A Killing Season mm-8

by Priscilla Royal

  Gamel smiled with relief. “You have removed the weight from my heart, Brother. Indeed, I was grateful for her company on the way here. She is well-educated in the healing arts, far more than most that have practiced the apothecary trade. Although she is also a woman, she taught me many things I did not know. Her father was a physician, I believe, and she learned from him. And her manner is so modest that I did not even realize at the time that she had given me knowledge I lacked…” He stuttered to a stop, his cheeks flushing as he realized he had been chattering on with unseemly enthusiasm.

  “I did notice that you spent much time by her side.” The monk winced at his poor phrasing. He had meant to banish any hint of disapproval

  Gamel clasped his hands until the knuckles turned white. “The nun is most virtuous! I have never met any woman of her vocation more chaste or humble. Sometimes I did wonder if I was in the presence of a saint.”

  Bowing his head in acknowledgement of Sister Anne’s virtue, Thomas no longer doubted that this man had lost his heart to the sub-infirmarian. He tried to feel outrage over Gamel’s transgression but utterly failed to summon indignation. To his knowledge, no sin had been committed except in the heart. Surely God would deem such relative innocence a minor failing.

  Although faithful to her vows, Thomas knew that Sister Anne had only come to the religious life to follow her husband who had forsaken the world after their son’s untimely death. Perhaps God preferred her choice of religious vows, however reluctant, but he was sorry that she might not find the comfort of a more earthly love in the arms of a good man-like this physician. Silently, he growled at God.

  “Master Gamel!”

  Startled, Thomas turned around.

  Sir Hugh loomed just behind him.

  Thomas stepped away from the man and wondered how often this knight had slipped behind a foe, then slit his throat. The monk had not heard his footstep and was grateful he was not Hugh’s enemy.

  Or was he? The man had never uttered a word to him unless obliged. Even then his demeanor was invariably glacial.

  “Surely Prioress Eleanor requires your presence, Brother.” Hugh’s tone was barely civil. “I seek a private conversation with Master Gamel.”

  Willing his features into feigned humility, the monk strode off until he could take a deep breath and calm his rising anger at the knight’s discourtesy. What had he done to make Sir Hugh dislike him so?

  He found himself by the stables and walked inside. The smell of warm horse flesh and dry hay soothed his spirits. He leaned against one of the stalls.

  One fear was that Hugh had learned of his work for the Church as a spy. That would cause the knight to doubt the monk’s honest fealty to Prioress Eleanor, a concern Thomas could well understand.

  As he considered this more, Thomas decided it was unlikely that the knight had discovered the secret. Father Eliduc was too careful to let the information slip out, and, had his prioress learned of his dual allegiance, she surely would have banished him from that trusted circle of counselors she called upon for advice.

  A horse nickered at him from the stall. Bending over the wooden frame, Thomas recognized his mare. “Eat,” he said. “You’ll need the strength for our journey home.” She gazed at him with liquid-eyed disdain.

  Stroking her neck, Thomas then wondered if Hugh knew of his imprisonment. Although the story had been hushed, it could be learned, even if few would speak loudly of it. He might only be his father’s bastard, but too many owed his sire respect to defile his name with any son’s transgressions.

  “The trip home will be easier,” the monk whispered to the mare. “And may it come soon. We shall both be happy to see the walls of our priory.” She shook and turned back to her fodder.

  As he pushed away from the stall and walked out of the stable, Thomas doubted the revelation of his sodomy would even matter to Hugh. After all, he had atoned for the deed. The Church had accepted him as a religious, which meant he had done acceptable penance or else payment of some form had been exchanged to ease the process of total forgiveness. If boys could become bishops and bishops fathered babes, Thomas knew his own father was of high enough secular rank to permit one bastard son a place in a remote priory as a simple monk.

  A little girl tugged at his robe, and Thomas stopped to give his blessing. With an understanding smile, he assured the red-faced mother that he had not been offended by the child’s innocent assault on his clothing.

