Oseberne laughed, easily stepped aside, and drove his knife into the crowner’s back.
Then he turned to the wide-eyed Gytha.
31
Thomas leapt over the rock and charged into the clearing. Roaring with the fury of an enraged demon, he lunged at Oseberne.
The baker stumbled back. Seeing the monk in a shaft of sunlight, his red hair glittering like fire, Oseberne screamed, dropped his knife, and fled. He crashed into the woods, shrieking like a terrified beast.
Thomas tried to follow, but he slipped in the decaying leaves and fell. By the time he had scrambled back to his feet, the baker had disappeared. Then he looked at his bleeding friend and knew he must let the killer go.
Thomas knelt by the crowner’s side.
“Catch that Satan’s spawn,” Ralf hissed through clenched teeth.
Suddenly the hair on the back of his neck rose, and Thomas knew that someone was standing behind him. He grabbed the fallen knife, jumped upright, and spun around.
It was Gytha. “Cut this last knot, Brother. I’ll stay. The baker must not escape.” She showed him her loosened bindings.
“He was no sailor to tie this poorly,” Thomas said as he swiftly freed her.
“I was not fast enough but had worked them loose against the tree trunk.” Gytha fell to her knees beside the crowner. “Leave this rooster to me,” she said, pressing a handful of her robe against his wound. “Our crowner is too tough to die just yet.” The tone may have been abrupt, but the tears on her cheeks spoke of caring.
Ralf groaned.
“Go quickly,” Gytha begged as she began ripping strips of cloth from her chemise.
For an instant, Thomas hesitated, then ran toward the woods where the baker had fled. With luck, he might find men to help him catch the killer. Oseberne was too strong to subdue without assistance. After his experience at Baron Herbert’s castle, the monk was loath to use violence, but, if God was willing to grant only one favor, Thomas would choose the capture of this killer.
Shoving aside branches and jumping over shrubs and scurrying creatures, the monk raced through the forest. When he finally emerged onto the road, he looked toward the village.
The baker stood panting at the mill gate.
“Stop!” Thomas knew his command would be ignored but hoped that someone nearby would hear his cry.
Oseberne pulled open the gate, slipped inside, and slammed it shut.
Had the baker locked it? Thomas kicked the gate. It flew open, and he ran through. Why was the baker trying to escape through priory grounds?
The baker fled down the path by the mill pond, shoving aside a young woman who had her child by the hand.
Thomas paused by the fallen mother and stretched forth his hand.
The woman waved him on.
Now he had to run faster to catch up. “Surrender!” he shouted again, but the effort took too much breath.
This time, Oseberne turned his head. He pointed in the direction of the church. “Sanctuary!” he screamed. “I shall throw my arms around the altar. You cannot have me arrested! God sees fit to protect me.”
“You’ll hang for murder,” Thomas roared and found strength to gain speed. “Never will I let you escape punishment for killing gentle Brother Gwydo, casting blame on innocent people, and trying to send your own son to the hangman,” he gasped. Suddenly, his feet felt so light he doubted they touched the ground. Had God given him wings?
Abruptly, the baker veered off the path and fled down into the grove of fruit trees.
It took Thomas a moment to understand that the man was taking a shortcut to the church, thus avoiding anyone else on the path who might slow or stop him. The monk slid down a low rise from the road to follow and was outraged when he saw the baker running into the place where Brother Gwydo had set up his bee skeps.
The change in direction cost him momentum, and Thomas found it harder to catch his breath. Gritting his teeth, he willed himself to continue. The baker must not reach the safety of the church.
Oseberne looked over his shoulder to see how close Thomas was. He shouted again.
Thomas neither understood nor cared what the baker had said. Entering the meadow, he cursed. Here the ground was rough, and he was forced to watch his footing.
He heard something and glanced up.
Oseberne had stumbled. Stretching out his arms to keep his balance, his hand struck a skep. The woven basket turned over and bumped another, causing both to topple to the ground.
The baker fell to his knees.
Thomas cried out in triumph.
Suddenly a cloud of bees erupted from the damaged skeps. The buzzing grew louder as they flew toward the baker.
Thomas froze.
Oseberne struggled to get to his feet. The swarm landed on his head and neck. His face turned dark with their churning black bodies. He screamed once, gasping for air, and clawed at his face and throat. Then he collapsed on the ground.
Some of the bees dropped beside their victim. Others flew away.
Oseberne did not move.
Thomas stood quite still. Fearing he would be attacked by the bees as well, he waited until the swarm dispersed. Then he moved slowly forward.
The baker lay where he had fallen.
The monk edged closer.
Oseberne’s eyes bulged, staring as if he had just seen the maw of Hell. His swollen face was pocked with scarlet wounds from the bee stings, and his tongue protruded obscenely from his mouth.
Thomas had no doubt that the baker was dead when he knelt beside him. Out of duty, he uttered a perfunctory offer of forgiveness to the hovering soul for any sin truly repented, then he jumped to his feet.
As he ran to the hospital to bring help for Ralf, he acknowledged that he cared little about the baker’s soul. God might choose to forgive Oseberne’s sins. Thomas would not.
