In those days, blood’s stench filled his nostrils even in sleep, and one day he, too, shook hands with Death on the battlefield but survived. His own sins might have been lesser ones, but he came to believe that he was branded with the mark of Cain. Had he not been taught that all men were brothers? And he had slaughtered many of them.
When he confessed these musings to his priest and questioned the justice of killing even unbelievers, the man had gasped in horror, proclaiming that Satan had blinded him if he doubted that God delighted in the massacre of the infidel. And so Gwydo had ceased telling anyone of his qualms and decided to turn his back on the world. But he still wondered whether God or the Devil had whispered in his ear and condemned the bloodshed.
Closing his eyes and listening to the soothing hum of the bees in his care, he decided the answer might not matter. At Tyndal Priory, he had found tranquility in prayer and service. Here he had shed both rank and kin. His wife and his aged father believed he had died of a fever in Acre. His father had other sons. His wife could remarry, believing herself to be a widow. Some might say that was a sin, but other wives had done so in ignorance and God surely forgave women, creatures rarely possessed of reason, more easily than He did the sons of Adam.
And so now he spent his remaining days laboring in the fields, praying for forgiveness, and tending bees with little enough harm done as the price of his peace. Only one last thing troubled his soul, one he dared not confess to any priest, a sin from his past that must somehow be expiated.
He had not believed it to be important until he overheard tales about Kenelm. Then he had awakened one night with a voice in his ear, telling him what he must do. A priest would have said it was the Devil, but, like his belief that he had wrongly slain his fellow men, Gwydo feared most it was God. And thus he had obeyed Him.
Perhaps he could have asked Brother Thomas about his plight, for this was a man not only of great virtue, but with much experience of Man’s dual nature of good and evil. Might he not treat his concerns with compassion? Yet he hesitated. Would the good monk turn from him in horror as his former priest had done? He was not sure he could bear rejection from one whom he so admired.
Squeezing his eyes shut, Gwydo forced himself to ban the roar of terror and listen only to the calming music created by God’s earthly miracles: clicking insects, rustling leaves dancing in the soft breeze, and the distant hiss of the sea. Once again, he slipped into sweet tranquility and left behind the burning wound of his mortal flaws. Surely God did not condemn him, for He had mercifully led him to this holy place. Satan was devious, but the Prince of Darkness never sent his minions to kneel before God’s altar, find joy in service to the needy, and to toil in the cleansing of their souls.
Sighing, he turned his head and looked through the brushwood toward the mill pond. For a moment, his eyes grew heavy and he almost fell asleep.
But from just beyond the mill a woman appeared, walking slowly down the path toward him. Her head was bowed, and her pace suggested little eagerness to reach her destination.
Sliding into a sitting position against the tree, he recognized Gytha. She had been visiting the market day stalls, he concluded, seeing her full basket. Sister Matilda would be eager for whatever the maid had found for her. Indeed, the simple meals at Tyndal Priory gave him far greater delight than anything he had eaten at his father’s more sumptuous table.
The maid stopped near where Gwydo sat under his tree. She quickly ran the edge of her hand under her eyes and down both cheeks. Was she weeping?
His heart began to pound with both sympathy and fear. Although he sometimes spoke with the worthy virgins vowed to God’s service, he never did so alone. To be in the company of one who had never sworn herself to holy chastity made him tremble.
Gwydo squirmed under the bush on his belly. The maid must not see him. But he still had a full view of the path. Looking to his right toward the priory church, he saw Brother Thomas approaching.
The monk stopped. “Are you well?” he asked the young woman, his voice deep with concern.
“A bit of dust got in my eye.” Gytha smiled with stiff brightness.
Now Brother Gwydo feared most that the pair would discover his presence and accuse him of deliberately listening in secret. Embarrassed, he pulled himself deeper into the brushwood.
Thomas did not pursue his suspicion that the maid had been crying. Instead, he pointed to the basket on the young woman’s arm. “And what did you bring to delight Sister Matilda?” He grinned with the happier change of subject.
“Have you heard of saffron?” Gytha sounded relieved.
“Shall you give me a hint? Is it beast or herb?”
“A miracle of healing which also brings delight to the tongue, if the spice merchant is to be believed.”
He peered into the basket. “Since I do not see it, I fear that Solomon’s sword will be too large to divide the marvelous thing between kitchen and hospital.”
Gytha pulled out the small jar and let him look. “It is the color of your hair, Brother.” She looked up at him and smiled with evident affection. “If the merchant had not sworn this was edible, I might have believed someone stole a pinch from your head when it was last shaven.”
Thomas rubbed the dense auburn thatch around his tonsure. “Most would say this was my curse,” he replied softly.
“Are you going into the village?” Gytha carefully tucked the precious spice back into her basket.
“Prioress Eleanor wants me to question young Adelard about his longing to become a novice here.”
A shadow clearly passed over her face.
Gwydo found that curious.
“Perhaps I shall also discover something useful regarding the murder.” Staring over her shoulder at the gate leading to the village, he asked, “Did you hear anything in the market about Kenelm’s death? Have men begun to discuss the crime?”
