Wine of Violence mm-1

by Priscilla Royal

  Ralf snorted. “If I can find him, and so far he has left few traces. We have had no recent problems with highwaymen or any other masterless men, but no one has seen or heard anything unusual around the village. I would guess that the culprit might be the same who killed Brother Rupert only because Tyndal has never suffered such a spate of crime in my long memory. Nonetheless, I have been unable to unearth a reason for either the murder or the attack you suffered, brother. Perhaps you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. What do you remember?”

  “Nothing much.” Thomas raised his head gradually to avoid the pain of any sudden movement and turned just as slowly to face Ralf. Behind the crowner stood the prioress. She had said little to anyone this morning, but Thomas noticed that her face was unusually pale. Her right hand was clenched in a fist and she held it tight against her waist.

  “Perhaps you can start with the reason you left the priory in the first place, brother,” Ralf suggested.

  As Thomas started to speak, Eleanor raised her hand in a gesture of precaution. “Please do leave out the call of nature. That story wasn’t even clever.”

  “My lady…” Thomas began and then stopped as he watched the prioress’s face flush pink. He wondered if she was feverish.

  “Lest you were in doubt on this matter, brother, I am neither ignorant nor stupid. The truth, therefore, would be quite refreshing. It might even make it easier to discover who did this to you, and, perhaps, to find Brother Rupert’s killer.”

  Thomas shut his eyes. The pain had diminished from yesterday, but his head still ached and the prioress’s tone was harsh. He was not in the mood to be treated thus even if he had lied to her and she was the prioress to whom he owed obedience. The cowardly attack on him was a matter of honor, an attack on his manhood, and no woman should hold authority over him in such an affair. He would deal with the man who had hit him in his own way. Nor did he want the crowner here either. It was none of his business. He’d find the perpetrator himself, although he was almost certain it was that grim-faced, green-eyed Brother John. “’S blood,” he muttered.

  “Presumably you can find your confessor better than you could find the privy. Profanity is unacceptable in a man dedicated to God. You must have known that long before you took your vows.”

  Thomas covered his face with his hands.

  Sister Anne turned to Eleanor. “He hurts, my lady.”

  The prioress drew in a deep breath, let it out very slowly, and started again with a gentler tone.

  “I know you are in pain, brother, but we need the truth if we’re to prevent more violence. First, we had Brother Rupert’s death, and now we’ve had the attack on you. We don’t need a third such incident because you are suffering from the sin of pride.”

  Thomas nodded. Ralf and the prioress were right. It hadn’t been that clear to him that the two incidents were related, but he did not want someone else killed or injured. Still, what truth could he tell? What made sense and what should he or even could he explain?

  He remembered following Brother John and the young man as they ran out of the chapel. Following them had been an instinctive act; thus the reason he had done so was quite inexplicable. Nor was he sure he wanted to try. He might be chary of the somber monk with glittering green eyes, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to tell what he had witnessed either. The scene between monk and youth had been intimate, poignant. Thomas’ interest had been piqued for sure, but he also felt protective of them.

  Perhaps there had been no sin between the two, although the observed encounter rather lent itself to the darker interpretation. The youth he had seen with the monk was no high-voiced child. He had had the shoulders and height, if not the girth, of a man. No, he thought, he would never be guilty of doing to another what had been done to him. Thomas shook his head to shatter the image of Giles in his arms and turned his thoughts back to what had happened outside Tyndal Priory.

  It had been difficult to see far in the outer court. Clouds or fog had drifted across the sky. The moon gave only meager light and the stars were hidden from view. The area was still strange to him, and he had stumbled on the unfamiliar, rough ground as he tried to keep the shadows of monk and youth in sight.

  He remembered crossing a small wooden bridge below which he assumed must be the priory mill from the sound of groaning wood and splashing water. Then he had seen the silhouette of the mill itself. It loomed blacker than the night along what had suddenly become a smoother, well-worn path.

  Distracted by his attempt to keep his bearings, he had tripped. As he picked himself up, he saw the two had gained on him, their outlines growing fainter in the distance. Then he spotted them as they opened a creaking gate in the wall. It must have been used by the townspeople who had need of the mill, he guessed. Perhaps a monk or lay brother guarded it during the day, but there was none such to be seen in the gloom of that night.

