A Killing Season mm-8

by Priscilla Royal

  He hesitated long enough to make sure the men could not look back and see that he was following them down the same stairway into the bailey. Still amused at their foolishness over his mother, he grinned. His father must soon acknowledge that he, the despised youngest son, was a man worthy of respect.

  Then he disappeared once again into the shadows and down the bailey stairs.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The chapel’s darkness weighed down on Umfrey like cold ash.

  He squirmed in distress.

  As his brother and the monk from Tyndal had promised, a servant brought him both food and drink. He had eagerly devoured and imbibed but now regretted such lack of restraint. The chamber pot was full, and he needed to piss.

  Cursing the sinful weakness of his aching bladder, he remembered Raoul’s mockery and touched the large gifted cross he now wore. He would have to leave the altar since he dared not defile this sacred place again. “Protect me,” he whispered, fondling the cross.

  Then he pulled himself to his feet, scurried away from his sanctuary, and out the chapel door. As he splashed urine against the far outside wall of the corridor, his relief was immense, but terror returned with greater force. Not even pausing to secure his braies, he clutched at them and shuffled back through the door toward the altar.

  A tall shadow stood between him and comforting asylum.

  Umfrey whimpered.

  The shadow stepped aside and gestured for him to come forward.

  “Who are you?” Umfrey fumbled with the ties on his braies and willed his bowels not to betray his fear.

  “You asked to see your father, lad.” The hoarse whisper cut the silence like a dull saw on wood.

  His teeth began to chatter, all words sliced to bits before he could utter them.

  “What reason do you have to fear? Come closer.”

  Umfrey took two steps and stopped.

  “Why did you summon your father if you have nothing to say?”

  “I don’t want to die!” Tears began to flow down his cheeks.

  The shadow said nothing.

  “There is evil in this place.” Umfrey’s tone was beseeching as he gestured to the creature. Was it man or spirit, he wondered. “What have any of us ever done to deserve assassination? We have always been loyal sons. In your absence, we protected and served our mother as you commanded us to do. We did nothing to dishonor you and greeted your return with joy. What have we done to displease either you or God?”

  “Nothing.”

  Rubbing at his nose, Umfrey peered into the darkness. His legs shook so that he feared he might collapse. “Then why?”

  The shadow spread his arms. “Be comforted in my embrace!”

  The son hesitated, then uttered the sob of a small boy seeking a parent’s soothing, and rushed forward.

  But the hug he received had a sharp sting. His eyes widened in horror as the knife pierced his chest and grated against his ribs. Without a sound, Umfrey slid to the floor, his body bending as if praying to the altar that now failed to grant him refuge.

  “Indeed, none of you committed any sin at all,” the shadow muttered, “except for that of living.” Then he quickly placed Umfrey’s limp hand around the knife and left the chapel as silently as he had arrived.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Thomas looked around the simple room that had once been home to the dead priest.

  There had been no cause to search here before. Even now he wondered if he should bother, but the priest had probably been murdered. Although the monk had much to report to Prioress Eleanor, he would not do so until he investigated all he could without further direction.

  Running his fingers along the wall, he walked quickly around the room.

  The quarters were tiny, the only luxury being nearness to the family chapel. The furnishings were plain. There was a small bed, hard enough for any man of God, and a crudely made chest. On the wall a badly carved cross was hung. That was askew.

  Thomas straightened it.

  He knelt on the floor and examined the stones. None were loose. Sitting back on his heels, he looked carefully at the wall but saw nothing within reach that suggested a hiding place. To make sure, he walked around a few more times, studying the stones and touching a few suspicious ones. All was as it ought to be: solid, austere, and proper for a priest whose concerns should not have included earthly comforts.

  “Except this one did not lack interest in a worldly pleasure or two,” Thomas muttered. Where, for instance, had the man kept his supply of wine?

  Briefly he poked at the mattress, finding no odd shapes or lumps. Not that he had expected to find a wineskin there, but he felt better having made sure.

