Satan's Lullaby

by Royal, Priscilla

  “Would that be safe? What if this Conan is an evil man?” Gytha reached around and rubbed her back. “Or fears the discovery of some secret and would do harm to protect it?”

  “Your husband has taught my lad how to stalk animals in the hunt, and he can take his slingshot with him as protection. I will explain that all we need know is where Conan goes and perhaps why. Nute is sensible and will not seek further if I explain there might be unnecessary danger and I forbid him to do so. If the crowner supports my cautioning, he will listen.” She smiled. “He would do anything for your husband and will be overjoyed to learn he is helping Ralf out.”

  “Tonight then?”

  Signy nodded.

  “I will tell Ralf as soon as I see him.” Gytha struggled to drag herself to her feet. She did not need to see her feet to know her ankles were swollen. “I do wish this child would decide he is curious to see the world.”

  Signy put her arm around her friend as they walked to the door.

  Neither noticed that Conan had been watching them.

  Chapter Twenty

  The night air was as soft as a lover’s kiss, but Nute was not yet old enough to know of these things and instead stood trembling in the shadows. Touching the sling tucked into his belt, he gained confidence and was determined to make Crowner Ralf proud of him before this night was over. He held that thought close to his heart, and it warmed him a little.

  Stalking a man would surely prove to be little different from hunting game for the table, he thought, and threw his thin shoulders back. But a man was far larger than a rabbit and much more dangerous. Casting that thought from his mind, he hardened his resolve and waited.

  It did not take long for the man to emerge from the inn. Despite the darkness, Nute knew he was the one to follow. His foster mother had made sure he served the man his ale and pie at supper so he could study the soldier’s shape. With no moon, Nute could not see the deep scars across the guard captain’s face, but this man’s walk and build matched the one the boy had been waiting for.

  Although Conan was not tall, he walked at a pace that forced Nute to run. Fortunately, the road out of the village toward the priory was one the lad knew well or he might have tripped in the ruts and injured himself. That the man he followed did not know the road yet walked swiftly and with self-assurance astonished the boy. Perhaps he was one of those who saw well in diminished light. Some men did and were better soldiers for it.

  When Conan reached the mill entrance gate to the priory, he hesitated, pressed himself against the stone wall, and peered around.

  Nute rushed into the shrubbery by the road side as quietly as possible and felt certain that he remained undetected, even if the captain was sharp-eyed in the night. He held his breath.

  Conan slowly opened the gate and disappeared inside.

  Creeping up to the entrance, Nute peered around the gate.

  Suddenly, the thick clouds above slipped aside to reveal a full moon.

  Nute groaned. With the cloak of darkness lost, he would not find it easy to follow anyone on that open path to the mill. He forcefully reminded himself that the crowner had entrusted him with a man’s job this night. Clenching his teeth, he swore he would not disappoint Ralf.

  He looked down and gripped the sling for courage, then entered the priory.

  Once inside, Nute noticed that Conan had slowed his pace. The man looked neither right nor left but seemed intent on getting to some planned destination. The boy tried to keep his step light so the soldier would not hear the distinctive crunch of gravel behind him.

  Other than the cries of scurrying night creatures, the rhythmic thump of the mill wheel, and the soft whisper of a gentle wind brushing through the trees, Tyndal Priory was quiet. The evening prayer done, the religious were asleep, although it would not be many more hours before they rose to greet the morning with orisons. Other than the moon, the only light came from the hospital where lay brothers remained awake and carried flickering candles as they tended the sick and dying. In that moment, the priory seemed as devoid of iniquity as Eden.

  Suddenly, Conan veered off the path and down into the clearing where the bees dozed in their woven skeps.

  There was no place for Nute to hide. Falling to the ground, he wiggled into deep grass and hoped that it would hide him well enough. A sudden chill wind blew across his back. He tensed and willed himself not to shiver.

