Satan's Lullaby (16 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

The room reeked of sweat and candle smoke.

Thomas finished his prayers and glanced over at the murmuring priest beside him.

Perhaps Davoir had many worthy qualities he ought to admire, the monk thought, but they were not evident to him. If God was willing to forgive the penitent who had once eagerly leapt into the arms of the Evil One, as well as those who had merely stumbled, why did Davoir believe he could do less, especially for the negligible sinners? Although Thomas understood the reluctance to pardon the truly wicked, he scorned this man for his lack of compassion for any who did not match his own self-declared brilliance. Tonight the monk had prayed that God would force the priest to see, with brutal clarity, just how blind and ignorant he was.

The prie-dieu creaked as Father Etienne shifted his weight on the pillow under his knees.

Having suffered brutality in prison and seen mortals murder their fellows, Thomas was disinclined to accept the honeyed platitudes which excused cruelty. Most men would advise him to blunt his doubts and accept the judgements of influential men for it would serve his interests to do so.

He smiled at the thought. Any expectations of advancement had been shattered the morning he was taken from Giles’ arms. For years he had mourned the loss of his beloved with the pain of a mortal illness. That he had forsaken all hope of high ecclesiastical status became meaningless in the face of such anguish. Now that he was healed of his grief, he remained content to be a man of no standing at Tyndal Priory and serve his prioress as she required.

Today he had been especially grateful to be in his position. He had seen the effort it took Prioress Eleanor to exercise the required diplomacy with this priest because he was a man of great influence. Thomas was pleased it would never become his duty to do this and that his disdain for self-absorbed ecclesiastics could remain between him and God.

Quietly backing further away, the monk rose to his feet.

Davoir was unaware that his fellow religious had moved and continued to mutter his prayers.

For his own devotions tonight, Thomas had knelt on the plain wooden prie-dieu placed in front of the simple altar where a cross was hung on the wall. All this was provided in the guest quarters for those who needed a place for private prayer while staying at Tyndal Priory. But the priest had ignored these and knelt on a finely embroidered pillow, at his own intricately carved and highly polished prie-dieu, in front of a bejeweled cross. Each item he had brought with him on the journey to England.

In the guttering candlelight, one blood-red gem embedded in that cross glittered unsteadily.

Thomas stared at it. At least he would not have to deal with this man’s arrogance much longer, but he did pray that God would have mercy on the man’s new flock which must. Yet miracles did occur, he reminded himself. Perhaps Davoir would repent someday, when he discovered that his soul had turned to dust, and finally become the man he now believed he was.

The monk shook his head. I have grown querulous, he thought. Considering his own bitter quarrels with God, over things he had done and felt which the Church condemned as more evil than anything Davoir might have committed, Thomas knew he had no right to throw stones at anyone.

Staring at the shadowy ceiling, Thomas silently confessed that he simply longed to be elsewhere this night, doing whatever brought peace to a soul or relief from mortal pains. Guarding a man whom he did not respect wore on him even if he knew he must do so. When this night was over, he would pray for forgiveness. Now, he could not.

Thomas eased into the shadows where the candlelight failed to penetrate. If he was going to think gloomy thoughts, he had best sit in the dark.

The priest continued to mumble.

Holding his nose to prevent a sneeze caused by the acrid candle smoke, the monk felt a twinge of guilt. Perhaps this man, to whom he had taken such a dislike, was confessing his deficiencies to God and suffering from the knowledge of his imperfections. After all, Thomas had not been asked to be Davoir’s confessor and the state of the man’s soul was not his responsibility, nor was the choice of penitential acts. Having conquered the sneeze, he forced himself to concentrate on what he was here to do.

Maybe Devoir had been right, he thought. Ralf should have taken the alleged pilgrim into custody rather than set a trap. Even with Conan and the crowner outside, there was still a chance that the man could slip through. Traps were risky things, which, of course, was the reason Prioress Eleanor had insisted that he stay by the priest’s side.

Someone was likely to come here tonight, a man with murderous intent. Davoir had listened to this plan only because the prioress reminded him of his stated belief that no sword could match the power of prayer. When she added her final argument that the orisons of two priests would surely be the strongest defense of all, the priest had consented, albeit with ill-concealed reluctance to share the company of Brother Thomas.

At least Thomas felt comfortable with the probability that he might have to deal with the man from across the British Ocean. Even assuming that the alleged pilgrim did not suffer an injured ankle, the man from Picardy was slight of build. Thomas looked like a man born to swing a sword even if he had never been trained for battle. And, he thought, I have the advantage in this planned surprise and am more likely to keep my wits about me.

