One day, the boy begged an audience with his father and imparted something of such import into his ear that the earl developed a true, albeit belated fondness for him. As a reward for warning him of the malicious plot being brewed, the earl gave Thomas a thump of genuine affection and sent him off to cathedral school.
Thomas might have preferred more direct forms of affection and, from the beginning, made it clear he had little taste for the Church. At his father’s insistence, however, he did take minor orders. The earl told him with well-intentioned candor that Thomas’ birth precluded inheriting either title or lands and that taking such orders would give the boy a fine future with men in high places who would value his talents. Indeed, as he began his sometimes less than strictly clerical duties for some of the more ambitious men of the Church, Thomas learned to enjoy assisting in the earthly power games played by his priestly masters.
Sharing this love of intrigue had been his boyhood friend, Giles, who was also sent to cathedral school as the proper place for a younger, and in this case legitimate, son of one of the earl’s barons. Giles was more than just a childhood friend. They had been brothers in toddler mischief, adolescent buffoonery, and finally the more serious sports of wining and wenching.
Then one bright spring morning, after a night of sharing the lush favors of a serving maid from a pilgrims’ inn near Saint Edward the Confessor’s shrine at Westminster, Thomas was awakened from a sweet but unremembered dream by church bells ringing out with their particular joy. He looked at Giles’ naked body next to him and had begun to caress him with an inexplicably tender longing. Indeed, never before had Thomas felt so unreservedly happy nor had he ever been able to show love so freely.
Giles later claimed he knew nothing of what had happened before the maid began to scream and a horrified pilgrim ran to fetch the archdeacon’s chief clerk, but Thomas knew better. He remembered how ardently Giles had returned his kisses and fondling, how Giles had begged his friend to thrust his sex into him. And as he began to do so, Thomas felt an almost holy joy.
Yet the man who dragged him from Giles had screamed “Sodomite!” and the dungeon where Thomas had soon found himself was a cold, foul, and brutal hell.
One of his jailers raped him, all had taunted him, but two took especial joy in loudly recounting tales of how Giles had spent his days since, tearing at his garments and howling like a wolf. He had been locked away in his father’s castle tower until he begged his father to take him to the chapel. Arriving at the door, Giles had ripped away his remaining rags and plunged naked into a bed of stinging nettles. The priest had exorcised Satan from the young man’s writhing body, after which Giles had fallen into a deep sleep and, when he awoke, claimed ignorance of all that had transpired in bed with Thomas.
Now cleansed of evil, Giles had walked barefooted to a nearby shrine in penance and in gratitude. Shortly thereafter, he was married to an old and wealthy widow of his father’s choosing. Thomas’ jailers recounted this last news in especially ribald detail just outside his prison door. The onetime rape he might have endured, swearing to castrate the man in good time. The tauntings were only words even his dulled wits could match, but these jailers could not have chosen a better torture than this tale to bring him to his knees, whimpering like a beaten dog, in grief for his friend.
Why Thomas hadn’t been burned at the stake was still a mystery to him. Perhaps it was his father’s doing. Perhaps it was some bishop who had benefited from his murmured advice. Whatever, he had wanted to die by the time he was finally wrenched from his prison bed of rotten straw, rat feces, and his own filth. The brightness of forgotten sunlight had seared his eyes, and the encrusted chains had rubbed his bloody ankles to a point beyond pain. He would have begged for death, had he not lost his voice in a world where darkness made a mockery of human speech.
Although the tonsure would suggest the man was from the Church, Thomas had no idea of the somber one’s identity as he sat in the warden’s room and silently examined the disgusting wretch Thomas had become. Whoever the man was, he had quickly ordered a stool brought for Thomas to sit on and some watered wine for his rusted throat.
“I have a proposition for you,” the black-robed man had said, his voice undistinguished by any particular tone.
Thomas had stared at him.
“A slow death at the stake and your soul condemned to Hell…”
Thomas blinked.
“…or your sins forgiven in return for becoming a priest with unquestioning obedience to a master whom you will never meet.”
Thomas said nothing.
“Do you hear me?”
Thomas dipped his head.
“Do you understand the choice?”
Thomas nodded.
“And?”
“The Church,” Thomas whispered. “I know Hell and wish no more of it.”
And so they had cut the chains from his flesh, bathed his filth-dyed and rat-bitten body, put poultices on the worst of his festering wounds and shaved a monk’s tonsure on his head. When he was strong enough, they trained him further in priestly rites and draped chastity, poverty, and obedience over his head with a monk’s rough habit.
But Thomas didn’t mind what he had been forced to swear.
He only minded forswearing Giles.
And who, with such sadistic humor, had chosen the penitential Giles to lead the ravaged Thomas to Tyndal Priory and leave him like an abandoned child to be encloistered with monks under the rule of women?
Thomas hoped he never found out.
***
Thomas rang the bell, then turned and looked down the road. There was nothing to see, not even settling dust, but Thomas continued to stare into the distance as tears slipped down his cheeks. Shamed at his weakness, he wiped them away but bowed his head as the ache of grief burst into his hollowed-out heart. The pain would linger for a long, long time.
