Forsaken Soul (7 page)

Chapter Thirteen

“You’re a godly monk, Brother.” Old Tibia’s voice began to slur as the sleep-inducing draught took effect.

Godly
was not a word he would have used to describe himself, Thomas thought, but opted not to contradict her gentle words.

“And have a consoling angel’s smile.”

“You are most kind, but I am a sinful man like any other. I will convey your gratitude to those who make this potion. I am but the courier who delivers restful sleep from the priory.”

Tibia laid a light hand on Thomas’ arm and watched him as she did. “You don’t draw back at the touch of this crone?”

“Why should I?”

“Most bearing the tonsure do. How can a feeble old woman like me corrupt chastity? I’ve oft asked that.” Her expression suggested some distant memory had drifted like a cloud’s shadow across her face. “If the sex that bore them troubles monks so, how could they have been good sons? But you, you’re like a proper son, Brother. Touching you with a mother’s hand comforts me and makes the absence of my own boy more bearable.”

“We should praise the God who sent me to you.”

She turned her sharp-featured face from him.

Remembering his earlier, less compassionate thoughts about her, shame filled his heart. Why was it that we sing paeans to lush but wicked youth, he asked himself, and mock the hooked noses and hollow cheeks of those whose souls were soon to see God? Should we not pray instead for these scars left by grueling life and condemn the plump callousness of youth? At the moment, age’s pale warmth seemed preferable to Thomas than the heat of youth. What joy had the latter ever brought him?

“Is your mother dead?” Tibia’s voice was just a whisper.

“Aye, as are the women who took me in as a babe and young boy.”

“Your father?”

“He also.”

“More recently? There’s fresh sadness in your voice.”

“The brothers and sisters at the priory are my kin,” he replied, realizing that there was much truth in what he said, more than he had intended.

“A kind family,” Tibia murmured. “Your holy prioress brought good with her when she came to Tyndal Priory. The Evil One stays where he should in his stinking pit longer than he did in the past.”

“Like the beloved disciple, who took care of Our Lord’s mother after the crucifixion, I gain honor by serving Prioress Eleanor,” Thomas said. The words might have been spoken out of common courtesy, but his heart meant them.

The old woman suddenly gazed up at him, all sleep fled and her eyes shining with wide-eyed zeal. “And now the priory has a new anchoress. A holy woman, for cert!”

“You think her blessed by God?”

“Her advice brings hope to us in the village. And I’ve heard it true that pilgrims, even from London, delay their journey on the way to the shrine of Saint William to crouch by her window.”

Although he had seen some whom he had not recognized at Sister Juliana’s window, he had no idea that her reputation as a woman touched by God had spread quite so far abroad. “Have you spoken with the anchoress yourself?”

“What woman hasn’t?” Tibia sighed. “A friar traveling through the village preached that women are the most sinful creatures. We destroy any hope men might have to return to Eden.” She closed her eyes as if wearied by the effort to talk. “That’s hard to bear. Since I’ve committed much wickedness, I know I must take my share of blame. But those words must weigh heavy on a virtuous woman. If the Anchoress Juliana can spread balm on my evil heart, she’ll do more for the innocent.”

“Nevertheless, she cannot give you God’s forgiveness.”

The silence grew long, except for the sound of the old woman’s steady breathing. Had Tibia finally fallen asleep? He bent over to listen and decided that the potion had finally worked.

That was just as well, he decided. His curiosity about Sister Juliana and her advice was sparked, but he should not question this poor soul about her experience with the anchoress. As a priest, he might be able to hear any willing confession. As a mere man, he had no right to pry into what had transpired between the old woman and the young anchoress.

As Thomas rose to leave, he heard old Tibia mutter something. Was she just talking in her sleep or had she spoken to him? He leaned over and brought his ear closer to her mouth.

“A priest may bring a father’s forgiveness,” the woman said clearly enough, “but we all long for a mother’s embrace. A holy woman brings that from God, Brother.”

Startled by her meaning, he drew back.

Tibia now slipped into a sleep so deep it foretold the peace of death.

Chapter Fourteen

Aided by the full moon’s ashen light, Thomas hurried along the path to the priory. His mood was darker than the Devil’s heart.

