A Killing Season mm-8

by Priscilla Royal

  Horrified by the thought, he skidded to a stop so abruptly that a merchant ran into him.

  The fellow cursed loudly, then realized he had struck a monk. Appalled by his offense, the man stuttered a rambling plea for pardon.

  Waving him off with distracted forgiveness, Thomas forced himself to consider the shocking possibility that this woman of masculine mind and iron will might have betrayed the spirit of her vows. Then compassion slowly numbed the sting of his astonishment.

  All mortals are weak, he reminded himself, and women deemed the most fragile. Yet he was a man, possessed of reason, and he had committed the same sin-and more than once. What right had he to cast any stone of condemnation against her? Although his vows had been made with no true vocation, he respected them. Since she had come to God with a purer heart, she would surely fight against temptation far more forcefully than he. And if anyone could send the Devil howling back to Hell, clutching his wounded genitals, it would be Prioress Eleanor.

  He grinned.

  Or, as was also possible, she had not lusted at all but was infected with that strange enchantment that seemed to plague them all in this place. He had lashed out at Sir Hugh. Even Sister Anne, who always retained both a merry heart and sound reason, had grown distracted and moody. With forced charity, Thomas assumed that his prioress’ brother was a kinder man by nature. Only Master Gamel seemed untouched, but then the monk did not know him well enough to judge.

  Thomas realized he had been standing distracted on the road for too long. Leonel had disappeared into the sea mist that swirled over the narrow ridge.

  He walked on as swiftly as he dared in the slippery mud. Ignoring the crashing waves on either side of him and the stinging mist enveloping him, Thomas willed himself to continue across the narrowest part of the land bridge in pursuit of the baron’s nephew.

  When he told Prioress Eleanor that they might not recognize the face of the Prince of Darkness because they had been blinded by his beauty, he had meant it as a metaphor to explain their inability to find the murderer. Now that he thought more on it, he wondered if he had been more astute than he had realized. Did Leonel own those dazzling features of Satan?

  Perhaps the man did not dance naked in the winter storms with fork-tailed creatures owning hooves and hairy buttocks, but that did not mean the knight was uninvolved in worldly wickedness. Not only was there murder to explain, Thomas thought, but that troubling matter of the lights in the cove remained unexplored.

  Raoul was the most likely suspect in the murder of his brothers, but Sir Leonel might be guilty of some other plotting, the exact nature of which remained unclear. The two might also be linked in some wrongdoing. Whatever the answers, Thomas was growing more inclined to point at least one cold finger of accusation at the baron’s nephew.

  “May God keep me charitable,” he muttered, “lest I be no wiser than many other men and send curses down upon an innocent man merely because he has angered me.”

  Wrapping his cloak tighter against his body, he hurried into the icy fog, searching for a pale horse and a well-armed rider.

  Chapter Thirty

  Eleanor bowed, until her head touched the rough wooden floor of the family chapel, and murmured inaudible pleas into God’s ear.

  The high howling wind from the single window grew soft as if ordered to respect this penitent’s remorse. Even the flickering light from the rushes, brought by a servant and set into wall brackets, exposed only delicate shadows against the walls.

  The prioress began to sob.

  A woman’s hand gently touched her shoulder. “Shall I summon Brother Thomas?” Sister Anne whispered as she knelt. Her breath was soft on the prioress’ ear.

  Raising her head, Eleanor rubbed her cheeks dry. “Nay,” she murmured, banishing all future tears and further evidence of sorrow. She turned to the sub-infirmarian with a weary look.

  “I have stood outside the chapel door since you entered,” Anne said. “No one has approached to disturb your prayers.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “Since you spoke with Sir Leonel and our monk.”

  Eleanor clutched her hands to her chest and groaned.

  “What troubles you?”

  “How foul my wickedness has been that it has taken so much prayer to heal it!” She seized her friend’s hand. “I need your wisest counsel. I fear my soul continues to be blinded.”