The sound of the heavy wooden door opening on its metal hinges caused him to turn around. In front of him was a small monk of indeterminate age with deep blue eyes and a head so bald a tonsure was unneeded.
“Thanks be to God! And welcome to Tyndal Priory, brother,” the man said with ritual greeting and a deep bow. “I am Brother Andrew.”
Chapter Six
“We will, of course, handle the problem of our poor brother’s body, my child… ah, my lady. Please don’t worry yourself about it. A great shock it must have been for you to find him lying dead in your cloister. And a great tragedy for you to lose his counsel, to be sure.” Prior Theobald of Tyndal shifted in his ornately carved wooden chair, a slightly musty odor emanating from his dark robes with the movement. As he resettled, he grimaced, and in so doing brought his bushy gray eyebrows into brief collision.
He was a dour man of advanced years with an unusually large abdomen despite an otherwise skeletal frame. Resting on his stomach was a heavy gold cross, attached to a soft rope that looped around his birdlike neck. His long, bony fingers first clutched, then stroked the crucifix with a broken and irritating rhythm.
Eleanor lowered her eyes, not out of modesty but to prevent him from seeing her fury. The prior’s tone had been dismissive from the moment she arrived at his quarters, and he had just interrupted her in the middle of a sentence. Again. At this rate, it might be the midnight hour before she was able to tell him the exact and very serious nature of Brother Rupert’s death. Did he think she had nothing else of importance to do with her day as a result of it? She took a deep breath to calm herself.
She knew she had only herself to blame for his disrespectful behavior. Her aunt had given her good warning about what to expect at Tyndal. Although the clerical world, and indeed the secular one as well, found the idea of Eve leading Adam uncomfortable, the founder of Fontevraud had specifically declared that female leadership would be the rule in his Order of nuns and monks. The old prioress had not always been diligent in exerting her rightful authority over both men and women as the supreme head of a Fontevr
aud double house. Sister Beatrice had told Eleanor that she would have an upward battle to reestablish the rule.
“I am sure your assistance will be greatly appreciated, Prior,” she replied, unclenching her teeth.
Some would have argued that Eleanor’s first concern should have been to reestablish her authority immediately, despite the alarming circumstances and implications of the old monk’s death. She knew that. Of course she should have summoned Prior Theobald to her chambers where she could look down from her raised chair and enforce obedience from that symbol of her superior status. Instead she had chosen to go to his chambers, in the monks’ quarters to the south of the parish church, out of consideration for his advanced age and the effect she assumed the news would surely have on him. In going to him as if she were the inferior, she had committed a tactical error and further diminished her authority in the eyes of those who venerate form over substance.
Eleanor glanced up at the smug expression on the face of Brother Simeon. The receiver and sub-prior, who stood next to Theobald and idly stroked the grooves in the top of his prior’s chair, was one who appreciated the power of symbols. Perhaps even better than his master, she thought. Ideally, such worldly games should have no place in a house dedicated to God, but Eleanor was not so naïve as to think a religious vocation stripped men and women of ambition. She would have to learn to play the game of symbols far better if she were going to succeed here, or anywhere else.
She glanced over at Sister Ruth to see her reaction to the confrontation. The nun sat with hands folded in her lap and eyes staring in rapt concentration at the prior and Brother Simeon. Eleanor had no allies in this room, if, indeed, she had allies anywhere in Tyndal. Eleanor closed her eyes for just a moment. They burned.
“We will need a priest immediately to hear confessions, attend the dying at the hospital, and perform Mass. The crowner has been summoned,” she continued, concentrating on the rushes under her feet so as not to betray her feelings.
The prior blinked fretfully. “With all due respect, my lady, this is not a matter for the crowner. We need no such officer of a secular court to investigate and hold an inquest for our brother’s death. I will send one of the monks to examine the body, if that would allay your fears that the death might be questionable, but there is no doubt that Brother Rupert died a natural death. He was an aged man. Surely, God must have called him…”
“I did the preliminary examination with the aid of Sister Anne.”
“What!” The prior rose halfway out of his chair, his face as pale as his wispy hair. “This was not proper for…”
“Prior Theobald, as you well know, I am in charge of this priory and such actions are within my responsibility. A dead man’s body is hardly a shock or a temptation to sin.” She raised her hand as the old man opened his mouth. “Nor am I ignorant of the differences between bull and cow. Indeed, Brother Rupert did not die of age, he…”
The prior flapped his hand in the air as he eased himself back into his chair. “Disease of the lungs. Of course. Not uncommon here, but I was unaware he was so afflicted. Although I may have heard him coughing…” He glanced tentatively at the towering and well-fleshed monk standing beside him. Brother Simeon smiled down at Theobald with obsequious agreement.
Frustrated with the prior’s inability to listen long enough to hear her out, Eleanor dropped all attempts to soften the news. “His lungs were not at issue. He was stabbed and castrated.” She sat back in her chair, raised her eyes, and waited for the expected reaction, but the taste in her mouth was bitter.