After leaving Tibia, he had taken one more potion to a man who suffered a deep and oozing sore in his throat. As the monk helped him drink a measure of poppy juice, the man screamed, his eyes wide like a wounded animal, terrified by the unimaginable pain before the numbing drug took affect. Glancing up at the wet cheeks of the man’s wife, Thomas knew that both of them would call God merciful if He took the man’s soul quickly, even though that aged widow would be left to the care of their son’s spouse, a woman of few mercies and even less charity.

“Is there any earthly happiness for mortals?” Thomas growled as he entered the priory grounds near the mill. His eyes were gritty with fatigue—or was it bitterness?

He rubbed angrily at them.

The light might be bright enough to see along the path, but the shadows cast in front of him were sinister, twitching like tortured souls in Hell. Although daylight might reveal the cause to be as harmless as wind-stunted brush moving in a sea breeze, Thomas found night to be an ominous time. When God’s sunshine deserted the earth, Satan most certainly rejoiced, ruled his kingdom with bleak terror, and filled the hours with hideous deeds.

The monk shuddered. Madness lay in these thoughts. Surely, if he were able to sleep, he would awaken to a more joyous view of God’s creation and cast his foe, the Prince of Darkness, out of his heart. Thomas quickened his pace as he passed the creaking mill wheel.

Of course there were men who experienced an honest pleasure in life: those with loving wives and children; some who found salvation in killing infidels and gaining prestige with a well-honed sword; or men filled with such rapturous faith that they longed only for God’s company, either in a hermitage or the cloister.

Thomas did not regret the lack of a wife, although he was sometimes sorry he had never fathered a son. Nor did he wish for the military life. Despite his bastardy, he might have gotten horse and armor from his father had he shown talent in warrior sports, but the monk had always preferred jousts with sharp wit to those with lances. The Church was the only logical place for a clever by-blow with reasoning skills, high enough birth, and a pleasing manner but no lands to tempt noble fathers demanding more than a handsome face for their daughters.

As for faith, he had always assumed the truth of what the Church taught but rarely thought much beyond that, unless struck by terror that his sins were so horrible that his soul must plunge directly into Hell. In short, his piety was of the common sort and made him unsuited to the monastic life. Might he have felt differently if he had not been forced to take the tonsure? He doubted it. As a clerk in minor orders, he had prayed respectfully but mostly out of habit and duty. Of course he wished to serve his Lord, as all Christian men did in this land, but he had never, until now, hungered for God’s voice.

Even before his imprisonment, he had never found tranquility on his knees before the altar. Now that he sought it after the events at Amesbury, God seemed to be taking a most cruel pleasure in mocking his pathetic attempts to pray. The only time he found peace was in the comforting of the sick at the hospital or helping his prioress bring justice to the aggrieved. At this moment, the monk almost wished his spymaster had an assignment for him. Perhaps that would distract him from these gangrenous musings?

Thomas rubbed his eyes again with the heel of his hands and cursed. All these thoughts were wicked self-indulgences. Had he been in his narrow bed dreaming of heaven, or on his knees praying to God, Satan would not have found such joy in pricking his soul like this. No matter what his doubts, was he not still a priest sworn to serve God? His duty was to fight the evils that tortured him, not give in to mortal weakness.

Despite his clenched fist, Thomas knew that such fine thoughts were as hollow as his heart. His dreams were never of heaven, and the only thing Thomas ever heard, when he lay on the rough-cut stones of the chapel, was the chatter of rats and his own babble of repeated prayers. Death might well be kinder, he often thought. Even the certainly of Hell seemed preferable than the spiritual torment he now suffered.

Thomas stopped and shook his head as if that would scatter his brooding thoughts. His hard bed in the monks’ dorter would give him no relief tonight. The looming, dark outline of the priory church was just in front of him. He might as well try prayer again. At least God must surely understand that he wanted to be a true liegeman, even if he did fail in practice.

As he neared the church door, he glanced at the anchorage. For once, there was no one at Sister Juliana’s window. Dare he kneel there at last and seek whatever curse or blessing she might have for him?

He stumbled toward it, weary with fear and sleeplessness. Had some unseen force taken him by the arm and pushed him there? Whatever the cause, he did not even try to resist. At the curtained window he dropped to his knees and started to weep, his cheeks stinging as if the tears were made of vinegar.

“What brings you here, Brother Thomas?”

How did she know it was him?

“I remember that sigh from the time we met in the snow at Wynethorpe Castle.”

“You recall that, Sister?” Thomas’ voice rose with terror. If she could not see him, how could she distinguish one stranger’s moan from another?