  When he passed through the gate, however, the shadows he was chasing had vanished. There was no sign of them to either left or right. Ahead of him was the forest.

  He stopped, held his breath to keep the hoarse sound from masking what he hoped to hear. His ears were straining, listening for any sound of human life.

  Nothing.

  Then he heard something, deer or man, running through brush. He raced headlong into the trees, but they had slowed and confused him. Soon he knew he was lost. Sweating and tired, Thomas had lurched through snagging vines and rotting tree limbs until he came into a clearing of sorts. He stopped and tried to get his bearings, staring into the dark, moving shadows for two more. The shapes he saw were eerie impish things, not human, which seemed to reach out to him and snatch at his cowl and habit.

  He remembered taking a deep breath, then hearing the gurgling of a brook nearby. And just as he thought he detected the sound of hushed voices above the noise of the water, something hit him, forcing a cry of surprised pain from him as he fell into the soft leaf mold and slipped into total oblivion.

  So what could he tell the crowner and Prioress Eleanor? If the voices he thought he had heard were those of the lad and the monk, then the man who hit him was a stranger. If he had imagined the voices, then monk was still the most likely suspect. Perhaps the less said, the better, Thomas decided. For the moment.

  “You are long silent, brother.” Ralf was looking at him with curiosity.

  “I was trying to remember what had happened, crowner, but I fear I can summon up little.” Thomas nodded to the prioress. “Indeed, it was not a call of nature, my lady, but I was shamed by my foolishness in leaving the passage door open. The truth is simple enough. I was unable to sleep and slipped down to the chapel to pray, but my body was restless and sleep still would not come. So I did what I used to do as a boy and took a short walk, albeit outside the priory walls. I had no evil purpose. I am not yet familiar enough with the priory to know where I could walk and meditate without disturbing others at such a dark hour.”

  That much, Thomas thought, was reasonably true.

  “When I entered the forest, I became confused but when I came to the clearing, I stopped. I thought I heard a brook and remembered that such ran through the priory. Just as I was thinking I could follow it back to the grounds, something hit me and I remember nothing more.”

  “What was the first thing you do remember?” Ralf asked.

  “I was cold. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder and someone turned me over. The morning light hurt but I was able to see Brother John’s face clearly.” Thomas laughed. “Indeed my head hurt worse than it did the time I fell down some stone steps as a boy when I was wrestling with…” With Giles, he thought, and winced.

  “And still does, I see,” said Sister Anne with such a steady look that Thomas feared she could see into his very soul, stained as it was with half-truths, lies, and dreams of Giles.

  Thomas turned his head away.

  “And when did you leave the chapel, brother?” asked Ralf.

  “It was long after Matins but before Prime,” Thomas
replied. “I felt the sharpness of the morning mist and saw it covering the stars.”

  “Indeed, Brother John found you not long after Prime,” Eleanor said. She seemed lost in thought, her chin in her hand as she looked at him. He could read nothing in her gray eyes.

  “Not much to go by, son, but at least you are alive and lucky indeed to have the good care of Sister Anne at the hospital here.” Ralf glanced over at the tall nun. His smile as he looked at her was surprisingly gentle for such a rough man.

  Despite the look from her that made him fear she saw all his secrets, Thomas could understand how a man might become fond of such a remarkable woman as Sister Anne. For all her unfeminine candor and logical mind, the nun had gentle hands and thoughtful ways. Her binding of his wound had been quick, almost painless, and she had not only given him a soothing mixture to aid sleep but also a comfortable bed last night well away from those so sick they moaned despite her herbs and calming draughts. In truth, he had slept well.

  Although he had had two strange dreams, which made him wonder what had been in that sleeping potion to cause such fantastic imaginings. The first one was almost spectral. In his dream, Thomas had opened his eyes and seen nothing but darkness. All was quiet in the blackness except for the low, uneasy muttering of the sleeping sick. Then, through the opening of the screen which gave him privacy, he saw two shadowy forms standing close together in whispered discussion and softly silhouetted by the light of the candles each held. When one figure moved his taper, Thomas recognized Brother John. The monk’s murmuring was rapid and intense, and although Thomas could not hear what either said, he recognized Sister Anne’s voice when she briefly responded.

