Valley of Dry Bones (12 page)

Avelina stiffened. “His reputation may not have reached your ears at Tyndal Priory. He was not well-loved. The wonder may be that no one killed him long ago. I can only conclude he died now because of an accidental meeting with some brigand.”

“How had he offended?” Eleanor crafted an innocent look.

Avelina matched her effort. “Do not men always find a cause over which to quarrel? We women are often left in ignorance of their reasons.”

Nodding, Eleanor kept her tone light. “Were there arguments on the journey?”

“Considering some of the inns we stayed in,” Avelina replied with equal levity, “I could not have heard a battle over the noise of animals and ruder men, let alone hot words between a pair of them. I know nothing of disagreements. During the day, we spoke little. What energy the heat left us was used to endure the long ride.” She sat back and frowned.

Eleanor sensed there would be no further discussion of Otes. All this conversation had accomplished was to bring the prioress back to her first concern about any link between Father Eliduc and the land offered to Tyndal.

Otes had possibly offered the gift to several religious leaders to see which man offered his soul the best terms for escaping Purgatory. To Eleanor’s mind, no land had such high value that possession of it was worth committing murder. Then she scolded herself for being a fool. Others would disagree about killing over a bit of fertile earth, and she had been wrong before in making similar conclusions.

So the priest again became a foremost suspect, and Eleanor found herself still uncomfortable with the conclusion. Eliduc might suffer from worldly ambition, but, for all his flaws, she did believe he feared God too much to utterly damn his soul.

There was far more to learn, and Eleanor suspected she must seek elsewhere for answers. In fact, Lady Avelina might not know much more that was pertinent. Even if she did, the prioress doubted she would dare question the lady more closely in this matter that rightfully belonged to the king’s justice.

“Such earthly concerns!” the prioress said with proper dismay over her weakness in gossiping. “I came, not to speak of such sad matters, rather to offer some relief to you. I fear the journey here has unbalanced your humors.”

“You have the right of it,” Avelina responded. “I am no longer a young woman and long journeys require rest.” She gestured to a small vial on a table nearby, next to which sat a mortar and pestle. “I do have a tonic which will revive me. When I am ready to sleep, Kenard prepares it. I usually awaken to find myself improved the next day. After so many days, the relief does take longer. My strength will return by tomorrow.”

“If you or your servant need anything from our herb garden, Sister Anne is an experienced apothecary and can make whatever you might require.”

Lady Avelina nodded. “Her reputation for skillful treatments has reached the court.”

“If you would like her to visit and discuss your health, I will send her to you.”

“I would be grateful for her opinion.”

“Then she will await your summons, and I shall not fatigue you further.” Eleanor rose. As she turned to leave, she recalled another matter she meant to mention. “Our novice and choir master had hoped to perform
The Play of Daniel
for the queen. Father Eliduc wishes to see it, and Brother John readies his choir for a performance. If you are well enough, I would be honored if you joined me in the nuns’ gallery when this occurs. Although undue pride is a sin, I believe Brother John is most talented and that his choir sings like angels must. This enactment of the tale might both entertain and cheer your soul.”

“I would be delighted!”

“Then I will let you know when it is to take place and send someone to accompany you to the chapel.”

Assuring the lady she did not need Kenard to accompany her to the door, Eleanor left the guest quarters, relieved she did not have to see the troubling servant again.

She may have been disappointed with her failure to get the information she had hoped, but her visit did seem to raise Lady Avelina’s spirits. The invitation to watch
The Play of Daniel
certainly pleased her. Whatever Eleanor did not accomplish, she had honored the commandment to practice charity.

Hurrying back to her chambers, the prioress remembered she had promised to call for Brother Beorn. If God is kind, she thought, the matter distressing him will be of minor consequence.

Chapter Twenty-two

Fulke knelt in the darkest part of the chapel and prayed. Even in these shadows, his head throbbed after that night of drinking.

