***
Brother Thomas was already there, talking to the other two lay brothers. When he saw Brother Anthony, he greeted him with courtesy and began to discuss what he expected him to do.
Before the elder lay brother went back to his other duties, Beorn stayed for a few moments and listened to the way the youth responded to his new tasks.
The lad was bright and eager to learn, as well as serve as directed. That almost brought a smile to the man’s lips. It would not take much to push a motivated youth back onto a righteous path, the lay brother decided. After all, Brother Anthony had chosen to take vows and did not do so because his father, a Walsingham butcher, wished it.
Leaving the kitchen, Brother Beorn retraced the path he had come, his large feet shattering the crust of icy snow and his mind now firmly on God.
Suddenly, a tonsured man emerged from around a corner and deliberately blocked Beorn’s way. Hands on hips, the man scowled. “I am Abbot Mordredus.”
The imperious tone caused Beorn to bristle, but he remembered in time that this man was an abbot. He bowed his head with obligatory respect.
“I seek the kitchen that serves the guest quarters,” Mordredus said. “Perhaps you have not heard the news. Some of my fellow abbots have fallen ill on the food cooked there. I must speak with those who prepare our meals to make sure nothing like this happens again.”
Beorn was outraged at the insult to the priory, and an unChristian desire to strike back at this man’s rudeness surged through him. He raised his head, realized the abbot was shorter than he, and found a sinful pleasure in looking down at Mordredus.
“My lord, I shall gladly take you to the kitchen, but you may rest assured that your concerns have been addressed. Prioress Eleanor has sent Brother Thomas to make certain you are all safe and will suffer no further distress. Indeed, he is speaking to those in charge of the meals while we stand here.”
Abbot Mordredus tilted his head and stared at the lay brother in amazement. “A mere monk? Not Prior Andrew? What was she thinking to make such a choice?”
Beorn knew he must confess, as soon as possible, these sins of impertinence that he was in the act of committing, but his immediate duty was to defend his prioress and Tyndal Priory. He picked his words carefully in reply to this man who dared to question Prioress Eleanor’s decision.
“Brother Thomas often acts for Prior Andrew in matters that require special attention, my lord. The good monk is well regarded by us all at Tyndal for his skills and especially his virtue.”
Mordredus blinked, silently spun on his heel, and crunched his way back toward the guest quarters.
With a victorious joy he knew was wicked, Beorn watched him leave and then changed his own route to go to the church.
There was one transgression that he must confess immediately, a sin that was more grievous than all his others. He would beg a severe penance for daring to question any decision his beloved prioress ever made.
Chapter Twenty-one
Thomas was well-pleased with the lay brother recommended by Gracia to work with him in the new kitchen. Brother Anthony seemed a clever lad with a boy’s enthusiasm for adventure and a man’s desire to take responsibility for doing the task properly.
Although Prior Andrew had concluded that only two men were needed to perform kitchen duties during the abbots’ stay, Thomas persuaded him to keep the two lay brothers originally assigned there while adding Brother Anthony and himself.
The first two men were both grieved and frightened that the food they served the guests had killed one abbot and perilously sickened another, but the monk assured them that they were guilty of nothing. After questioning them, he learned that no one had stopped them on their way to deliver the noon meal, nor had any unknown person come into the kitchen. Thomas swore to them that he would take responsibility for overseeing all future meals until the abbots left or the poisoner was caught.
The addition of Brother Anthony, he explained, would allow them to prepare the meals without worrying that something might happen when they were too busy to notice. The youth could even be taught some basic cooking skills to ease the burdens of the two men. Brother Anthony was not only eager but obviously had too many wits to spend his earthly days cleaning moss from chapel windows or feeding the large priory chicken flock.
Deep in thought after he left the kitchen, Thomas did not hear the bell tolling the next Office so was surprised to find the guest quarters empty, silent, and the chamber doors shut when he arrived to tell the abbots they could be confident that no more poisonings would occur.
Standing in the dining area around which the guest rooms were built, he felt the stillness fall on him with a heavy weight. The ensuing melancholy allowed the pain of his recent and very private sorrow to attack with an agonizing blow to the deepest part of his heart.
Durant of Norwich, wine merchant and spy for the king, had sent him a message with his trustworthy servant who delivered wine to Tyndal Priory. Some years ago in Walsingham, when they worked together to catch an assassin, Durant and Thomas had formed a deep bond and swore a vow of brotherhood. But the love between them had become an attachment more passionate than the one between brothers, and their meetings since had grown strained.
The last time they had met, the two had clung together with a fervor that made both dizzy with lust, but each stepped back before a greater violation of vows and law had been committed. Without a word, Durant fled. With a numbing silence, Thomas watched him leave. His longing to lie with the wine merchant until their bodies were both sated was unbearable, but he had not called to Durant, begging him to come back. In that moment, he found he had lost all power of speech.
A month ago, this man Thomas allowed himself to love had written that they must no longer meet. Although he sinned often enough, Durant had said, he could not commit the ultimate blasphemy of seducing a man vowed to God into breaking his sacred oaths.
