He rubbed the cup dry on his robe and put it down on the table. “Since I was given the old priest’s chambers near the chapel, while my prioress is a guest here, I should search the place. If I find any hidden wine, I will bring it to share with you another night,” Thomas grinned.
“That’s charitable of you, Brother. Considering how much he drank, I doubt you’ll find any. If there had been a drop left, he would have fought the Devil before he let him steal his soul. Forgive me for saying this, but I could have wrung the priest out and gotten wine enough to drink for supper if the cellar had been empty of it.”
Thomas laughed and slapped the soldier’s back, before retreating down the stairs. As he hastened toward the steps leading to the bailey, he wondered if he should tell Prioress Eleanor what the soldier had told him.
“Perhaps not until I have learned more,” he whispered to the pummeling wind. “Although some foul deed may have been committed, I have no proof, except this one soldier’s word. He seems a good man, but I do not know him well enough to conclude that he actually saw what he claims.”
The evidence was thin, and, as a guest in this place, Thomas knew he had no right to cry murder quite yet.
Chapter Ten
Prioress Eleanor and Sister Anne emerged from the common chapel just off the Great Hall. Although the body of Herbert’s son was no longer there, removed by the family to prepare for burial tomorrow, the wretchedness of his death had given a sad direction to their prayers.
Without uttering a word to each other, they both stopped at a window in the corridor and looked down into the bailey. Such was the nature of their friendship that their spirits were bonded even when each was preoccupied with private thoughts.
Eleanor stole a glance at her friend. She was worried about her.
In repose, Anne often bore a solemn expression but was still quick to laugh or raise spirits with her clever wit and shrewd observations. For several days now, Anne had fallen into unusual silence, her jests and insights halting or absent as if her thoughts had fled to some distant place.
Of course winter was a bitter season, filled with little joy, and this journey in particular had been a hard one. All this was cause enough for anyone’s weary sadness, yet it was quite unlike her sub-infirmarian to succumb to such emotions for long. It was also rare that Anne did not confide troubles.
Puzzled and unable to put a finger on the exact nature of Anne’s distraction, Eleanor turned her attention to what little she could see from the window.
Despite this being the family home of Baron Herbert, the prioress found little beauty in the fortress. Grey snow lay against walls and was pushed into corners, well-stained with the yellow-brown effluence from the living. And thus it remained, in stubborn defiance of any hope of spring. During the day, people and animals scurried to and fro in the bailey, noisily occupied with the demands of their lives and duties. She found little joy in their activity.
Were she honest with herself, she knew that such was the state of any castle in winter, when the cold made outside work a misery. Had she been at her father’s fortress in Wales, she would have seen similar sights and thought nothing of them. Here, she found fault.
What illogical creatures we mortals are, she thought, then concluded that a prioress, obliged to strive toward God’s perfection, had no excuse for such irrational and unacceptable failings.
Although a dying sun never meant that all activity ceased, there was little enough to see in the courtyard now to distract her. Torches flickered in the hands of soldiers. One blacksmith beat red-hot iron with a rhythmic clanging, and sparks flew like fireflies. The pungent stench of animals, too long in one spot, rose in the wind and assaulted Eleanor’s nose.
As she well understood, a castle was built to accommodate war, not the comfort of women and children, yet this fortress did seem uniquely grim, even when she tried to exile her bias. She understood how it had earned the name of dur, but what reason was there to ever call it doux?
Melancholy tugged more forcefully at Eleanor’s soul, and she quickly cursed whatever dark spirit resided here that seemed so determined to destroy all gladness in the heart. Thou shalt not win, she swore with fierce determination.
To drive away the morbid feeling, she turned her thoughts away from herself. It was time to draw her friend out and try to heal whatever burdened her. Her first question addressed the most likely problem: “Are you well?”
Anne flinched, but her expression softened with affection. “Did I not ask you much the same question earlier? Maybe we are both infected by some vile fetor hovering about?”
Eleanor stepped away from the window, her cheeks stinging from the sharp wind. “You have been so quiet of late. I feared that the journey may have been too great a hardship and that you had sickened. Knowing your concern for others, I wondered if you refused to confess ill-health lest you cause us difficulty.” She touched her friend’s arm and smiled. “None of us would ever think such a thing, and I speak as both friend and prioress.”
“My mother suffered to give me birth on this coast. Winter presents little that I have not endured before. I suffer no corporal illness, but I do confess that my spirit is uneasy.” The nun folded her hands and pressed them against her heart. “Do you truly think this castle is haunted by some malevolent force?” She turned her head so any expression was hidden by the folds of her wimple.
“Lack of knowledge is like a fertile land where the flowers of evil thrive,” the prioress replied. “When Hugh returns from seeing our host, we shall learn the reason for the baron’s summons. God’s intent shall be made evident, and He will give us the guidance needed to resolve the problem. Then demons may no longer torment us with those unsettling thoughts born of ignorance.”
Anne turned with a smile bright with enthusiasm. “Master Gamel said much the same yesterday about ignorance and evil, although he was referring to a proven treatment for an open wound. Some reject his preferred technique because they believe God has only sanctioned another way.” Suddenly, her face reddened.
