Valley of Dry Bones
Page 3
Then he looked at the walls of the priory, darkly stained with stubborn moss, and lost even that brief joy. “The only things thriving in this place are rot and mold,” he muttered to his sweating horse. “In this heat, the ponds have surely gone dry, and all fish must long be dead.”
His eyes stung, his head ached, and his heart filled with hatred for this vile land. He had lost nothing by leaving behind the noxious fogs, plagues of biting insects, brutal storms, and pervasive mold. Since boyhood, he had hated the fens and the sea. His nights had often been filled with sweet dreams of escape.
Glaring at the earth beneath his feet, Fulke grudgingly acknowledged he was grateful Ralf had taken on the position of crowner here. While his brother handled all those trifling matters of local justice in this forsaken mud hole, Fulke was free to stay at court and further family interests. Ralf was not only tolerant of East Anglian winter mire and the thick summer air, he seemed to like it. A modicum of fond appreciation for this insolent brother slipped into Fulke’s heart. It was just as quickly chased away.
After all, his rough brother was possessed of little subtlety, less tact, and was far better suited to examining rotting corpses and hunting down lawless men. Fulke might own the title of sheriff, but he cared nothing about assessed fines, unless the money came from his own coffers, or whether a man, other than one of his villeins, was murdered or died by accident. Why should he waste his talents on these matters when he could play the intricate political games at the king’s court and thereby increase family land and wealth?
Unfortunately, the question reminded him of the matter he must discuss with prickly Ralf. He rubbed his eyes and groaned.
“You are troubled, my lord?”
Turning to see Father Eliduc nearby, Fulke swallowed a curse. The fellow made him uneasy.
The man in black smiled.
Could the creature read thoughts? Fulke instinctively shut his eyes to protect his soul. Maybe this man was no priest at all, but rather Satan’s liegeman instead of God’s. For an instant, the sheriff hoped that was the case and wondered if God would forgive him if he throttled Eliduc.
The priest’s left eyebrow twitched upward.
Despite the heat, Fulke shivered and quickly replied, “I was only thinking about how we should proceed on this visit for the benefit of our queen.” In silence he prayed that both words and tone were sufficiently bland to prevent any discomfiting interpretation.
The priest folded his hands and bowed his head.
Although the gesture was innocuous enough, the sheriff’s throat went dry. He looked away. What was it about this man that made him want to flee? Fulke had met many other priests who served mighty Church lords, dressed in soft robes, and rode fine horses. This one was different. What was it? Inhaling deeply, he realized that, despite the hot journey, Father Eliduc did not even stink like a mortal man.
“Ah!”
Startled, Fulke gasped.
Eliduc nodded at something behind the sheriff. “Young Simon comes nigh.” His tone was edged with warning.
Angry to be caught off-guard, the sheriff knew his face had flushed. Vulnerability in a man was a failing for which Fulke felt contempt. In himself, he despised it even more. Spinning around, he frowned at the approaching youth and snapped, “What problem do you have?”
“My mother begs a mercy of you, my lords. A frail woman, she has been wearied by the long journey and begs that the queen’s business be delayed until tomorrow.”
Although normally amenable to the needs of Eve’s delicate daughters, the sheriff found this plea too much for his brittle patience and glared at the youth, willing him to tremble.
Simon glowered back.
Fulke clenched his teeth. Traitor’s whelp! Surely King Edward’s queen had other priests, nobles, and ladies who were capable of confirming proper lodging along the pilgrimage route. Why had he been cursed with the leadership of such an ill-assorted and ill-favored party, and why had Queen Eleanor even chosen to stop at this remote priory when Norwich was near enough? He bit back a spirited oath.
Father Eliduc smiled with benevolence at the young man. “Please assure your mother that we will wait on the morrow. I will come visit her soon for prayer and shall beg God to grant her a good night’s rest. I am sure the priory fare will also help to renew her strength.”
