Valley of Dry Bones mm-7

by Priscilla Royal

  “You owe me.”

  “As I have said already, I have repaid that debt.”

  Fulke leaned forward, his teeth clenched in fury.

  Shoving his drunken brother backwards, Ralf filled his own mazer and drank deeply. “If you agree to a few simple conditions, I’ll do as you ask.”

  The sheriff lowered his head.

  Ralf walked over to the wall where his sword hung on a peg and returned with the weapon in hand. “As this represents the cross on which our Lord was crucified, I ask that you put your hand on the hilt and swear you will agree to my demands and never turn traitor to your word.”

  Fulke rested one palm on the hilt and grunted.

  “Good.” Laying the weapon down on the table, he turned back to his brother. “My conditions are simple. First, stay out of my way until the killer is found. Later, you can preen like a capon all you like and lie to your friends at court about how clever you were in trapping the murderer. I swear to support your tale if required. The last conditions are that you cease to plan any further marriage propositions for me and that you return to kneel at the king’s feet, leaving me forever in peace.”

  Fulke did nod, but his head had grown too heavy to hold up. His eyes closed, and he slid off the bench onto the floor.

  Ralf walked around the table and looked down at the man, dressed in robes of finely woven cloth, sprawled on an earthen floor. Did he believe Fulke’s assertion of innocence in this murder? Whether or not he did, he knew he must confirm the truth either way and then decide what to do if his brother had lied.

  The sheriff began to snore.

  “God has cursed me with such brothers,” the crowner muttered. Then he grabbed Fulke by the armpits and dragged him to a pile of straw where the head of the family could sleep off his drunken stupor.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The early morning light dancing on the pond did not bring the usual joy to Thomas. He was too weary to feel anything except the weight of fatigue, and his eyes burned as if dusted with grit.

  Terrified by his reaction to his visitor last night, he had slept little. At least his flesh had calmed with the sleepless hours. He yawned.

  With eyelids half closed, he looked over at Simon.

  The young man was sitting on the bank, gazing at the stream flowing toward the priory mill, and peeling the bark off a broken limb.

  Once admitted to the hermitage, Simon had eaten and drunk with fine appetite without expressing any appreciation for the hospitality. After kneeling at the small altar, he accepted the offer to take Thomas’ bed, again with no thanks, and slept deeply all night. The monk lay down on his rough bench to endure the dark hours until dawn.

  A discourteous heart belies the boy’s beautiful face, Thomas said to himself. With relief, he realized Simon no longer tempted him. Now he grew impatient to send the lad on his way. “When you arrived, you told me you were in search of understanding, my son,” he called out. “You have said nothing more of this longing since yesterday.”

  Simon ran his fingernail down the moist and tender wood, gouged a hole in it, and then tossed it aside.

  “If I knew what troubles you, I could offer direction, if not answers.” There was something about this visit that unsettled Thomas, apart from his brief lust and the intrusion on his solitude. If only his mind were not so dulled by lack of sleep. He could not grasp the reason.

  “I thought holy men could read souls.”

  Even though the words were insolent, Thomas chose not to reply in kind. Despite Simon’s tone, the furrows cutting into the youth’s forehead did suggest honest concern. “If you seek a saint, you had best travel elsewhere” the monk said at last. “My sins stink like those of other men. Whatever advice I offer comes from mortal failure, not sanctity.”

  Simon looked oddly relieved. “I am grateful for those words,” he said. “I feared my grave faults would horrify you.”

  “Cruelty does,” the monk replied. “Little else.”

  Simon fell silent, picked up a rock, and skipped it across the flowing stream. “What is cruelty?” He did not look at Thomas as he spoke.

  “What have you done to ask that question?”

  He answered with a shrug.

  “Lain with a woman against her will?” That suggestion was an easy enough presumption considering the boy’s youth, the monk thought.