  Anne helped the prioress rise to her feet. Except when a mortal fever had struck her friend, Anne had never seen Eleanor so frail in spirit and body. “I am always ready to offer my poor service,” she said and disguised her deep concern.

  For a long moment, the two women stared in silence at the altar.

  “The smell of death is still strong,” Eleanor whispered. “Neither this place nor the common chapel is free of blood.” Clearly agitated, the prioress began to pace around the small area of the room. “Is it any wonder that no one comes here to pray? Or does the cause lie in the evil charm enchanting this castle?”

  Anne shivered at the question but knew her friend had not finished her thought. She slipped her hands into the woolen sleeves of her robe and waited.

  “I have felt evil in this place from the moment of our arrival, yet even knowing the danger, I have fallen victim to it.” Eleanor hesitated under the high window that cast a grey shadow down upon her. “After Sir Leonel left us, Brother Thomas reminded me that Satan’s exceptional beauty can blind us to his deeds.” She turned to face Anne. “I have been dazzled by that splendor, and for the sin I have been begging God’s pardon.”

  Her friend’s expression softened with compassion.

  “With proper penance, He will forgive, but now that my eyes are opening, I must look again at the events here. Your observations must keep me on the side of angels, lest I am ensnared once more by the glitter of evil.”

  “May He give me strength,” Anne replied.

  Eleanor ceased her restless stride and approached her friend. “Baron Herbert loves his nephew more than his own lads. Perhaps with cause. Sir Leonel has demonstrated wit and courage in war, qualities the sons lack. I have heard it said that the nephew should have been the heir, rather than any of the baron’s many progeny.”

  Anne was startled to see the prioress grinding a fist into her palm. Her friend rarely betrayed so much overt anger.

  “I find it difficult to ask this question about a father, but I must. Now that he fears he has leprosy, do you think Baron Herbert capable of murdering his own children so Sir Leonel will inherit?”

  Anne paled. “If the baron has spoken, either of a preference in heirs or about his sons’ failings, he would have done so in private to Master Gamel or Brother Thomas.”

  “The good doctor confides in you, respecting your opinion and knowledge as do I and all at our priory. He is university trained, yet you bring knowledge of a patient’s soul as well as experience in the healing arts. Your words are only for my ears. Be plain-spoken with me.”

  Nodding, Anne quickly glanced at the chapel door. “Baron Herbert owns no tolerance for weakness.” She leaned closer to the prioress’ ear and lowered her voice. “This, you have surely observed yourself. A man must be like iron, firm in his faith, unflinching in battle, resolute in loyalty and honor. As he said to Master Gamel, a man who falters is a coward, worthy only of dishonorable death.”

  “Had he sired daughters, he might have been kinder to them for I believe he loves his wife profoundly.”

  Anne was relieved to see that Eleanor had unclenched her fist.

  “Despite the harshness to his sons, his eyes moistened when he spoke of their deaths. His outrage was scorching when he thought they had been sacrificed as penance for his own sins. Even Raoul, whom the baron called cur, was also named Absalom, the son loved best by King David despite the boy’s rebellion.” Her brow creased with thought.

  “When the baron confessed he might have leprosy, he asked Master Gamel if fathering weak sons had been an early symptom of the diseas
e. The good physician disabused him of that worry.” Anne smiled. “He also told him that he might find the men, who greeted him on his return, different from the boys he left. At first, the baron seemed inclined to dispute this, then fell silent and nodded.”

  Eleanor contemplated how the pale light bathed the gold altar cross with a sickly glow. “My brother came back from Outremer a much changed man, yet his love for his son has grown stronger with the absence.” She turned to Anne. “Why did the baron not feel the same?”

  “Sir Hugh did not come home condemned to live while he watched his body rot like a corpse.”

  Eleanor spoke her agreement while silently asking herself if any man returned without bringing the dead with them to populate dreams.

  “You asked my opinion of what I have heard and seen.”

  The prioress nodded.