If someone offered to chop off the offending part, he might have considered the proposition. Only the state of his soul would have stopped him, a concern that rarely troubled the sheriff except when he was reminded of death. Seeing Baron Otes’ corpse was one of those painful moments.

“I have sinned,” he muttered, dutifully herding guilt into his heart.

An insistent hiss of protest rose above the thundering inside his skull. Were his transgressions worse than others? Hadn’t he been less corrupt than most in his situation? He had taken only one substantial bribe, looking the other way when a man paid far less into the king’s treasury than was due.

Fulke had used that coin to buy a rich, ecclesiastic position for his brother, Odo. Since the money had gone to Church coffers, he deemed it only just that the ultimate beneficiary of the bribe count in his favor and that his deed be cleansed of any wrong.

Odo had also vowed to pray daily for his elder sibling’s soul in gratitude for the gift. Since his middle brother spent more time lusting over his accounting rolls than he did bending his fat knees in prayer, Fulke had little confidence in the efficacy of that promise.

Even without Odo’s infrequent intercessions with God, there must surely be less cause for apprehension now that the baron was dead. How would King Edward learn about that one act of corruption? Few had ever known what the sheriff had done, and they were unlikely to reveal the secret.

The man who had given him the bribe died long ago with neither wife nor sons surviving. Odo had gotten the position he craved and would never endanger his smooth wine, fat meat that crackled on the spit, and the soft pillow on which to kneel at his artfully carved prie-dieu. As for the crowner, his code of honor might be peculiar, but he did have one. Despite his errant ways, Ralf was loyal to family.

Fulke sat back on his heels and smiled up at the cross on the altar. He had nothing to fear. He was secure in his position as sheriff. The baron’s death was fortunate. Countless men could now sleep easily, and many would bless the man who had killed Otes.

As for his soul’s more common transgressions, Fulke also grew confident that God would not be too harsh. Muttering contrition for his drunkenness and whoring, the sheriff vowed he would seek the required penance once this unfortunate journey had ended. Briefly, he imagined his wife’s oval face brightened with an approving smile.

His heart now beating so loud with its celebratory joy, Fulke belatedly became aware of another sound in the chapel: the whisper of soft shoes gliding across the stone floor.

The sheriff opened one eye and cautiously glanced to his right.

Father Eliduc moved toward the altar with the lightness of a spirit, his hands raised heavenward with reverence. Slowly he knelt, lowered his head, and began murmuring hushed prayers with a chanting cadence.

Fulke edged deeper into the shadows, inexplicably fearing the priest had seen him. There is no good reason to care if he had, the sheriff thought, and just as quickly hoped Eliduc had not recognized him.

Eliduc sighed between prayers.

Fulke shivered.

It was irrational to be frightened of this man of God. He could not be some imp in disguise, for no creature from Hell ever wore a cross around his neck. Although Satan was clever in the ways he used to deceive mortals, fallen angels did have their limits. Eliduc must be a true priest.

Maybe my soul is more troubled with sin when I am in the priest’s presence, Fulke thought. The image of his wife returned, this time scowling. How often he had betrayed her with other women after he was refused her bed. “She is virtuous and kind,” he murmured, swearing he would be a better husband.

He winced. He could not deceive God. Any vow he made to remain chaste was brittle and therefore he might well have good reason to avoid Eliduc’s company if the man did read thoughts as the sheriff suspected. The more he thought on that, the stronger his sins began to stink like rotting fish.

Another, darker image came to him next. Might this priest, who wore such vibrant black, be Death’s messenger? Cold sweat was now rolling down the sheriff’s back. Otes was already dead. With Eliduc still here, Death might harvest other souls. And whose might they be?

Fulke clenched his chattering teeth. Such fears were foolish things, more suitable to old women and little children. Wasn’t he a full-grown man?

Then a third possibility struck him, one that gave him far greater cause to panic. He covered his face and bent forward until his brow hit the stone floor.