A knock at the door disturbed his thoughts.

As agreed, Thomas stayed where he was.

Davoir remained on his knees for a moment longer before turning his head and shouting permission to enter. His voice betrayed his annoyance at the interruption, and he bowed his head again as he returned to his recitations.

Renaud eased his way through the entrance with the reluctance of a child called for a scolding. Closing the door softly behind him, he hesitated.

Not the man expected, Thomas thought, then slipped back into even deeper shadows and squatted with his back against the wall. Of course he did not expect a killer to knock at the door and politely beg permission to come in so he might wreak havoc. The monk folded his arms and regretted that he must witness Davoir exercise his habitual humiliation of this clerk without interfering. Was it only a favored one or two whom he greeted with any kindness?

“Father?” The clerk’s voice trembled.

Davoir looked up at his jeweled cross, shimmering in the dim light, and continued his prayers. When he came to a point where he chose to pause, he stopped but remained kneeling with his back to the clerk. “Why have you disturbed me? Have you no respect for my need to speak with God?”

“It was necessary,” Renaud said as he inched closer, his hands clutched in a gesture of supplication.

“Has the king called me home? Has Abbess Isabeau sent further instructions?”

“No, Father.”

The priest snorted. “Jean would never have troubled me for less. Leave me.” And he returned to his recitations.

Renaud screamed, his howl like that of a frenzied beast. Drawing a knife from inside his robe, he rushed at the priest.

Thomas leapt to his feet and lunged at the clerk.

Chapter Thirty-two

Renaud lay bound on the floor, but he did not lie peacefully. Writhing, he grunted and yanked at his bindings, but they held fast.

Conan and Ralf stood in front of the culprit. For all the emotion their expressions betrayed, the clerk might have been a large fish flopping about on a wharf.

Thomas handed the knife to the crowner. “He missed his mark,” he said, inclining his head toward the priest. The monk failed to mention the cut on his own arm which he pressed against his robe to stop the bleeding.

Davoir, eyes glazed with shock, knelt by the youth’s side. “Why?” he whispered.

Squirming to one side, the clerk raised his head and spat at the priest.

As the spittle rolled down his cheek, Davoir grew rigid as a statue, but he continued to look bewildered as if he had just awakened into an incomprehensible world.

Putting a gentle hand on the priest’s shoulder, Thomas said, “You should leave us, Father. These men must question your clerk.”

Davoir leapt to his feet, all confusion melted by fury. “This clerk is under God’s law, not your king’s. I shall remain and hear all he has to say. Only I may be the judge in this matter, not these men.” He waved at the guard and crowner, the gesture proclaiming his confidence that his mere will could make the men vanish.

Thomas looked down at the clerk. Whimpering like a hurt child, or else snarling like a maddened dog, the youth showed only glimpses of sense, but there was no hint in the clerk’s eyes that the Evil One was peering out of his soul and mocking God. The monk pitied Renaud, despite the attack on Davoir’s life. As a boy, Thomas had yearned for approval, although he had not been driven mad by it.

Surely someone other than Davoir would judge whether the clerk was mad or possessed. Thomas prayed for such to be the case. Although Davoir was right about jurisdiction, the monk doubted the man’s ability to see beyond the attempted assassination and Renaud’s maniacal rants to whatever torment had led to this longing to kill.

Thomas knew that men pointed to God’s hand when murder was deemed righteous, or to Satan’s touch when it was judged a wicked act. He wondered how often the cause was best sought in less significant places.

In the distance, a cock crowed. As the gray light of cold morning slipped into the room, the pale candlelight faltered.

With regret, Thomas turned to the crowner and guard captain. “Father Etienne must remain,” he said.

Ralf looked at the priest. “He was one of your favored attendants. His words shall cause intense grief,” he said, but his tone suggested he spoke only of facts and without compassion. “Should you leave the room, you may do so in confidence. I would never deny your right to take him away for Church judgement.”

Although Thomas felt a momentary sympathy for the priest and what he must hear from Renaud, his pity swiftly disappeared. The arrogance he so detested in the priest glittered through the man’s narrowed eyelids.

“I shall not leave,” Davoir hissed. “I demand to know how and when he sold his soul to the Devil.” Then he bent over and tore off the simple cross the cowering clerk wore around his neck. “You do not deserve the comfort of this, for you have denied the Lord and shall suffer the harshest punishment our Church can render.”

Ralf’s expression suggested he longed to hurl the priest out of the chambers, but instead he carefully stepped between the clerk and Davoir. “Nonetheless, Father, I must still question Renaud without any interruption from you,” the crowner said. “He may have accomplices who do not fall within the Church’s authority.”