Simon nodded with due reverence at the priest’s response and started to turn away. Suddenly he stopped and spat on the hoof of Fulke’s horse. Without even a glance at the sheriff, he marched off with an arrogant swagger in the direction of the guest quarters.
The sheriff reached for his sword.
The priest laid a hand on his arm. “This is God’s land, Sir Fulke. Remember Simon’s youth and circumstances. Forgive, as He requires.” Even if Eliduc’s tone was soft, there was sharp iron in his meaning. Then he nodded to the sheriff and followed after Avelina’s son.
Slamming his weapon back into its scabbard, Fulke tried to regain calm by repeating to himself that Simon could strut all he wanted. Nothing would change the young cur’s lack of standing in the world despite his mother’s best efforts. Were it not for Lady Avelina’s pitiful living from those dower lands she had retained, he would not even have food to put into his impertinent mouth or clothes to cover his skinny nakedness.
Simon was fortunate his mother’s family had wisely supported King Henry throughout the de Montfort rebellion. After the youth’s father was slain at the earl’s side in the battle at Evesham, the king had taken away all lands and the title, leaving Simon with nothing. The only inheritance passed on to the boy was the shame of a dishonorable sire, the curse of having Simon de Montfort for a godfather, and that traitor’s name. The thought almost made Fulke smile.
These facts meant more to the sheriff than any demands for Christian charity. This once he would refrain from striking the lad’s head with the flat of his sword for the insult of spitting on his horse. He might not be so charitable should Simon dare to defy him again.
Voices interrupted Fulke’s thoughts and he looked up.
Two lay brothers walked toward him.
“At last you have come,” Fulke said, making sure his annoyance was evident to the approaching men.
A louder voice grew more demanding.
The lay brothers abruptly changed direction and went to Baron Otes.
While the baron roared for assistance, his servant gestured frantically at the horse. The pitiful beast did look as if its legs were ready to buckle.
Nodding their understanding, the lay brothers eased Otes out of his saddle with deliberate care. Soon, the nobleman’s feet were firmly settled on God’s earth.
The horse snapped at his former rider. The gesture was indifferent and missed its mark by a foot.
Otes jumped away with impressive alacrity.
Had Fulke not been so exasperated, he might have laughed. “The animal should have bitten him,” he fumed. “And if God were merciful, the wound would have festered. Satan could have had his company then and the horse my blessing.”
As if he had overheard Fulke, the baron looked up, caught the sheriff’s eye, and stared like a hawk hovering over a mouse.
Fulke willed himself to turn around and focus on the abhorrent moss covering the priory walls behind him. His heart filled with bitterness. Why had the Devil failed to lay claim to the baron’s wicked soul? Or was God to blame for this delay?
He looked heavenward and hissed, “How can You allow the man to live? It would be unjust if one of his victims was hanged for taking revenge because of the baron’s crimes.”
Then terror struck him with an ague. Crossing himself, he wondered whether there was an ominous meaning in the baron’s stare. Perhaps the man had decided it was now Fulke’s turn for destruction.
Anger over the baron’s profitable use of extortion was quickly extinguished by the waters of remorse. As Fulke well knew, it was his own fault for owning a secret this ruthless man could use against him.
Chapter Six
Realizing she was panting with exertion, she slowed her determined rush along the path to the hospital and put a hand over her breast. As she took in a deep breath of hot air, the prioress willed her heart to a softer thudding. Then she abruptly halted. Looking across the priory grounds, familiar landmarks shimmered.
Were her eyes bewitched, or was she was going to faint? “You shall not,” she commanded, and her body stiffened like a reprimanded soldier.
She changed direction and left the path, walking at a more moderate pace toward the monks’ cemetery. A visit to the sick might not be wise until she had calmed sufficiently to think more of their needs than her own concerns. Just because Father Eliduc was an unexpected member of the queen’s company, she should not feel such turmoil.