  “The baron is not one to show his love with open arms. Had he not been terrified of his illness, however, he might have cast a more patient gaze on his sons, willing to gauge their characters as men, not babes. Instead, he fled to a distant part of the castle, unable to bear the thought of infecting his family by looking or breathing on them. Nonetheless, he longed to die as close to them as possible. Baron Herbert may be a hard man, but I think he loves as passionately as he holds to his principles. In my opinion, this is not someone who would murder his sons so that Sir Leonel was left as his heir. He may love his nephew, but the man is his brother’s seed, not his own.”

  A thin smile twitched at Eleanor’s lips. “You have confirmed what I have suspected, indeed hoped, would be the character of the man. Umfrey may have thought that the man who struck him was his father, but my belief grows stronger that it was someone else.” Then she tilted her head. “Before we speak of that, I know you have more to say but hesitate to utter your thoughts. I hear it in your voice.”

  “My lady, I do not like the baron’s nephew.”

  Whenever Anne grew formal in private, Eleanor knew she was expressing something she feared the prioress would dislike. “I must hear your reasons,” she said softly. For the good of my soul, she added in silence.

  “You have said that Brother Thomas spoke of Satan’s shining face, a creature that once ranked amongst the highest angels and possessed great beauty while his heart oozed with rank corruption.” She stopped and looked with sorrowful countenance at the prioress.

  “I beg you to continue.” Eleanor dreaded what Anne was about to say, fearing it would echo the voice in her own heart that she had silenced too long. Later, she would condemn herself for not seeing what her friend had recognized far earlier. Her own frailty was of little importance now. The only thing that mattered was catching a killer.

  “Sir Leonel is a man possessed of many virtues others rightly praise. He has courage, charm, and stands by his uncle whatever his illness. Despite owning much that is praiseworthy, his manner toward you, a woman vowed to God’s service, is too bold. Brother Thomas has thought so as well and fears the man does not have a pure heart.”

  “I am equal in guilt, if not more blameworthy, for allowing it,” Eleanor said, as the weight of her imperfections bore down on her once again with an awful heaviness. She shrugged, determined not to be distracted even by her failings. “You have said what I most needed to hear. My soul is lighter, my reason restored. Now, as always, God has lent His hand to your healing skills.”

  Anne bowed her head.

  “My lady?”

  Startled, the two women looked up.

  A manservant stood, shifting from foot to foot, just inside the chapel door. He stopped twitching and bowed with mumbled apology. “Baron Herbert seeks Brother Thomas for confession, but I cannot find the good monk anywhere in the keep.” He began to wring his hands. “I have gone to his room, the common chapel, and the hall. He was not walking in the passageways.” His eyes grew wide with fear. “My master grows impatient.”

  Eleanor turned to Anne.

  “I have not seen him,” the nun replied.

  “Come!” Eleanor rushed past the astonished servant and into the hall. When she reached a window, she looked into the bailey and gestured to Anne. “Do you see him anywhere?” She stepped aside so her friend could take her place.

  The sub-infirmarian peered down and studied the thinning crowd. Suddenly, she pointed. “Is that him?”

  Eleanor edged next to her and squinted into the icy mist swirling past the window. “Near the gate?”

  “To my knowledge, there is no other monk here and certainly not one with a soldier’s height and breadth. It must be Brother Thomas.” She stepped back and stared at the prioress. “Where can he be going? He is leaving the castle, and there is no nearby village.”

  The prioress leaned back from the window and pressed her fingers against her eyes. “Not this!” Blinking and now wide-eyed, she cried out: “As You were merciful to Lot and his family, when you destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, take pity on two innocent men. Destroy me for my wickedness, but let my brother and that good monk live!”

  Anne gasped.

  Eleanor spun around and summoned the servant. “Immediately take the two of us to Baron Herbert.”

  “What has happened?” Anne clasped her hands in confusion.

  The servant’s ruddy face turned grey, but he gestured for them to follow.