  “You do understand a soul’s secrets!” Simon picked up another rock, this time hurling it at a shrub from which an invisible bird chirped. “Your question does contain a false assertion. Women may claim they resist and thus remain innocent of what a man does, but Satan blinds them to the truth. It is their nature to seduce men into sinning. It is they who destroy our will to be virtuous and we who are unfairly abused.”

  “Some might agree with you, although that contention is flawed. Are there not laws against rape? The fact suggests some women may be forced into forbidden copulation by men.”

  Simon looked uneasy. “I have swyved virgins. Base-born wenches only. One did howl like a bitch afterward, claiming she had been unwilling. She lied.”

  “No matter the truth, your lust was sinful. Have you done penance?”

  “I am here, am I not?”

  Thomas struggled not to show his annoyance. My peace has been disrupted, he thought, shattered to no purpose. This ungracious creature suffers no agony of guilt. He has come solely for the sake of appearance. “Have you made retribution for all the maidenheads you have broken?” he snapped.

  “None were virgins of rank.” Simon tossed another rock. This one sank the moment it hit the water.

  Clenching his fist over Simon’s lack of concern for any injury he might have inflicted, Thomas longed to chastise the young man. Instead, he fell silent, wondering if he had been any more virtuous than this youth. Before he came to Tyndal Priory, he had cared little enough about the women with whom he had lain in London inns. Surely he dare not admonish when he had committed the same transgressions.

  None of the women had been virgins, however, and he never forced the unwilling. Surrendering to lust might be sinful for both, but he had tried to give pleasure in return for the relief each woman gave him. When he suggested to a priest that he had done this out of gratitude, the man claimed his intended consideration had been perverted by the wickedness of the act itself.

  Sin or not, he had meant to be kind. From the disregard too evident in Simon’s tone, Thomas realized that the young man had not cared at all if the girls had bled without any joy.

  Simon leapt to his feet, his hands stretched out in supplication. “Do you not understand? Women are like Eden’s serpent, tempting me to suffer unbearably from lust. After my seed releases, I draw back from them in horror. I am befouled by their reptilian slime. I hear Satan laugh while I weep, knowing how these creatures have corrupted me.”

  “We are all born of woman,” Thomas said, trying to calm him with reason. “Even our Lord.”

  Simon stiffened. “His mother was a virgin who conceived without sin.”

  “Your own mother…”

  “There can be no comparison. I may show her honor, a son’s duty, but the woman who bore me was cursed with Eve’s pain and remains imbued with the imperfections of her sex.”

  Realizing that the defense of women, even based on the Virgin, would fail, Thomas turned to a more practical matter. “Must you father sons?”

  “Only if my lands are restored,” Simon replied, briefly telling his father’s tale and the curse of his name. “My mother hopes to win back my title through service with Queen Eleanor. In this way, she proves the irrational nature of her sex. I see no probability of success.” He spat. “No woman can restore a man’s honor. He must do it himself or he is no man.”

  “Since you doubt you will ever recover what your father lost, then turn your back on worldly rank and vow yourself to God’s service. If lust, even within marriage, offends you, find joy in the struggle for chastity.”

  “That was your path. Did lust trouble you so l
ittle that such a choice was easy? Were there no pleasures for you in the world at all?”

  Thomas froze.

  “I long for adventure,” Simon continued without waiting for any answer. “If I had a horse and armor, I would leave this land.” He raised his fist. “Fight for glory in tournaments.” For a moment, he hesitated, and then his eyes brightened. “Go on crusade! I could serve God by killing infidels during the day and share tales of great deeds with other men at night. Might that not solve my difficulty? If I could find a man to pay for my needs, I would kill the ungodly on behalf of my benefactor’s soul as well as my own.”

  Thomas was so amazed by this sudden turn from lust to killing that he was rendered speechless. Then he heard a sound on the path leading down from his hut, looked up, and breathed a sigh of relief. A friend was about to save him from what had become a most uncomfortable discussion.

