Satan's Lullaby

by Royal, Priscilla

  “Are you certain none of the clerks are involved in the murder or the attack?”

  “The poisoning troubles me, Crowner. I have no idea how that happened. As for the attack on Renaud, I doubt it was another clerk.”

  “Renaud claims to have seen the Jean’s ghost in the shadows, yet he was struck from behind. Two clerks might be involved.”

  “I fear our lad sees the wandering damned when the branches of a shrub wave in the wind. It is a malady common amongst the religious—or so I have been told.”

  “Why are you so convinced it is not another in Davoir’s company?”

  “I saw someone hurrying over the bridge from the guest quarters and feared something had happened. I did not wait to see who it was but ran to the grounds, fearing injury to Davoir and cursing myself for being late. I was usually here earlier but was delayed because I suspected I had been followed and wanted to make sure no one was bent on killing me.”

  “You were followed by our innkeeper’s foster son. She did not trust you either. When he saw you walk toward the guest chambers, he also saw the person coming across the bridge, and he ran back to the inn where I waited for his report.”

  “Which explains why you came so quickly, Crowner. Does it ease your heart that I now no longer add you to my list of men who might be involved in this perilous matter?”

  Ralf stared at him in disbelief, but then realized the captain had cause to wonder why he had been on the priory land at the same time. If Conan was truly sent by the king, he had as much reason to suspect him as Ralf had to distrust the guard captain.

  “I did not see who attacked Renaud,” Conan said, “but I have seen a man lurking about on crutches. Once I noticed he was hiding in the bushes near the path to the guest quarters. The shadow that your young spy saw did not run toward the monk’s dormitory but toward the main gate or perhaps the hospital.”

  “And what have you discovered about him?”

  “Little enough. This hospital has several men on crutches. The lay brother told me there were many he could point out, and I had a poor description of him.” Conan frowned. “And if he were injured, I thought it unlikely that he would be an assassin. Perhaps he simply wanted a glimpse of a foreigner of such high rank.” He thought for a moment. “A man on crutches does not run as quickly as the escaping figure did.”

  “One of your own soldiers?” Ralf asked the question because he knew he must, but he also recalled what Brother Thomas had said in the audience chamber about the man from France with the injured ankle. Should he mention that to Conan?

  “Many of them I know, having fought by their sides. A few I did not, but I sat apart at the inn and watched those I had no grounds to trust. No one left the inn that I did not follow, but their paths all led to some woman’s bed.”

  Before giving a reply, Ralf suddenly reached over, grabbed Conan’s arm, and pointed.

  A shadow approached.

  Ralf cautiously peeked through the shrub branches, then relaxed. “Greetings!” he shouted as the person drew near.

  Renaud screamed.

  “It is nothing, lad!” Ralf stood up as he called out. “We have no wish to harm you.”

  The clerk fell to his knees and raised his hands heavenward.

  “What is your purpose in coming here?” Conan picked up his sword, climbed out of the shrubbery, and walked over to the clerk. The blade of his weapon glittered in the moonlight.

  Renaud’s mouth opened and shut but no sound came forth.

  Conan grabbed him by his robe and dragged him to his feet. “Did the Devil castrate you?” He shook him gently. “If not, speak as a man ought.”

  “I have brought an urgent message from Anjou.” The clerk squawked like a chicken.

  Conan glared at him, then glanced over his shoulder at the crowner.

  Ralf raised his hands, signifying that he saw no cause to question this.

  “It is for my master,” Renaud added. His voice still trembled.

  Conan let go of the clerk’s robe and gave him a slight shove. “Then go to him,” he said.

  Freed, Renaud fled toward the entrance to the quarters.

  As they watched the clerk disappear into his master’s chambers, Ralf walked over to join Conan. “Let us pray that Abbess Isabeau has learned that the accusation against Prioress Eleanor and Brother Thomas was fraudulent and has ordered her brother to return immediately to Anjou,” he said and then muttered, “which means that our prioress may release Sister Anne in time for my child’s birth.”

  “I shall pray for your wife,” Conan replied.

  Ralf looked surprised at this sudden display of piety.

  The guard captain grinned, his teeth gleaming in the pale light. “With you as a husband, she needs God’s mercy.”

  Ralf jabbed the man’s shoulder with his fist.

  Each now satisfied of the other’s innocence, the two fell silent and waited for the expected killer.

  The roaring wind from the north continued to slash with icy claws.

  The subject of the pilgrim from France had been forgotten.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  The room reeked of sweat and candle smoke.

  Thomas finished his prayers and glanced over at the murmuring priest beside him.

  Perhaps Davoir had many worthy qualities he ought to admire, the monk thought, but they were not evident to him. If God was willing to forgive the penitent who had once eagerly leapt into the arms of the Evil One, as well as those who had merely stumbled, why did Davoir believe he could do less, especially for the negligible sinners? Although Thomas understood the reluctance to pardon the truly wicked, he scorned this man for his lack of compassion for any who did not match his own self-declared brilliance. Tonight the monk had prayed that God would force the priest to see, with brutal clarity, just how blind and ignorant he was.

  The prie-dieu creaked as Father Etienne shifted his weight on the pillow under his knees.