Thomas groaned in memory, clenching his fist in his ongoing protest to God.
“Are you in pain, Brother?”
The monk opened his eyes and saw Abbot Didier standing before him. The same question from Sister Anne would have meant concern for his health. The abbot’s expression revealed a man who feared most for his own safety in the face of any errant plague.
Forcing a smile, Thomas assured the abbot that all was well and he had only suffered an inconsequential pain in his gut.
Didier still looked uneasy. “An attack of the wind? Abbot Ilbert suffered that.”
Thomas denied the cause. “A minor twinge,” he said dismissively. “I ran up the stairs too fast.”
The abbot sighed with relief and motioned to the now open door of his chamber. “We are well met then. I wish to speak privately with you. This is a matter so troubling that I was unable to accompany the others to prayer because I could not concentrate on God. That was impious of me. I must end this wickedness by revealing my concerns to a man of God.”
Thomas followed him into the chamber and looked around. There was a ewer sitting on a chest. He glanced at the abbot and pointed to the object.
“Fear not, Brother.” My servant has brought this wine to me, and it is from my own store. I have already drunk of it and, as you see, I remain upright.”
Thomas chose not to remind Didier that Abbot Tristram had felt ill, recovered, and later died. Instead he said, “It might still be wise if you ate and drank nothing but what we serve you here.”
“And die like Abbot Gifre?”
“That problem will not occur again.”
“Your prioress may be without equal among her peers, Brother, but in matters of mortal evil, she still suffers the deficiencies of all women.”
Such was the ignorance of those who did not know his prioress, Thomas thought, but he was accustomed to this, as was Prioress Eleanor. “You have my oath that Death will be barred from your company henceforth,
my lord. I am responsible for all arrangements to keep you safe at meals.” He bowed his head.
“Ah, so I may truly hope that the plan will be good.”
“But I must beg forgiveness for the delay in letting you speak of this matter which so unsettles you.”
Didier looked over his shoulder before choosing to shut his chamber door. “As deeply as this grieves me,” he said, walking back to the monk, “I must tell you that I believe one of us is guilty of these heinous acts of murder.”
Thomas tried not to show his surprise. “Please explain, my lord.”
Didier poured himself a mazer of the wine.
Thomas winced but said nothing. When the abbot failed to offer him any, he was grateful.
“You know that we were all traveling to Norwich to meet the special papal envoy. The stated intent was to discuss how best to preach the crusade as well as to confess the problems in our respective abbeys and the plans to correct them. The underlying purpose was the longing in each of us to impress Rome with our competence and worthiness to receive a bishopric when next an opening occurred.”
At least the abbot is being forthright, Thomas thought, and encouraged Didier to say more.
“I fear that one of us may have succumbed to worldly ambition and chosen to remove some of the competition.”
“I understand your point. Please elaborate on your specific concerns.”
“I have learned that Abbot Mordredus wrote to Rome in the summer of last year and condemned each of us for some terrible sin. He himself is guilty of ambition beyond a righteous desire to serve God in a more responsible role. His envy is a gangrene rotting his soul. Satan himself could not be more wicked. Of course, he failed to mention any of that!”
“If you will, what were the sins of which each abbot was accused? I ask only to clarify the magnitude of his deed.”
Didier sipped at his wine. The deepening flush on his cheeks suggested he had been drinking for some time.
Unless, Thomas thought unkindly, it indicated his great eagerness to expose his fellow abbots.
“First, there is Abbot Ilbert,” Didier said. “He was a man infamous for cruelty and wrath. He almost beat my nephew to death in a fit of temper over a minor infraction.”
Thomas voiced the expected astonishment.
“Abbot Tristram was notorious for taking credit for every success in his position, although we all knew others did the work. There was no man more slothful.”
Thomas shook his head with proper dismay.
“Abbot Gifre was infamous for channeling funds into his own pocket rather than to the poor. His collection of plate is wondrous, while even his clerics are ill-clad and poorly fed. He exemplified greed.”
Didier poured more wine, drank with evident pleasure, and looked at the monk for encouragement.
Thomas willingly gave it.
“Abbot Odo, of course, is known for his gluttony. Abbot Ancell was born into a family of high rank and never lets anyone forget it. Of those of us still alive, neither Odo nor Ancell deserves a bishopric, a position where a man should exercise denial and humility. Abbot Mordredus is, of course, the Devil’s twin and should not even be in the position he has. Surely you agree?”
“Humbleness is a great virtue, my lord, and the suppression of the body’s desires is part of our vows.” Although he had tried to be supportive while remaining vague, Thomas was almost overcome by a surge of embarrassment. Just how hypocritical was he, considering his most recent encounter with Durant? He forced his mind back to the question of murder. “But you have not said of what sin you were accused.”
Didier snorted. “A lie, of course. He especially vilified me because I was the only one he could not slander honestly.” The abbot raised his chin in defiance. “He accused me of lust!”
“Indeed!”
“There is a woman who lives near my abbey. A whore. She has several children, all by different men, or so I have been told. They are not mine, as Mordredus claims. On several occasions, I have visited her with a virtuous longing to direct her into a godly path and thus save her soul. Each time, my servant has accompanied me. There is no reason, other than a craving to belittle, for accusing me of breaking my vows.”