The prioress raised an eyebrow.
The sub-infirmarian again hid her face. “He did consult with a priest, who determined there was nothing sinful in the remedy,” she said softly. “As you said, God provides enlightenment when the need exists. Ignorance, so beloved by Satan, soon vanishes.” Anne bent forward, rested her forearms on the stones of the window, and stared down into night.
Rarely had she ever seen Anne discomfited, Eleanor thought. As if listening to the sounds below, Eleanor said nothing and studied her friend out of the corner of her eye. After a moment, she asked: “Is the physician married? If so, this journey must be an especially long and lonely one for him.”
“His wife died a few years ago. He blames himself for that, claiming that his skill was too poor to save her. As I mentioned, there is a son, the only child to thrive of the eight borne, and the young man shall soon marry the daughter of a family friend. Master Gamel is delighted that the match has proven a happy choice for all.”
The two had discussed much more than medicine on the road, Eleanor thought, then become aware that there was no joy in Anne’s words. Although the nun had suffered the death of her only child before she took vows, she always found pleasure in hearing about the offspring of others.
“There should be grandchildren soon to cheer his heart.”
Eleanor nodded. Perhaps Anne’s last remark revealed the source of her pain. With her own babe dead, Anne’s arms must feel even emptier without the hope of grandchildren she could never embrace. “A son’s marriage?” Eleanor eased the subject away from that of children. If she wanted to pursue this cause of her friend’s pain, it should be done in a more private place. “A good enough reason to pray for a swift return home…”
“I hope my company does not offend?” The man’s voice was soft with misgivings and intended courtesy.
The two women spun around.
Sir Leonel bowed.
“Not at all,” Eleanor repli
ed with more fervor than was required. She knew her face must be glowing and that the cause was not attributable to the surprise of his arrival.
“I was in the chapel too. You did not see me.”
Indeed she had not, the prioress thought. God must have blinded her to this man’s presence so she could concentrate on the state of his dead cousin’s soul.
“I did,” Anne replied. “With all you have suffered over the death of your cousin, Gervase, it seemed a kindness to let you pray in peace.”
Eleanor looked into Leonel’s eyes. How many men had eyes that color of a summer flower, she mused, then realized that he was standing so close she could feel his warm breath.
She willed herself to retreat until her back was against the wall. “You were sad witness to his tragic fall,” she said, pleased that her voice did not tremble this time even if her knees did.
“And I grieve deeply, my lady, but his mother suffers far more. Lady Margaret and I were standing at the window in the corridor above when he approached.” Leonel bent his head. “I still cannot understand what caused the accident. Perhaps he was bewitched, yet we had spoken together not long before and shared some wine. At that time, I observed nothing untoward.” He frowned in somber memory.
To keep her mind focused on something other than his musky scent, Eleanor commanded the arrival of cool reason while allowing her curiosity free rein about the circumstances of this death. “I remember the bitter wind when we arrived and how much comfort mulled wine gave us. Might the chill air have caused him to drink more than he ought?”
“I tarried over my cup longer than he, but we did not talk together for long. He had planned to meet with Raoul. His youngest brother had something he wished to discuss, he said. My cousin soon left me.” He tilted his head in thought.
What a fine profile, Eleanor thought then cursed her distraction.
“I remained in the Great Hall and did not seek the company of Lady Margaret until she sent for me.”
“Raoul? Who is…?” She blinked, trying to remember where she had heard the name, then quickly felt very much a fool. “Oh yes! He came to greet my brother and me after our arrival.” She glanced up at the baron’s nephew, carefully avoiding those violet eyes. “You believe your dead cousin was bewitched, not befuddled with drink?”
Leonel frowned. “My aunt might have believed that, and perhaps she has cause. I thought bewitched, yet I truly do not know what caused this tragic accident. My uncle does ask if some spell has been cast, for he has now lost three sons. One death may strike the heart like a sharp mace, but three wound so deeply that any father might long for death himself. He cries out in his sleep for relief.”
She nodded, bracing herself against the wall for strength that she did not own.
“Had my cousin been under a wicked spell, my uncle might find a little consolation in knowing that Gervase died at Satan’s hand, not God’s.”
“I do not understand,” Eleanor said, confused by his words and her own sinful failing. “Why would he find solace in that?” She hesitated. “And why would anyone think that God had struck down your uncle’s son?”
“It would be best if he himself explained his fears, my lady. Forgive me for speaking out of turn.” He bowed. “And I have kept you far too long from rest. Pray forgive my selfishness, but your company has given me courage and reassurance. Thank you for offering this wretched sinner such charity and succor.”
Not trusting herself to speak without betrayal of her emotions, Eleanor lowered her gaze and prayed that he saw only soft benevolence in her face and not reprehensible desire.
“Before I leave,” he said, “I have a message from Lady Margaret who grieves that so little courtesy has been shown to you and all who journeyed here with your brother. She begs that you and your company join her for a light supper tomorrow before Compline.”
“She has suffered the death of a son and yet provided for our comfort most generously. We shall be pleased to accept her invitation.”
He murmured pleasure on his aunt’s behalf, then walked away.