  Thomas looked around but saw no sign of another sister, monk or lay person present and remembered thinking that surely it was not allowed for the two to be together without proper attendance. Then Brother John put his hand on Sister Anne’s shoulder and kissed her on the cheek before slipping away into the darkness. Thomas must have fallen back into his deep sleep for he remembered nothing more of them.

  The most troubling fantasy came later. Again he had dreamed that he had opened his eyes. And, again, all was dark. He could hear only the steady or irregular breathing of the other sick and wounded. This time there were no candles or ghostly figures, but he did hear a soft rustling. A mouse or rat, he remembered thinking, and closed his eyes. At that moment, he felt a presence next to him, the movement of a garment against his arm, and the sound of breathing above him.

  Instinctively, he kept his eyes shut and waited, wary but oddly not unnerved by the quiet figure. It was a man, he was sure. He could smell his sweat, an acrid scent, not the sweetish, sometimes metallic smell of a woman.

  The man did nothing. He just stood there. Then, with a stroke as soft as a feather brushing against his face, he touched Thomas. A lay brother perhaps, he thought, tensing ever so slightly. Someone checking for the dead amongst the quick? Then the robe swept across his arm once again as the man turned and moved away. He heard the man’s feet crush the floor rushes with that whishing, rodent-like noise he had heard before.

  Thomas opened his eyes. He would have sworn that the bulky shadow moving away from him was Brother Simeon, but as he fell back into a profound sleep that lasted until the morning bells for prayer, he decided he must surely be mistaken.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ralf the Crowner had been the first to leave, shaking his head with frustration over this additional complication and at the unexpectedly slow pace of his investigation into Brother Rupert’s murder. As he marched down the length of the hospital, he had muttered curses at himself, and the young lay sister accompanying him must surely have blushed at some of the things she overheard.

  Soon after, Anne returned to her treatment of the earthly pains of mortal bodies while Sister Christina soothed whatever ailed the trembling souls of those seeking to be healed at Tyndal. Thomas was left under strict orders to do nothing more strenuous than wander in the safety of the monks’ cloister gardens.

  Eleanor went back to her chambers and was grateful to be alone at last. Picking up the orange cat, she sat staring at the tapestry of Mary Magdalene with Jesus.

  “I am furious with myself,” she muttered. “I was harsh to the wounded brother, not because of his lies, although I might have had the right in that, but out of fear of my own frailty. In that, I was wrong.” Tears stung her eyes. To keep herself from one sin, she had committed another. Indeed, she had longed to reach out to soothe his pain with gentle caress, not only to comfort him but also to satisfy her own hunger to touch him.

  The previous night she had slept little, and, when she had, the dreams were so violent she had awakened, sweating in terror. Some of her night horrors were about Thomas. The attack on him had frightened her, and not beyond reason, but it were not the sole cause.

  “There is a brutal and twisted wickedness loose, not just in the world outside Tyndal’s walls but, I fear, within the priory itself,” she said aloud, looking down at the contented bundle of fur on her lap. “Evil in some form has invaded this house dedicated to peace and to God.”

  And that house was her house. Ultimately, it was her responsibility to protect everyone within these walls, and she was failing.

  “Against my better judgement, I have allowed myself the same easy comfort I have encouraged amongst the brothers and sisters here. For cert, I may hope Brother Rupert’s murder was a chance thing and the murderer some common outlaw, but for the safety of us all, I may not assume it.”

  She shifted. Arthur, the cat, looked up at her and expressed a mild complaint. “Hush, sweet one. I have recovered my wits.” She smiled as he resettled in her lap. “When I awoke from my nightmares in the harsh green moonlight of the midnight hour, a manly reason did prevail over my weaker self.”

  Eleanor looked away from the tapestry and toward the window that looked down on the priory grounds. “No purposeless killer would drag a body, not only into the outer court of the priory grounds but further into the walled nuns’ quarters. That had to have been a deliberate act, meant to send a specific message, and thus most likely the murderer has a close connection with Tyndal.”