  As he continued on toward the keep, he realized that the thing troubling him most in this matter was not so much Sir Hugh’s cold manner as the recent change in the knight’s young son, Richard.

  A few years ago, he had met the boy at Wynethorpe Castle and developed a father’s love for him. And since the lad’s own sire had been in Outremer, Richard often turned to Thomas for advice in matters he felt uncomfortable discussing with his grandfather, Baron Adam. In short, affection between monk and lad was mutual.

  Soon after Sir Hugh’s return, all communication abruptly ceased.

  Thomas lamented the loss. On this journey, he had been tempted to confront Sir Hugh and seek the cause. Since the lad still sent messages to his aunt, Prioress Eleanor, courtesy would have required him to at least add that he included Thomas in his daily prayers. Richard no longer mentioned him.

  He was not sure why he hesitated to ask Hugh the reason the contact had been severed. It may have been the knight’s coldness toward him or else some niggling fear. In any case, Thomas had not spoken of it. A father must take precedence in a son’s heart, he repeated often, and the boy’s sire was now home. It was a poor argument, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that Sir Hugh loved Richard beyond measure.

  He paused and glanced back.

  Sir Hugh was gone, and Master Gamel was now talking with a servant who was pointing to a spot on his outstretched arm.

  Did the knight really need to discuss anything with the physician? The monk decided it was petty to conclude that Hugh had dismissed him solely to banish the monk from his presence.

  Thomas rubbed his cold hands together and decided he had best seek hot, mulled wine to warm his bones and silence this troubling chatter of his uneasy spirit.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Where are you hiding, Umfrey?” Raoul peered around the chapel but could see no one, let alone his timorous brother. “I am not an imp, although you have called me one often enough in time past.”

  A shadow quivered near the altar.

  “Let go of the altar. I’ve not come to slit your throat.”

  Silence.

  “You are not that well-hidden.” He sniffed loudly. “I smell your sweat.”

  Not even the intake of breath.

  After a moment of waiting, Raoul shouted that he had come to butcher the sibling who was now their father’s heir, detailing two uniquely violent acts he was contemplating. He stopped and waited.

  Someone opened the chapel door and peered in.

  “It is I, Raoul, youngest son to Baron Herbert. I have come to talk with Umfrey, not bludgeon him.”

  The man slipped away but left the door noticeably open.

  “As you have heard, I announced myself and my purpose.” He motioned toward the door with an exaggerated gesture. “Be comforted. That man will return after I leave. Should he find you dead, all will know who did it. Ask yourself if screaming bloody intent is the rational act of a brother who wants to inherit your eventual title and land.”

  Umfrey thrust his head above the altar. “If you meant that as a jest, it was a vile one.” He now rose and shuffled to the dim light, cast from the window into a puddle by the altar. “Even pretending that you might commit violence in God’s place is impious.”

  “Since our brother’s death elevates you to heir and me to a religious vocation, it becomes my duty to say that your stench must offend God. Surely it is blasphemy to piss so close to the cross. Could you not have left long enough to use the latrine?”

  “Satan lives in this castle. I dare not l
eave Our Lord’s protection.”

  Raoul studied his cheerless brother. Umfrey was hunched over, head bowed, thin arms hugging his sides as if to keep his heart from beating its way out of his chest. “Although we have never loved each other,” he said, “I pity you.”

  “Neither of us was ever favored. You and I should have grown closer as brothers.”

  “The former I’ll grant you.” He spat.

  Umfrey opened his mouth to protest this latest churlish act, then changed his mind. “Our mother was fondest of the one buried today,” he muttered instead.

  “In recent days, that could have been true. Mother always was changeable about her affections within the brood. But our father remained consistent. I was born last yet have heard it said that he looked on none of his sons with love after Leonel arrived. Do you remember anything about that?”

  “Our father did not show me favor, but then Leonel came here before my birth. I am not that much older than you.”