What if Baron Otes had confided to Father Eliduc all he knew about the corruption that had occurred during the reign of the old king? Whether or not the knowledge was conveyed to the priest as a confession or the simple sharing of information by an uneasy soul, Fulke knew he remained in great danger despite the baron’s death.

He took a deep breath and calmed himself. Otes only cared for his own advancement. Eliduc played for higher stakes in the struggles for power between the Church and kings. Whereas the baron pondered the value of each man’s secrets as if they were gemstones he might want to purchase, Eliduc had no interest in the individual sin or man, caring only about the value of the aggregate. Even if Eliduc knew all the sheriff had done, the priest would find little of it useful to the Church. Fulke was not powerful enough, and surely Eliduc never dealt in trivial matters.

Yet there were others who might find benefit in minor secrets. If someone had overheard Otes talking to the priest, Fulke was not as safe as he had assumed.

Overwhelmed by uncertainty, he began to weep in self-pity. Since his father’s death, the sheriff had devoted his life to increasing family prestige and wealth. The baron might be dead, but Fulke remained in danger of losing rank and all he had struggled to gain. Should the new king chose harsh measures to punish wrongdoers, he might also be stripped of his freedom or even his life.

After some time, Fulke’s tears did cease. When he looked around, Father Eliduc had disappeared.

Had he only imagined the priest was here? God might have sent the man’s image as a fearsome reminder to Fulke that his sins were many and grievous.

Once again the sheriff’s teeth began to chatter as if he had been struck with an ague.

Chapter Twenty-three

“Why did you flee from Crowner Ralf?” Thomas shoved a roughly cut, wooden mazer of ale across the table toward Simon.

“I did not want to talk to him.”

Although the youth covered his eyes with a weary gesture, Thomas suspected the act was feigned and meant to hide a forthcoming lie. He waited for it.

“The world and mortal men trouble me.” Simon sighed. “Must I give any other reason for my flight?” He gave the monk a quick look, gauging the effect of his words.

Thomas raised an eyebrow.

“The wicked roar of men’s sinful voices drowns out His direction.”

Although the monk knew the young man must have come to the hermitage for some reason, he did not believe Simon was possessed by any sincere religious longing. Had Thomas seen any indication of a soul tormented over issues of faith, he would have sent Simon to the priory to speak with men better suited to advise him. Whatever troubled the youth, the monk also doubted the problem was the comparatively simple issue of unbearable lust.

In his years at Tyndal, Thomas had learned about a vast range of vices, some horrible, others touching in their innocence, and a few even amusing, albeit embarrassing to the sinner. There was little left to shock him, and he was growing impatient for Simon to get on with what he needed to confess. Thomas may have felt obliged to offer lodging to truth-seekers. Simon’s annoying presence had begun to outweigh the value of the charity.

“I do not believe you want to hear God’s voice.” The monk softened his gruff tone by offering more ale.

Simon blinked and turned his head so his eyes did not meet the monk’s. “I do seek counsel.”

“That, I believe.” Deciding to hurry the revelation, Thomas returned to the previously admitted problem, hoping that had been the first step in Simon’s path to confessing his purpose. “Hesitate not to admit the full power of your lust. God knows all men struggle with desire, especially the young.” As he watched the youth turn pale, he wondered if the cause of the young man’s disquiet was truly this simple.

Thomas remembered what he had been like at Simon’s age, a time of comparative innocence, yet one filled with fear of his own body. There were countless times he and Giles had confided their lust-filled dreams, the irresistible longing to pleasure themselves for relief, and how powerless they had felt to resist temptation. So driven were they by Satan’s prickings that days went by when they seemed incapable of anything except copulating, sleeping, and eating enough to keep up their strength to satisfy the sexual craving.

“Like you,” the monk said, “I was conceived in lust, born of woman, and suffer mortal failings. Be assured, however, that God understands this and does forgive the truly penitent.”

Simon said nothing. A muscle twitched in his cheek, and he shut his eyes as if fearing they might betray something deeply hidden in his soul.

