Those Who Go by Night

by Andrew Gaddes

  Thomas saw a figure on the road ahead of him and slowed his horse to a canter and then a walk.

  Hunydd was busy humming to herself and, without looking back, stood aside to allow him to pass.

  “And where are you away to, young lady?” he asked, drawing his horse up next to her.

  “Thomas!” she exclaimed happily. “I was just thinking about you. I am to go to the priory for the master’s medicine.”

  Her expression abruptly changed from one of pleasure to one of concern. “I have permission from Lady Cecily to go to the priory. I am not running away or doing anything bad.”

  “I never thought you were,” he reassured her. “But it is a long walk you have ahead of you,” he said, looking up at the sky, “and it looks like it may rain again later today. You will want to be back at the manor before that happens. Perhaps I could offer you a ride, at least to the village.”

  He jumped down and held out his hands. She looked up at the horse, her eyes dancing with excitement. The noble beast tossed its head and blew a misty breath out into the chill autumn air, impatient to be away.

  “Wouldn’t that be wicked?”

  “Perhaps a little, but only a very little, and in any case,” he said, looking around in an exaggerated manner, and whispering out of the side of his mouth, “who will know but us?”

  Hunydd looked from Thomas to the horse, eager and uncertain at the same time.

  “His name is Achilles,” coaxed Thomas, slapping the horse’s steaming flank. “And he is no mere palfrey but a coarser—a real warhorse. We have ridden into battle together, we two, armor and all. He would barely notice the extra weight. Usually he’s none too fond of strangers, or of me for that matter, but I can already sense he likes you.”

  The roan blew out another great breath and tipped his nose to her. Hunydd reached out hesitantly to touch him, chewing her lip anxiously. “But what if someone should see?”

  “Well, you did turn your ankle back there, Hunydd. I dare say it is very sore and makes walking painful.”

  “No I didn’t,” she exclaimed. “I can walk perfectly well. I can—”

  “I know,” said Thomas, inclining his head and raising his eyebrows suggestively.

  Hunydd’s eyes widened and her mouth formed a funny little circle as understanding dawned on her. Not needing another invitation, she nodded excitedly and held out her arms so he could lift her up to the horse’s neck.

  Thomas climbed up behind her, clucked his tongue, and they were away. Holding her with one arm around her waist, he spurred the horse to a canter and then a gallop. Her hair blew in the wind, and she laughed out loud, holding on tightly to her cap with one hand and to his arm with the other. Thomas laughed along with her and pulled her closer still, holding her safely cradled against his chest, close enough that her soft hair brushed against his cheek and that he caught the clean smell of soapwort on her skin.

  As they rode, Thomas could feel the darkness melting away, and he realized that this had been a lucky encounter for him. He had begun to fall into despair. Hunydd’s freshness and simple joy in the feel of a horse under her was exactly what he needed to see now. It gave him hope.

  He slowed the horse again as they drew closer to the village. The gelding rocked steadily back and forth under them. He was still holding Hunydd close, though there was no longer any real need to do so.

  “I heard you humming at the side of the road, Hunydd. Do you sing?”

  She looked over her shoulder, eyeing him quizzically.

  “Songs my mother taught me. Do you want me to sing now?”

  He smiled. “Maybe another time.”

  She nodded but looked a little disappointed, he thought.

  “Do you like Lady Alice?” she asked. “I mean do you like her? Do you think her pretty?” She licked her lips. “Do … do you think her beautiful?”

  In his mind’s eye, Thomas could still see those violet eyes. The way she looked at him, the way her lips turned up when she smiled, the way she glided so gracefully when she walked, the swell of her bosom against her dress, and the curve of her cheek. The impression she made was undeniable. He was not sure that beautiful was the right word, but he did not doubt many would say so, and her allure was such that she had been able to lead four of Ireland’s wealthiest men in quick succession to the altar.

  “I had not really thought about it.”

  Hunydd faced forward again, not entirely satisfied with his response.

  “The friar said she is a witch,” she offered petulantly.

  “The friar is a fool.”

  “Are they real? Witches, I mean. Are there really such things as witches and demons?”

  “Some people think so. There is a tale they tell in Lincoln about the Lincoln imp. Would you like to hear it?”

  She nodded eagerly.

  “It is said that the Devil sent a pair of imps to the north of England and that they caused great chaos throughout the land. Terrible things they were, with big, pointy ears like foxes; large mouths full of sharp teeth; and ugly, bulbous noses rather like the constable’s.” Hunydd giggled, liking the comparison. “There was no mischief they would not get up to. They turned over market stalls, made the fruit rot on the trees, turned the milk sour, made women barren.”

  Hunydd was looking up at him, wide-eyed.

  “One day, they made the mistake of flying into the cathedral and began breaking the windows and chasing the fat old monks. An angry angel rose up from the bible left on the altar and gave the one imp such a sound thrashing on its bottom that it fled the cathedral in terror. The second imp was bolder and flew up to the top of the highest pillar and mocked the angel, throwing stones and insults until the angel cast a spell, turning it to stone. And there it sits to this very day, petrified against the pillar for all to see, a constant reminder of God’s punishment of the wicked.”

