Satan's Lullaby

by Royal, Priscilla

  “I thought I saw a large party of armed men in the village when I sought directions to your gate.”

  “The local innkeeper will house the men sent by our king to protect our visitor and his clerks. We accommodate all those men devoted to God’s service.”

  The pilgrim looked thoughtful. “I have been told that the more clerks a priest has, the higher in rank he stands. How many did this man bring?”

  “I could not say. Father Etienne and his two senior clerks were given the largest accommodations as is proper for visitors of the highest rank. The others have been lodged with the monks. We are not a large priory and room for guests is limited.” He gestured toward the priory. “Our buildings are old. I fear the clerks will be busy over many days checking for cracks, leaks, and mold.”

  The man nodded with appreciation. “Then I am grateful for the bed and fare you offer me, Brother, and shall stay only as long as it takes my injury to heal. The moans of dying men will remind me that our sins drag our naked souls into the pits of Hell. In return for your charity, I shall add my prayers for those trembling spirits as they anticipate God’s judgement.”

  The lay brother’s eyes widened in surprise at this unexpected show of concern for others. After the pilgrim’s whining over a minor injury, he would not have expected that. With a nod, the lay brother found a crutch for the man and led the pilgrim to the straw mat that would be his bed.

  ***

  Philippe was not a pilgrim, although he did come from a town in the region of Picardy and he most certainly had tender feet. His sprain was fabricated, but the pain from walking, when he could not beg a ride in a farmer’s cart, was not. Sandals were not his usual footwear, nor was this rough and filthy robe. He scratched at his head and feared he had lice.

  When he saw the thin straw mat on which he must sleep, he suspected his smile had resembled the frozen grin on a corpse more than an expression of gratitude, but he was weary of pretending. Not that he truly expected the comfort of a mattress with clean sheets and a coverlet on cold nights; those were for the dying or seriously ill, but he had hoped. Oh, how he had hoped! He ached with hope.

  Kneeling, he sniffed at his bedding. At least the straw was clean.

  He stretched out and closed his eyes. It had been a long journey, and he was exhausted. For a moment, he must have dozed, but a piercing scream shattered any dreams. He sat up and looked around.

  A few yards away, a tall nun was holding a woman back from a bed. The captive was howling like one possessed and flailing her arms as if she were trying to fly. Beside her, a man knelt, his hands pressed to his face. Sobbing loudly, he raised his eyes upward. “My son!” he shouted to the heavens. “Why did you take my son from me?”

  Philippe might not have devoted most of his hours to worshiping God, but he deeply felt the grief these two were suffering. Rolling onto his knees, he prayed for the lad’s soul and that God would give comfort to the parents. “More than You have given me,” he whispered. “Please!”

  Finally, the grieving pair were led away, the woman whimpering and straining against the arms of the nun who tried to pull her along as gently as possible.

  He lay back on his straw and stared at the high ceiling over his head. Sleep was now impossible. Silently, he uttered a curse.

  In a short while, the tall nun returned with a lay brother, and they fell into a hushed discussion over the corpse on the bed. Philippe could not hear their words, but he understood the meaning. The lay brother reached down, picked up the small body, and carried it down the aisle.

  As the man passed by, Philippe covered his nose. For such a small corpse, it stank horribly. Trying not to breathe, he glanced back at the nun who was tearing linen off the bed. A lay sister ran to her and bent to pick it up.

  “Burn it,” the nun said.

  Philippe trembled. Priories were not wanton with their hospital linen. If this was so foul, what noxious vapors from the sheets and the corpse had contaminated the air?

  He groaned. Might he die too? He would not mind as long as he accomplished his purpose first. Turning onto his side away from the deathbed, he covered his eyes and prayed again. This time his plea was for himself.

  “Is this man waiting for a bed?” The woman’s voice was very close.

  He looked up to see the tall nun standing over him. Her expression was unsettling as her eyes studied him. Had she been a man, he would have feared her. As it was, he still shivered. Despite her habit, he wondered if she might be a servant of the Devil.

