Odo looked at the little that was left for him and grumbled. He took a couple of bites. “It is ice-cold,” he complained and waved at a lay brother to take it away as the second hot tart had just arrived. “Give me some of that,” he shouted to the servers and immediately cut into the fresh one, devouring it at a happy pace. Soon, Sister Matilda’s fungal marvel gained the high praise from all, even Didier, who found mushrooms distasteful.
At least it did until Abbot Gifre grabbed at his throat.
“My mouth is on fire!” he screamed. A rank odor of sweat emanated from him as he swiftly bent to one side and vomited.
Prior Andrew leapt up and rushed to help, but the abbot fell to the floor in convulsions, screaming in agony.
“Send for Sister Anne!” the prior shouted to a lay brother who raced from the room.
From across the table, Odo rose from his seat, one hand pressed to his cheek. “I am dying! I cannot feel my face!” The abbot swayed perilously. “May God have mercy on us all,” he murmured, then rolled his eyes heavenward and collapsed on the ground.
The other abbots jumped up and ran to the wall, as far as possible from their afflicted brothers.
Only Abbot Ancell recovered sufficiently to come and kneel by Prior Andrew’s side. “Abbot Gifre’s soul is in danger,” he whispered to the prior who had his hand pressed to the prone man’s chest. “He must confess his sins.”
Andrew moved back to give Ancell room. “Quickly utter forgiveness in his ear, my lord. Abbot Gifre is dead.”
Chapter Sixteen
In a small room near the apothecary hut, Sister Anne watched as Brother Thomas finished studying Gifre’s cadaver. As she had with Ilbert and Tristram, the sub-infirmarian did not touch this abbot’s body out of respect for his vows, and turned her back when Thomas uncovered the man’s genitals.
The monk looked over his shoulder at her. “From the symptoms we have been told, I agree with you that he was killed by some poison. But I have found nothing of note other than a slight foam around the mouth.”
“I have ordered a testing of the remains of the tarts served to them. Sister Oliva has captured some mice and will feed them the crumbs. We should know soon what happens.”
“What of Ralf’s brother?” Thomas had delayed sending word to the crowner about Odo’s exact condition. Unlike Gifre, he was alive, although deathly ill, and had been carried to his room to be placed under the care of a knowledgeable lay brother from the hospital. Considering the great weight of the abbot, the man chosen to care for him was also possessed of a particularly robust build.
“If God shows mercy on him, he will not die as this man did,” Anne replied. “I will go to him later. He was suffering chills and nausea, but he spoke to me as he was carried away. That was a good sign.”
“Sister Anne?” Sister Oliva, the sub-infirmarian’s young assistant, was standing at the door. “If you are ready for them, I have the results of the tests for you to see.”
The sub-infirmarian and the monk followed her the short distance into the apothecary hut. As they entered, they saw a lay brother guarding the carefully separated tart bits. On the table were also two cages. One held dead mice. In the other, three mice turned their wary eyes to watch the looming creatures who had come to study them.
“The dead mice ate the first tart,” Sister Oliva pointed to the mostly eaten food. Without being asked, she described the manner of death the mice had suffered.
“And the others ate this?” Sister Anne pointed to those tart remnants.
“The live ones feasted well on them but have suffered no consequences. Other than showing their displeasure with our presence, they seem quite pleased with their meal.” The nun fell silent as she watched the sub-infirmarian first carefully examine the deadly tart, and then the other.
“Monkshood,” Sister Anne said, pointing to the first tart. “If you look carefully at that small remaining piece, you will see sharp-pointed bits of leaf on it. The symptoms are consistent with its poisonous nature.”
Thomas bent close to look. “I agree. It might also be taken for a seasoning herb.”
“Yet there is no evidence of it on the others,” Sister Anne said.
“If I may have permission to speak?” The young nun moved forward to stand in front of the poisoned food.
“I welcome your observations, Sister.” Anne smiled with pleased encouragement. Her young assistant had shown great talent in learning the apothecary art.
