Satan's Lullaby

by Royal, Priscilla

  Gracia almost skipped for joy. “I do, and we shall go together for I wished to ask her a question.” Truth enough, she thought, and was pleased she did not have to lie to this good woman.

  The journey through the hospital was slow. The infirmarian’s eyes were weak, but her ears never missed the weakest sigh or softest groan of anguish.

  Several times, Sister Christina stopped to kneel and pray by a bedside, not caring what rotting flesh her hand grasped. Once she spoke with a woman sitting in a hot bath, violets drifting in the water, and expressed joy that the patient had gotten relief from the horrible pain of bladder stone. When a heavy, red-faced man cried out in fear when told he must suffer blood-letting between his finger and thumb for his severe headaches, Sister Christina knelt with him and distracted him with pleas to God while the lay brother made the cut. With kind touch and tenderly spoken prayers, she brought peace to the dying and those in unspeakable pain.

  Although the sight of so much agony was difficult for Gracia, she waited while the infirmarian gave consolation. Tears for the suffering stung the maid’s eyes, and she admired Sister Christina for her compassion. Like so many at Tyndal Priory, she was certain the nun was a saint. Some claimed to have been cured by Sister Christina. Gracia had never witnessed this herself, but Sister Anne had confirmed the stories and this convinced the girl that they must be true.

  At last, the pair reached the door leading to the hut where the medicines were stored.

  “It was Sister Anne who had this place built,” the infirmarian whispered to Gracia. “She believed the suffering had too long to wait for what little ease we can give them and begged permission to have all remedies here, rather than in the tiny hut on the other side of the priory near the gardens.”

  Gracia saw tears in the infirmarian’s eyes and loved her more for that.

  “She is a godly woman, my child. Everyone at Tyndal knows she is innocent.”

  Gracia looked through the door and saw Sister Oliva in the hut. “The nun we seek is there,” she said and lightly pressed the infirmarian’s arm to guide her in that direction. As she did, something caught her eye, and she turned to glance into the chapel just opposite.

  A man quickly turned his head and covered his face with his hands as if lost in prayer.

  For an instant, the girl hesitated. She would have sworn he had been staring at them. His body remained twisted at an awkward angle. He might wish for an observer to assume his soul looked to Heaven, but Gracia was convinced he was far more curious about what was happening on earth.

  Yet there was a crutch lying next to him, Gracia noted. Surely he was just one of many who came here for healing and had been distracted from his orisons for a moment by their arrival. But she remained troubled and did not set her uneasiness aside. The instinct honed for survival is never lost or wisely dismissed.

  “Is something wrong?” Sister Christina squinted.

  “No, Sister,” Gracia replied. “I thought I saw one of the lay brothers approaching, but he did not need your assistance. Let us go to the hut.”

  Sister Oliva brightened when she saw her visitors. “I pray you have come with news that Sister Anne has been sent back to us,” she said.

  “I fear not,” the infirmarian said.

  Gracia shook her head in confirmation.

  “I have come on behalf of our sub-prioress who prays that some way has been found to make more of the medicine for her gout.” The infirmarian smiled hopefully.

  But Gracia wondered if the smile also suggested that even the kind Sister Christina could find gentle amusement in the sub-prioress’ change of mind after discovering that Sister Anne’s earthly remedy took away her great pain.

  Sister Oliva frowned. “I fear there has been no alteration in what I said before. There is nothing left of the preparation.”

  “The redness on her toe has brightened, and the throbbing returns.” Sister Christina frowned, but the expression never meant anger with the infirmarian. She was worried.

  “Only Sister Anne has the skill,” the young nun replied. “She may have promised to train me in some of the more complex treatments, but the one for gout is both difficult and dangerous. Not even her former husband knew how to balance the ingredients. I would not even try to do this.”

  Sister Christina stepped closer. “If we were to smuggle all she needed to make the medicine into her cell…”

  “And chance the great anger of Father Etienne, Infirmarian? I do not know what she would need even if we could.”