Thomas did not know which course he ought now to follow. Simon was of high enough birth to be named prior of some profitable house, should he choose God as his liege lord, and many of Thomas’ fellow priory monks had discovered that His service cooled passions over time. Even he had found comfort if not tranquility at Tyndal, although his own lusts took a different shape and rape had rendered him practically impotent.

On the other hand, Simon could still marry and find relief with a wife for his rebellious genitals, if he had land or title enough to tempt fathers with too many daughters. Some followers of the Earl of Leicester had bought back the lands stripped away after the rebellion, although Thomas suspected Simon’s mother possessed neither the coin nor the means to acquire it. Or Queen Eleanor might persuade the king to show mercy, return a small portion of the lands, and demand little or no payment. If she wanted to reward Simon’s mother for faithful service at less cost to the royal coffers, the queen could also arrange a profitable marriage for the lad.

Whatever path Simon might pursue, he needed direction to protect him from his own bad judgement and keep him from seeding a babe in the wrong woman. His current situation was difficult enough. The youth did not need to destroy any hope for reconciliation with the new king because he did something ill-considered.

Simon sat ever so still.

Telling the lad that he should honor his mother’s advice would do no good. Simon had already uttered contempt for feminine governance. Most religious would advise him to just exercise self-restraint and pray to dampen his obsession with lust, but Thomas recalled how quickly he and his friends had shoved aside such advice at the same age. It had taken prison, the loss of the man he had loved, and mocking impotence to learn that selfless deeds could numb the pain until he fell asleep and became vulnerable to dreams.

His mind raced. He must find a path for Simon to follow that would accomplish a beneficial result without the horrible suffering he had experienced. The idea must also be something the youth had not heard too often and already rejected. At least it must surprise him into considered thought.

The bench tipped over as Simon shoved away from the table and went to the altar. Bowing in reverence, he continued his silence as if he were deep in prayer.

Annoyance scraped like a persistent rat at Thomas’ good intentions. Why did he suspect that everything Simon did was pretence? Shaking the thoughts away, he decided he must treat the youth’s visit as sincere until he found good evidence that proved falsehood.

“Before I took vows,” he said, “I swyved many women. I could not even tell you the number. Here at Tyndal Priory, I have experienced a miraculous transformation. In this Order of Fontevraud, we serve a woman who represents the Queen of Heaven on earth. As the beloved disciple was commanded at the foot of the cross, we obey and protect her. In doing so, I discovered I had lost all desire for a woman’s mortal body.”

Simon continued to face the altar. “I have heard many tales of you,” he murmured.

Thomas froze in terror. What had the lad learned of him? Suddenly aware of a sharp pain, he looked down at his hands. He had clenched them until his nails dug into the palms. Opening one fist, he saw a small drop of blood emerging.

“Although your deeds have been done in modest silence, you are well-known amongst powerful men for your service on behalf of God’s justice.”

Swallowing ale to wash away the dryness of fear, the monk hoped he had command of his voice. “Methinks you are mistaken. I am of less significance in holy work than a dust mote.” Rubbing off the sweat beading on his forehead, Thomas relaxed. At least Simon did not seem to know of the monk’s time in prison or the cause. Then he wondered if he should worry that the young man knew about Thomas’ work as a spy.

“I was told of your bravery in catching the man who murdered two others, one a monk, at Amesbury. Some credit your prioress for uncovering the perpetrators of sinful acts. They are fools. Women are but trifles, and not one would chase a killer up a steep roof. A single misstep could have sent you to your death. That was a man’s deed!”

Thomas started to correct the story, for he most certainly had not chased anyone up a slippery roof. Then he thought the better of it. Believing the tale, the young man might reveal more of his concerns. He might even disclose his motive in mentioning this particular story, were he not interrupted. If some greater good was served, the monk decided God would surely forgive him for allowing an insignificant fallacy.