Davoir opened his mouth to protest.

This was not the time for a clash of wills, Thomas decided and quickly said, “Let me question the clerk, Crowner.” He respectfully nodded at the sputtering priest. “Surely Father Etienne would agree that he ought not to do so now, for it was his life that Renaud wished to end.” He forced himself to exude compassion when he addressed Davoir. “I know you have begun to pray for the strength to turn the other cheek after this attack, but God is merciful and would not expect you to obtain such grace without further prayer.”

Davoir turned the color of watered wine, but his lips clamped together.

“As one trained in ecclesiastical law, and a man sworn to serve God, I believe I may ask the preliminary questions that both the Church and a crowner would deem necessary.”

The priest’s face became fully bathed in red. Opposition flashed from Davoir’s eyes and threatened to drown his touted reason in a sea of defiance.

“I presume our abbess told you, before you left Anjou, that both Prioress Eleanor and Prior Andrew have reported on the quality of my legal advice in matters pertaining to the priory.” Thomas did not wait for a response. “And our gracious prioress has also written of those times when she sought my opinion on matters of justice in the world outside our walls.”

The monk was prepared for almost any reaction from the priest. The manifested surprise was not one of them. Despite the grave allegations brought against him, Thomas now realized Davoir had not been told anything about his education, work as a spy for the Church, or even the rank of his father. With bitter amusement, the monk chose to be grateful. Had Abbess Isabeau seen fit to elaborate beyond the present accusation, she might also have added
bastard
and
sodomite
as background to the claim he had broken his vows of chastity with his prioress.

But the priest chose not to confess his ignorance or argue against Thomas’ proposal. He nodded an unenthusiastic acquiescence to the monk’s plan.

Now Conan seemed ready to take issue with the suggestion, but the crowner put a hand on the man’s arm. The guard captain stepped back without speaking.

“We consent, Brother,” Ralf said.

Not allowing time for any further disagreement, the monk fell to his knees beside Renaud and bent to look into his eyes.

The clerk grew preternaturally still and stared back.

“What injustice so offended you?” Thomas murmured.

Davoir gasped with outrage. “I did not commit any injustice!” he shouted. “He turned to the Prince of Darkness because of…”

“As we all agreed, Father, let me do what I must without interruption.” Thomas spoke with authority. No one had actually agreed to let him interrogate without interference, but he prayed the priest had forgotten that detail. At least, the monk thought, I want to keep the disruptions to a minimum.

“None of us should speak until Brother Thomas is done.” Ralf lifted his right hand as if repeating his oath.

“As we all agreed,” Conan added, also raising his hand.

Davoir was clearly annoyed but kept his thoughts unvoiced.

Thomas repeated his question with gentleness.

The clerk began to sob. “I did not mean to kill him.” The words were barely audible.

“Your master?” Thomas bent closer.

“Jean!”

Davoir struck a fist into his open palm. “I knew you were a minion of the Devil!”

Conan walked to the priest’s side. “Father Etienne, if the fear you suffered under the attack has so unmanned you that silence is impossible, I beg that you sit in that chair and have a mazer of wine.” He pointed to a place at the far end of the chamber. “You will take charge of this clerk when the questioning is over. At that time, you may say whatever you wish. Our needs will be satisfied, and we will have left.”

The priest seemed about to protest this insult, then chose the wiser course, walked to the chair, and sat down.

“Continue,” Thomas said softly to Renaud.

“I worked until my hands and knees bled to please our master, but the only good he ever acknowledged was what Jean did. Even when Jean sinned, Father Etienne praised the manner of his repentance. Yet if I so much as erred on a complex Latin verb tense, our master mocked me in front of all.” He raised his head and yelled. “You were unjust!”

Thomas patted the youth’s shoulder with a father’s touch and hoped the lad’s moment of lucidity would last long enough.

“I longed for Jean to be sent home in disgrace like the prior clerk. If he were, our master would look to me next and see my virtues. So I got Jean drunk in the inn the night before we arrived, but he again hid his disgrace too well.” Pulling back from Thomas, Renaud shouted at the priest. “Or else you were so stupefied by him that you mistook the signs of drunkenness for holy rapture!”

Davoir stood, turned his back to the clerk, and walked to his prie-dieu where he stared at the bejeweled cross. “This sacred gift was from the king’s brother in gratitude for my service to him,” he muttered. “No matter what demonic abuse is flung at me by this churlish youth, I shall still receive a bishop’s miter, an elevation that is my right as God’s devout servant and the son of a noble family.”