She visibly shivered. “As I was passing by the baker’s stall, two women were talking and wondered if the Jewish family had something to do with it. They had heard that Kenelm was murdered on priory grounds.”
“The word has spread quickly.” Thomas looked unhappy. “Someone must have seen us searching above the mill wheel near the gate.”
“Then you did find evidence he was killed here?” She raised a hand to her mouth. “Not on the road…or above the village, as our crowner thought?”
Thomas nodded. “So it would appear. There is still a chance that he was grievously wounded outside the priory but crawled through the gate to seek help from…. Mistress Gytha!”
As she started to fall, Thomas instinctively grasped her around the waist. It took only a moment for her to recover, then her eyes opened and she blinked at the man in whose arms she rested.
“The sun, Brother,” she said. “It is only that. I fear the heat today has disturbed my humors.” She tapped his arm.
He released her and stepped back.
Gwydo began to shake as if he suffered an ague, and his teeth chattered. Fearing the pair could hear the sound, he jammed his fingers into his mouth.
But the couple said little more. Gytha declined the monk’s offer of assistance back to the prioress’ chambers.
Thomas’ brow was furrowed with worry, but he bowed silent acceptance of her refusal and walked on toward the gate leading to the village.
The maid hurried off, stopping once to look over her shoulder before disappearing into the nuns’ quarters.
Gwydo pulled himself out of his hiding place and stood up, stretching his stiff back. His heart was heavy. Although neither maid nor monk had committed a grave wrongdoing, the lay brother was deeply troubled. Thomas should never have embraced her as he did. Was the gesture an innocent error or had it signified something unchaste between them?
Had he been wrong about the monk’s virtue? As for Gytha, she was a woman, a t
emptress like all of her sex. Just one touch, even one suffered in a compassionate act, and a man’s chastity was endangered. He knew how he weakened in his resolve. But perhaps Brother Thomas was as strong in his faith as Robert of Arbrissel, founder of this Order who went into bordels to preach? Once again, Gwydo doubted his ability to differentiate between virtue and sin.
“Most certainly I erred in pointing out that this murder may have occurred here. It was wicked pride that made me do it. I wanted Brother Thomas to look with favor on me for discovering something no one else had.”
Deep in thought, Gwydo walked back to where he had left his coils of woven straw and bent to pick them up. Suddenly, he turned pale, straightened, and shook his fists at the heavens. “Wherever you may be, Satan,” he roared, “I curse you for blinding me so I could not see the consequences of my heinous deed!”
What was he to do? He struck his head and groaned. “I must, I shall make amends for my sins.” In frustration, he squeezed his eyes shut and moaned.
He could do nothing now. The road outside the priory would be filled with men, wearied from many hours of labor and traveling back to their homes in the village. Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm himself. Later he could hunt for something that would convince Crowner Ralf and Prioress Eleanor that the murder had actually happened outside the priory walls. He would apologize for his error in believing he had discovered evidence to prove otherwise, an arrogance for which he would welcome any penance.
But he must find a way to leave the priory while it was still light enough to hunt for what he might use to do this. How to explain this new discovery to the prioress was a problem he would cope with later. After all, he had no right to leave these grounds without her permission. He must expect severe punishment for this act alone.
Compared to the sins he had already committed, he decided that was the least of his transgressions.
11
The air was cool after the late night rain. Birds rejoiced as the moist soil yielded fat worms. Plants glistened, stretched forth their leaves and welcomed the morning sun.
Chapter had ended, and the nuns left the chamber in an orderly fashion to attend their various tasks. They were silent, arms folded into their sleeves and heads bowed. For most, prayer was their primary duty in this life they had chosen, and they longed to return to it.
Prioress Eleanor, however, was restless. Although the reports on wool profits and incoming rents needed attention, she feared she could not concentrate on them. Instead, she went back to her private quarters, knelt at her prie-dieu and sought the relief found in more prayer.
The worldly businesses of the priory might not have kept her mind tethered to the earth, but other matters most certainly did.
With a courteous apology to God, she leapt up and hurried back down the stone steps to the cloister garth. Her favored cat, named after the King Arthur of legend and dreams, trotted after with a noticeable joy in his gait.
As she entered the garden, Eleanor let herself be lost in the profuse growth that hid walls and only allowed an open view of the sky above. This was a peaceful place, one where all the nuns went from time to time to find the silence needed to rediscover God, for noise and human pain were still found in cloistered worlds. In gardens, even the wind was hushed.
Arthur, the orange tabby, sprinted ahead of her and began to investigate what might lie hidden under the moist leaves. Eleanor smiled at him with love, then briefly closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
This garth was tended by Sister Edith, a nun whose touch was so skilled that many believed God had shared some of His secrets from the creation of Eden with her. When winter brought bitter cold, life here never quite ended. There remained a sense that all was simply asleep until the spring. Some said the garth reminded them of the promise of resurrection. All found balm for wounded souls.
Only here did Eleanor find that absolute stillness which allowed God to whisper in her ear. The chapel might be a setting for contemplation but bustling creatures, praying mortals, and the stones themselves produced intrusive sounds. In this place, nature took a submissive role, demanding no notice and offering only a gentle comfort. She glanced down. Even in heat of the day, flowers were soft and fragrant; the purple star-shaped ones with yellow centers were among her favorites.