  Sighing, he leaned against the wall, shut his eyes to exile all assumptions from his mind, and then studied the room anew.

  Near the door and against the wall sat that wooden chest. He stared at it with forced interest.

  When he first arrived, he rejected the object instantly as possible storage when he saw that the corners were gnawed. Knowing that he did not want to provide castle mice with fresh nesting material, he had hung his few possessions on a peg high in the wall. He had never looked inside, having no curiosity about what might have moved into it after the priest’s death.

  Now he walked over to the chest and gripped the lid. There was no lock, and the hinges were red with rust. As he raised the top and gazed at the interior, one fragile hinge disintegrated into gritty fragments.

  There was little enough to see, and nothing to spark curiosity. In the center lay a robe, threadbare and carelessly folded. A large, chipped pottery jug sat in one corner. Although a stranger might have puzzled over that, Thomas believed its purpose was to store ale or any wine the priest could get. An equally battered cup lay tilted against the side.

  At least the priest took the time to pour his drink into a cup instead of gulping it straight from the pitcher. There is a sad dignity in that, Thomas thought.

  He straightened. None of this was informative, nor were the wood dust and mouse droppings. The man may have been too fond of drink, but he seemed to have honored his vow of poverty.

  Thomas started to lower the lid but, on a whim, reached down instead and picked up the discarded robe, shaking it open. Amidst a flurry of dark lumps and bits, something fell to the floor. Dropping the robe, he retrieved it.

  His first impression was that the item was a pilgrimage badge. Then he saw it was made of wax and concluded it was more likely to be a seal. “Yet it is attached to nothing,” he said, perplexed. Looking into the chest again, he found no parchment, or fragments of same, and turned back to study the image in his hand.

  The figure was faint yet clear enough to be that of a seated man in a bishop’s miter, giving a blessing. Below him was a figure, perhaps a monk, hunched in the attitude of profound reverence. What struck Thomas most were the clappers in one of the bishop’s hands.

  He frowned. “Saint Lazarus?”

  This saint was the man raised from the dead by Jesus. Legend held that Lazarus of Bethany and his sisters, Mary and Martha, later fled to southern France where he became a bishop in Marseilles. Although the poor and sick often prayed to him, the most frequent supplications for relief came from lepers.

  Where had this seal come from, and why keep it? The old priest had so few possessions. Shaking his head, Thomas assumed that the seal must have had especial meaning for the man. Perhaps a brother or another beloved kinsman had suffered from leprosy.

  In England, there was a religious order, founded in Jerusalem, called the Order of St. Lazarus. Many referred to the members as the leper knights. If the priest were of high enough birth, someone in his family might have begged entry after discovering he had the tragic affliction.

  “When the reply came,” Thomas murmured, “the priest must have kept this seal in remembrance.” How sadly anonymous this man and his life had become, the monk thought. Men spoke of his fondness for drink, not the sorrows he suffered.

  He picked
up the discarded robe, folded it, and returned it to the chest. As he started to tuck the seal back into the garment, he glanced at the floor.

  The odd lumps of dark material intrigued him. He picked one up. It was not wood, most certainly not mouse droppings, and it had a faint peppery scent. He reached down for more.

  Some of the bits crumbled into his hand. He sniffed again. Slightly sweet as well as peppery, he thought. Were he to guess, he’d conclude it was a strange vegetable or herb. The kind was unclear.

  Suddenly he stiffened, thinking he had heard something. Were those muffled voices in the chapel?

  Although Umfrey did move about, his footsteps were silenced by the thick walls. Thomas now realized he could have heard a door open just as he began to search this room. He had ignored the sound then. After all, the chapel belonged to the family, and someone might have come to comfort the terrified son.

  A chill swept through him. Stuffing the lumps and seal into his pouch, he raced out the door and immediately collided with a large servant passing by in the corridor.