“The bits lie on top and do not look any different from the fresh cuttings we mix in oil and keep for treating joint pain.”
“Well noted!” Anne looked at Brother Thomas with some excitement. “That suggests they were not cooked with the tart but added to the top after.”
“Sister Matilda will be relieved,” the monk replied. “She cannot be blamed for this.”
“That does not mean that the poison was not sprinkled on top by a servant or even a lay brother who brought it from the kitchen.”
A gasp from behind them caused the monastics to spin around.
Abbot Ancell stood near the door, gape-mouthed. “I could have eaten that,” he croaked.
“God protected you from harm,” Thomas said with a look he hoped was gentle. How long had the abbot been standing there, and how much had he overheard? Perhaps it did not matter, other than causing the man greater apprehension than any of them wished him to suffer. According to Prior Andrew, Ancell had been the only one who cared enough about Abbot Gifre’s soul to set terror aside, kneel by the corpse, and whisper forgiveness before the dead man’s spirit fled. That thought lent greater kindness to the monk’s reply.
“I have just come from Abbot Odo’s bedside,” Ancell said. “He suffers pain and sees the world as yellowish-green, but he remains alive.”
Sister Anne sighed with relief. “Then he may live,” she said.
Abbot Ancell murmured a brief prayer.
“What happened at dinner?” Thomas subtly edged the abbot away from the sight of the dead mice.
Ancell had spied them, however, and his face paled. “I fear the shock of this event has chased all memory from me. I cannot recall what we spoke about at dinner or even who sat where.”
“Prior Andrew said the tarts were brought as the second course. Can you recall anything unusual about them? Taste? Smell? How they were served?”
The Abbot of Jayden eased himself down on a bench and put his head in his hands. “A little is coming back to me.” He looked up at the monk with sorrow. “Since I was closest to the dining hall entry, the lay brother initially offered me the food. As is the common practice in my abbey, I refused the first piece and said that the man who has served God longest should have the honor. That was Abbot Gifre.” He gulped. “My decision brought about his death!” He raised his hands to plead with Heaven. “May God forgive me!”
Thomas put a hand on his shoulder. “You were unaware that death was hidden in the mushroom tart, my lord. Your intention was a gesture of pious humility. God would not condemn when you could not know the food was lethal.” He waited until color slipped back into the man’s cheeks. “What happened next?”
“Abbot Gifre also refused and pointed to another abbot.” Ancell rubbed his eyes. “I do not recall which one it was.” He scowled as he tried to think. “Perhaps it was Abbot Odo, but, before he could reply, the others proclaimed that Abbot Gifre must be served first. I did notice that he took most of it, leaving only a little for Abbot Odo, who accepted the remaining small portion.”
“How much did Abbot Odo eat?” Sister Anne tucked her hands into her sleeves as a cold draft blew through the hut.
“Very little.” His cheeks flushed despite the chill. “I fear he complained that the debate had continued so long the tart was too cold for his taste. He does not love mushrooms, but his stomach was growling. Another arrived, to his relief, and others soon after that one.” He shuddered bu
t quickly brightened. “I do remember how amazed we all were because the other dishes were so hot, as was the first. They were steaming! Might that signify anything?”
“That is because the new kitchen was built next to the guest quarters,” Sister Anne replied. “The short serving time allows for hotter food.”
Ancell looked disappointed that his observation had served no useful purpose.
Sister Anne reassured him that his memory of the dinner had been helpful.
Thomas took in a deep breath. Despite not liking Ralf’s brother, he was grateful this one time that the man suffered from epicurean gluttony. Had he been less obsessed with the quality of his food, he might have finished the poisoned tart, no matter how cold, and died like Gifre.
“Did you notice anything in particular about either tart?” Sister Anne gestured to Sister Oliva who began to remove the cages of mice.