  Hunydd pouted over her shoulder. “That’s silly. An imp would never tread holy ground, and they don’t fly. Everybody knows that.” She looked down, embarrassed. “At least, that is what old women always said back home when I was growing up,” she added weakly.

  “Perhaps,” allowed Thomas. “It is just a story the locals tell. Anyway, you should get down here if we are to save your blushes.”

  She nodded shyly, and after dismounting himself, Thomas lifted her down. She was slender, slight in his arms, weighing almost nothing, and yet felt somehow substantial to him. Hunydd pressed against him for a moment when her feet touched the ground, grasping his shoulders as she sought her balance. His hold on her hips lingered perhaps a little too long, and she looked up at him curiously, dark eyes questioning. She was in no hurry for him to let her go, and he was sure that she wanted him to kiss her. It would be a lie to say he was not tempted, if only just for a moment.

  And then he thought of Cecily, and another kiss, a kiss that had suddenly become very dear to him and that had brought to life in him feelings he had thought long dead. So instead, he smiled and released her. Hunydd blinked once, smoothed her skirts, and with a last smile, walked stiffly to the village, her shoulders drawn back and her head held high, aware Thomas was watching her. Had he seen her face, he would have seen that the lips he had so nearly kissed were turned up in a smile.

  CHAPTER 19

  Prior Gilbert sat hunched over his desk, scowling down at the not inconsiderable mess of parchments strewn across its broad surface. The prior had never been one for study. He did not have the patience for it and would gladly have fobbed the work off on someone else had he not thought it necessary to know the comings and goings of his own house. Unfortunately, that meant he actually had to read the accounts, and the various correspondence addressed to him personally, and God only knows how many densely written legal documents. It might be his least favorite task, but it had to be done, and so he kept at it like a heavy-laden ship battering its way through a choppy sea.

  He was not at all disappointed when Eustace rapped on the door to announce his presence.

&nbs
p; “Gilbert, might I trouble you for a moment of your time?”

  The prior smiled his welcome.

  “Of course, Eustace. My door is always open to an old friend. Besides, I was just about to take a break. The numbers are beginning to swim before my eyes. I swear I have reviewed the cellarer’s accounts three times now, and I simply cannot make them tally. Have you perhaps come to continue our game?”

  The prior gestured to a small table before the fireplace, on which sat a wooden chessboard, the stone pieces scattered across its checkered surface in the midst of a fierce struggle. Chess was a secret vice of theirs and had been for a long time now. Strictly speaking, Benedictine monks were supposed to disavow possessions, a complication Gilbert avoided by regarding the chess set as a piece of furniture that belonged to the priory, rather like a stool or table.

  “I believe I have you this time,” he added with a chuckle and a cheeky wink.

  In truth, Gilbert knew he was but a poor player. He invariably lost and half-suspected such few victories as he managed were gifted to him by his friend. But he enjoyed the fray, nevertheless, and most of all he enjoyed the company.

  “Perhaps we can play a little later,” replied Eustace with an indulgent smile. “For now, I need to talk to you about our Dominican guest.”

  The prior’s good humor dissipated immediately. Friar Justus had been nothing but a nuisance ever since his arrival. He was a miserable man who seemed to find fault with everything: the food was too rich, the music too jolly, the readings too insipid. It seemed that nothing would please him, and Gilbert was secretly longing for his departure.

  “Did you know he beats himself?” asked Eustace. “You can hear his cries at night.”

  Gilbert’s eyebrows shot up, and he drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the desk. “A flagellator is he? Well, I cannot say I approve. I doubt God intends for us to punish ourselves in such a manner. But I cannot tell him how to practice his devotion in the privacy of his own cell.”

  Eustace nodded his understanding. “I had supposed so, as well. However, his wailing disturbs the novices and even more so the young oblates. He has also taken it on himself to school our younger brethren. He scolds them severely at times and has even cuffed or thrashed those he finds to be failing in their duties.”

  The prior glowered angrily. “It is not for him to discipline our charges. He is a guest here.”

  Gilbert believed the priory should be a happy place where younger novices and oblates could feel at home. He had often been beaten as a child and could not bear to see another chastised unnecessarily.

  “There is worse yet, I am afraid,” continued Eustace. “His companion, this Guy de Hokenham, as he calls himself, has been accosting the women in the village. I am afraid he has … touched several of them in a most inappropriate and unwelcome manner.”

  The prior gaped in horror. He had always been somewhat innocent of the world, having been an oblate, given to the order as a child, and the idea that someone would abuse the local womenfolk shocked him, even more so as that person was a guest under his own roof.

  “Why that is outrageous! This is my house and I shall not have it.”

  Eustace nodded his approval and stood aside from the door meaningfully. Gilbert took the hint, heaved himself out of his chair, and stormed past Eustace at a rolling gait.

  The prior was an extremely affable and caring man. But his strength was also his weakness. At heart, Gilbert wanted nothing more than to be liked and was uncomfortable with conflict. Indeed, by the time they had reached the Dominican’s cell, the edge was already gone from his anger, and he dithered on the threshold before he finally managed to pluck up the courage to poke his head inside, where he found Justus on his knees in prayer.