32
Thunder rumbled in the distance. Black clouds from the sea covered the blue sky in mourning. The sun hid, and grey shadows slipped into the audience chamber, bringing their attendant gloom.
Adelard knelt before Prioress Eleanor and Prior Andrew. The youth’s eyes were red from weeping, and his hands shook as he positioned them into a prayerful attitude.
Andrew looked down at the lad, his expression a blending of dismay and sorrow. “We shall pray for your father’s soul, my son,” he said and then stopped as if thinking how he might best continue. “If his heart regretted the sins he committed, God will judge his soul with greater mercy.”
The young man shook his head. “Your kindness is beyond my ability to repay. For all of my life, I looked to my father for guidance and tried to honor him as we are told we must.” He stopped, unable to find words that would express what he might, or ought, to feel.
“However, his sins belong to him alone,” Prioress Eleanor said. “It is your duty to confront your own, as each of us must do.” She nodded at her prior.
“Confess fully, follow the wise guidance offered, and beg for the strength to become a more compassionate and virtuous man.” Andrew glanced back at his prioress with a doubtful look.
“I did help him in his thefts.” Adelard spread his hands in a gesture of despair.
“At his command, an order you felt bound to obey. The crowner has agreed not to charge you as long as there is proper recompense for the crime.” Eleanor emphasized the last phrase.
“What can I do about the stolen goods? I do not know the names of those from whom the items were stolen. Some have been melted down beyond recognition. Most have been turned into coin.”
Eleanor indicated that he should rise. “All coin must be given to the poor and suffering. Mistress Signy knows best where help is needed. Take it to her, as much as you can garner, for almost all your father’s wealth was gain
ed from stealing.”
“The golden candlestick?” He staggered to his feet and looked away, unwilling to look the prioress in the eye. “Shall it not be placed on the priory altar to honor God, as my father promised? It was to be my gift when I took vows here.”
“We shall not accept it,” she replied, her tone sharp. “It is tainted with blood and offered in sin. It, and the few remaining items, will be sent back to the Jewish community in Norwich. Master Tostig can sell the melted gold and return the profit there as well. In doing all this, you earn a pardon for the crime you committed at your father’s behest.”
“Then I have no hope of entering Tyndal as a novice!” His words ended with a cry of pain.
“Are you sure your vocation is your own and not a shadow of your father’s old longing?” Prior Andrew leaned against the window and looked out across the priory lands toward the forest where Brother Gwydo had died.
“I have a true calling!”
Eleanor’s smile lacked warmth. “That assertion we must carefully test with more rigor than we were obliged to apply before your father’s death. Under the circumstances, we have no choice.”
“I swear to do anything, my lady.” Once again, he fell to his knees.
“You have much penance to fulfill for yourself.”
“I have confessed fully to Brother Thomas. My errors may have been sins, but they share guilt with good intentions. He said that he would leave the method of expiation to you both.”
“Should you agree with this proposal, I am sure that Brother Thomas would concur that these acts will cleanse your soul and prove whether you have a genuine vocation.”
He nodded eagerly.
“Do you not have a brother who is still a child?”
As if he had forgotten all about him, Adelard looked confused, then confirmed that he did possess a younger sibling.
“Were you to enter the priory now, he would have no one to feed or cloth him.”
“God takes care of sparrows,” the youth suggested hopefully.
Andrew spun around and glared. “God did not suggest that we should willfully abandon the helpless. He may feed the birds of the air, but He does so by plan and not by turning His back on their needs.”
Eleanor looked at her prior with amazement, unaccustomed to hear him speak so roughly.
Looking down, Adelard blushed but then mumbled: “He would be left to the kindness of villagers. Perhaps Mistress Signy…”
“Our good innkeeper has already taken two orphans,” Eleanor said. “You have no right to demand she do more when you have done so little.”
As if struck, he winced.
Eleanor told the prior to continue.
“Now hear what your penance should be, one that matches the sins you have committed in deed and in thought.” Andrew watched the youth put his hands over his head as if fearing blows, but no pity showed on the prior’s face. “You shall take over your father’s business, make it profitable in an upright way, and train your younger brother to become a master baker. When he has proven his skill, and is old enough, he may take over the shop.”
Adelard gasped. “He is a child! It’ll be years before he can be ready. My father taught him almost nothing.”
Andrew waved away the objections.
“If I must.” The youth bowed his head once more.
“As you know, you have little earned from honest labor to give the priory should you beg admittance.” Andrew shifted his weight to his good leg.
The young man slumped back on his heels. “Since you will accept nothing in any form that was taken from the Jews and insist I rebuild my father’s business again solely to profit my brother, you have made it impossible for me to acquire the gift needed to enter here with honor.”
“If you surrender all that was taken from the king’s people to Mistress Signy and Master Tostig, become a good father to your little brother, and turn your steps onto the path of kindness, charity, and selflessness, we shall consider your penance done. Should your most ardent desire remain entrance to this priory, after your brother becomes skilled and of an age to take over the baking, you may approach us again.”
He blinked. “I shall be an old man by then.”