  “Crowner Ralf comes to join us,” he said. “He is Sir Fulke’s youngest brother and would have better advice than I on matters of war.”

  It was Simon’s turn to look discomfited. “Methinks God has just whispered in my ear,” he said, his voice rough with evident fear. He watched as the crowner pushed his way through thick branches. “Do not mention me, if you would be so kind. I cannot talk to the sheriff’s brother now. God demands I pray by myself for awhile until He gives me leave to stop. Forgive me.”

  With those words, the youth ran like a terrified deer and disappeared into the brush edging the stream bank.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Our meeting is fortunate.” Father Eliduc bowed his head, his voice soft with unfeigned pleasure.

  Eleanor smiled with less honest delight. Glancing in the direction of her chambers, she realized that time spent with her accounting rolls, a task not always pleasant, filled her heart with more joy than conversation with this priest. “How may I serve you?” She hoped any request would be minor.

  “I have been praying for an opportunity to offer you assistance, my lady.” A large fly buzzed past his nose. He swatted at it.

  She would not call his manner exactly obsequious. He was far too clever for an obvious ploy, but she was ever wary of his motives, especially when his eyes narrowed like some creature prowling in the night. “You are most kind,” she replied and assumed that he had some secret purpose.

  “Since Baron Otes has been so cruelly slaughtered, I fear Sir Fulke will not be able to participate in the mission on which we were sent by Queen Eleanor.” He inclined his head toward the guest quarters. “And Lady Avelina has not only been troubled by this murder, she has yet to recover her strength from the long journey.”

  The prioress nodded, letting silence linger between them.

  Eliduc waited and watched as the stubborn fly attempted to land on him.

  “I shall take assurances to her that both she and her son are quite safe within these walls.” Eleanor grew uneasy. Did his words imply criticism?

  He smirked. “Your comfort would be most welcome, my lady, although I did visit her yesterday when I returned from identifying the body.” His hand shot out, grasped the fly, and squashed it.

  Eleanor winced.

  “She was long acquainted with the baron, and the violence of his death did trouble her.” He bent to rub his hand clean on the grass. “The Church shall miss him most. He was quite generous, giving many gifts for the care of our least fortunate in exchange for prayers. Have you heard of his charitable reputation from other priories?”

  “Not long after he arrived, he came to me with an offer of land as well.” The moment she spoke the words, she knew she had been tricked into that proud reply. Although his scornful tone might have allowed her a remark in mild defense of Tyndal’s status, her impulsive response was ill-considered. In silence, she promised God penance for her imprudence.

  His expression brightened. “Then I must congratulate you on this fine gift which shall be used to the glory of God. May I ask where the land lies?” He lowered his eyes with shame. “Forgive me. I am suffering from the frailty of mortal curiosity.”

  Taking a deep breath, Eleanor hoped she might make amends with this next response. “The bequest was refused, albeit with much gratitude. Tyndal is a humble priory. I feared the offer was too great a gift for us.” Although he would know this was a lie, courtesy demanded he not pursue the truth by questioning her further. Now she wondered where he might have been leading with this subject.

  Clapping his hands together, Eliduc replied, “God will bless you, my lady, for that virtuous act.”

  Eleanor was unsure whether or not she should feel relief over his evident delight.

  “Forgive me for the digression,” he continued. “Instead of talking about the baron’s death or his recent charity, I had meant to proffer modest advice since other members of the queen’s party may not be able to do so.”

  “I am grateful for your concern.” She dropped her gaze.

  “I have had the pleasure of visiting your priory before, albeit on sad occasions, and have tasted the food prepared under Sister Matilda’s skilled direction. Although a queen might feast on far finer cuisine than the simple fare meant for humble monks and nuns, I believe our noble lady will find your monastic meals suitable for one on pilgrimage as well as pleasing enough to her taste.”

  “Sister Matilda will be honored by your generous praise.”