  Having suffered brutality in prison and seen mortals murder their fellows, Thomas was disinclined to accept the honeyed platitudes which excused cruelty. Most men would advise him to blunt his doubts and accept the judgements of influential men for it would serve his interests to do so.

  He smiled at the thought. Any expectations of advancement had been shattered the morning he was taken from Giles’ arms. For years he had mourned the loss of his beloved with the pain of a mortal illness. That he had forsaken all hope of high ecclesiastical status became meaningless in the face of such anguish. Now that he was healed of his grief, he remained content to be a man of no standing at Tyndal Priory and serve his prioress as she required.

  Today he had been especially grateful to be in his position. He had seen the effort it took Prioress Eleanor to exercise the required diplomacy with this priest because he was a man of great influence. Thomas was pleased it would never become his duty to do this and that his disdain for self-absorbed ecclesiastics could remain between him and God.

  Quietly backing further away, the monk rose to his feet.

  Davoir was unaware that his fellow religious had moved and continued to mutter his prayers.

  For his own devotions tonight, Thomas had knelt on the plain wooden prie-dieu placed in front of the simple altar where a cross was hung on the wall. All this was provided in the guest quarters for those who needed a place for private prayer while staying at Tyndal Priory. But the priest had ignored these and knelt on a finely embroidered pillow, at his own intricately carved and highly polished prie-dieu, in front of a bejeweled cross. Each item he had brought with him on the journey to England.

  In the guttering candlelight, one blood-red gem embedded in that cross glittered unsteadily.

  Thomas stared at it. At least he would not have to deal with this man’s arrogance much longer, but he did pray that God would have mercy on the man’s new flock which must. Yet mir
acles did occur, he reminded himself. Perhaps Davoir would repent someday, when he discovered that his soul had turned to dust, and finally become the man he now believed he was.

  The monk shook his head. I have grown querulous, he thought. Considering his own bitter quarrels with God, over things he had done and felt which the Church condemned as more evil than anything Davoir might have committed, Thomas knew he had no right to throw stones at anyone.

  Staring at the shadowy ceiling, Thomas silently confessed that he simply longed to be elsewhere this night, doing whatever brought peace to a soul or relief from mortal pains. Guarding a man whom he did not respect wore on him even if he knew he must do so. When this night was over, he would pray for forgiveness. Now, he could not.

  Thomas eased into the shadows where the candlelight failed to penetrate. If he was going to think gloomy thoughts, he had best sit in the dark.

  The priest continued to mumble.

  Holding his nose to prevent a sneeze caused by the acrid candle smoke, the monk felt a twinge of guilt. Perhaps this man, to whom he had taken such a dislike, was confessing his deficiencies to God and suffering from the knowledge of his imperfections. After all, Thomas had not been asked to be Davoir’s confessor and the state of the man’s soul was not his responsibility, nor was the choice of penitential acts. Having conquered the sneeze, he forced himself to concentrate on what he was here to do.

  Maybe Devoir had been right, he thought. Ralf should have taken the alleged pilgrim into custody rather than set a trap. Even with Conan and the crowner outside, there was still a chance that the man could slip through. Traps were risky things, which, of course, was the reason Prioress Eleanor had insisted that he stay by the priest’s side.

  Someone was likely to come here tonight, a man with murderous intent. Davoir had listened to this plan only because the prioress reminded him of his stated belief that no sword could match the power of prayer. When she added her final argument that the orisons of two priests would surely be the strongest defense of all, the priest had consented, albeit with ill-concealed reluctance to share the company of Brother Thomas.

  At least Thomas felt comfortable with the probability that he might have to deal with the man from across the British Ocean. Even assuming that the alleged pilgrim did not suffer an injured ankle, the man from Picardy was slight of build. Thomas looked like a man born to swing a sword even if he had never been trained for battle. And, he thought, I have the advantage in this planned surprise and am more likely to keep my wits about me.

  A knock at the door disturbed his thoughts.

  As agreed, Thomas stayed where he was.

  Davoir remained on his knees for a moment longer before turning his head and shouting permission to enter. His voice betrayed his annoyance at the interruption, and he bowed his head again as he returned to his recitations.

  Renaud eased his way through the entrance with the reluctance of a child called for a scolding. Closing the door softly behind him, he hesitated.

  Not the man expected, Thomas thought, then slipped back into even deeper shadows and squatted with his back against the wall. Of course he did not expect a killer to knock at the door and politely beg permission to come in so he might wreak havoc. The monk folded his arms and regretted that he must witness Davoir exercise his habitual humiliation of this clerk without interfering. Was it only a favored one or two whom he greeted with any kindness?

  “Father?” The clerk’s voice trembled.

  Davoir looked up at his jeweled cross, shimmering in the dim light, and continued his prayers. When he came to a point where he chose to pause, he stopped but remained kneeling with his back to the clerk. “Why have you disturbed me? Have you no respect for my need to speak with God?”

  “It was necessary,” Renaud said as he inched closer, his hands clutched in a gesture of supplication.

  “Has the king called me home? Has Abbess Isabeau sent further instructions?”

  “No, Father.”