Andrew shrugged “That is of no moment. There are those who take on the full weight of austere vows when they are so ill and bent with pain that the burden of doing so is onerous indeed. You must have the opportunity to understand fully what you are giving up. By then, you should know whether you wish to leave a soft bed for a thin mattress, kneel on icy stones when the earth itself is frozen, exchange wine and meat for ale and fish, and own one rough habit in which to survive the chill of winter.”
“Time and prayer shall inform you,” Eleanor said and carefully watched the youth.
Adelard frowned. His silence suggested that the ardor of his claimed vocation might have subtly weakened.
Eleanor noticed this hesitation and quickly told him the final penitential requirement. “As Prior Andrew has said, we would then consider admitting you as a lay brother without asking a gift, for we must refuse anything that would impoverish your brother. He is innocent of all that has occurred.”
“A lay brother labors in the fields! I know Latin. I should become a choir monk, a priest, a man who stands before God to sing the Offices…”
“The rank of a faithful soul is determined by purity of motive and sincerity of service.” Eleanor’s tone was icy.
“Do you accept this penance?” Andrew stood before the young man and cupped Adelard’s chin, raising it so the youth was forced to look him in the eye.
“Do I have any choice?” Adelard grumbled and then raised his eyes upward. He began to tremble as if something were shaking him. “I accept,” he whispered.
Eleanor’s expression glowed with benevolence. “We shall look forward to soon hearing from Mistress Signy about your generosity to the poor.”
“Go back to the world,” Prior Andrew said, “confess often, and cast off the arrogance which led you to so many grievous sins.”
Adelard rose to his feet, his face pale. He looked from one to the other as if begging for a softer penance. When neither prior nor prioress granted him that silent wish, he bowed and rushed away.
The young nun, who had been standing just inside the room, closed the door the youth had left open in his hurried flight.
Eleanor turned to her prior. “Shall we ever see him at our gate again, begging enclosure within our walls?”
“I think not.” Andrew did not look disappointed. “But let us hope that he has learned from the sins he committed and becomes a virtuous man.”
“Our sub-prioress must be thanked for her insights,” Eleanor said with a fleeting smile. “It was she who doubted his suitability when you and I were otherwise inclined to accept his plea.”
“That will give her much pleasure,” Andrew replied, his mouth puckered as if he had just drunk wine turned sour.
With that, Eleanor laughed. It was a relief to find some merriment after all the sorrow of the last few days.
***
Outside, the rain started to fall, the drops heavy and thick. As if cleansing the land, the wind drove the downpour like flung pebbles across the ground. By morning, the scoured earth would once again be sweet.
33
Thomas stood at the edge of the meadow and looked at Brother Gwydo’s bee skeps. The two damaged by Oseberne lay deserted on the ground. Perhaps those bees had found a liege lord in another skep, or so he hoped. That they might have suffered because a cruel man committed a thoughtless act was an idea he could not bear.
He shut his eyes, lifted his face to the sun, and listened to the sounds of living things. Were he inclined to idle dreams, he might have imagined that the world just heaved a sigh, grateful that the killing was over. He wonder
ed if it also regretted the death of a kind man, one who had turned away from bloodshed and longed for a quiet life.
But did violence ever end, even on lands placed under God’s rule? Tyndal Priory had suffered its own share of murders from the first day he had come here. In his darkest hours of melancholy, he feared he had brought the pale horseman with him like some plague. Yet Prioress Eleanor had arrived shortly before him, and all knew that unlawful Death was no boon companion of hers.
Opening his eyes to escape back into the sunlight, he rubbed the sleeve of his robe across his cheeks. They were damp with tears.
“You are sad, Brother.”
Turning around, he saw Tostig just a few feet behind him.
“Only pensive,” Thomas replied with a reassuring smile.
The man knelt and stretched his hands out to the monk. “You saved my beloved sister, Brother. I shall always remain in your debt for that gift.”
“We must both thank God for guiding me there,” Thomas replied and begged Tostig to stand. “I can claim no greater virtue than to have been His instrument in that moment.”
“Then what offering may I give Him in thanks?” Tostig looked around as if the answer might appear before him. “However inadequate, something is required. A sister owns a place in any brother’s heart, but Gytha has been like my own child.”
Thomas did not know Tostig well, but he had heard that the Saxon was a man who rarely revealed his thoughts and never his emotions. Hearing the man’s voice shake, the monk realized just how deep his devotion to his sister was. Perhaps he could offer a suggestion, one that might permit two people, for whom he cared as well, some happiness.
“You might forgive our crowner for speaking in a manner he profoundly regrets,” Thomas said. From Prioress Eleanor he had learned that Gytha had not visited the crowner, as was her former wont, and that Tostig knew the reason for this change. “Had he not put his own life at risk, I would not have been quick enough to save your sister’s.”
Tostig did not smile, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “To forgive or not remains my sister’s choice. As for me, I have known the man too long. His heart and his mouth are often at odds, and the latter does not always express his better nature. I shall speak on his behalf to her, but doing so is a small thing and not worthy enough of my gratitude to God.”
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