Anne leaned close to the prioress’ ear and whispered, “That man’s smile was warm enough to heat mulled wine, was it not?”
Fearing that her friend had discovered her weakness for the man, Eleanor stiffened.
But Anne had not noticed her reaction. A puzzled expression on her face, she was watching Sir Leonel depart.
Chapter Eleven
The morning winter light was weak as if the sun cared little about rising that day, even to cast warmth on the entombment of a baron’s son.
Thomas walked back from the grave, head bowed and eyes moist. The burial had been ill-attended. Since there was no other priest here, Thomas had offered to perform the rites. He may never have met the young man, but he grieved that so few cared about his death. Even the father had not come to see his son returned to the earth.
“Brother Thomas!”
The monk stopped and looked over his shoulder.
The physician hurried toward him, cheeks bright with exertion and breath white in the frosty air.
Thomas raised a hand in perfunctory greeting. In his present mood, he did not wish the company but smiled as if he welcomed it. At least Master Gamel had been at the graveside, although there was no reason for him to come. The monk appreciated the kindness, a quality he increasingly suspected was part of the man’s nature.
“It was a sad event, Brother.” Gamel was puffing when he reached the monk’s side. “His mother was dry-eyed and fled early. Neither his father nor his younger brother, Umfrey, appeared. Only Raoul and Sir Leonel remained to join you in prayer for the man’s soul. The latter at least shed a tear.” He shook his head. “When my beloved wife died, some said I could not possibly weep more than I did at her death bed, yet I lamented over her grave so long that my son had to drag me from it.” He looked up at Thomas, his eyes suggesting embarrassment over revealing such emotion. “A father would surely feel no less grief at a son’s death.”
“Sorrow wears many disguises. The Lady Margaret may have wept herself dry of tears. As for Umfrey, he hides in the family chapel to escape demons and fears for his own life.”
“And what news of the father?” The question was brusque.
“Sir Hugh met with him last night, and Baron Herbert sent word that he wished to have this son buried before he met with us. Prioress Eleanor conveyed the news to me after prayer today and confirmed that was his only message.”
Gamel looked confused. “A reasonable request from a grieving father, yet he was not here to say a farewell to his boy this morning?”
“I must assume good cause.”
“I cannot be as charitable, Brother.” These words were sharply spoken. “I would feel differently had the baron come to watch his son’s corpse laid in the ground. His actions suggest no grief at all, and now I begin to suspect little need for our presence. A patient does not urgently call a physician to his side, only to leave him waiting outside the chamber door.”
The monk agreed but said nothing. Adding fuel to Gamel’s vexation would serve no purpose, and, until they learned what troubled the baron so profoundly, tolerance was better advised. He nodded with appropriate solemnity, hoping his silence suggested the need for forbearance.
In the distance, a sea bird shrieked, the cry only adding to the present gloom.
Thomas did not dare speak of what he had heard. Whatever the baron’s specific reasons for summoning them, there was cause enough for concern. A priest may have been murdered, and now two sons were dead, the circumstances unusual and the deaths in rapid succession. As for Baron Herbert’s lack of overt grief, Thomas refused to conclude anything. He had never met the man.
“Forgive me, Brother. My words were callous. I have little cause for complaint. The delay is such a minor thing, compared to this tragedy.” Gamel bowed his head with regret.
“You left many behind in London who still have need of your skills. Some impatience to return is understandable.” Thoma
s chose to be gentle. Mortals often inflated themselves with self-importance; few admitted when they did so for petty reasons. Gamel had shown a rare humility.
“My son is skilled enough to take my place.” He brightened. “I am proud of the lad, although I take care not to praise him too highly. When I was his age, I thought I knew everything there was to know. Now I fear I know very little indeed.” His eyelids drooped with sadness. “Not only did I fail to keep Death from wresting my cherished wife from my arms, I was also unsuccessful in persuading the dark creature to take my soul as well.”
Growing pensive, the monk looked around. This was the hour when most daily labor had begun, yet all activity was muffled as if any boisterous din would offend the dead. Blacksmiths muted their hammering. The laundry maids whispered. Even the cattle lowed softly. In grief, this physician wept while Baron Herbert refused to watch his son’s body consigned to the earth. Gervase’s mother railed against Heaven. He himself had never found a way to lament over the death of his own father. Who dares to measure the depth of anyone else’s mourning?
Thomas turned back to Master Gamel and said, “Sometimes God’s purpose differs from any mortal’s wish. When this is the case, we shall fail despite the skills we possess. You cannot blame yourself for your wife’s death or your own continuing life.”
Thomas turned away and avoided meeting the physician’s eyes. His statements were conventional, and he did long for them to be true, but God knew how often he failed to see any purpose in the suffering of innocents.
Gamel grunted.
Perhaps the physician had the same doubts as he, Thomas thought, but neither would admit to the impiety except to a confessor.
“May I ask after Sister Anne? I feared for her health because of the chill she suffered.”
Brother Thomas raised an eyebrow, momentarily bewildered by the unrelated subject. “If our sub-infirmarian had fallen ill, I would have learned of it. You would have been called as well.”
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