Ancell considered the question for a long moment. “Yes,” he said. “The first one was sprinkled with herbs. The second served to me was plain. I wondered why only one had been decorated. When we were given ale instead of wine with this meal, we were pleasantly surprised that the second servings of the drink were of the same quality as the first. Why should the second tarts be lacking in the finer presentation?”
Anne and Thomas denied any such discourtesy and murmured some innocuous reason. Neither wanted to reveal that the ornamentation had been lethal.
Chapter Seventeen
Thomas watched the abbots’ servants gather around him.
The deaths had frightened them, and each showed alarm in a different way. One twitched as if besieged by fleas. Another looked around as if expecting the Devil’s arrival. All looked guilty, as innocent men often do when faced with questioning. The monk felt pity, but he refused to reveal that. After all, one of these men might be a ruthless murderer.
Some of the men were tonsured, were mostly of middle or later years, and appeared by their dress to be lay brothers. One was an elderly priest, the monk noted. Two were young men in secular attire, perhaps from families local to the specific abbey. What surprised Thomas most was the small number of servants who had accompanied these abbots, all of whom had surely hoped to impress the papal envoy with their worthiness to advance to a bishopric.
Did each abbot wish to appear especially humble or was there another reason? Thomas was curious and phrased his query more diplomatically than he had thought it.
The untonsured servant of Abbot Didier spoke first. “I was chosen to come because I could handle a horse as well as provide for any of my master’s other needs.” He was a black-bearded man whose plainness of robe proclaimed his low rank while the finer quality of wool suggested otherwise.
“And I was brought because I made fewer mistakes than others who served Abbot Ilbert. He feared the unbalancing of his humors on the journey and did not wish to suffer choler at such a crucial time.” Even with his master dead, the skeletally thin lay brother looked behind him before he answered Thomas’ question.
As others replied, Thomas wondered at the presumed innocence of the papal envoy. To bring so few servants was hardly a believable act of humility when the abbeys these men ran were known for fine plate, rich sources of income, and regal guest quarters. All the abbots were recognized for their skills in political maneuvering and occasional visits to court. He had to assume they knew what they were doing.
“Where were each of you during today’s noon meal?” Thomas knew none of the servants had been with the abbots.
An elderly lay brother spoke first. One of his hands shook with a mild palsy. “Ask us individually for specific details, Brother, but we all had been ordered to clean and organize the room of our respective abbot.” He glanced around at his fellows. They each nodded. “Once our masters realized they would be staying here for longer than one night, they wanted the rooms prepared to their specific needs.”
Thomas asked for more information.
“Abbot Didier likes a softer bed. He brings pillows with him on his journeys.” The black-bearded servant tilted his head as if waiting for a particular reaction from the monk.
Thomas looked to the next servant.
“Abbot Odo cannot sleep unless he has a cup of his preferred wine set by his bed before he sleeps.” The man with the palsy hesitated. “And a plate of sliced beef, lest he awaken and feel weak.”
“And mine has a prie-dieu designed to ease his painful knees.” Abbot Ancell’s bald servant immediately lowered his gaze.
Didier’s man muttered something to the muscular village man who stood next to him and served Mordredus.
“I did not hear you,” Thomas said.
“My comment was a private jest, and I swear it had nothing to do with this tragedy,” the man replied. “I beg your forgiveness for the impropriety.” But his lips betrayed his lack of repentance with a twitch of amusement.
The monk almost insisted on a better answer but chose to let the matter pass. As Thomas had learned, Didier liked to share his bed with female company when he could. If the servant thought he could find a woman at Tyndal Priory who would lie with his master, he would find out soon enough that none existed.
Thomas turned to the two men who had served Abbots Ilbert and Tristram. “Where were you?”
Ilbert’s thin lay brother looked around again before replying. “Since my lord had died, Abbot Mordredus took me into his service, saying he was weary from the effort of doing things that he was not accustomed to performing for himself. His own servant was most grateful.” He glanced at a muscular man who winked with presumed concurrence.