  Her own face pale, the prioress spoke to Anne in a low voice. “I told Sir Leonel where Hugh had planned to search for Raoul. Brother Thomas overheard me. As you told me, our monk was not blinded by the nephew’s charms. Methinks he may have followed Sir Leonel out of the fortress. I not only fear for my brother’s safety now, I also worry that Brother Thomas has left to find my brother. Both men may be in danger from this nephew.”

  “I did not say I thought Sir Leonel was the murderer.” Anne looked at the prioress in horror. “Only that he has fooled many into believing he is a more virtuous man than he…”

  Eleanor put a finger to her lips as she pulled her friend along after the servant. “Who gains if Baron Herbert has no heirs?” she whispered. “Suffering symptoms that suggest her womb is no longer fertile, Lady Margaret fears she can no longer bear more sons. Her husband may be cursed with an incurable disease which prohibits him from bedding any wife out of fear of contagion.”

  “Raoul could still be the killer. Does he not stand to inherit if Umfrey is dead?”

  “That he does, but I now see reasons to doubt his guilt. Consider these points. The nephew knows the baron well enough to successfully pretend he is Umfrey’s father. Raoul is least likely to remember how his father spoke or gestured. How could he mimic the baron when he was so young when Baron Herbert left? The Lady Margaret has also told me that she sees much of her husband’s ways in Raoul. If the father would not kill his sons to make Sir Leonel his heir, would a like-spirited lad think it honorable to kill his brothers in order to raise himself in rank?”

  Anne looked doubtful.

  “I agree that a mother’s soft love would hold little weight in a disputation based in reason. My belief that the knight could dissemble better than the youngest son is also a weak argument. Yet even my brother, who has little love for Raoul and high regard for the nephew, hesitates to call the son a murderer. I grow more convinced that Leonel is the killer. He is a clever man and beguiles others so sweetly that they never ask what motive he has for doing so.”

  “What is your plan?”

  “I must convince Baron Herbert that his nephew is a dangerous man.”

  “Surely he will defend Sir Leonel, a man who has served him well and like a son for years. Although I dislike him, the knight has proven virtues apart from his charm…” Anne’s eyes widened. “Your words ring true. Even though I saw a flaw, when he treated you with disrespect, I never thought to ask if the nephew had a base motive behind his well-played actions within this family.”

  “The baron has grounds to discount anyone’s accusations against his nephew, especially those of a woman, no matter her rank or vocation.” Eleanor’s eyes narrowed.
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  The servant stopped at the door to the baron’s chamber and glanced back at the two women following.

  “Announce us,” she said, then quickly turned to whisper in Anne’s ear. “But I shall use a woman’s power, if I must. I may weep, bend my knee, and plead with him to save Hugh from harm. Whether the murderer is Raoul or Leonel, I have cause, weak woman that I am, to fear for my brother’s safety and demand the rights of a guest. Baron Herbert is obliged to offer protection to his friend, a man who came at his behest, even if the danger comes from his family. Indeed, his sense of honor would require it if close kin were involved. At the very least, he will send a company of soldiers out to seek and protect my brother from the killer.”

  “Have you no way to convince him that his beloved nephew might be the killer?”

  “I have one that brings great weight.” She winced and pressed the heel of her hand over her left eye.

  Recognizing the gesture as a symptom of the prioress’ blinding headaches, Anne prayed she would be spared.

  “I have just come from the chapel where I begged God for guidance. Did He not bless me with enlightenment and point out my own errors of judgement regarding Sir Leonel? The baron is a man of faith. Without a priest immediately at hand to interrogate me, Baron Herbert would hesitate to conclude that my revelation is false. I may be a woman, but I am still Prioress of Tyndal, a religious office that demands respect.”

  Emerging from the chamber, the servant bowed and gestured for the women to enter.

  “I pray for your success and confess that I also fear for Brother Thomas’ safety,” Anne murmured.

  “I fear most for him,” Eleanor replied. “Unlike my brother, he carries neither shield nor weapon. God must provide him with the armor he lacks.”