  The priest snorted. “Jean would never have troubled me for less. Leave me.” And he returned to his recitations.

  Renaud screamed, his howl like that of a frenzied beast. Drawing a knife from inside his robe, he rushed at the priest.

  Thomas leapt to his feet and lunged at the clerk.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Renaud lay bound on the floor, but he did not lie peacefully. Writhing, he grunted and yanked at his bindings, but they held fast.

  Conan and Ralf stood in front of the culprit. For all the emotion their expressions betrayed, the clerk might have been a large fish flopping about on a wharf.

  Thomas handed the knife to the crowner. “He missed his mark,” he said, inclining his head toward the priest. The monk failed to mention the cut on his own arm which he pressed against his robe to stop the bleeding.

  Davoir, eyes glazed with shock, knelt by the youth’s side. “Why?” he whispered.

  Squirming to one side, the clerk raised his head and spat at the priest.

  As the spittle rolled down his cheek, Davoir grew rigid as a statue, but he continued to look bewildered as if he had just awakened into an incomprehensible world.

  Putting a gentle hand on the priest’s shoulder, Thomas said, “You should leave us, Father. These men must question your clerk.”

  Davoir leapt to his feet, all confusion melted by fury. “This clerk is under God’s law, not your king’s. I shall remain and hear all he has to say. Only I may be the judge in this matter, not these men.” He waved at the guard and crowner, the gesture proclaiming his confidence that his mere will could make the men vanish.

  Thomas looked down at the clerk. Whimpering like a hurt child, or else snarling like a maddened dog, the youth showed only glimpses of sense, but there was no hint in the clerk’s eyes that the Evil One was peering out of his soul and mocking God. The monk pitied Renaud, despite the attack on Davoir’s life. As a boy, Thomas had yearned for approval, although he had not been driven mad by it.

  Surely someone other than Davoir would judge whether the clerk was mad or possessed. Thomas prayed for such to be the case. Although Davoir was right about jurisdiction, the monk doubted the man’s ability to see beyond the attempted assassination and Renaud’s maniacal rants to whatever torment had led to this longing to kill.

  Thomas knew that men pointed to God’s hand when murder was deemed righteous, or to Satan’s touch when it was judged a wicked act. He wondered how often the cause was best sought in less significant places.

  In the distance, a cock crowed. As the gray light of cold morning slipped into the room, the pale candlelight faltered.

  With regret, Thomas turned to the crowner and guard captain. “Father Etienne must remain,” he said.

  Ralf looked at the priest. “He was one of your favored attendants. His words shall cause intense grief,” he said, but his tone suggested he spoke only of facts and without compassion. “Should you leave the room, you may do so in confidence. I would never deny your right to take him away for Church judgement.”

  Although Thomas felt a momentary sympathy for the priest and what he must hear from Renaud, his pity swiftly disappeared. The arrogance he so detested in the priest glittered through the man’s narrowed eyelids.

  “I shall not leave,” Davoir hissed. “I demand to know how and when he sold his soul to the Devil.” Then he bent over and tore off the simple cross the cowering clerk wore around his neck. “You do not deserve the comfort of this, for you have denied the Lord and shall suffer the harshest punishment our Church can render.”

  Ralf’s expression suggested he longed to hurl the priest out of the chambers, but instead he carefully stepped between the clerk and Davoir. “Nonetheless, Father, I must still question Renaud without any interruption from you,” the crowner said. “He may have accomplices who do not fall within the Church’s authority.”

  Davoir opened his mouth to pr
otest.

  This was not the time for a clash of wills, Thomas decided and quickly said, “Let me question the clerk, Crowner.” He respectfully nodded at the sputtering priest. “Surely Father Etienne would agree that he ought not to do so now, for it was his life that Renaud wished to end.” He forced himself to exude compassion when he addressed Davoir. “I know you have begun to pray for the strength to turn the other cheek after this attack, but God is merciful and would not expect you to obtain such grace without further prayer.”

  Davoir turned the color of watered wine, but his lips clamped together.

  “As one trained in ecclesiastical law, and a man sworn to serve God, I believe I may ask the preliminary questions that both the Church and a crowner would deem necessary.”

  The priest’s face became fully bathed in red. Opposition flashed from Davoir’s eyes and threatened to drown his touted reason in a sea of defiance.

  “I presume our abbess told you, before you left Anjou, that both Prioress Eleanor and Prior Andrew have reported on the quality of my legal advice in matters pertaining to the priory.” Thomas did not wait for a response. “And our gracious prioress has also written of those times when she sought my opinion on matters of justice in the world outside our walls.”

  The monk was prepared for almost any reaction from the priest. The manifested surprise was not one of them. Despite the grave allegations brought against him, Thomas now realized Davoir had not been told anything about his education, work as a spy for the Church, or even the rank of his father. With bitter amusement, the monk chose to be grateful. Had Abbess Isabeau seen fit to elaborate beyond the present accusation, she might also have added bastard and sodomite as background to the claim he had broken his vows of chastity with his prioress.

  But the priest chose not to confess his ignorance or argue against Thomas’ proposal. He nodded an unenthusiastic acquiescence to the monk’s plan.