  Cautiously lifting his head, he saw a shadow crossing the bridge over the branch of the stream that ran alongside the guest quarters. At this distance, Nute could not say whether the shape was a man or a woman, but the figure was moving quickly in this direction.

  Trembling more from fear than any cold, he desperately tried to control his breathing so no one could hear him. To his own ears, each breath sounded like a drum beat.

  Nute waited.

  The shadow turned down the path leading to the main gate and hospital, merged into the darkness, and disappeared.

  Conan reemerged on the path and began to run to the bridge.

  Nute jumped to his feet and tried to keep up. In his ears, he could hear his foster mother cautioning him not to take chances. It was a warning echoed by the crowner when he agreed to let Nute follow Conan.

  He slowed his pace. Was it enough to have seen this man entering the priory? Dare he follow him further?

  The choice was a hard one, and he had little time to make it. Finally, he stopped, asking himself what would be most helpful to the crowner while also keeping his word not to be foolish. “I must learn exactly where the soldier is going,” he muttered and continued to follow but at a safe distance.

  Conan crossed the bridge and hurried to the guest quarters.

  Halfway across the bridge, Nute halted and watched the man open the gate and slip into the courtyard leading to Davoir’s chambers.

  Nute knew he should go no further. If he followed the man into the quarters, he would probably be caught. How could he explain why he was following the soldier? And even if he succeeded in hiding, would he be able to see anything of significance should the soldier enter the priest’s chambers? That was one place Nute most certainly dare not go.

  On one hand, the boy longed to prove his courage. On the other, he feared breaking an oath he had been required to make while touching the crowner’s sword hilt. Even if he was willing to disobey his foster mother and Ralf, Nute knew he could not defy God.

  Spinning around, the boy fled back to the inn where Signy and Crowner Ralf waited for his report.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Renaud pulled his cloak tighter around his thin body, bent his head, and willed himself to walk another circle around the guest quarters. Although the breeze had been soft when he first toured the lodgings, this sudden northern blast was as jagged as Satan’s claws and ripped at him until he was sure he bled. When would they leave this cursed priory, he wondered as he pushed himself against the merciless wind.

  The gust began to whistle an obscene tune in his ears, and shadows mocked his terror as he felt evil beings crowding ever closer. He began to shake so hard he feared he would piss on himself for this was the hour owned by the Prince of Darkness when ghosts, fiends, and the damned ruled the earth. All god-fearing men were wise to look over their shoulders for hellish creatures that lurked with malign intent in the gloom.

  From a frail part of his soul, a wicked voice whispered that God slept during these bleak hours and would do nothing to help any mortal foolish enough to walk alone where some imp could drag him into Hell. Renaud would never confess to any man about this weakness in his conviction that God was all-knowing and all-caring. Indeed, he dared not. His confessor was Father Etienne, a man most intolerant of delicate faith.

  Like a fool, Renaud thought, I took the captain’s advice and sent the other clerks off to their beds. I should have kept a companion. He longed to fly to the monk’s dormitory and shake one
of his fellows awake so he would not be alone in this darkness replete with frolicking hell spawn. It took every ounce of resolve and pride not to do just that.

  Suddenly, he stopped, his mouth opening in fear. What was that sound?

  He froze, held his breath, and then spun around with the cross, worn on a rope around his neck, held high.

  Nothing.

  Surely the howling is only from the wind, he assured himself, and those twisting shadows will be born again in the morning sun as shrubs.

  Bending to lift his robe, he determined that the cloth and his legs were dry, and then sighed with relief that he had not suffered complete humiliation by losing control of his bladder. That was enough to give him sufficient courage to lower his head and continue marching through the brush and grass behind the guest quarters.

  As he turned the corner of the building, that tiny reserve of strength vanished. He again whimpered with longing for the companionship of a fellow soul. Even the servant, who usually sat near the gate, had gone to his bed soon after the last Office was sung. If Renaud had dared, he would have cursed, but even an innocent oath took on a more sinister meaning in the night where the creatures from Hell found cheer in any hint of blasphemy.