Thomas gently wiped spittle from Renaud’s lips. “When your master asked for a treatment to cure Jean, what did you do?” he asked, hoping to keep the lad within the boundaries of sanity for just long enough.

With hacking gasps, Renaud began to weep. “I went to the apothecary hut and hid outside until Sister Anne finished preparing a remedy for a nun. They were discussing a gout treatment. As soon as she was alone, I approached Sister Anne for Jean’s medicine, and she gave me something that I knew to be innocuous and suitable for uneasy stomachs.”

“Did you disguise your identity or did you tell the sub-infirmarian who you were?”

Ralf quickly knelt next to the monk, lest the clerk’s reply be inaudible.

“I hid my face and prayed that she would be called away. God blessed me. She was, and then the lay sister who had remained behind. Knowing something about herbs, I quickly read the labels on the shelves but found nothing to my purpose.”

Thomas put a restraining hand on the crowner. Proving the innocence of Sister Anne meant too much to Ralf, and the monk feared he would speak despite his agreement. “What was your intent?” he asked the youth. Thomas longed to free the nun, but he had his prioress to protect as well and wanted nothing to interfere with either cause.

“To make Jean sicker. That was all! Signs of dissoluteness had failed to move our master from his unjustifiable preference. I knew my fellow clerk must therefore choose to leave Father Etienne’s service. If Jean believed he suffered poor health, he would surely depart of his own volition.”

“And if Jean did abandon his service for Father Etienne?” Thomas watched the clerk’s eyes glaze as his mind slid from simple desire for approval to the madness of overweening ambition.

“When my brother clerk was no longer at his side, our master would choose me, and, when he became a bishop, my own fortune would rise higher because Jean would not be the recipient of all his munificence.” Renaud began a high-pitched laugh. It swept the room like a scythe.

Ralf winced and moved away.

Thomas put a calming hand on the clerk’s shoulder and whispered, “You were left alone in the apothecary hut. You had searched the shelves and found nothing you could use. What happened next?” The monk waited.

“I heard a voice and knew I must leave or be remembered too well. Then my eye fell on an open jar on the table. When I looked inside, I saw something that might be slipped into wine or ale. If it was the alleged gout treatment, so be it. I knew there was no such thing as a cure and assumed it was like most remedies, harmless in small amounts but upsetting to the humors if taken in larger quantities. Deciding it would have to serve my purpose, I took it and slipped away before anyone returned and caught me. ”

Ralf turned around. “The jar was brown and had an ill-fitting lid?”

Thomas put a finger to his lips and bent his head in the direction of the priest.

Fortunately, the man seemed lost in contemplation of the altar wall.

Renaud winked as if sharing a mutual joke.

Ralf walked to the chamber door, opened it, and briefly spoke to someone outside.

“Did it not say what it was on the jar?” Thomas asked the youth.

“When I got back to our quarters, I read the label but did not know what
autumn crocus
was,” Renaud wailed. “I assumed it might be a concoction to ease pain like poppy juice. If I used just a bit, I thought it would cause enough malaise that Jean would fear he suffered a mortal ailment.”

Conan looked disgusted. “So out of ignorance and lust for position, he killed a man,” he muttered.

Renaud shifted to stare at the guard captain, his mouth twisted into the rictus of a dead man’s grin. “You, a man of the world, claim to know the justice of an act better than a man devoted to God?”

With a supreme act of will, Thomas kept himself from rebuking the youth for rank discourtesy. That was, after all, only a comment Renaud might have learned from his master. But the youth was quickly losing touch with reason. He was not willfully evil, and the monk decided to let the remark pass without comment.

Unfortunately, Conan laughed

Renaud twisted in his bindings and howled as he flung curses on the guard captain. If the monk had had any doubts left about the clerk’s sanity, seeing this would have erased them.

“Stop this blasphemy!” Davoir rushed back from his prie-dieu, one fist raised, not at Renaud, but at Conan.

Thomas rose.

The clerk was now screaming words that were not in any language known to men.

Skidding to a stop and pointing to Renaud, the priest shouted, “He is talking to the Evil One!”

“Father, I must have peace to finish the few questions I have left,” the monk said, then turned to Conan. “Both the priest and the crowner wish to understand what has happened here. Both have sworn to remain silent until I have gotten the tale from Renaud. I ask the same courtesy of silence from you. When I am done, all of you may pose your particular questions.”

“You will learn nothing,” growled the priest. “He is lost in hellish gibberish.”

Ralf gestured to Conan.

The guard captain’s lips curled into a sneer, but he swore to obey the monk’s request and walked to join the crowner at the entrance door.

Renaud had ceased howling and began again to weep like a little boy with a scraped knee.