Eliduc clapped his hands once. “How perceptive!”
Thomas bit his lip hard at the mockery and tasted sour hate in his blood.
“You have indeed caught me out.”
“Tell me what I must now do?” the monk hissed.
Father Eliduc shook his head and turned toward the door. After a brief hesitation, he looked back over his shoulder and gazed at the man he owned. “Methinks I need not even tell you. With your wondrous powers of reason and logic, you shall discover it yourself.”
Then the man in black walked through the doorway and let the sun’s warmth slip back inside.
Chapter Ten
Brother Beorn stood in awe.
The orange sun slipped toward the horizon, conceding all power to the night. Streaks of clouds, once vermillion tinged with gold, darkened. Birdsong grew hushed. Only the whine of biting things remained undiminished.
This daily surrender of God’s light to the darkness of Satan’s hours never ceased to amaze Brother Beorn. Had he been a man of less ardent faith, he might have questioned why this happened. Instead he accepted years ago that the message lay more in the recovery of light at dawn than any relinquishment of it at night. He often stopped to watch the event with both wonderment and reverence, and as he did each time, bowed his head with a briefly uttered prayer.
Had he pondered more on God’s creations, he might have found many other contradictions to consider. Deciding the Church and its leaders were surely wiser than he, the lay brother had chosen to reject such diversions. For this reason, he was surprised to realize that, on the matter of the queen’s party, he remained of two minds.
On one hand, he was delighted that King Edward’s wife wished to show humble gratitude to God for the safe return from Outremer. A pilgrimage was unquestionably fitting, but he did not approve of the new guest quarters, however austere, because they were solely for the comfort of those serving secular lords.
Surely the priory could have found better use for what it had cost to build them. He could think of several other ways to honor the greater glory of God with extra coin, from thicker blankets for the dying to a bigger cross on the hospital chapel altar.
This quandary troubled him. He knew he must respect and accept any decision made by Prioress Eleanor, and he did so willingly most of the time. In this matter, he had little tolerance for secular foibles. No matter how many times he bid it be silent, his insubordinate spirit argued that Tyndal Priory would always be better served by a fine chalice to brighten worship than soft beds for the ease of wealthy bones, even queenly ones.
As he rounded the stables, he stopped to enjoy the snickering of contented horses. He was a countryman and four-legged creatures were dear to him. Although he knew they did not have souls, he had often to confess his lingering suspicion that many of them were more prefect creations than those allegedly made in His image. Never had he heard a cow blaspheme nor a sheep proclaim heresy. Goats, on the other hand, reeked of lust. He had doubts about goats.
He breathed in deeply, enjoying the smells of the earth, warmed by the sun. Dusk, so long delayed in this summer season, had fallen at last. He looked forward to prayers and the deep sleep of one who had labored hard for God and was blest with honest dreams.
As he walked on, he decided the day had been particularly joyful. The infirmarian, Sister Christina, had prayed with a young woman who came to the hospital with blinding headaches. Soon after, the sufferer had gone home to her husband and babes, cured by the grace of God. Many might praise the potions of Sister Anne while Brother Beorn believed the infirmarian was a saint. Herbs would do no good were it not for the blessings of Sister Christina.
Just then, angry shouts destroyed his tranquil thoughts.
Beorn stopped, staring into the darkness, horrified that such rage had invaded priory grounds.
Two men stood in the gloom near the guest quarters, their shadowy arms gesturing wildly as they argued.
The lay brother quickly covered his ears and hurried away.
He dared not interfere and had no wish to listen to their quarrel. If he tried to intercede, he might have been caught in a fight and tainted with the sin of violence. How dare they insult God’s peace with their worldly argument and infect him with anger!
After gaining some distance from the scene, he was able to slow his pace and sooth his outrage by concluding that God would find a way to punish them. He would have dismissed this exchange of foul words if the matter had only been between two secular guests.
What troubled and frightened him was that one of the voices belonged to Prior Andrew.
Chapter Eleven
Thomas opened his eyes and stared at the pitched roof above his straw bed.
Dust motes drifted about in the fresh sunlight of the new day. From outside, he could hear the musical twittering of birds as they swooped to feast on the many summer insects. Before Father Eliduc’s arrival yesterday, he would have risen with innocent delight, rejoicing in God’s creations. This morning, despondency chained him to his mat.
“Why?” he groaned, unable to even face the altar of the invisible presence he served. “Have I not done this penance? Do I not honor my vows and seek atonement when I fail? Why must I suffer more than other men? Are their sins fewer? Surely the wickedness of some is even more loathsome!” He might have wept, but his melancholy was too great. Thomas turned over on his side, dug his fingers into the earth, and willed himself to lie utterly still.
As Anchoress Juliana once promised him, Thomas did learn, during these months as a hermit, that a little peace and the occasional revelation could be discovered in silence. Lying motionless and without thought, he felt an easing of the crushing weight on his heart and then enough strength to stand. Rising, he tightened the rope he wore around his robe and turned to face the altar.
Sunlight now warmed his back. The chirping birds sounded impatient, demanding that he get on with his day so their fowl-worthy labor might not be unduly disturbed by his traipsing about. Without giving voice to his prayers, he bowed his head for a few moments and then stepped out into the world.
