased to distinguish between shimmering bright images and the paler world.

  Clutching his body to still his shivering, he cursed and willed himself to other thoughts.

  He would not become one of the mad.

  This was a fine castle, named Doux et Dur by those who built it. As he knew from years past, the island on which it stood could be sweet in the summer season. Seabirds inhabited the cliffs, some singing like an angel’s choir, while others, the puffins in particular, laughed with the merriment of a king’s fool. The earth bedecked itself with flowers, their colors flashing in the sunlight as they swayed in gentle breezes. On Hugh’s earliest visit here, a spindly-legged boy with spotted cheeks, he had lain with a servant girl in a bed of tender grass and soft petals. She had been his first.

  Although he could not recall her name, and he had not seen her on this visit, he held that memory of their coupling in his heart, a tender corner that he kept protectively enclosed, sometimes even from himself. Perhaps she had died of some fever, but he hoped she had married a youth with a sweet smile, one who loved her more than himself.

  He backed up to the stones of the watchtower and pressed his head against the rough wet rock.