She stared at him because her birth and position gave her the right to do so, but she did not countenance the same in return. Nor did her regard in any way invite familiarity.
Thomas knew that she now expected him to make his reverence and withdraw, so he decided not to do so, instead returning her gaze and stretching his mouth wide in an insolent grin.
And for a long moment they both just stood there, the one taking the measure of the other, a gentle breeze whispering through the grass, stirring the carefully tended beds of flowers and herbs, filling the air with the heady scent of mint and lavender, and carrying with it the hails of the distant apple pickers and the strident, belligerent song of a robin, one of the few birds stubborn enough to brave the changing weather.
“Sir.”
So absorbed was he in the silent struggle of wills that Thomas had completely failed to notice the young maidservant who now stood at his side, addressing him in an insistent voice.
“Sir,” she repeated, “I am told to bring you to the hall.”
Thomas wrenched his eyes away from his inquisitive companion with some difficulty.
“His lordship said to bring you now, sir,” she added more urgently; and with one last look at the woman who had reminded him so much of his dead wife, Thomas turned to follow.
The maid led him across the garden, walking determinedly at his side, a surprisingly neat little pair of leather ankle boots peeking out from beneath the skirts she held aloft to keep them free of the mud.
“You serve his lordship?” Thomas asked conversationally.
“I am Lady Cecily’s maid,” she replied with an evident note of pride.
Thomas remembered De Bray’s daughter was named Cecily and wondered whether it was she whom he had just seen.
“Ah, an important position. You have done well for yourself. And what is your name?”
“My–my name?” It was another few steps before she answered. “I am Hunydd.”
Hunydd was young, perhaps eighteen or nineteen, smaller than most, robust and healthy looking, with a round, open face, a flush of color high on her cheeks, and bee-stung lips that liked to smile a lot, he thought. Hers was an old Welsh name that Thomas had encountered from time to time along the border, pronounced “Hee-nith” when she spoke it in the distinct and charming singsong lilt of her native land.
“A pretty name,” he said smiling down at her. “Did you know that Prince Hywel of Gwynedd once wrote a poem about a girl named Hunydd? She was his lover,” he added, leaning closer and speaking in an exaggerated, conspiratorial whisper.
Hunydd was quiet as they entered the courtyard, and Thomas wondered whether he might have offended her, but after a time she leaned toward him and spoke in a whisper to match his own.
“What did he say about her?”
“What did he say about who?” Thomas teased.
“Hunydd,” she said. “What did Prince Hywel say about Hunydd?”
“He said that he would love her until the crack of doom.”
“The crack of doom,” she repeated slowly, her eyes dreamy.
They crossed the courtyard, passing a variety of buildings that serviced the needs of the manor and its inhabitants. There was a small stone chapel, a smithy, kennels, kitchens, a stable, and a motley collection of less well-constructed cob outhouses where the servants and guards slept. Further out, closer to the wicket fence surrounding the manor, Thomas could see the large threshing barns, haylofts, granaries, and animal enclosures you would expect to find on any prosperous country estate.
“And do you suppose that he did?” Hunydd asked. “Do you suppose that he truly loved her like that?”
“I expect so,” replied Thomas evasively, suddenly finding the dog kennels completely fascinating.
Prince Hywel had been a notorious plunderer of young women’s chastity and had bedded a string of lovers, likely having promised them all the same thing. In fact, the selfsame poem that spoke of Hunydd also happened to mention at least seven other girls, and the crack of doom came soon enough for the young prince who had died bloodily, albeit at the hands of his own family rather than a cuckolded husband. All details, Thomas thought, that Hunydd probably did not need to know.
“His lordship is busy today, Hunydd. Is something amiss?” he asked, congratulating himself on the subtle change of subject.
Once he had presented his papers to the steward, Thomas had fully expected to be admitted to the lord of the manor, but instead he had been made to wait half the afternoon already.