And, Thomas thought, the servant probably waits outside the woman’s hut while the abbot preaches the doctrine of love to her in his own special way.
He flashed an expression that suggested sympathy. “Since three of the abbots accused of vices have died, and one has fallen seriously ill, we can eliminate them from suspicion of murder,” the monk said. “Which man of the remaining abbots do you think most likely to be guilty?”
Didier looked horrified. “Surely you do not expect me to point a finger at one!”
“I beg for your well-considered opinion, my lord. If you are wrong, no one will know. If you are correct, I shall praise you for leading us to the solution.”
“Of course, I am innocent. As for Odo, I could disregard him. He does not have a polished wit. If he did, he might have made himself sick, but not fatally, to direct suspicion to others.”
Thomas had not thought of that. Unlike Didier, he did not disparage Odo’s intelligence, nor did Ralf, despite his scorn for his brother. Nevertheless, the idea of Odo killing all these men troubled the monk. He hated contemplating the possibility that his friend’s brother might be a murderer, but he knew that he could not ignore it just because of his friendship and loyalty to Ralf. It would still be a cruel blow to the crowner’s family honor if true.
Didier’s expression was somber with reflection. “Thinking more on this, I truly cannot ignore the Abbot of Caldwell. He may not have a refined and well-educated mind, but he is quite clever in a rough sort of way. Yet I have my doubts about his guilt. I never thought he was a man willing to endure suffering of any kind for any reason.” He glanced into his ewer and found it empty. Raising his cup, he savored the last drops of wine.
Thomas waited for him to finish drinking.
After a sigh of pleasure, Didier continued. “Nor do I see good cause to accuse Ancell. He is far too arrogant to think another would be chosen over him, even if we had all remained alive. He is also aged. These murders require a younger man’s energy and the passion of hate.”
For a moment, silence fell as Didier formed his closing argument in favor of his chosen poisoner.
Thomas heard voices outside and realized the other abbots and the servants were coming back from prayer.
“I think the killer may well be Mordredus,” Didier said in a hushed voice. “He was the one to write to Rome. He is the one who yearns for the bishopric the most. Indeed, his greatest sin is envy. He is jealous of us all.”
“I shall take these ideas to heart, my lord, and will use them to investigate further. My gratitude for your information and flawless logic is boundless.”
With that Thomas bowed and left, just as the others were filling the dining hall. They fell silent when they saw him. His gaze meekly lowered, he passed by without speaking. Walking down the stairs to the outside, his mind again fled from the issue of murder and stubbornly returned to his angry quarrel with God.
Enlighten me, he muttered in silence to the Deity he served. Why may the sin of lust be forgiven so easily in one man but not in another? Didier keeps a mistress who is only a convenient vessel in which to spill his seed. Other women equally serve his desires. For these transgressions, the abbot is condemned but also excused, as long as he confesses and does penance for sins he commits repeatedly. But what of men like Durant and me? What if we had lain together that one night and then sincerely asked for penance and never repeated the act?
Thomas knew that many in England wanted to burn those who committed sodomy with another man. According to some tales, the half-brother of England’s queen, King Alfonso of Castile, had ordered his brother strangled and the man’s alleged lover burned at the stake. There was no t
rial and no offer of penance. How was this just?
How could God, who spoke of compassion and forgiveness, countenance such a harsh penalty? Why were he and Durant condemned as more wicked than Didier, a man who never denied himself a woman’s body, eagerly broke his vows, and offered only hollow repentance?
Thomas slammed his fist on the rough stone wall and did not even feel the pain.
Chapter Twenty-two
Odo picked at his blanket. “Although you may wish it otherwise, Ralf, I am no killer.”
Ralf shot him an unconvinced look.
“If I were, I would have murdered you many years ago. My forbearance then argues for my innocence now.”
“Not that you would hang anyway,” the crowner replied.
“Spare me a recitation of your impious opinion that putting a man to death is superior to godly penance that cleanses the soul from the taint of sin.” The abbot grunted. “Or that penance is easier to bear than execution. Death, no matter how agonizing, is of brief duration. I find hanging preferable to being locked into a penitential cell for the remainder of my life without the small comforts and sustaining meals I enjoy in my chambers at Caldwell Abbey.”
Ralf chuckled. “You have finally convinced me, Odo. The meals, not the penitential cell. If you were locked away with no sunlight but given fine haunches of venison along with a good red wine, you would be content enough.”
The abbot looked around with impatience. “Where is that servant? I need something besides tasteless water to drink.”
“You have been forbidden anything else by Sister Anne until your humors recover from your near-death.”
“What does she know? She’s a woman.”
“Have you forgotten the time, before our father died, when she saved your hand after it grew foul from the knife-cut?”
Odo looked at the jagged scar still visible on his palm. “That is the same woman? She became a nun? I thought she was your whore.”
Ralf leapt to his feet and wrapped his hand around his brother’s throat. “Apologize, you cur, or you’ll not live to eat again!”
The Proud Sinner Page 13