  “Yet we never banded together against our cousin. Why do you think that was?” Raoul leaned against the wall and peeled off a torn fingernail.

  “We all liked Leonel. When our father discovered that one of us committed some offense, our cousin would plead for mercy on behalf of the guilty one.”

  “And didn’t our sire always seem to find out our crimes, no matter how clever we thought we were! I, for one, needed much advocacy for the many times I was caught out.” Raoul snorted. “And I was oft given lesser punishments when our cousin pled my cause. Leonel must have learned how to cast charms, considering his success in halving the beatings I was due.”

  “Charms?” Umfrey gasped. “Surely you do not suggest that our cousin is an imp?”

  Raoul sighed and slid down to sit on the planked floor. “I shall make a poor religious, for I do not think men need imps to prick them into evil. All the Devil need do is sit and watch as men devise wicked deeds to perpetrate on others.” He chuckled. “Maybe we were created in Satan’s image, not God’s?”

  Umfrey crossed himself and stepped back from his brother. “I shall listen to no more of your blasphemy!” His voice shook with fear. “Now methinks you are an imp, dressed up in Raoul’s image. Tell me why you came here.” Once more he made the sign of the cross. When his brother did not vanish in the expected puff of malodorous smoke, he looked relieved.

  “You were not at our brother’s grave this morning. That was noticed.”

  “I prayed for his soul. Here.”

  “Some suspect you feared his corpse would sit up in its shroud and point you out as his killer.”

  “He fell, unless the devil pushed him. But no man did! Leonel and our mother were witnesses.”

  Raoul shrugged. “I only repeat what I have heard. When are you leaving the chapel?”

  “When Satan is sent back to his own domain. Until then, he fiendishly works to destroy our family line.”

  “Whether the Devil or God intends to obliterate this family, I cannot say, but I do know that only you and I remain alive of the sons.” He stood up. “Shall our parents survive, do you think? Maybe good-hearted Leonel is also on the list of those condemned. Who do you think will die next? There is no logical order to the deaths as far as I can see.” He waited.

  His brother gagged as if something had stuck in his throat.

  “If you are lucky, your time may come before you starve here. Are you praying that you be killed before our father, or mother, or…?”

  Umfrey sobbed piteously.

  “Hush! Father slapped me often enough for weeping. Did he not do the same to you? How could you fail to learn the art of swallowing tears when sorrow kicks you in the groin?”

  “I may weep before the cross,” Umfrey whimpered.

  “Like a woman.” Raoul snorted, then waited until his brother’s snuffling ceased. “Have you had anything to eat or drink since our brother’s death?”

  “That monk from Tyndal Priory left me something.” He waved at the door leading to the corridor.

  “A kinder deed than many others here would have thought of doing,” Raoul muttered and he reached for his pouch. “I shall make sure you are fed, brother. The family must care for its own, not by the good grace of a stranger, monk though he may be.”

  “Dare I…” Umfrey did not finish his question.

  “Trust me? No, but you have little choice unless God mistakes you for a sparrow and drops seed at your feet for nourishment. And you could drink your own piss… As for that, I shall send you a pot.” He grasped something in his pouch, then tossed it toward his brother.

  Umfrey stepped back in horror and let the item drop at his feet. The thing glittered in the pale light.

  “That is a cross to take with you for protection when you must leave the altar to set the pot outside the chapel for the servant to remove.” He rubbed his nose.

  Umfrey bent down and snatched it up, kissing the object in penance for failing to catch it. Then he stared at the object. Quite large, it was ornately crafted in gold. “Where did you get this?”

  “I found it. That is all you need know.”

  “Then you have let kindness enter your…”

  “I have done no such thing, Umfrey. I’d rather like to stay alive myself. If you survive as well, then I am content. But I have a price for my care of you.”

  “Never will I agree to anything sinful!”

  Raoul sneered. “Tell me all you know about our two dead brothers. Did you see or hear anything that could suggest why they died?”