  The lay brother, who had treated his ankle, appeared at her side. “No, Sister Anne. He came with a sprained ankle and now begs shelter as a poor pilgrim. Since we have no other space for him…”

  “I ask for nothing more than the charity of clean straw and food, for which I bless you. Let those in far greater distress have any free beds.” Philippe of Picardy sat up, carefully winced, and forced a brave smile. “Are you the leader of this religious house?” He knew better. What noble prioress would tear befouled linen from a bed? But he understood the art of the compliment.

  “I am the sub-infirmarian. Prioress Eleanor leads us.”

  She did not even blush at the flattery, he thought with displeasure. “And the infirmarian?”

  As if hesitant to name the person, she was silent for a moment. “Sister Christina. Do you have need of her prayers?”

  Philippe shook his head. “If she is so saintly that her pleas to God heal men, I am too unworthy to be in her presence.” He lowered his eyes. “I am on my way to Canterbury to expiate grievous sins.”

  “Are you in pain?”

  He grimaced before nodding which, he hoped, suggested brave endurance.

  The lay brother snorted and turned away.

  “I shall send someone with a soothing potion after I have seen to those who are more gravely ill.” She gestured toward the back of the hospital. “We have a chapel there, near the apothecary hut. You may go to pray and ease your soul until you can continue on your pilgrimage.”

  He brightened with a glow of genuine happiness at her words. Spending time in the chapel would give him a view of the apothecary, but the sub-infirmarian would assume his joy came from a purer motive.

  She smiled and walked on. The lay brother went with her, although he glanced back with a puzzled look.

  Philippe crawled to his feet. His wince rose from the pain of his abused feet. At least he did not have to feign that soreness. The discomfort should not last long, however. His soles bore no blisters. Not wanting to chance infection, he had made sure of that.

  Awkwardly, he bent for the crutch, picked it up, and hobbled off in the direction the sub-infirmarian and lay brother had gone.

  He did not have to walk far before he saw an open door across from the chapel and glanced into the hut where, he assumed, this nun kept her baskets of herbs and jars of powders from which she made her potions and ointments.

  A girl flew passed him. “Sister Anne!”

  Philippe slipped closer to the chapel, hoping the shadows would hide him. If not, he could argue that he wanted to pray but had stopped to rest his foot. He put his hand over his nose. Even at some distance, he could smell the corpse that had been placed near the altar.

  The nun came out of the hut to greet the child. “What is it, Gracia? Who is ill?” The sub-infirmarian’s tone suggested alarm, but Philippe did not dare move to a spot where he could observe more closely.

  “Not my mistress,” the girl replied. “One of Father Etienne’s clerics is ill and needs your immediate care. Prioress Eleanor has asked that you, Prior Andrew, and a skilled lay brother from the hospital attend our visitor. She will explain what is needed.”

  Sister Anne told the lay brother that he must accompany her, then asked the child to seek Sister Oliva so she could give directions on specific treatments to administer while she was gone. “As soon as I am done, we will co
me to the prioress’ quarters, as she requests.”

  Philippe watched the child run back through the hospital aisles. Indeed, he felt like a child himself. There was that much joy filling his heart.

  Chapter Five

  Brother Thomas had just finished overseeing the care of the horses brought by the visitors. Although others might find horse manure and sweat offensive, he loved the beasts and did not care that he reeked of them. Rubbing down a horse had calmed him. After stroking a munching rouncy on the neck, he walked out of the stables and looked across the priory grounds to the cemetery, orchards, and hidden clearing where the bees were tended.

  Father Etienne’s interminable sermon and the coming investigation of priory affairs had set him on edge. Perhaps it was unfair to dislike the priest simply because he had been sent on an unpleasant task, but Thomas liked neither the man nor his duty. If horse manure stank, he thought, there was something about this visit that smelled fouler.