  Was the slayer a monk? Was he a lay brother? Could it have even been a woman? Perhaps one of the village people who used the mill or had other commerce with the priory and knew their habits well? The idea that any religious would do such a thing to another was not beyond her comprehension, but she prayed it would not be so. Besides, what could an old man like Brother Rupert do to anyone in this priory, or what would he know, for that matter, that would make that person choose murder to quiet him? A murder, moreover, committed in such a horrible way? There were few sins so abhorrent that confession would not remove both the shame and the sin. Monks knew that best of all. Or should. Surely the killer was from outside the priory, perhaps the village. Surely from the village.

  “Then there is the attack on Brother Thomas,” she said, rubbing the cat’s forehead. “The crowner suggested that the killer of one monk might be the attacker of yet another. Thus the reasons for the more heinous crime become twisted and complex. No, this is no easily caught, ordinary malefactor. This is someone with the cleverness of Satan himself.” She hesitated. “However, even the Prince of Darkness did not escape punishment for his defiance of God’s supremacy. Neither will the killer of Brother Rupert,” she said emphatically. Like her nuns and monks, she, too, had to believe that God would render justice, whatever form it might take. To believe otherwise was heresy. And madness.

  “The crowner continues to be thwarted by lack of evidence, however, and Brother Thomas is still not telling the truth.” She had no good reason for thinking the latter, none that any man would find reasonable, but her instincts knew well what those little twitches in his face meant after his long pause and the quick glance to the side before he began his new tale. Some of his most recent story might be true. He had been found in a clearing near where the large stream ran toward the priory, and most certainly h
e had been struck from behind.

  “Nay, I do not believe his tale of the need for a walk any more than the call of nature story, but for whatever reason he left the priory, he must have seen something he wasn’t meant to see. Did he accidentally walk to a place he shouldn’t have been, at a time he shouldn’t have been there? Could the reason he left the priory grounds be related to why he was attacked? In that case, who or what was he protecting?” She shook her head in puzzlement. Surely a man so new to Tyndal could not have formed such strong bonds of loyalty so soon with anyone.

  “Perhaps he strayed into something similar to what Brother Rupert encountered? Not quite the same thing or he would have been killed, of course, but near enough to merit a warning?” Eleanor mused aloud as she looked down at the curled creature now sleeping in her lap. “He was struck in a clearing in the forest at night. Might he have ventured too near the meeting place of evil spirits?” She rubbed her weary eyes. Although she had no doubt that evil spirits existed and often lurked at night, she had never personally known any that did not come in a very earthly form. No, if Thomas had trespassed on land claimed by agents of evil, they were human ones.

  She stood up and gently lowered the cat to the ground. Arthur had left a fine layer of orange hair on the skirt of her habit. Briefly, she brushed at it. What little she dislodged floated down and reattached to her hem.

  “Well, my good friend, it seems I must carry some of you with me as long as my gown lasts! Perhaps it will keep me warmer come winter and I shall be most grateful.”

  The cat sat at her feet, rumbling softly, his green eyes round and his gaze intense.

  Eleanor reached down and scratched him behind the ears. “It is time for you to go to work in the kitchen, fine sir. And it is time for me to take a walk, in the manner of our good Brother Thomas, to see what lies outside our priory.”

  ***

  It was a warm day, mellow as late summer days could be, a day that lulled mortals into forgetting the sharp sleet and chill sea winds which came with punishing force as the life-giving seasons slipped into the long months of damp gloom. As she walked into the grove to the clearing where Thomas had been found, Eleanor thought about the dark time ahead and could understand why her pagan ancestors had woven such vivid and often cruel tales to explain the changing of the seasons. It was easy enough to see how they could interpret the end of spring and the harvest season as a time of cruel devastation, hopelessness and, aye, even murder. What amazed her was their ability to rebound and find hope in the renewal of life long before they had ever heard of Christianity. Giving His man creature such resilience of spirit, even in the benighted days, spoke volumes about God’s love. The thought gave her comfort as she walked through the trees where a man of violence had stalked not so very long ago. Such love would surely bring this person to justice in some way and soon.