A few feet from the hut, he hesitated, believing he had seen movement in the brush near the road. “Nute?” he called out.
There was no reply.
“You need not fear me. Ask your mistress, if you doubt it. She will confirm I am no monster and you have no cause to flee.”
Once again, there was no response.
He was saddened that Nute hid from him, while understanding all too well why the orphan child was wary. When he was even younger than this boy, Thomas’ own mother had died, and he had been left beset by dreadful fears, both in his waking hours and in his dreams.
“At least you have Signy to care for you, as I had my father’s cook,” he murmured. A woman with soft arms and a good heart could do much to soothe the inexpressible anguish of a child whose mother was buried in the earth.
Thomas shook off the thoughts. Since he was later in his rising, he suspected that the boy must have been waiting to see him depart before leaving the basket and jug. Not wanting to delay Nute any longer, the monk quickly turned toward the narrow path leading down to the pond.
The exercise of swimming should help rebalance his humors. Looking at the drying grass, he thought it a pity the earlier light rain had cooled the air so little.
Gently pushing branches aside on the descent, Thomas felt his spirits firmly brighten. Perhaps God did not hate him, he decided with renewed confidence. “Did you not test Job, a much beloved servant, far more than other mortals?” Then afraid he had been arrogant to suggest he might resemble that exemplary man of faith, he added, “Not that I am as good as he.”
Considering the pain suffered by Job, faith and patience might not be the only lessons taught in the story. God could use unease, doubt, or even anguish like a cowherd did his goad to make a man change or question his direction if such were necessary. There was more than one similarity between himself and an ox, Thomas concluded. God might
well have to goad him.
Pausing to stare through the tree tops with their halo of sunlight, the monk knew he must decide what he should do next. He could not continue to loudly spew questions at God without listening for the small voice whispering answers.
As he continued, wary of his footing on the steep path, he grew convinced that change was due. Enough signs were there. Not only did Ralf visit for the first time in months, but Father Eliduc had arrived in the priory. That coincidence of events caught his attention, even if he did not understand their precise significance. He vowed again to consult Brother John.
As often as he cursed Father Eliduc, his visits also meant adventures for Thomas, times he enjoyed. Although he had hated Tyndal Priory when he first arrived, he found friendship here, with Crowner Ralf and Sister Anne in particular, and some purpose comforting the sick at the hospital or in the village. Maybe he could finally find contentment as a monk in this Order of Fontevraud. Even serving a woman had taught him a little humility, and Thomas knew how easily a man fell into sinful pride. All these things must be taken into account in his choice.
For cert, he could not remain a hermit. He was no holy man. No longer could he tolerate visitors at his door, begging for his touch that they might be healed. Even though he sent them to Sister Anne and Sister Christina at the priory hospital, the look in their eyes as they gazed on him both horrified and brought him evil dreams.
“I am committing blasphemy by staying here,” he whispered, then willed these thoughts aside as he reached the path’s end.
The pond was just a few steps away, and he eagerly pulled his robe over his head. For just a moment, he shut his eyes and stood still, letting the sun warm his body before he plunged into the glinting water. His fear of Father Eliduc and all his other torments diminished.
Then he smelled an unsettling odor and opened his eyes. Clouds of hungry flies caught his attention. All newborn serenity faded when he saw the cause.
A twisted body lay under the bush to his left.
Thomas knew the man was dead.
Chapter Twelve
A large orange cat with round eyes the color of emeralds sat flicking his tail while Prioress Eleanor knelt at her prie-dieu.
She opened her eyes and looked down at the creature.
He began to purr.
“I know your ways, Arthur. Did you bring a rat, a bird, or something else to delight Gytha and terrify me?” Sighing, she picked the cat up, folded him into her arms, and rose. A dusting of bright fur settled on her dark robe.
“It was a rat, my lady,” Gytha replied, walking through the door to the private chambers. “A fine one. Methinks Sister Matilda will be most pleased to hear of this.”
Eleanor shuddered at the very thought but hugged the mighty hunter close. “I assume you have removed the gift?”
Gytha nodded and quickly disappeared. Someone was begging entrance at the door to the prioress’ public rooms.
When she returned, the maid’s face was pale. “Crowner Ralf begs a word, my lady.”
“Your expression tells me to expect troubling news.” She eased Arthur down onto her narrow bed where he quickly curled into a comfortable spot for a well-earned nap.
“A corpse has been found near the hermit’s hut.”
Eleanor’s hand flew to her mouth. “Brother Thomas!”
A man’s voice called out, “Fear not, my lady. He was the one to find the dead man on the stream bank below his hermitage.”
Eleanor felt the sweat of fear begin to creep between her breasts. First terrified that her beloved monk had been slain, she now worried that her cry had betrayed her uncured passion for him. The prioress straightened and entered the public chambers with what she hoped was a somber demeanor.
Ralf expression grew sheepish when he saw her scowl. “Forgive my rudeness. When I overheard your concern, I wanted to assure you all was well. None of us wants ill to befall that good man.”