  Hearing familiar voices nearby, Brother Thomas was surprised to see Prior Andrew, Sister Anne, a lay brother, and Gracia hurrying toward the guest chambers. “Is something amiss?” he called out and hastened along the path to meet them.

  When Sister Anne saw him, she raised her hand, her eyes sparkling with relief. “Please come with us, Brother. Prioress Eleanor sent word that one of Father Etienne’s clerics is ill. Your observations would be welcome.”

  Gracia started to say something, then quickly covered her mouth.

  Prior Andrew looked down at her with a questioning glance.

  “I fought off a sneeze, Prior,” she said. “I did not wish to invite the Devil in.”

  He patted her shoulder and called out to Thomas with a question about the horses.

  As soon as the monk joined them, Sister Anne sent the lay brother back to the hospital. “Your skills with cuts, sprains, and blood-letting will be sorely missed there, and Brother Thomas can take your place in this matter,” she explained to the man. What she did not say, lest the lay brother be unduly pained, was that this sensitive situation needed the monk’s proven knowledge and talent of observation.

  “What is the clerk’s complaint?” Thomas sniffed at his sleeve. Horse manure might not please a man favored by a king’s brother.

  “Father Etienne did not tell our prioress,” she replied and then dropped her voice to a quieter tone. “I do not like this priest.”

  “I do not like that Abbess Isabeau sent him,” Prior Andrew muttered.

  “We have no cause to worry,” Thomas said. He might not like this visitation either, but he was trying hard to assume a benevolent motive. “The accounting rolls are current and detailed. Our prioress adheres to the Rule. Perhaps Rome questioned the ability of prioresses to rule their houses with a firm enough hand. If so, what better priory to quell Rome’s fears than Tyndal? ”

  “Why not send Father Etienne to Amesbury? That is the most prominent English daughter house in our Order.” Prior Andrew was rarely angry, but his pink face suggested this time was an exception.

  “Although Sister Beatrice is not the prioress there, she would be questioned about the novices under her rule.” Thomas laughed and looked heavenward. “May God forgive me for saying this, but I fear even He would hesitate to suggest that our prioress’ aunt owned any faults in her training or supervision of those young women.”

  “You have met her, Brother, and I trust your opinion!” The prior’s expression relaxed with amusement.

  Turning to Sister Anne, the monk asked, “What was the subject of the priest’s sermon to you?”

  “How the Evil One tempts women. Although he did not accuse us of lust, he said we were most likely to suffer the vice. All women are cursed with that weakness, but he said that Satan tries hardest to lead those women who vow themselves to God into breaking their vows of chastity.” Her eyes revealed a flash of sadness.

  Thomas noticed it and wondered if her thoughts were of her husband or the doctor from London they had met a few years ago.

  “We were told that obedience was a man’s usual failure,” the prior said. “That message is not new, but I was surprised at his emphasis. Why did he warn us about following sinners and not the righteous?” Prior Andrew stumbled on a raised part of the path but quickly recovered his balance.

  Thomas feared his prior’s old wound was bothering him but knew better than to offer assistance to the former soldier. As for the sermon, he had been bored by it until the priest warned against following the Devil in the guise of a beautiful angel. Thomas was sure that Davoir was looking directly at him when he said that. Instinctively, he put a hand to his auburn hair. Perhaps this priest believed those many tales that counseled men to be wary of those with red hair.

  “A warning against the leadership of a woman?” Sister Anne stopped as they reached the gate to the guest quarters.

  “I should not have suggested that, even in jest. Rome has no quarrel with our Order,” Brother Thomas replied. “As for Father Etienne, his own sister is the abbess in Anjou. If he were opposed to the leadership of women, which our Order demands, she would not have sent him here.”

  Prior Andrew called to a servant standing inside the small courtyard behind the gate. “We have been summoned by Father Etienne.”

  The man nodded, then hurried off to announce them.

  ***

  Gracia wished she could escape, but Sister Anne needed her presence in this crowd of men. The maid did not know what to do.