  “I apologize for interrupting, Justus, but might we have a word?”

  Justus’s face wore its usual sour look. “As you can see, I am tending to my devotions. I am surprised you are not doing so yourself.”

  “This is a rather important matter,” said Gilbert firmly. “It cannot wait.”

  He proceeded to relate the charges. He did so in a calm and confident manner and was very clear as to what was and was not acceptable behavior on the part of a guest under his roof. The Dominican listened patiently throughout, an unreadable expression on his face, and once the prior was done, clasped his hands together, steepling the forefingers to his lips.

  “I appreciate your candor, Prior. Have you said your piece?”

  Gilbert was a little taken aback. He had not expected reasonable behavior from someone he had become convinced was an unreasonable man. Gratified at the way things were going, he relaxed and was finally able to unclench his buttocks.

  “Yes. I think that about covers it.” He turned to Eustace, who stood by his side, eyeing the Dominican with an inscrutable expression. “Was there anything I missed, Brother?”

  “No. I think you were very clear, Gilbert. It only remains for our guest to affirm that from hereon he will comport himself more consistently with our expectations and that he shall immediately curb the outrageous behavior of his servant.”

  Both monks turned to Justus expectantly.

  “Your expectations?” Justus scoffed. “I am to comport myself consistent with your expectations?”

  Gilbert took a step back.

  “I find your expectations decidedly wanting and entirely unworthy of a House of God. You interrupt my prayer to tell me that I should limit my devotions. That I should spend less time in worship.”

  “I did not suggest you limit your devotions, Justus,” blustered the prior, “only that—”

  “Only that I show less zeal, perhaps, in my love of the Lord?”

  “Well, I did not say that, so much as—”

  “Have you forgotten that your purpose here in this priory is prayer and contemplation?”

  “No, I have not forgotten—”

  “I have to wonder then why I see lapses all around me.” Justus shook his head. “Devotional offices are not kept strictly to the hour. Brothers stumble into matins tardy, several blatantly sleeping through the Office, snoring loudly, having glutted themselves with ale the night before. And during repast there is a persistent hum of talk and, worse yet, laughter. Laughter. At the table! And it is not only during repast. I regularly hear your brothers gossiping like fishwives as they work, even as they illuminate.”

  Gilbert shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “It is true that perhaps I have not held everyone strictly to the Rule, but I find—”

  “And the food! I had been meaning to mention that to you.” The prior stepped back even further, unable to complete his explanation, which was just as well, as it was a rather weak one. “The menu regularly includes meat of the quadruped, and even wines. It is most troubling. Is it not surprising if I must beg the Lord’s indulgence after sitting through a veritable bacchanalian festival, an orgy of gluttony? And I see full half your brothers skulking away to the misericord, where I presume you have given them full license to gorge themselves on animal flesh, a practice that is becoming all too common in the Benedictine Houses.”

  Gilbert’s buttocks were firmly clenched together once more, and he could feel a cold dribble of sweat working its way down between the cheeks. Justus was far from done, however.

  “Then there is the chanting of the Office. Have you not noticed that it is entirely off-key? Ordinarily I would not care for music, but this is the Divine Office. The performance ought to reflect the glory of God and the deep reverence we have for Him. And yet your precentor squeals throughout like a stuck pig. I should think the sound most offensive to God’s ears.”

  Justus crossed his arms angrily and grimaced.

  “And you dare speak to me of women when half the women in your village strut about like common whores, swaying their hips, and thrusting out their bosoms at any man they can find. Is it any wonder that Guy might be tempted? Only yesterday I saw one such temptress here, in these very cloisters, chatting away with the broth
ers, giving them her coy looks and simpering smiles. I could scarce believe my eyes.”

  “I believe you may be referring to a lay laundress—”

  “A laundress? Have you entirely forgotten the Benedictine motto? Ora et labora! Work and prayer! Yet you permit lay servants to do much of your work. And one of them a temptress.”

  Gilbert would hardly describe the snaggle-toothed old crone that laundered their habits a temptress. She was not likely to arouse the ardor of any of the monks, and he was about to say so when the Dominican stood up, looming over him threateningly.

  “While we are on the subject of the vices of flesh, I am convinced the cellarer is trading your stores for favors from village women. And I have become very concerned with the close relationship, the intimate relationship, between certain of your brothers and one or two of the novices.”

  Gilbert looked stunned. “Are you suggesting …?”

  “I am suggesting that you curb the behavior of your brethren. You seek to lecture me on my duties when your own charges are engaged in forbidden carnal relations.”

  Seeing his friend hopelessly floundering, Eustace chose this moment to enter the fray, and placed a reassuring hand on Gilbert’s shoulder. “The women your man has accosted were no harlots, Justus, but good girls from decent families.”

  Justus barked out a scoffing laugh. “I think that perhaps you Benedictines spend too much time cloistered away from the world and are naive to the tricks of women. Do you not recall the warning given to us by the prophet Isaiah: ‘the daughters of Zion are haughty, and walk with outstretched necks and wanton eyes’. No, I am all too familiar with women and their ways. They all lust for trinkets and what a man has between his legs.”