“Memory’s vivid colors dance in my heart. In this way I am reminded of the reasons I left the world.”

“Then I should not remind you of such troubling times,” Thomas replied, struggling to rise without success.

“Stay, Brother. I hear your heart’s dreadful groaning. God must hear it as well.”

“If so, He brings no comfort.” Thomas blinked, hearing the anger in his voice. “Forgive me. Those were the Devil’s words.”

“Nay, they were a man’s cry for help. Are you afraid because you curse God? You are not the only one to do so. Priests may teach us to emulate Job and praise God even when He torments the just, but I say that others have cursed Him and gained His sympathy. Remember Jesus when he cried out from the cross: ‘My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?’ If the perfect son speaks so to the perfect father, may you not do the same?”

“None of us is the Son. Surely the wise men are right when they say we must follow Job’s path and his strong faith.”

“Will you listen to men or to God? Those who boast they know God best often fail to understand the sweet humanity of His son.”

Silence fell between them, and a light breeze dried the tears on Thomas’ cheeks to salt. The hot summer air, that had weighed him down earlier, now rested with a light touch on his body, but he had lost all desire to stand. He sank back on his heels.

“Even if God were to forgive a man for railing against Him, there must be sins that He will not forgive,” he whispered.

“And that man sees the sin he committed and begs for mercy with an honest heart? Do you not believe in perfect grace? If you have no faith in flawless mercy, you deny God’s perfection. In this way, you allow that He is capable of sin. Such is blasphemy.”

“Then why will He not bring me solace and the understanding I long for?”

As Thomas waited for her answer, an owl hooted in the distance as if mocking his impatience.

“Surely you have asked this question of your confessor?” Juliana asked. “Tell me what he said.”

“That I have not prayed loudly or long enough. I am too wicked a man…”

“Hush! Perhaps your confessor fails to understand that God cares less about the loud gnashing of teeth than whether the heart is ready to hear Him.”

“My confessor is a priest, through whom God grants wisdom and guidance. If we listen to our own hearts, we may confuse the Devil’s voice with that of God.”

“You are a priest.”

“Aye.”

“Then are you not allowed to know God’s will?”

“I am not worthy.”

“No mortal is, Brother, but understanding how unworthy you are is the first step to cleansing yourself of worldly error.”

“I am frightened.”

“As you should be. Truth’s light shines in men’s eyes with such painful intensity that most turn away from it. It is far easier to look upon the cancerous rot of their willful and arrogant ignorance which Satan has glazed with the sheen of righteousness. Yet are we not commanded to obey the holy spirit of the law, not the imperfect letter, to reject a fine appearance for the plainness of truth? Those who repeat the well-worn phrases of prayer may still be good men, but they will never match the blessedness of those who follow the example of God’s only son.”

“What am I to do?”

“Be silent in God’s presence, and He will send you guidance.”

Surely it was blasphemy to deny the power of spoken prayer? Thomas began to sweat, his head light with dizziness. “Your phrases are sweet in the ear, Sister, but I must listen to you with caution. Do you not recall how Saint Paul said, in a letter to Timothy, that women must be silent and not teach for they are the daughters of that great transgressor, Eve?”

“I would not dare to speak with my own mouth, Brother. Without question, I am a frail woman, a creature of no consequence. Nevertheless, as you know well, I am not the first woman through whom God has chosen to speak.”

Was he wrong or had the tenor of her voice deepened? Women, who swore themselves to God’s service, often acquired a sacred masculinity through their vows and faith. He himself had witnessed this transformation after entering the Order of Fontevraud where women ruled men. If God had chosen this anchoress to convey His wisdom, Thomas should listen and not argue. If not…

“How can I know whether or not you speak with God’s voice?” he whispered.

“Alas, I am unable to prove this to you. When morning comes, my throat is raw from speaking words I cannot even remember. My heart fills with anguish, and I beg God to choose someone else as His voice. No one knows better than I what a foul creature I am, so I spend my days punishing myself for my unworthiness and longing for forgiveness. Give me your blessing, Brother, for I most certainly need it!”

Although his voice shook, Thomas did as she asked, then rose and walked to the chapel. Was this strange woman, who counseled weary souls in dark hours, God’s true instrument? Or was she the handmaid of that most clever Prince of Darkness?

While his manly reason reserved judgement on this, his heart recalled what old Tibia had said earlier that evening, words that now filled him with a rare calm.