A Killing Season (7 page)

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 leave 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 possessed 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.

The lute player’s string snapped, cutting his finger and ending the diversion. The ballads had been melancholy, but the music did mask the absence of conversation. Only the shuffling of servants’ feet, the clunk of platters, and an occasional cough now echoed through the Great Hall.

Sir Leonel offered Eleanor a choice slice of cold rabbit.

After a graceful refusal, she looked away. Her prior attraction to him had been swiftly countered with painful sessions as she implored forgiveness on her knees in a damp chapel. Tonight, when she saw he was seated next to her, she was unhappy. His presence had initially rekindled uncomfortable pleasure before the memory of aching knees ended it. Mild annoyance replaced desire, but she was not certain how long that would last.

Her longing for Brother Thomas was difficult enough, but the monk had shown such virtue in women’s company that she doubted any could ever tempt him into bed. She felt safe with him, no matter how wicked her lust. Glancing up at Sir Leonel, she was not as sure about him. She shivered.

“Are you chilled, my lady?”

“A draft,” she replied and said no more.

Instead of pursuing conversation, Leonel grew quiet. Reaching out with his boxwood-handled eating knife, he speared a thigh from the platter and concentrated on tearing the meat into small bits on his trencher.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye and was perplexed that he had so quickly chosen to honor her assumed preference for silence, born of habit from priory meals. More likely he has been infected with the settling gloom, she concluded. All others had been this night.

The gathered company was a small one. Although she was surprised that Raoul had not attended this supper, she took no umbrage. He had been wise to avoid it. As for Umfrey, Brother Thomas told her that the current heir was still cowering in the chapel. Eleanor did not think the cold rabbit enough to tempt him forth. As for the baron, she had learned his habits and expected his absence.

Eleanor stifled a yawn. She had little appetite for food, drink, or even company, but courtesy demanded she remain until Lady Margaret rose. Nuns might be excused for additional prayers; prioresses had secular responsibilities. This was one occasion when she regretted that obligation.

Closing her eyes, she recalled Naaman’s story, a man healed by Elisha. Although he wished it otherwise, Naaman continued to bow before idols because his king, an honorable man, required his support. She sympathized with his grief over not taking the more righteous path as much as she understood his predicament.

A woman’s laugh shattered her reflections. Surprised by the unexpected levity, Eleanor looked up to discover what had amused the Lady Margaret.

Sitting next to the baron’s wife was Sir Hugh. When they first took their seats for supper, the prioress noted that her brother had tried to engage the lady in conversation. Margaret responded then with minimal courtesy, but now he had apparently succeeded in lifting her melancholy mood.

Again, the lady laughed.

Few sisters believe their brothers to be captivating, yet Eleanor had been well entertained on the journey by Hugh. He had become a fine teller of tales after his years in Outremer. With so many adventures behind him, he could draw upon countless stories to inspire wonder, delight, and even terror in his listeners. As she studied Margaret’s face, however, the prioress feared that Hugh had done more than amuse. There was a new sparkle in the lady’s eyes.

Eleanor frowned. Surely Hugh had not meant to seduce the wife of his friend, yet Margaret was responding as if that had been his intent. The lady turned her head to expose the smooth whiteness of her neck. Her face colored a pleasing light pink as she gazed back with half-open eyes at the knight.

This was not the conduct of a virtuous wife. Perhaps the baron’s wife had been trying to seduce Hugh? Eleanor wished she had paid more attention to their conversation.

Sir Leonel muttered something under his breath.

Stealing a look at this nephew, she saw him scowl in disapproval at his aunt and her guest. Eleanor knew she must devise a way to warn her brother against continuing on this dangerous path. Cuckolding a friend was always dishonorable. Doing so after the death of a son was unforgivable.

She could think of nothing to do. Frustrated, she reminded herself that Hugh was no callow youth. He was several years older than she and had fathered at least one child. Sister though she was, Eleanor knew he was handsome enough to attract women into his bed and was probably skilled in the arts of both pleasing and rejecting them.

She shut her eyes and sat back in the chair. May he be wise enough not to pursue the seduction of this one, she prayed, then picked up her short eating knife and pretended to find something on her trencher of interest.

Sir Leonel mumbled an apology, rose, and left the hall.

She watched him stride off. Had she not been worried about Hugh’s behavior, the prioress might have sighed with relief at the man’s departure. Again, she cautiously looked over at her brother and the baron’s wife.

This time the lady sat with her eyes modestly lowered. Hugh was talking to the guest on his other side.