  “Quickly!” he said, pointing to the chapel entrance behind the man. The servant froze and stared at him with utter lack of understanding.

  A hooded figure emerged from the chapel.

  Thomas called out, but the unidentifiable being rushed away without speaking.

  The monk hesitated, longing to give chase, but the immobile lump of a servant blocked his way.

  Fear for the well-being of the baron’s heir gave him strength, and Thomas grabbed the servant by the arm. Dragging the man toward the chapel, the monk dreaded what he might find inside.

  He pushed open the door.

  “Umfrey?”

  No one replied.

  On the floor near the altar was a huddled shadow.

  Thomas rushed in and fell to his knees beside the figure.

  Herbert’s son was bent double, his hands clutching at his chest.

  Thomas grasped the son’s shoulder. The body fell over, and the monk realized that his own hand was now wet and sticky. “May God have mercy on your soul!”

  The servant screamed and ran from the chapel.

  Tenderly, the monk eased Umfrey onto his back. A pool of blood was on the floor. A knife lay near the heir’s hand.

  Thomas looked back toward the chapel door. If he had not seen the unknown creature leave, he would have concluded that Umfrey had killed himself. Now the monk was certain this was murder.

  Gently holding the man’s head, he started to whisper absolution into the dead man’s ear.

  A light fluttering of warm air caressed his hand. “Is it possible?” Thomas whispered.

  Putting his hand on Umfrey’s chest, he confirmed his rising hope. The son still breathed.

  “If You are merciful,” he cried out, “I will not have to tell this family that one more son has died.”

  Tearing cloth from Umfrey’s garments, Thomas pressed a handful into the bleeding wound and tightly bound the padding against the gash with the man’s belt.

  Then he leapt to his feet and ran for help.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Prioress Eleanor followed the servant through the narrow passageways of the castle keep. Perhaps the sea breeze cooled this place in summer, she thought, but the wind from the winter sea, howling through the windows, pierced her to the very bone this night. She ached so painfully from the cold that she longed for the moment when it numbed her.

  With the unexplained deaths of the baron’s sons, there had been much talk of Satan residing here, but now she doubted it. The Prince of Darkness might be foul; he was not witless. Preferring heat, he resided near Hell’s flames and would therefore eschew this place, leaving the castle to those disgraced imps he had banished to realms of eternal ice. Would she ever be warm again?

  The servant stopped at a wooden door and knocked.

  A voice from within gave permission to enter.

  Opening the door, the servant bowed and gestured for Eleanor to proceed inside.

  The chambers were brightened by flickering candles impaled on two tall iron candlesticks which rested on minutely detailed lion’s feet. A raging fireplace provided heat. Despite the chill she suffered, the intensity of the dancing fire struck the prioress with uncomfortable strength. She turned away and sought her hostess.

  The remaining shadows struggled against the light and teased cruelly with the gaunt face of the woman sitting in a deeply carved chair.

  “You are kind to see me.” Margaret’s words were devoid of warmth.

  “I was told your plea was urgent.” Eleanor replied with gentleness, hoping to soften the wife’s clearly troubled spirit.

  “Come closer to me. I would speak in confidence.”

  Eleanor walked to the lady’s side. Some might say those words were haughty, she thought, but she heard profound suffering hidden within the command.

  Lady Margaret began to weep. The jagged sound of her sobs confirmed she was a woman unaccustomed to emotion breaking through her resolve. “I have sinned most grievously.” She spat out the words.

  Eleanor took the lady’s hand and cradled it gently in her own. “You are not alone in this. Be comforted, for God brings solace to those who wish it.”

  The woman showed no sign of being soothed, yet neither did she flinch from the soft touch. Her unblinking eyes stared at the prioress.

  For a moment, Eleanor wondered if she was looking into two black holes leading to Hell.

  “I long to die.”