Of course she had cause to distrust him. After discovering how he had lied about the true nature of his visits to Brother Thomas, with piteous tales of the monk’s dying kin, she grew outraged. It was such shameful abuse of her compassion.
She had seen the priest once thereafter and sent him on his way without the slightest tremor of unease. That day, her only emotion was unrepentant glee when she told Eliduc that her monk could not travel this time to care for some sick relative. Brother Thomas had vowed to become the hermit of Tyndal and emulate a desert father because the weight of his sins had become unbearable. Today, the arrival of the priest had inexplicably frightened her.
Eleanor was not so naïve as to think she had ultimately chased him away after his last visit, nor was she so foolish as to conclude that this devious man was less skilled in clever ploys than she. She should not be shocked he had come back to Tyndal. Instead, she must ask the significance of his inclusion with these envoys from the queen. Perhaps the priest’s influence was more extensive than she had imagined. If it extended to the new king and his consort, both she and her family must be wary.
As Eleanor pushed through the tangled grasses, she recalled she was not the only one to react with shock when the queen’s envoys arrived. Prior Andrew had stumbled backward, when the members of the party dismounted to greet Tyndal’s religious, and had even cried out.
Although he claimed to have stepped awkwardly, Eleanor noticed his eyes bulge and his face pale as if he had seen Satan himself. A man who fought at Evesham and survived a near-fatal wound would not respond like this to some lightly sprained ankle. The cause must be deeper. Terror seemed likely.
Unless a man’s secrets posed some threat to her priory, Eleanor was inclined to leave them to the ears of confessors. Andrew might explain later and in private. She doubted it and suspected the reason for his lie was more than an attempt to conceal pain from a lame leg.
Was his reaction also caused by seeing Father Eliduc, or was it brought about by something else? Did Prior Andrew even know the man? She tried to recall if he had met the priest. While still a monk and porter at the gates of Tyndal, he had probably greeted Eliduc. It was odd that the prior had never mentioned this to her.
As she reflected more, there was one incident that seemed unusual. When Father Eliduc came to tell Brother Thomas that his father had died, just before the journey to Amesbury two years ago, Eleanor had offered him the hospitality of Prior Andrew’s quarters. Eliduc quickly refused, claiming another obligation required him to leave Tyndal that day. Since the hour was late and other accommodation some distance away, his excuse struck her as odd. He might have told the truth. Eleanor believed it more likely he had lied.
She would be wise to consider whether the two men did know each other and had cause to keep their acquaintance secret. As she thought more on this, she feared she might have to seek the truth behind Prior Andrew’s outwardly simple lie today after all.
“May God have mercy on me,” Eleanor murmured as a frightening idea struck her. “Surely the good prior is not another spy in my priory.”
She had now arrived at the low stone boundary wall of the cemetery. Before entering, Eleanor banished her new worries about the loyalties of priors and the worldly schemes of priests. These were temporal matters, and she had a vow to honor, one made for the good of her immortal soul.
***
The graves of Tyndal’s monks were simple things, some gently rounded and others sunk into the earth. Few were marked, perhaps as a final act of humility, although those who had loved the dying found ways to remember where they were put in the earth. As the prioress continued on, she noted an apothecary rose, planted long before she had arrived to honor a monk whose name she had never learned.
Briefly she wondered how all the loved ones would recognize each other at the Resurrection. She had been taught that every one of the dead would rise aged thirty-three, reflecting Jesus’ years on earth at the time of his crucifixion. “One of God’s many miracles,” she murmured and set the question aside.
For an instant she stood with eyes closed, savoring the tranquility of the moment. The grass was so green here. How quiet it was as well. Perhaps this peace was how God’s earth honored the bodies it held in trust until the Day of Judgement. The thought was most certainly pleasing.
Since she had come in search of one particular burial place, she continued walking toward a corner near the far edge of the cemetery. There, under a shrub half-dead from the sea air, the grave lay. It was marked by a roughly rounded stone on which three words were chiseled in shallow, crude lettering.