  “Might there be just a little left?” Gracia smiled eagerly.

  Sister Oliva stared at the girl with surprise.

  Gracia quickly put a finger up to her lips and shook her head.

  Sister Oliva raised an eyebrow but remained silent.

  “Do you remember the color of the container, Sister Christina?” Gracia asked. “Perhaps our sister can look for it.” A foolish remark, the girl thought. Sister Oliva would surely know where it was and what it looked like. She only hoped the infirmarian knew less than she did about how much this nun had been taught.

  The infirmarian shook her head. “It was dark and round, I think, and about this large.” She drew a circle in the air, and then gestured toward the area where the chest of poisonous herbs sat. “When Sister Anne made up the pouches for me to take to our sub-prioress, she went in that direction.”

  Sister Oliva tilted her head, looked at Gracia, and pressed one hand against her mouth.

  Gracia nodded, relieved that the woman grasped the need to pretend. Deciding she liked the young nun for her sensitivity, she also appreciated her cleverness and understood why Sister Anne had chosen her to learn the apothecary art.

  “Your description has helped me recall the item,” the nun said. “It was a dark brown pot with an ill-fitting lid.” She made a rough circle with her hands but carefully watched the size she was indicating. “Round as you described, Infirmarian.” She made a show of checking the chest and glancing around the shelves. “I fear I see nothing like that here.” Looking down at Gracia, she smiled, knowing the infirmarian was too near-sighted to note it. “I suspect our sub-infirmarian may have sent the pot away for a better-fitting lid after the last dose was used.”

  The prioress’ maid grinned back.

  “I fear we have absolutely nothing left of the remedy, Infirmarian. I shall ask God to give our sub-prioress more strength to endure her pain.”

  “I shall as well and also pray for the swift return of our good Sister Anne,” Sister Christina said, bowing her head. “Until then, many will suffer.” She looked up in the general direction of the young nun, her expression benevolent. “I know God has blessed your hands with skill…”

  “As we both know, Infirmarian,” Sister Oliva said in a low voice, “God has endowed Sister Anne with the skills of a great healer. Although those of us working under her direction do so with dedication and prayer, we are not as honored with those same gifts.”

  With that, Sister Christina turned to leave. Gracia once again took her arm and guided her through the hospital where the suffering reached out to receive the relief she gave.

  As for the penitent with the crutch in the chapel, he was nowhere to be seen.

  Folding her arms and with a thoughtful air, Sister Oliva watched the pair depart, then went back to the table where she had been crushing rotten apples used to treat sore eyes.

  ***

  After accompanying the infirmarian to the sub-prioress’ chambers, Gracia hurried away.

  If there was no other reason for thinking Sister Christina was at least Blessed if not quite a saint, her tolerance of Sub-Prioress Ruth’s faults would be enough. All knew that the infirmarian was much loved by the sub-prioress, but, as the raised voice of pained outrage from the chambers suggested, even Sister Christina was not completely safe from the sharp rebukes for which the sub-prioress was known.<
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  Safely on the path back to her mistress, Gracia saw two men coming toward her. One was Brother Thomas and the other Crowner Ralf. She waved with enthusiasm and ran to meet them.

  Seeing the girl’s happy expression, Thomas called out to her. “Do you bear good tidings?”

  “I wish better, Brother, but I do have some news.” She nodded at the crowner with a friendly smile but reserved her highest regard for the auburn-haired monk.

  “The missing pot containing autumn crocus was about this big.” She studiously replicated the young nun’s estimation. “It was dark brown and had an ill-fitting lid.” She hesitated and looked hopefully at her favored monk before adding, “Sister Christina could not see the pot well but said it was round, dark, and about this big.” She frowned and drew a bigger circle with her hands.

  “Well done!” Thomas grinned.

  “Hearing this news from you is fortunate,” the crowner added. “I have just searched Jean’s room and found no pot there.”