  “If I may have your consent, I shall speak with Sister Matilda and offer a few modest suggestions. Our new queen comes from Castile, a far sunnier climate than England, and she is very fond, for instance, of quince, cherries, apples, and pears. I have even heard rumor that King Edward may order a garden of trees planted to provide some of her favored items.”

  Eleanor smiled in gratitude for this idea and said she would arrange for the requested consultation. Then she asked, “How do you find the guest quarters, Father?” Although she remained wary of him, his first recommendation was useful. Similar rumors about the queen’s dietary preferences had reached her ears, including a fondness for olive oil, which the lady imported from Ponthieu.

  “Austere, of course.” Gnawing at his lower lip, he frowned thoughtfully. “She will bring tapestries to keep the drafts away. Having just arrived in England after sojourning in Outremer and other warmer lands, she will suffer dreadfully from the damp chill of our winter.” He waited, watching for her reaction.

  Although tempted to retort that she knew well enough to provide wood for fires to warm the queen, the prioress opted for a wiser silence. She nodded.

  “Do not fear her displeasure, my lady.” Eliduc’s tone was surprisingly gentle. “There is enough room for her attendants, horses, and whatever she chooses to bring with her. This is a pilgrimage and some element of the ascetic is expected. I am confident you will supply all that is needed or expected.”

  “Should you find anything lacking, I beg you inform Sister Ruth so the defect may be put right.”

  “As you request, my lady. Your sub-prioress is most accommodating.”

  Had she just observed a fleeting smile? Eleanor raised an eyebrow.

  “I have observed a few minor deficiencies, nothing that cannot be corrected quickly. I shall list them for you, and then for Sister Ruth, along with my recommendations for resolution.”

  Suppressing a chuckle, she imagined him, guttering torch in hand, prowling through the priory grounds at night in search of flaws. Perhaps he might soon have a plan for improvement of the fish ponds, she thought with brief derision. Then she chastised herself for lack of charity. Although he was devious and pernicious, she never doubted his competence at any set task. Since his current advice seemed offered in good faith, she should be grateful for advice based on greater experience than she owned.

  “I must now ask about the entertainment planned to amuse our queen.”

  Eleanor was inclined to say that there were no jongleurs amongst her religious but restrained her tongue. “I was told her visit might be planned near the Christmas season,” she said, keeping all hint
of annoyance from her voice.

  “Although I had hoped to dissuade her from traveling when the weather might be bitter with cold, she seemed determined to do so. Her desire to experience hardship on this pilgrimage is commendable.”

  “I thought a performance of the Play of Daniel might please her. It is commonly done during the Twelve Days.”

  “Ludus Danielis?” The priest‘s face expressed a rare astonishment. “The version from Beauvais or by Hilarius?”

  “Brother John assures me that the one from Beauvais is superior.”

  He nodded before adding, “I fear the performance might be beyond the abilities of any choir here.”

  “Brother John performs miracles with his novice choir, which includes some boys whose voices are yet unbroken. In preparation for the event, they have already begun practice. Perhaps you have heard their sweet singing?”

  Eliduc scowled. “On my way to join the monks for early prayer, I was astounded by loud roaring, followed by a surge of many boys racing from the chapel. Their laughter was quite irreverent. Seeing my confusion, one of the brothers said the lads took their lion imitation very seriously.” He shuddered. “I did not seek any further explanation of such a strange remark.”

  “Brother John believes inclusion of the lion’s den makes the horror of Daniel’s unjust sentence and the eventual doom of the evil counselors more vivid. To accomplish that, he directs the novices to roar twice in the play. The boys practice the part often.”

  The priest’s expression was a combination of great relief and mild disapproval. “Fortunately, I do not think that will terrify our queen, a woman who proved her courage in Outremer when her husband was stabbed,” he said. “As I think more on this, I am unsure if she would take offense at the implied criticism in the play of an anointed king?” Eliduc’s eyes widened as if afraid the prioress might agree.