“Castr…castrated?” Prior Theobald’s voice shifted up an octave in shock. He pulled his cross over his heart. “Brother Simeon! Why was I not told that Brother Rupert was troubled with such lust? Why was he not brought to me for prayer and counseling?” His voice cracked.
Eleanor blinked at this unexpected interpretation and looked over at Sister Ruth with hope that she might have some understanding to give to her. The nun looked away but not before Eleanor saw that her face was bright red.
Simeon smiled without humor and showed a few gaps in his yellowed front teeth.
“Surely, my lord, you remember when I mentioned my concern over his, shall we say, unusual attachment to…” he nodded in Eleanor’s direction and lowered his voice “…our revered Prioress Felicia? However, since her death, I assumed, in your wisdom, you had…”
Eleanor muttered a short prayer under her breath for the renewal of a patience she was quickly losing, then snapped. “Prior, he did not castrate himself. It was done to him. After death. A knife in the chest killed him, Sister Anne believes, but the blade was broken off…”
His face scarlet, Theobald leaned toward her. “How could you…”
Eleanor was about to tell him exactly how and why she could when a gentle rapping at the chamber door stopped her.
Theobald jerked upright in his chair. “Yes?” He squealed as his elbow hit the edge of his chair.
When Brother Andrew emerged from the doorway, he looked at the expressions of those in the chamber, then backed up and ever so slowly reached behind him to feel for the door. He gently pushed it shut before continuing. “My lord, the priest we have been expecting has arrived,” he said. “He is a young man as you hoped. What shall I do with him?”
Brother Simeon’s face softened as he bent to Theobald’s ear and put his hand reassuringly on the prior’s shoulders. “I suggest you bring him in to us here first, my lord. As a young man, surely he would have the energy to take over all a priest’s responsibilities with the hospital and nuns. And, perhaps, he might help our prioress settle this matter of our poor brother’s death in an expeditious fashion.”
Theobald exhaled as if he had been holding his breath and relaxed in his chair. “My thoughts exactly,” he said. “Bring him in, Brother Andrew.”
Eleanor raised her hand. “Just a moment, brother.”
The monk stopped in mid-step, but instead of looking to either Theobald or Simeon for direction, he turned to her. Perhaps, she thought with mild relief, she would not have to reeducate the entire priory.
“I have some questions before you bring him in. I was unaware we were receiving another priest; therefore, I must know something of his background and why he was sent here before I agree to his assignment as the spiritual advisor to my nuns and the afflicted. It would be discourteous to discuss this in front of him. We shall do so now.”
Sister Ruth’s eyes widened.
Simeon coughed and looked quickly in the direction of Theobald.
The prior nodded.
The interchange was not lost on Eleanor.
“In brief then, my lady,” Simeon said, “Brother Thomas has been sent by our English administrative community at Grovebury. Beyond that, we know little more except that his appointment to Tyndal has the approval of our Abbess at Fontevraud.” He smiled. “As yours has as well.”
Eleanor did not take the bait and said nothing. The silence grew long and tense as she waited for the receiver to give her the little more information she should have as head of the priory.
Simeon looked at Theobald, his forehead furrowed with irritation. Perhaps the receiver did not want to lose this battle of wills to a woman, but Eleanor noted that the prior gave him no support. Instead, Theobald looked away, leaving Simeon to flounder on his own.
Simeon cleared his throat and continued with some degree of dignity. “We had requested an additional chaplain, a young man we hoped. Many of our priests, poor Brother Rupert among them, are aging and no longer able to perform all their duties. Our few novices are too young.”
Grovebury, a tiny Fontevraud priory to the east of Amesbury, often provided monks for administrative help to the English houses of the Order. That connection alone would be sufficient recommendation to accept the new priest. The specific approval of the Abbess should suggest even higher merit, Eleanor thought, but as you well noted with such sarcastic tone, good brother, I received the same approva
l. How competent has that made me in the eyes of those here? The young priest’s credentials were indeed all too sketchy.
The problem of qualifications aside, what troubled her even more was the lack of sense in what Simeon had just said to her. Although Brother Rupert had that frail look not unusual amongst those who fasted often, she had not noted any remarkable physical weakness in him. That was the first inconsistency. Moreover, even if one were to assume he was far weaker than he had appeared and so advanced in age that he no longer had the energy to perform Mass or even hear confessions, how could anyone conclude that he burned with such uncontrollable lust that he would castrate himself? The whole thing was just ridiculous. It gave her no great peace of mind to know she had monks in charge of accounts and the estates who could reason no better than that.
She ground her teeth in frustration. The inability of either the prior or his receiver to think logically should be the least of her worries. She would, after all, be taking over the management of the priory herself. Of greater concern was the fact that she was not just starting her tenure with potentially incompetent monks, an inexperienced priest, and no support from her priory, she had a murdered priest in her cloister garth. A murderer had been able to enter both the outer court and the locked nuns’ quarters without being seen. The latter fact was especially disturbing.
She prayed the crowner would prove more competent than at least two of the people in the room with her and that he would capture the perpetrator quickly. She already had more to deal with than the average new prioress without having to worry about a murderer on the loose.
Wine of Violence Page 4