  Gracia’s enthusiasm vanished like the flame on a snuffed candle.

  Ralf reached into his pouch and pulled forth a brown pottery lid. Holding it out to Gracia, he said, “But I did find this just outside the guest quarters in the tall grass close to the stables.”

  She took it in her hand and studied it. “Sister Oliva said the pot had an ill-fitting lid.” Running a finger around the edge, she grinned. “This would be ill-fitting,” she said. “It turns up just here.” She pointed out the flaw and handed it back to the crowner. “That lid would not sit firmly on any jar.”

  Thomas thanked her for her observations.

  Gracia blushed.

  “I questioned Renaud,” the crowner said, “but he could not recall anything about the pot. It was he who was given the responsibility to administer the required dosage to Jean. He was outraged over my questions and swore he did not care about the shape of any container, only that it held a cure. He did remember how much he had been instructed to mete out by the elusive Brother Imbert. After Jean’s death, he paid even less attention to the pot because he saw no cause to do so. When I noticed the absence, he said he did not know when he last saw it.” Ralf snorted. “Davoir claims he never saw the jar or the monk who brought it.”

  “I share your disdain for this priest, Ralf, and know what you are thinking,” Thomas said. “But I agree with our prioress in this matter. No matter how unkind and unobservant he seems, Father Etienne has excellent motives not to have killed his clerk.”

  “I more than dislike him, Brother,” Ralf replied. “I despise the man for his vindictive treatment of Sister Anne and his irrational refusal to disallow the obvious lies told about you and our prioress. Yet I reluctantly concur with your opinion.”

  “He loved his dead clerk,” Thomas said, “although that might not be one of the best reasons to conclude his innocence.”

  “Love? That requires a heart, and, if the man had one, I’d agree that affection precluded violence. Family honor? I accept this as justification not to murder Jean. In addition, my court-loving brother says that King Philip has been negotiating for peace with our king for years. This would argue against any conclusion that Davoir was sent from the French court to trouble the sister of one of King Edward’s favored knights by committing murder in her priory in addition to the slander from an unnamed source.” He took a deep breath. “That would not be politic.”

  “Although he accused Prioress Eleanor of ordering Sister Anne to kill Jean, he did so in anger and has not pursued that matter with any vigor,” Thomas said.

  Ralf shrugged. “And this man will go home to receive a miter?” He chuckled. “The French claim we are governed by kings so raving mad they chew the rushes on the floor, yet they choose bishops who condemn the innocent with no better cause than spite. If these are the men the French believe to be holy, they shall soon burn saints and praise God when the bishops excommunicate angels!”

  Gracia listened with fascination to the two men. Although she had rarely heard any good spoken of the French, she did not know much about them, except that they were not English. Once, when she asked her mistress about these strange people, she learned that Prioress Eleanor’s maternal family had come to England from the Aquitaine with King Edward’s great-grandmother and had spent some time at the French court. “When we speak of French kings descended from King Louis VII,” the prioress had said, “we do so with sympathy, my child. Those ruled by these kings deserve our compassion, not contempt.” What her mistress did not explain was why she had smiled when she spoke those words.

  “I think we better tell Prioress Eleanor what Gracia and I have found,” Ralf said.

  Thomas agreed, but his expression became thoughtful. “While you are doing that, I will go to the hospital and ask questions. I cannot believe that no one saw this Brother Imbert. Any detail might prove useful in our efforts to release Sister Anne, if not find the clerk’s killer.”

  “Go, Brother!” Ralf said, turning pale. “Annie must be freed. My wife will give birth any day!”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Thomas hastened down the path to the hospital.

  The tale of Brother Imbert troubled him. The name was uncommon in East Anglia, which suggested he was not a local man. Prior Andrew certainly knew nothing of him, but Father Etienne had not recognized the name as belonging to one of his clerks either. Was the hooded one, who had visited Sister Anne, Brother Imbert? If his existence wasn’t a complete lie, the mysterious monk owned a corporal body.