  Ought she to have spoken up when Sister Anne invited the monk to accompany them? Was it her place to do so? Her mistress had said nothing about Father Etienne’s refusal to include Brother Thomas when she asked that they visit the ill clerk. The prioress had only told them that he asked for Prior Andrew and did not want Sister Anne to touch the youth.

  Even though Gracia had wished to tell the sub-infirmarian that the prioress had cause not to include the monk, she did not want to contradict the wishes of Sister Anne. Was she wrong to remain mute, respectful of the nun’s decision? Neither choice felt right now, and she longed for guidance but there was no one to ask. How could she tell Brother Thomas of her difficulty when he might be insulted upon learning of the priest’s curt dismissal of his skills?

  Gracia slipped her hands inside her robe, twisted them with painful indecision, and longed to be anywhere but where she was.

  Chapter Six

  Father Etienne scowled with displeasure.

  Thomas was certain that the man’s disapproving glance was the result of the equine stench. Fortunately, he caught himself before laughing at the priest’s grimace of distaste.

  “We have come to see your sick clerk,” Prior Andrew said.

  Sister Anne bowed her head and stood meekly behind the prior.

  “Jean is resting,” the priest replied. “His bowels are loose, his head aches, and he has vomited. Those are his symptoms. I assume you will want to see his urine, Prior Andrew.”

  The prior glanced at the nun behind him.

  She shook her head.

  “I am not trained in medicine,” Andrew replied.

  “Sister Anne is known throughout England for her healing skills,” Thomas said, his patience swiftly thinning with this odd conversation when there was a patient to see. “Men of high rank come from the king’s court to seek her remedies. A renowned London physician has sought her advice. If your clerk needs healing, you could not ask for…”

  “Did I seek your opinion, Brother?” The rebuke was given in a soft tone, but the words possessed sharp edges.

  “You did not, but I…”

  “Then remember the sermon I have just preached to you in the Chapter House. Obedience demands humility. As the emissary of your abbess in Anjou, I outrank you. You should not speak unless addressed and never give an opinion until asked. Stay humble, my son, and God will embrace you.” The priest tilted his head and gave the monk th
e forced smile of tolerance a father might give his son when the lad had repeated an error for which he had already been scolded.

  Thomas knew his face had flushed with anger but bit his tongue and bowed his head.

  “Now,” the priest said, turning to the prior, “I understand your nun has skills in the healing arts, but my clerk is a modest youth who longs to take full vows. To inflict the presence of a woman on him in his weakened state would be a cruelty and a gift to the Prince of Darkness.”

  Andrew started to reply.

  Davoir raised his hand. “What I propose is this. You shall go into the room and examine my clerk. You need not take a sample of his urine since you do not have the knowledge to interpret the signs in it, and this nun would not have been trained in that. You may then come to the door and present your observations to this nun. She may learn from that what is troubling Jean.” He glanced with ill-disguised disdain at Sister Anne.

  “I suggest that Brother Thomas take the responsibility,” Andrew replied. “He is more observant and better trained in the needed skills than I.”

  “You shall do this, not he. I had specifically asked for an apothecary monk or the prior because the sub-infirmarian is a woman who may not touch my clerk or even the flask containing his urine. When Prioress Eleanor recommended Brother Thomas, I deemed her choice unacceptable for reasons I need not explain.”

  Gracia’s face reddened with shame.

  Despite his sharp words to the adults, the priest looked with gentleness on the girl. “I assume Prioress Eleanor saw fit to contradict my request,” he said to her.

  Glancing at the frightened girl, Sister Anne said, “It was my decision.”

  Thomas saw anger dancing in the nun’s narrowed eyes.

  She stepped forward and looked boldly at Davoir.

  He drew back as if afraid she might come too near.

  “We met our brother on the path here,” she said, “and I asked him to come with us. His observational skills and judgement are respected at the hospital and in the village. Surely I need not mention his reputation and that of our prioress in matters of justice?”