“I do wonder that you find any peace in a priory run by a woman and an Order with such an unusual rule.” Simon shook his head and spun around to face the monk. “It may be my duty to serve my mother, for she gave birth to me. Now that she has denied me my rightful place as a man for too long, methinks it is against the natural order to obey her further.”

“Forebear awhile longer. Queen Eleanor has shown confidence enough in your mother to send her on the journey here. She might yet persuade the queen to intervene with King Edward on your behalf. Should that happen and you regain anything of your father’s estates, you can repay her diligence with honor and comfort in her aged years, as a man ought, if she does not remarry.”

“Surely you cannot believe she will succeed!” Simon returned to the table, sat down, and began worrying the wood with his fingernail.

Thomas could not answer with any certainty, never having met Simon’s mother or the queen. As for King Edward, the monk had seen him years ago. The young prince had been several years older and had no cause to pay heed to the many awe-struck and dusty boys surrounding him, especially one who was a bastard. All Thomas could remember was his height, that he was deft with a sword in practice bouts, and handsome, although he spoke with a lisp. None of that pointed to whether the new king might grant any plea brought by his wife on this lad’s behalf.

“As I have already said, she cannot.” Simon shrugged. “The lands have gone to men loyal to kingship, or else into the king’s hand where the income helps fill his coffers. As for the title, some minor lord now boasts it, and he went with King Edward on his crusading pilgrimage to Outremer. I must remain the son of a traitor and am being kept from proving my manhood.” Simon’s tone was bitter.

Thomas nodded, stopping himself from responding to the youth’s resentment. Although Simon’s bristled cheeks might prove he had a man’s body, his expression called to mind a petulant child.

“I have begged my mother to get me the loan of a horse and armor. With that, I would earn enough in tournaments to buy my own land and probably gain a knighthood. She refuses to ask for that boon of any at court, saying the surrender of hope would be dishonorable.”

“If the likelihood of regaining your father’s title and lands is so bleak, then you must earn trust by modest and responsible action. What have you done to prove yourself worthy to other men?”

A sheen of sweat broke out on Simon’s forehead. “I spoke with one man who welcomed me to his table and heard my plea. He had been my father’s friend and an early supporter of the Earl of Leicester. After Lord Edward escaped de Montfort’s custody, by tiring his guards’ horses and then fleeing on a rested beast, the man abandoned the earl for the king. Unlike my father, he saved his patrimony.”

Thomas’ look asked the question.

“His daughter was wanton! She lured me into a garden, tempted me beyond all reason, and then refused her body. I beat her for that wickedness and she screamed. Her mother found us and believed the creature’s lies. I was cast into the street.” Simon threw up his hands in outrage at the insult committed against him.

“No father would loan money to a landless youth who had just beaten his daughter, nor, out of loyalty, would any of the father’s friends and kin. Surely you must understand why.” Thomas was sorely tempted to forget his vows and pummel the lad himself on behalf of the girl and her father.

“So my mother has said, but men also understand how women lead us into sin. Priests remind us often enough of their wicked nature.”

So much for that attempt to enlighten the lad about the ways of mortal fathers, Thomas thought. On the other hand, if Simon had a warrior’s talent, he might find men with wealth and ambition who prized battle skills above any woman’s honor, especially men who had not married and bred daughters they loved. “Do you know of any others who might take up your cause?”

Simon brightened and seemed about to speak. Then a frown dulled his look and he quickly turned away. “Most do fear giving any favor to a traitor’s son, especially when the king has turned his back on several who fought on de Montfort’s side.” He sadly shook his head and gazed at the monk, waiting for him to respond.

Once again, Thomas caught himself suspecting that the expression of despair was calculated. “What of Baron Otes? There was time enough on this journey from court for either you or your mother to approach him. Or had he already refused?”

His face turning scarlet, Simon slammed his fist on the table. “He was an odious man, and I salute his killer!”

Thomas was shocked at the passionate response. With dismay he now remembered that Simon had not come to the hermitage until the morning after the baron was found dead.

Had he given shelter to a murderer?