Ora pro me.
In obedience to that supplication, Prioress Eleanor fell to her knees in the thick undergrowth, reverently folded her hands, and began to pray.
In the distance, mews cried out to each other, odd and amusing with their shrill, querulous ways. Insects buzzed and clicked in soothing rhythm close by. When her prayers were finally ended, Eleanor kept her eyes shut. A sighing breeze brushed against her cheeks.
“Ah, Prior Theobald,” she whispered to the sunken grave in front of her. “After the term of my vow ends, I shall continue to pray for the relief of your soul. When I do so, I remember how quickly we forsake humility and charity, called a greater virtue than faith, and cling to sinful arrogance. How often have I assumed that I knew best? How often do any of us fail to beg for enlightenment before we condemn out of ignorance? Thus do we blind ourselves to our own wickedness by assuming we know better than God.”
She opened her eyes and glanced to her left. Just outside the hallowed ground, so close against the wall that it might almost seem to beg for entry, lay another grave: small, unmarked, and covered with noxious weeds.
Brother Simeon was buried there, a tortured man in life whose cries from Hell she often thought she heard, especially when icy winds from the north pushed black storms across the sea.
Prayers for the damned were useless, as Eleanor well knew. Nonetheless, she did sometimes beg God to grant some small mercy to the dead monk. No matter how wicked Simeon had been, she found pity in her heart for the boy who had become such a man. Although God might ignore her pleas, her woman’s soul felt better for having made them.
“Despite your failings,” Eleanor said, turning her attention back to the grave of the man who had been prior when she first arrived, “you were humble enough about your sins. When you begged to be buried, face to the ground, outside the church with the common monks, many here were outraged. They cried out that a prior must be buried in the chapter house, on his back and prepared to rise with the virtuous on the Day of Judgement. Despite their roaring, I honored your plea with one difference. Although you may have been a weak man, your heart longed for God and was never cruel. For this reason, I ordered that your head must face the church altar. May my successor find me worthy of the same mercy when my soul flies to His judgement.”
Her prayers finished, Eleanor leaned back on her heels and let her thoughts return to worldly problems.
The rumbling of the mill wheel now grew louder, drowning out melodic birdsong and humming insects. Even the grass looked
more wilted in the summer heat than it had but a moment ago.
The prioress sighed, then gazed beyond the cemetery wall to where the new guest quarters had been constructed. At least she was confident all was well there. By now, the lay brothers should have curried the company’s horses and would feed them when the beasts had cooled down from their long day’s journey. The guests of rank had jugs of wine for refreshment. As for the company’s armed escort, those men had been sent to lodge in the nearby village inn.
Signy, who inherited the business after her uncle died from a virulent winter fever, had continued his practice of providing good food and drink for reasonable cost. Although the young woman now draped herself in simple, dark robes to mourn her uncle’s death, she could not hide her beauty. Even after the guards discovered that her virtue was as stunning as her face, Eleanor knew they would be far happier in Signy’s care than they would be in any priory.
Calmer now, Eleanor stood and turned away from the grave of Prior Andrew’s predecessor. “I have overreacted to the arrival of Father Eliduc,” she firmly admonished herself. “Considering the rank of his lord, his inclusion in this mission should not have caused me either undue fear or surprise.”
It was the rest of the company that merited more of her attention if her priory were to gain anything of value from this proposed visit. Rather than worry about one priest, she would be well-advised to recall what she knew or had observed about others, beginning with the leader of this group.
Sir Fulke had voiced all the right phrases when he greeted her, even if he seemed in bad temper, almost rude, and definitely impatient to get on with some matter or other. At least she had Ralf’s word that his brother bore her no ill-will and would be vexed solely because he was too far from the king’s side. “If God is merciful, and I am both brief and pithy,” she said, “the sheriff should prove agreeable rather than petty over the comforts Tyndal has to offer.”