Hunydd’s face took on a guarded expression, and she seemed to wrestle with herself a moment over what to say. “I am sure I do not know, sir,” she finally responded, “but I think it might have something to do with the black monk. He is waiting in the hall now.”
Thomas felt a sudden chill travel down his spine, and his fingers drifted reflexively to the pendant around his neck, touching the iron in what might have been considered a pagan gesture had the pendant itself not been molded into the rough shape of a Celtic cross.
Hunydd gave him a sidelong glance, her eyes lingering on the talisman.
“I don’t like him—the monk, I mean,” she continued, watching as Thomas tucked the pendant back inside his jerkin. “He is not very nice, and he is always scowling. He yelled at the steward, you know. And I don’t like the other ones he brought with him. Well, not the rough-looking one, at least. It makes me uncomfortable how he looks at me. The other monk is nice enough, I suppose, though he does not smile much either. But at least he doesn’t scowl, and he doesn’t shout at people, and he doesn’t look at me like … that.”
She paused her nattering a moment and looked up at Thomas with a pair of black eyes as round and inquisitive as those of the robin he had heard singing in the garden.
“Why do monks wear black do you suppose?” she asked.
Thomas was beginning to wonder whether Hunydd might be just a tad simple. Touched by the moon, as they would have said where he had grown up in Cumberland.
“Not all monks wear black, Hunydd,” he explained, “though the Benedictines do. I think wearing a plain color like black is meant as a gesture of humility. In so doing a monk rejects vanity and worldly things, and accepts a life of poverty, as did Christ.”
“Oh,” she mouthed slowly, her lips making a circle. “I had always imagined Christ wore white. But the monk is not a Benedictine,” she said assuredly with a little nod of her head that sent a lock of raven black hair tumbling across her face. “And he is not humble; he is rude. He called the steward all sorts of names. It made me blush fiercely.”
Thomas suspected the man in question was not a monk at all, but a Dominican friar—one of those wandering preachers charged by the pope with correcting doctrinal error and rooting out heresy wherever they found it.
Hunydd was still trying to describe the monk, her dislike of the man growing more evident by the second. “His face is all pinched and scrunched up,” she said, pulling a funny face of her own. “Like he smells something bad or like a midge fly is biting his bottom.”
Thomas laughed out loud at the evocative description, and Hunydd’s face broke into an answering smile that brought a sparkling dimple to her right cheek as they climbed the steps to the Great Hall.
The manor house was constructed like a Norman keep, its three stone and timbered floors rising above a stone undercroft. The hall itself was a long, timbered room with vaulted ceilings, dominated at the far end by a raised dais and a large oak table, on which sat several candelabra and a large silver saltcellar. Beyond that was a paneled partition that would lead to a narrow staircase and the family chambers on the second floor. The trestle tables, for those who sat “below the salt,” were pushed aside against the walls, which were decorated with a variety of smoke-blackened tapestries, stuffed animal heads, brightly painted shields, and weapons of a various and gruesome nature. Cresset torches and tall candelabra added to what little light flowed in from the open doors and narrow windows. And off to the left s
ide, a large fireplace was built into the wall—a surprisingly modern addition at a time when many halls still boasted a central hearth.
The hall smelled of timber, smoke, and dog shit, masked only ineffectively by the more fragrant scent of herbs that had been deliberately crushed into the rushes scattered underfoot.
Thomas paused at the top of the stairs, nodded to the guard, and allowed his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior. A sly-looking character lounged just inside the doorway, doing his best to appear casual and disinterested, the fingers of his right hand caressing the hilt of a wicked blade tucked inside his belt, while his eyes roamed restlessly around the hall, pausing only long enough to leer at Hunydd.
Thomas had seen his type before. Many times. He was the kind of man who waited in the dark for those foolish enough to wander the back alleys at night. A man who would not hesitate to slit a throat for money, and not someone Thomas would have expected to find in the manor of a country lord.
Even Hunydd sensed a predator and shrank away from his stare, tugging at Thomas’s arm like an impatient child.