  As he resumed his patrol into the small garden near the entrance gate, he slid to another stop, put a hand to his mouth, and bit back a horrified cry.

  Something was in the shadows. Not a shrub. Not a wild creature. The twisting shape resembled a man, featureless and hooded.

  Renaud wanted to scream, but his tongue froze with terror. He wanted to flee, but his feet were bound to the earth. All he could do was gape with an awful fascination. This shape had not been there before. He was certain of it. As the shade writhed, the clerk suddenly recognized the creature.

  “Jean?”

  The only response was the wind’s high-pitched shriek.

  Renaud staggered backward. “Surely it is not your spirit that has come to haunt me,” he sobbed. “Your soul must be in Heaven.”

  There was no answer. The wind now calmed, but the shape continued to writhe, one long arm raised in a beckoning gesture.

  He slipped to his knees. “Father Etienne swears that you died pure in body and soul. He never knew a man so worthy of Paradise.”

  The shadow appeared to reach out to him as if longing to draw him into an embrace, doomed and eternal.

  “No!” Renaud scrabbled backward. A stone cut into his knee, but he did not notice. “I did nothing to endanger your soul,” he howled. “I swear it, Jean. I meant only to get you drunk in jest. If that tainted you with sin, you committed the transgression in ignorance. Surely God knows that.”

  He was certain the spirit had begun to approach, its gait heavy with the weight of damnation.

  Again opening his mouth to scream, he could only moan. Now he feared no one could hear him except this menacing phantom. “I was jealous of you. I wanted to prove to our master that you were imperfect like other mortals. Just one failing, nothing grave!” He stretched forth a pleading hand. “Anything to show him that you were no better than I!” He put his hands over his eyes and wept.

  Blinded by tears and weak with terror, he began to sway. What had he done to cause this horror? How could Jean’s soul have gone to perdition because of a silly prank? No matter what he had tricked Jean into doing, Renaud believed that his fellow clerk was cleansed of all sin when he died. No matter how much he longed for Jean to show flaws in the eyes of the priest, he had never wanted him to lose all chance for Heaven.

  “Forgive me!” he cried out, then stared into the infinite darkness above him. “It was I who sinned, Lord, not Jean!”

  Those were the last words he spoke before the blow fell.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Ralf eyed the man next to him. His fingers itched to truss him up like a chicken and lock him away so he could not endanger another man.

  Innocent of his companion’s thoughts, Conan stared down at the still form of Renaud, the clerk. The deep scars in the guard captain’s forehead darkened with concern.

  The lay brother rose to his feet. “I think he will live. The blow left a bloody welt on this side of his head, but the bone seems intact. His breathing is steady, and I bound a poultice of comfrey and marsh mallow against the cut.” Looking at Ralf, he sighed. “I would feel more confident if Sister Anne could examine him. God has blessed her hands with the healing touch.” He looked back down at the youth who seemed to stir. “But I shall pray that God have mercy on this lad and not condemn him for my ignorance of earthly remedies.” Then he begged leave to treat another patient and hurried off.

  Ralf laid a heavy hand on the guard’s shoulder. “I expect the miracle of Renaud’s recovery, don’t you? Is it not a matter for wonder that you were so near the guest quarters? Did He whisper in your ear that you would find the wounded clerk if you walked through the unlocked gate into the place where the priory guests slept? I stand awestruck by the marvel of these circumstances.”

  Conan stepped away from the crowner’s touch.

  Ralf’s expression resembled that of a hangman about to perform the duty for which he was justly proud.

  Conan’s mirthless smile matched the crowner’s. “If you arrest me, must you wait to see if an angel frees me from prison like one did Saint Peter from the dungeons of Herod?” He grunted in contempt. “Such proof of innocence is not required. I may be a wicked man, Crowner, but I did not attack this youth.”

  “And why should I believe that?”