As she turned to look at the murmuring fountain, however, she recalled that even this sanctuary had once been blighted with murder. Only days after her arrival years ago, Sister Anne had found a corpse here. Eleanor’s memory of Brother Rupert’s cruelly mutilated body was as vivid as if he still lay just in front of her.
She sat on a stone bench and began to feel a slight throbbing over her left eye. Pressing her fingers against the spot, she prayed that God would be merciful and not let one of her severe headaches strike now of all times. Although the feverfew she took at Sister Anne’s suggestion eased much of the pain, she had begun to suffer more from flashing lights, shimmering colors, and other strange sights as a forewarning of the headaches.
She stared back at the purple flower. There was no glittering halo of light surrounding it. The mild throbbing began to recede. God had been kind.
She must think clearly about Kenelm’s slaying. Stiffening both back and will, she drove the panic she felt over this new murder on priory grounds into exile. Just because violence had invaded Tyndal again did not mean one of her religious was guilty of the crime.
It would not be the first time she had had to consider the possibility. Each time she prayed it would be the last. Now her stomach roiled with fury that the question must even be addressed. She looked up and silently asked God why He chose to vex her so over and over. Surely the death of Brother Rupert several years ago had not been meant as a sign.
Eleanor stared upward as she fought to quiet her soul’s complaint. It was not for her to demand. It was her duty to serve God without question. “If my function on this earth is to war against those who commit the ultimate crime, so be it,” she conceded, but she still did so with teeth clenched.
The clouds, like tangles of sheep wool, scuttled across the blue sky. Overhead, a dark-headed hawk flew by. Its flight was leisurely, seemingly without purpose, but such languor belied its deadly mission. In the open grounds of Tyndal Priory, an unlucky rodent would soon be dinner.
And so Death hovers over us all, she mused. We can only pray it comes as a good death and not against God’s plan.
She rubbed the palm of her hand on the stone and felt jagged spots, although the bench was well-crafted. There was an allegory in that, she decided. Tyndal was dedicated to purity of thought and deed, but sharp-toothed serpents lived within the walls. No one wished to hear that anyone sworn to God’s service could commit a heinous crime, but she had seen too much of Man’s darker side to ever ignore the possibility.
“But who could it be this time?” she murmured and ran through a list of all who dwelt here. The nuns were sequestered with a few exceptions. Her sub-prioress dealt with the world, but she was no killer despite her querulous nature. Sister Anne and Sister Christina oversaw the care given at the hospital. The former was a healer, and the latter utterly incapable of violence. Almost all the women, lay sisters included, had been here when she came to lead them. Anchoress Juliana was the exception, but Eleanor had cause to know that she had faithfully remained in her enclosure.
As for the monks, they were few in number and, again, most had been in residence long before she arrived. Brother Thomas was more recent, but he had entered Tyndal shortly after she did.
She had already spoken with Prior Andrew about those under his authority, both lay and choir brothers. After that trouble when Father Eliduc visited two summers ago, she was confident Andrew had thoroughly investigated the possibility that a monk might have killed Kenelm. According to the prior, no one knew this man who had come so recently to the village. Gossip always breached priory walls, but o
nly one monk admitted he had heard the dead man’s name.
That left the lay brothers, who labored in the fields or hospital so the choir monks might spend a greater portion of their hours on their knees. Beseeching God to save the souls of His flawed creation kept the latter too busy to harvest or tend crops. Many courtiers had paid for this mercy, with land or other wealth given to the priory. There were many lay brothers at Tyndal as a consequence.
Last evening, Andrew had questioned the eldest and most reliable of the lay brothers. Although Brother Beorn was quarrelsome and judgmental, the man struggled to be fair, humbly prefacing his remarks with a warning that he suffered many imperfections. After uttering complaints about the laziness of one lay brother and the garrulousness of another, Brother Beorn finally mentioned Brother Gwydo, the newest member at the priory. Prior Andrew told his prioress that Beorn was uncharacteristically reluctant to speak ill of the man, yet he had expressed some unease.
Both she and Prior Andrew had approved Gwydo’s plea to remain here for the rest of his days. Having been a soldier, Andrew especially understood the need for a man to leave a warrior’s life, no matter how noble the cause of war. Eleanor’s eldest brother had joined King Edward on crusade, and she had seen the change wrought in her once joyful sibling. The decision to admit Gwydo was an easy one.
When she asked the cause of Beorn’s discomfort, Andrew had shaken his head and confirmed that the elder lay brother could not explain it. “I have often thought Brother Gwydo to be of higher birth than he has claimed,” the prior said. “Once he responded when Brother Thomas used a Latin phrase as if he knew the language. That suggests more education than a common soldier might own.”
“Or else his parish priest taught him, hoping the bright lad might find a calling with the Church,” Eleanor had replied.
Perhaps they should have questioned Gwydo more about his past, she wondered, but he had come to their hospital to die, his eventual survival counting as one of the many miracles here.
Sanctity of Hate Page 6