Sir Mortimer de Bray sat in a high-backed chair, swathed in furs and huddled before the fire. He was surrounded by a group of attendants and petitioners, and at first glance did not look to be in particularly good health. In fact, he looked utterly haggard.
Ignoring the thug for the time being, Thomas followed Hunydd across the room and took a place at the edge of the gathering, just in time to see a rather corpulent Benedictine monk emerge from the throng to address Bottesford’s lord.
“Who is the monk, Hunydd?” Thomas whispered.
“That’s Prior Gilbert. He’s funny.” Hunydd’s smile was replaced by a sudden look of concern. “It’s not wicked to say he is funny, is it, him being a monk and all?”
“Oh, I dare say you can be forgiven. I am sure you did not mean to speak ill of him.”
“Oh no, not at all,” she exclaimed. “Prior Gilbert is nice. But he is also funny. Sometimes.”
The prior cleared his throat loudly, folded his hands comfortably over an ample belly, and tucked his head into his chins.
“My lord,” he began, “allow me to present Friar Justus. He has come to us all the way from London at the request of His Grace, the Archbishop of Canterbury, to investigate the recent … uh”—the prior paused and looked upward as though searching for heavenly guidance—“the recent disturbing events. Naturally, we have opened our house to Justus and to his … um … companions.”
With that, Friar Justus himself stepped forward, and a ripple of interest passed through the assembly.
The Dominican immediately struck Thomas as an arrogant man. There was no hint of Saxon pallor to him, but rather the olive skin and dark piercing eyes of a more heated clime. Already above average in height, he contrived to make himself taller yet by standing stiffly erect with his hawk-like nose held proudly aloft. And although he was clothed in the simple white woolen tunic and black mantle of his order, he wore those clothes regally, and along with them an air of condescension quite at odds with the humility and quiet grace usually to be found among mendicant friars. The staff he held limply in his hand might have been a scepter; the close-clipped ring of silver hair, a crown; and the polished rosary beads hanging from his waist, a chain of office. Here was a man, thought Thomas, who believed he stood apart, whose pursed lips and sour expression suggested that he was all too ready to be displeased with everything and everyone he saw before him.
Thomas had to smile to himself, recalling Hunydd’s description. She had him exactly.
De Bray regarded the friar from under his bushy gray eyebrows.
“So, you are a Dominican?”
Friar Justus spread his arms wide in a self-effacing gesture and inclined his head by way of acknowledgment.
“A hound of God,” added De Bray, using a derisory but commonly used epithet for the Dominicans.
“We do not choose to call ourselves such,” replied the Dominican coolly, “but yes, I am of the Order of Saint Dominic, or the Black Friars, as you sometimes refer to us here in England.”
He spoke with an inflection that marked him as a foreigner. Thomas supposed he might be French or Italian, perhaps, but not Norman. And his voice was curiously strained, the words coming out accompanied by a slight crepitation that suggested either prolonged overuse or a deep malignancy of the throat completely at odds with his otherwise robust physical appearance.
At this point, the young lady who had subjected Thomas to such intense scrutiny in the garden emerged from behind the dais, and everybody watched in silence as she walked unconcernedly across the hall to take a place at Sir Mortimer’s side. The Dominican looked at her and then back at De Bray, evidently expecting some form of introduction. When none was forthcoming, he shrugged, wearing an amused half smile on his face, as if the entire incident was just one of those discourtesies one might expect to encounter in rural England.
“You suspect some devilry here?” asked De Bray.
“It is difficult to know for sure without an investigation, but a man killed in the holy church, his body draped most rudely across the altar in the manner of a pagan sacrifice, mocking the crucifixion of our Lord …” The Dominican let his words hang in the air for a moment or two. “Yes, there is much here of concern to His Grace, the archbishop, and to our papal father.”
Thomas doubted very much that the pope knew or cared about the goings on in rural England, but the Dominican was speaking figuratively. The archbishop was the pope’s representative in England; and the Dominican, the representative of the archbishop. As far as Friar Justus was concerned, therefore, he was speaking with the full authority of the papacy, especially on the subject of heresy.