“I thank you for the swift assurance that our hermit remains unharmed by evil men for he is truly beloved by those in both priory and village.” Sighing with relief that she seemed not to have betrayed her secret, Eleanor gestured permission for Ralf to sit.
Gytha brought a jug of ale and platter of fruit for the table. Although many believed uncooked fruit to be unhealthy, she knew the crowner cared little for such common advice and preferred his fruit raw. He was also infamous for his appetite. The platter was piled high.
Ralf tried to catch the maid’s eye.
She kept her back to him, then hurried away until she stood, head bowed, a suitable distance from the pair.
He turned to face the prioress. “I fear the corpse may have some connection to this priory.”
“How so, good friend?”
“The man was not from the village or priory, at least neither Brother Thomas nor I recognized him, and his clothing suggested he was a man of wealth.” He took a bite out of an apple, and half of it disappeared into his mouth. “Your monk suggested the man might have traveled to Tyndal, seeking cure for some ill. I said I would seek your help in identifying him.”
Eleanor tilted her head with interest. “Did Brother Thomas think the man died of some illness or do you suspect violence as the cause?”
“His throat was cut, my lady.”
Instinctively, Eleanor touched her own neck. “It is possible the poor wretch never reached Tyndal. If he did and was seen at the hospital, Brother Beorn is the most likely to recognize him. He talks with those who seek ease and consolation here. Since it would be unseemly for me to do so, Prior Andrew shall accompany him, as representative of the priory, to look on the body.”
“I am grateful, my lady. Any information will open or close paths of inquiry to follow and save time in the hunt for the one who did this.”
“Can you tell how long the corpse may have lain there?”
“Brother Thomas found him this morning on the bank of the pond where he takes frequent exercise. Since I joined him there yesterday, when the sun was highest in the sky, I can confirm the absence of any corpse then.”
“I assume neither of you recalls anything that might now be significant?” She smiled to show she meant the question in jest.
Ralf considered her query in earnest. “Nor smelled the stink, which would have developed quickly given the heat. That means the body wasn’t lying hidden and the killer waiting to move it until after we left the pond.”
Some found offence in the crowner’s rough speech. Eleanor never did. She nodded in reply, having little patience herself with time-wasting circumlocutions.
“Fortunately, the morning rain was light. When we searched the bank today, we found much blood where the man had been killed, near the path to the hermitage and in the open. From there we saw drag marks to the bush where Brother Thomas found the body. Since the killer did not hide the corpse with more skill, or even bury it, I suspect he was in haste, or else had no reason to do more than briefly delay discovery.” He shook his head. “No knife was found either.”
“Did our hermit see any strangers along the road or nearby?”
“He said not. After we parted yesterday, he returned to his hut and never left it. The afternoon and evening were spent much as usual, he said. A little work in his garden. Prayers. Another visitor, besides me. One whom he swears would not commit such violence. He never even saw Nute come for the jug and basket, although he sometimes does not. The wee lad tries not to disturb him.” He shrugged.
“What about strange noises at night? He observes the Offices and therefore lies in bed less than other men.” Although she carefully phrased this, she knew Brother Thomas suffered sleepless hours when he was in the priory and was wont to pace the dark cloister garth, seeking relief.
“Lovers occasionally slip down the path to the pond, he said. He knows their whisperings and step. Beasts wander by as well, but he is familiar with the ways of wild things.” Ralf was counting on his fingers. “Travelers seek refuge and avoid the roads at night. A party t
hat did not would be numerous, armed, and loud enough to wake our monk.” He hesitated, holding his thumb. “That was all, I think.”
“I am not sure what I had hoped to accomplish with my questions and beg forgiveness for intruding in a matter where I have no cause.” Eleanor fell silent as her grey eyes darkened with worry.
“Your questions lead me on the way to a more reasoned approach, and so I am grateful for your interest. Let us pray this man was a member of some lawless band passing by the village and was killed in a quarrel.”
Crowner and prioress glanced at each other, neither of them for a moment believing that such a thing had happened.
“You are kind, and I have kept you from your work long enough.” She gestured to Gytha. “The prior and lay brother will be summoned at once. I know they must see the body as soon as possible.”
“Unnatural death is never welcome, my lady, but this one is especially ill-timed with the arrival of my brother and others from court yesterday.” The last words were uttered in a tone akin to a dog’s growl. “Methinks this death may cause some of them to grow uneasy.”
“We shall calm any fears,” she replied, her confident words hiding her own worry. She suspected the crowner was anxious about the reaction of his less-than-beloved sibling while she was more concerned with that of Father Eliduc. “I confess none will be pleased to find murder committed at the very gates of a priory where Queen Eleanor thought to stay.”
Rising, the crowner bowed. “I spoke rashly. You cannot be blamed if men fight or die outside these walls. Please be assured that my brother, who has no quarrel with Tyndal, will do his best to calm all who came on the queen’s behalf.”
A brief smile twitched at the prioress’ lips. “I do trust Sir Fulke shall argue that he keeps his county safe and no innocent need fear violence under his watch. The force with which he must present his case shall depend on the nature of this foulness. Come back with word as quickly as you can. Your brother must be told of this matter and soon enough.”
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