  The man shook his head.

  “Treasonous plots? Thievery?” He pointed in the general direction of the baron’s chambers. “Even patricide?”

  Covering his eyes, Umfrey groaned.

  “Do you refuse to speak because you were also involved? If you confide in me, I promise to protect you from hanging, even if it means lying to the king’s men.” He waited a moment. “Since you are frightened enough for your own life, I suspect that you are not their murderer. But I may be wrong. At least your opportunities to kill again are limited if you remain in this chapel.” He gestured at the stone wall. “I ask once more. There is something amiss here, and the evil bears a man’s face. Confess what you know.”

  “About murder?” Umfrey squealed the question like a piglet with a pinched tail.

  “Surely you do not believe Roger drowned by his own hand or accidentally? That night, he was in my room, drinking wine and bragging about how many women he could swyve before Mass. I do not think he meant mermaids.”

  “God must have so terrified him with a vision of how he would burn in Hell for those boasts,” the brother whispered, “that he threw himself…”

  “Your logic is faulty if you conclude he would have set aside his terror of the sea and committed self-murder by swimming too far into the ocean from Lucifer’s Cauldron. You believe in God’s grace. Would He not want Roger to cleanse his soul first rather than go straight to the Devil’s arms without confessing and doing penance? Nay, brother, he was sent to Hell by a mortal hand.”

  “Then Satan killed him. Otherwise, it was an accident!”

  Raoul slammed his fist against the wall. “You have grain for wits, Umfrey. He was terrified of the water, would never go swimming in the sea, and there was no boat found. Besides, who would swim here in the middle of winter? He may have shared your lack of cleverness, but he was not a complete fool.”

  “Dare you deny the Devil’s hand in this? As for Gervase’s fall, he was either driven to leap by an evil force or it was truly an accident!” Umfrey’s voice rose to an unnaturally high pitch.

  “Mother says he acted drunk.” Raoul rubbed his chin. “Our beloved brother did love his wine, but he had always hidden his excesses well. He and our priest not only shared a fondness for the grape, they also feared that they never measured up to God’s expectations for those who take arduous vows. After a few flacons, they were more at ease with their failings. In sympathy with Gervase, the priest convinced our mother that her son was possesse
d of both great faith and a frail constitution when his head ached too often.” Raoul hesitated. “Maybe he did fall because he was drunk, but I see no reason for him to approach our mother in such a state after so carefully hiding his vice.”

  “Then the Devil pushed him.”

  “Something pushed him. I am ignorant of how it was done.” He fell silent.

  Umfrey folded his arms in triumph. For the first time, he smiled with confidence.

  “What do you know?”

  “Maybe you did something to cause the death. I have heard that he was going to meet with you just before he fell.”

  “If I did murder him, I must have very long arms. Has anyone claimed that I was present at his death? Or maybe you think our mother or Leonel pushed him?”

  Umfrey wilted. “There can be no reason for these deaths other than the presence of the Evil One.”

  “Very well,” Raoul threw his hands up in exasperation. “Besides food, drink, and a pot, is there anything else you need, sweet brother?”

  Umfrey slunk back into the shadows. “I long to see my father,” he murmured.

  Raoul gasped. “Father? If I were facing death, I’d rather choose a whore to distract me from my sorrows.”

  Hissing, Umfrey stepped forward.

  “That was a jest. I will seek out Leonel. Maybe he can plead on your behalf since I have been banned from our sire’s chambers.”

  “Tell our father that I shall kneel and kiss his feet if he will only come here.”

  Raoul grinned as if eager to mock his elder brother, but instead he turned away and walked to the chapel entrance. As he reached to shut the door, he looked back and peered into the gloom.

  Umfrey squatted by the altar and clutched the corners like a drowning sailor might a spar.

  He shut the door, then leaned against the stone wall and laughed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lady Margaret’s intended feast of hospitality soon became a burdensome thing.