  Although many claimed to have seen ghosts, Thomas never had and often doubted there were such creatures. Even if this Imbert was a damned soul, condemned to restless wandering and the tormenting of wayward mortals, he was more likely to inhabit dreams than steal a lethal dose of autumn crocus for a clerk who, by all accounts, was a gentle lad.

  Sensible as this sounded, it was also the case that reason has always been a matter for debate amongst those with differing interpretations. After Thomas had spent much time at the hospital, engaged in lengthy questioning of lay brothers, lay sisters, and even a few of the patients, he begin to question how sensible his beliefs were about the character and existence of the wandering damned. Brother Imbert was very elusive indeed.

  One patient said he might have seen a shadowy figure come from the direction of the apothecary hut and pass by his bed on the night in question. But he had had a fever and also swore that a fiend danced around his bed, forked tail twitching in response to an unheard melody.

  Another man thought for a moment and then recalled that he had seen a hooded man rush by his cousin’s cot. He remembered because he called out to him to pray for the soul of his dying kin. When the figure did not stop, he screamed at him, for he knew no lay brother would ever deny prayer to a soul about to face God. The hooded one disappeared, but another lay brother had come to his aid and his cousin was able to die a good death. The man was now convinced the hooded creature was no man at all but rather Satan, fleeing the sight of the cross.

  Just as Thomas was about to give up, a lay brother suggested that he might ask the pilgrim who had come here with a twisted ankle. Although the injury was not severe, the lay brother noted with a hint of sarcasm, the pilgrim had been given a place to sleep near the apothecary hut. “He is well enough to see and hear as clearly as you or I, Brother. He was in the right place to notice a hooded man holding a pot too large to put in a pouch.” He rubbed his chin as if wondering whether it was time for his shave. “I asked him about this matter once before, and he claimed to know nothing.” He grinned. “Looking up at you as you ask stern questions might brighten his memory.”

  But the straw mattress where the pilgrim slept was unoccupied, and Thomas decided to talk with Sister Oliva lest some detail had come to mind after Gracia last talked with her. As he reached the passageway leading to the apothecary, he glanced into the chapel. Only an elderly woman was there, kneeling in front of th
e altar. Her back was bent so severely that her nose almost touched her breasts.

  He hurried down the walkway to the apothecary hut.

  As he grew near, Thomas froze, and then slipped to one side so he would not be too visible from the hut’s open door.

  A man was standing in front of the shelves. A crutch was leaning against the wall. He was taking items down from the shelves, studying the labels, lifting the lids of some and peering at the contents.

  Thomas watched just long enough to make sure this was not just idle curiosity, then walked in. “Are you searching for something?” His question was not asked in a kindly tone.

  The man started, almost dropped a jar, and spun around. His face was pale and his eyes wide with terror.

  The monk stepped closer and put his hand on the crutch to keep the man from using it as a weapon. “Did I startle you?”

  “My lord…”

  “I am a monk of Tyndal Priory.”

  “Brother,” he croaked. The man’s expression suggested that he did not believe a man of Thomas’ height and breadth of shoulder was anything but a knight with a sword by his side. As one who stood no taller than most, the man obviously feared this monk who loomed over him.

  “Neither our sub-infirmarian nor her assistant is here.” The monk slowly looked at the man from head to foot. “You are in no distress. Why are you riffling through the shelves instead of waiting for another to bring whatever you think you need?”

  Trying to recover some dignity, the man puffed out his chest. “I am in pain, although you may not have noticed that. I do not like to whine about my ills.” He hesitated, then winced as if deciding it would be wise.

  Noticing the man’s accent, Thomas smiled. “You are not English,” he said, knowing he was stating the obvious and carefully not asking more. With luck, the man might believe the monk was not overly concerned with details beyond the apparent.

  The man exhaled with relief. “I am from Picardy,” he said. “On pilgrimage to your shrine at Canterbury for my sins.”