Perhaps she had misjudged what was happening between the two. Assuming lack of virtue based on a moment or mere glance was ill-advised. Eleanor gritted her teeth, chided herself for making rash assumptions, and turned her attention to Sister Anne who was on the other side of Sir Leonel’s vacant chair.

The sub-infirmarian’s head was bent, her eyes half-closed. She coughed.

Seated next to her, Master Gamel looked startled and bent to softly ask a question.

Giving him an equally hushed reply, the nun looked up and, with evident disinterest, studied a group at a lower table.

Had some wizard cast a charm on this place, causing otherwise honorable people to succumb, one after another, to mortal failings? Or was it Satan who was sending his imps with hell-lit torches to enflame lust in them all? Eleanor looked up at the heavy wooden beams across the ceiling as if expecting to see a fork-tailed creature exuding a foul reek. Looking back at Anne, she swiftly made the sign of the cross as her heart began to ache with growing concern.

Although the sub-infirmarian served God honorably, she had confessed to Eleanor how much she missed the comforts of the marriage bed with the man they both now called Brother John. Eleanor knew Anne had not come to the religious life with a profound vocation, but this was the first time she feared that her good friend’s obedience to her vows might be sorely tested.

As she looked at the expression on Master Gamel’s face, both tender and worried, the prioress suspected the man had touched her friend’s heart with his own affection. If so, it was her duty to condemn this, but surely God’s compassion would permit her to be gentle about it—unless, of course, the physician had said or done something to compromise Anne’s virtue.

Eleanor hoped nothing untoward had happened. When the two healers were introduced, both seemed eager to share information. The nun had always welcomed conversation with those who might teach her more of the healing art. On this journey, the pair had ridden together, often lost in dialogue, but in clear view of everyone in the party. The prioress had not seen anything unseemly in this.

Brother Thomas would know best, she thought. Since he had ridden close by the physician and nun for propriety’s sake, he surely would have intervened had he seen or heard anything improper. As another who respected Sister Anne and loved her chastely as a friend, Thomas would never let anything occur that might harm her. Eleanor was equally certain he would have told her in confidence had he felt any doubt.

Stealing another hurried look at Master Gamel, Eleanor now perceived nothing in his expression except a physician’s concern. Maybe he feared the nun was ill and would not admit to it. He raised one hand to his mouth, bit a finger, and carefully studied his quiet companion. His eyes glittered with moisture, but the air was heavy with smoke from burning candles.

Eleanor reached for her goblet and sipped the excellent red wine. I had best cleanse my own heart of sin, she decided, before I start accusing anyone else of lust. It may be that the Devil has so filled my soul with unchaste thoughts that I see the fault in all others.

Another burst of laughter exploded in the hushed room.

Eleanor looked up in time to see Lady Margaret rest her hand on Hugh’s arm. The baron’s wife put her other hand on her breast and let it slip down her body with a caressing gesture.

Hugh sat back, his face flaming red.

That might answer the question of which is seducing the other, Eleanor thought with some relief. Hugh is a frail mortal like us all, she thought, but I am grateful that my brother seems to be resisting the temptation to swyve the baron’s wife.

Then Eleanor’s anger flashed. How dare Lady Margaret try to deceive her with fine declarations of unyielding virtue? Hadn’t this woman proclaimed just yesterday that she had maintained her chastity under the most trying conditions during the baron’s absence? Now that her husband was home, she seemed eager to wallow in another man’s bed and right after her son had died. This was sin beyond imagination.

Or had grief and the rejection of her husband so weakened her resolve that temptation found her an easy prey? Eleanor shook her head in confusion. There might be more to this strange behavior than wickedness, unless, as she feared, her own sins were coloring her observations.

The prioress searched out Brother Thomas at the table to see if he had also witnessed what was happening between her brother and Lady Margaret. Were he as perplexed as she about the interaction between the pair, she would feel more confidence in her conclusions.

But the monk was lost in thought. The food on his trencher remained untouched. His brow creased, he slowly rocked a wine cup back and forth.

Everyone seems bewitched, Eleanor decided. Mortals might be the usual perpetrators of evil in her experience, but she was uncomfortably aware that this occasion could be the exception. Each of them acted as if enchanted by some strange charm: she with lust for Sir Leonel, the lady for Sir Hugh, and perhaps Master Gamel and Sister Anne for each other. Brother Thomas, whose virtue had always been strong enough to withstand the lure of women, appeared to be in a trance.

Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut, but not before the pressure of a throbbing headache begin to build over her left eye. She pressed her fingers against her brow. Not since she was a child and learned of her mother’s death had she felt so vulnerable.