  “Why?” Although she ought now to call for Brother Thomas, and urge the lady to seek penance for such a desire, Eleanor had learned from the anchoress at Tyndal that a woman’s hardest confessions often flowed more easily into repentance when she could speak first to another daughter of Eve.

  “Look at me! I am a woman beset with lust, unfaithful in spirit to her husband, and the lowest of all God’s creation. This wickedness must be why God is slaying the sons of my womb!” Tearing her hand away, she pressed both palms against her eyes and wailed.

  Eleanor saw a servant hovering near the fireplace. It was not the lady’s usual maid. “Leave us,” she commanded. The despair of their mistress should not become the subject of gossip.

  As soon as the girl slipped away and had shut the door, the prioress found the pitcher of wine and poured a small measure into a cup. Returning to the baron’s wife, Eleanor lightly touched the woman’s arm. “Drink,” she said, leaving no doubt she expected obedience.

  Lady Margaret’s face reddened, and then she nodded. With a swift gesture she brushed the moisture from her cheeks and took the proffered drink, sipping at it until the mazer was empty.

  Eleanor refilled it and handed the cup back. “We all suffer lust. It is one of several curses with which God burdened the first woman. Yet you told me earlier that you came to your husband a virgin and did refuse all temptations while he was gone. Did you speak the truth?”

  Margaret looked away. “I’ll not deny temptation, but I fled from it. Now that my lord is home, I have lost all strength to resist.” She glanced back at the prioress. “I saw your expression at supper. You recognized my wickedness, and I do confess that I longed to lure Sir Hugh into my bed.”

  “Did my brother join you there for sport?”

  “He is more virtuous than I.”

  Eleanor said nothing. Many proclaimed that a woman so lacking in virtue must be denied all sympathy. God forgave, however, and so would she. As for her brother, men were often called the victims of woman’s rampant lust. It was conventional wisdom she had cause to doubt, and she hoped he had been kind in his refusal. The shame Lady Margaret suffered from such public longing was humiliation enough without a man treating her like a common whore.

  As for her own right to condemn, Eleanor owned none. She herself had itched with lust for Sir Leonel and had coupled often enough with incubi disguised as Brother Thomas in her dreams.

  “My brother is not a saint,” she said, “and may well have been tempted, but your virtue is
renowned and he would have assumed that tonight was God’s test of his own. Being a soldier, not a poet, he cannot transform lust into verse, praising your beauty like Solomon did. His only recourse is to turn his back and walk away. Knowing my brother, he would choose to suffer rather than insult your honor by approaching your chambers. He was well aware that your door would have been barred to him had he tried.”

  Margaret hid her reaction by drinking more wine.

  “There is another matter at issue here. You said your husband has refused to honor his responsibility to the marriage bed. Even though the Church might long for us all to remain celibate, it recognizes that it is better to marry when we are incapable of choosing the higher virtue. Thus it is the obligation of both husband and wife to embrace each other in mutual satisfaction. His failure to honor this obligation encourages sin.” She raised a questioning eyebrow. “Might he have decided to take vows?”

  Margaret shook her head. “He has not said so.” Her lips twisted into a sour smile. “That means nothing for he has refused to speak to me since his return.”

  “Even so, if entrance into a monastic life was his wish, he would surely have sent a message informing you of those intentions.” At least he should have done so if he felt any affection or a scrap of kindness toward his wife. Eleanor tried not to betray her disapproval of the baron, but Brother John, a man of unquestioned faith, had wept bitterly over the pain he was inflicting when he told his wife of his longing for the cloister. “Was your marriage a happy one in the past?”

  “Before my lord took the cross, it was.” Margaret’s eyes became unfocused with wistful memory. “We found deep joy in each other and were blessed with many sons…” She began again to weep, but these sobs were muted.

  “How long was Baron Herbert gone?” Eleanor asked the question as much out of mercy as curiosity.

  “He left England before King Edward and set sail from Outremer in advance of our lord’s return. He did not travel directly home. He first stopped in Solerno, and then Rome before going to Paris.”