De Bray tugged anxiously at his beard. “Roger Lacy’s murder happened on my land. Surely it is a matter for me and for the county sheriff.”
“This sacrilege happened in God’s house, sir,” retorted the Dominican. “In a church, I might add, whose priest had only recently died in the most mysterious, the most disturbing, of circumstances.”
This last pronouncement set off a flurry of whispers among the audience and caught De Bray completely off guard. His face darkened with anger.
“What are you talking about? There was nothing unusual about Father Oswin’s death. It was well known the man had a weak heart.”
“So you say,” said the Dominican with a barely concealed smirk. “So you say. And perhaps Father Oswin was simply old and infirm. Yet his death is a surprising coincidence that bears examination. I am sure you can understand that His Grace might be concerned.”
Prior Gilbert, now standing with the rest of the gathering, frowned deeply. He took a half step forward, clearly intending to speak on the subject, but met the Dominican’s stony gaze, thought better of whatever he was about to say, and quietly retreated once more to the safety of the assembly, mopping at his sweating brow with the sleeve of his habit.
“As I was saying,” continued the Dominican, turning his attention back to De Bray, “perhaps it is true that Father Oswin died of a heart ailment, and perhaps not. Regardless, there is much of concern here. We find ourselves living in a time of wickedness. Pagans practice openly. Cultists and false apostles roam the countryside. Sorcerers conspire against the lives of pope and monarch alike. And who can forget the shocking heresies of the Templars, only so recently uncovered?”
De Bray glowered angrily. “The Templar trials were more than ten years ago. Their heresies are of no moment here, if indeed what is said of them is true.”
“Oh, I assure you the allegations were true,” retorted the friar. “I was a witness to all that transpired and had the sad task of taking down the confessions of those beasts. I am not surprised at your skepticism, my lord. Who could have believed the Templar Order capable of such terrible crimes against God, against nature even? I myself struggled to accept the truth of it. Only imagine that such heresy hid in the very bosom of Christendom. We must be constantly on our guard. Why, this v
ery year the Bishop of Ossory uncovered a witch practicing her foul arts in Ireland!”
“I have heard of this case, Friar.” The young woman laid her hand lightly on De Bray’s shoulder and spoke in a crisp, clear voice, commanding everyone’s attention. “And I do not believe the matter is nearly so simple as you say. It is my understanding that most of the allegations against Dame Alice Kyteler were gleaned from the confession of some poor maid who was tortured for days by the bishop’s men; whipped repeatedly until she told them what they wished to hear. England is not Ireland. Our law does not condone the torture of helpless prisoners, and I would remind you that the Inquisition has no power here and never has. While we greatly respect the Dominican Order and all its good works, you are not inquisitors in England.”
It was bravely said, and Thomas found himself reconsidering his first impression of her. In fact, it would be fair to say that his admiration soared, and he regarded her now with great interest. She caught his eyes upon her, and Thomas quickly looked away, feeling red creep up his collar.
For his part, the Dominican stared at her blankly for a moment before directing his attention back to De Bray.
“The young lady speaks for you, my lord?” he asked.
“This is my daughter, Cecily.”
“Your daughter?” said the Dominican with an affected air of surprise. “My apologies, I had rather supposed her to be your wife.”
He stared pointedly at the hand on De Bray’s shoulder, which Cecily immediately snatched back with a sharp intake of breath as if the fingers had been singed by a flame.
De Bray shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “My wife is not well and is at present recuperating in her chambers.”
“I am sorry to hear that. I understand Lady Isabella to be a rare beauty, and I had hoped to meet her. Yet I now see that your daughter too is a delight to behold”—the Dominican offered Cecily a little bow and an ingratiating if somewhat condescending smile—“and so bold to speak her mind in the company of men. How refreshing! Though I fear in this instance she may have ventured into matters of which she can have but little understanding.”
Those Who Go by Night Page 3