“Abbot Gifre said his familial rank and the fame of his abbey allowed him an extra servant and ordered me to attend him.” Tristram’s man had the same down-curled mouth as his dead master. “He was worried that his silken robes might be stolen, so I was helping to bring in a chest containing them from the cart and was in the company of his usual man.”
“Each of you can therefore vouch for the whereabouts of the others at any time during the hour the abbots dined?”
Most agreed.
Thomas looked for a reply from those who had not.
“We all helped others where we could, Brother,” said Gifre’s lay brother. “But I cannot give my oath that I saw everyone at all times.”
Mordredus’ servant looked at the man with evident disapproval, scratched his chin through his beard, and then added, “We had formed a special brotherhood on this journey, no matter whether we had taken vows or not. If one of us was not done with his work when the abbots finished a meal, that servant was not allowed to eat until his allotted tasks were completed. And we were given very little time for our own dinner as it was. None of us wanted his fellow servant to miss any meal.”
“Aye,” Gifre’s man muttered with ill-disguised annoyance.
What Christian charity shown by the abbots, the monk thought, but quickly set his disgust aside. “Did any of you notice the kitchen brothers delivering the meal to the abbots?”
They all shook their heads. “We did not have time,” Didier’s servant said.
“And the first night you arrived? Were you all together?”
“We ate our suppers at a table separate from our masters but at the same time. After the guest chambers were examined by each abbot, we were given our orders.”
The grim-visaged former servant of Tristram said, “My master was ill in the night, Brother. I helped him to the garderobe when he called out for help. He was quite sick but initially refused my offer to seek aid from the hospital. He had been stricken in a similar way at the inn before we arrived here and believed he would recover just as quickly again.” The man looked pale as if he feared he would be blamed for not saving his master’s life. “This attack became far more severe, and he finally allowed me to call for hospital brothers.”
“God had called for his soul,” Thomas murmured. “Abbot Tris
tram was beyond mortal help.”
The man looked away, but the expression in his eyes suggested relief as if he had been afraid his master might have condemned him from the afterlife.
“Tell me about that night you stayed in the inn.” Thomas cast a glance at the secular men, who cared for Didier and Mordredus, but all levity had fled. Their faces were now cloaked in identically grave demeanors.
The others turned their gaze to the elder lay brother, as if begging him to become their spokesman.
He answered with a thin smile. “Our journey was difficult from the start. The roads were so bad we had to travel slowly for the safety of our horses. Our carts broke down. One wheel took too long to repair. By nightfall, we had no choice but to stay at this inn. It is dangerous to travel in darkness.”
The others murmured concurrence.
“When we arrived, my master, Abbot Odo, spoke with the innkeeper and demanded that each of the abbots be given a single room and the inn be rid of current guests so we might not be troubled with wicked talk. The raucous noise of Satan’s minions would destroy the peace in which we all longed to pray.” He hesitated.
Thomas urged him to continue.
“The innkeeper swore he had no private rooms and would not throw good customers into the snow for our sakes. He arranged for our masters to sleep together in one room on straw pallets which, he claimed, were clean. The rest of us slept in the stables.”
Didier’s servant chuckled.
“For supper, the innkeeper agreed to set up separate tables for us, abbots at the largest and servants at a smaller one, so we might eat apart from the others at the inn. We relieved him of the worry about serving us. We all went to the kitchen and brought food directly to our individual masters. The serving women there were not allowed to approach us.”
Mordredus’ servant waved his hand. “Forgive me, Brother, but there was one inn servant, a man, who helped us.”
The elder lay brother’s eyes widened. “You are correct! I had forgotten him. While we poured the ale, he took the bowls we carried and filled them with stew, demanding that he be allowed to slice more bits of the ox from the spit to add to the portions. The kitchen was as hot as the outside air was cold. It was not pleasant to come that close to the blazing fire or wait there long. We were grateful to him for his efficient help.”
The Proud Sinner Page 10