  “Had I been the one to strike Renaud, I would have killed him. I am not a man who wastes time on trifling blows.”

  With reluctance, Ralf nodded and some of his anger dissipated. He had no proof that Conan was lying, but the man’s blunt response suggested innocence. Having been a soldier himself, one paid for his killing skills, Ralf knew men like this captain well. They did not bother with the simple wounding of their prey.

  When Nute told Ralf that he had followed Conan to the priory grounds and watched him go through the unlocked gate of the guest quarters, the crowner raced there with a speed that impressed the boy who tried to follow lest there be need for a messenger. By the time the crowner arrived, he met Conan, with Renaud in his arms, on the path to the hospital.

  Conan might be innocent of this attack, Ralf thought, but he had not explained why he was on priory land and within the guest area when there was no known purpose for him to be there.

  Renaud groaned and put a hand to his head.

  Ralf shouted for the lay brother who ran back and knelt by the youth.

  After a swift examination of the clerk, the lay brother said, “He may be recovering his wits.” Then before the crowner could speak, the man looked up at Ralf and added, “He needs rest, not probing by the king’s man. Tomorrow, perhaps, he will have strength enough to answer your questions.”

  “By your leave, Brother, I shall ask but one question now, and then I will leave him in peace until the morrow.” He gestured at Conan beside him. “You will see neither of us until then, and this one may not visit without me.”

  Conan seemed not to have heard the crowner. With an odd expression, he stared down at the clerk.

  Ralf slammed his palm on the man’s shoulder.

  Startled, the captain put a hand to his sword and stepped back.

  “Did you hear me?” the crowner growled.

  The lay brother shook his fist at the two men. “Hush!” he ordered. “The clerk is awakening.” Then he gestured to the crowner. “You are allowed one question, and then you must leave.”

  Both Ralf and Conan knelt by Renaud’s side and watched the youth open his eyes.

  “Am I dead?” The clerk tried to sit up, his eyes wild with terror.

  The lay brother gently pushed him back. “You are in the priory hospital, in this world, and still bound by your mortal body.”

 
Renaud’s eyes widened as if this news did nothing to diminish his fear, then he rubbed at them and winced. “I am in pain.”

  “You were struck by a mighty blow on the side of your head,” the lay brother said.

  The clerk dropped his hands and blinked. “Who…?”

  “We don’t know,” the crowner said.

  Suddenly, Renaud recognized the guard captain. “I failed!” he cried.

  Reaching out to touch the clerk’s arm with more gentleness than might be expected of this soldier, Conan replied. “You did your best. I came to see how you were faring in your patrol and found you lying on the path near the gate.”

  All this sounds so reasonable, Ralf thought, but he remained uneasy. “What do you remember?” he asked, and then raised one finger at the lay brother.

  The man raised his own finger in acknowledgement.

  “The quarters were haunted,” Renaud replied and began to shiver.

  The lay brother took off his own cloak and tucked it around the youth.

  Ralf glanced at the guard captain. Conan looked as bewildered as he.

  “Jean was in the shadows. I swear it!”

  “Jean? You mean the dead clerk?”

  “His soul is damned for eternity! It was lurking in the shrubbery, waiting to drag me away to burn in perdition’s fires with him. He was stretching out his arms to grab me when I…”

  “You were struck from behind.”

  “Cannot the Devil do extraordinary things? Surely Jean’s ghost could reach out to me, as I believe he did, and then fell me with a blow from behind. Or else it came from Satan’s hand.” He squeezed his eyes shut, either from pain or the fear of Hell.

  Were there two men involved? Ralf scowled at the possibility of a more tangled crime.

  The lay brother was now giving him a warning shake of his head.

  The crowner truly did not want to tire the wounded youth with too many questions. Renaud seemed obsessed with his belief that he had been attacked by a malevolent spirit, a conclusion that might weaken with a good night’s sleep. As far as the crowner was concerned, demons were as unlikely as guard captains to waste energy on feckless blows.