“I understand why you required a priest from me, although there must have been many who could have consoled you on the road back from Acre.”
The baron stood in silence, running the palm of his hand up and down the stones of the cold wall.
Another cloud, trimmed grey with moonlight, scudded across the backdrop of night sky.
Hugh grew impatient. “Out of friendship I came in this winter season, although you gave little enough reason for your plea. Master Gamel, one of the most respected physicians in London, awaits your pleasure. In deference to your rank, Prioress Eleanor agreed to leave Tyndal Priory and bring her own priest to serve your particular spiritual needs. Her sub-infirmarian, Sister Anne, also accompanied her, a renowned healer whose skills are highly praised by many at court.”
“Be not angry with me.”
Hugh heard a catch in the baron’s voice. Was he weeping?
“For all our disagreements over certain matters, I knew I could trust you, not only to come to my aid without question but also never to betray me.”
“Each of us was always the other’s shield in battle, my lord.”
“Let me bury my son tomorrow. Afterward, I shall explain, to the best of my ability, what is happening here. Aye, I have begged much from you, but I fear some hideous plague has struck my family. Whether God has cursed them for my sins, or Satan has taken residence in this castle because it delights his corroded heart, I fail to comprehend. Do you not feel a malign presence here?”
In reply, Hugh put a hand to his heart and nodded.
Chapter Nine
“Identify yourself!”
Brother Thomas uttered an oath and jumped back from the creneled curtain wall.
A soldier emerged from the shadows. His spear glittered in the moonlight.
“Brother Thomas.” Despite the cold, Thomas pushed back his hood, hoping there was enough light to reveal his tonsure and give strength to the honesty of his claim.
“A monk? Where did you come from?”
“I am with the party of Prioress Eleanor and her brother, Sir Hugh of Wynethorpe. We arrived yesterday.”
“An ill-timed visit.” The soldier stepped companionably close to the monk like any creature seeking precious warmth in a biting wind.
Thomas swiftly pulled the hood back over his head and nodded.
“I advise you not to stand still, lest you become a pillar of ice. I’d not like having to explain to my sergeant how a monk came to resemble Lot’s wife, albeit in a more frozen form.” He laughed at his own humor.
There was enough truth in the poor jest, Thomas decided, and walked on.
The soldier kept pace beside him. “As I said, the arrival day was badly chosen if the prioress and her brother sought merriment and feasting. You’re a welcome enough sight though. We need God to save us from the Devil’s claws, Brother.”
Thomas stopped. “All mortals do. Are you suggesting there is more reason than usual here?”
“Demons abound.”
“Satan’s legions are always about. Why conclude there is a more formidable invasion?”
“Unnatural deaths.” The soldier’s voice trembled more than the cold would explain.
“Surely not murder?” Growing increasingly numb, Thomas resumed walking at a brisk pace toward the watchtower.
The soldier trotted alongside. “Not by any human hand.”
“Truly?”
“Nor is this current death the first here committed by the Evil One.”
“You would serve God well if you helped me understand what you mean. I have only heard that another son died not long ago. Drowned, was it?”
“Or so some say.” He lowered his head. “And then our old priest. After that, we’d none of God’s servants until your party arrived. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
Caught by the implications in this news, Thomas slowed his pace.
“A little faster, Brother?” The soldier rubbed his hands and broke into a jog.
Obliging, Thomas hurried after him.
When he reached the entrance to the high watchtower, the soldier pointed at the top of the structure. “We could both find shelter from the wind, Brother. I’ve done my round of the wall for now. It’s time for a stint up there with the falcons, although they’re wise enough to find refuge inland for the winter. Fortunately, the good baron built some protection there for us sentries.” He pulled opened the entry door and gestured for Thomas to go inside. “Up the stairs. Should be ale. Warm us both.”
The wind whipped sea-salted air against his face. It stung. Needing no further urging, the monk hurried through the door and raced up the narrow steps.
The round space on the top of the tower was chill enough, but the walls and a short overhang of wood held the wind at bay. Near the staircase, a poorly crafted table had been pushed against the wall. A jug rested precariously on top of the unevenly hewn wood.
Grabbing two ill-shaped pottery cups from the floor, the soldier poured.
Thomas drank. The ale was rough but served its purpose of sending warmth through to his bones. “You think the priest’s death was not a natural one?” Although he was interested in what this man might say about the deaths of both sons, he was more intrigued by the soldier’s apparent belief that the Devil had killed a priest.
“If Satan kills a man, is that not unnatural?”
The monk agreed. “How did you learn the Devil did it?”
“I found the corpse.” He shuddered and downed the contents of his cup in one draught, then poured another. “More for yourself?”
Thomas placed his cup close to the pitcher.
“It was morning. A couple of months after the drowning.” The sentry took a deep breath and leaned against the tower wall.
Glancing into his cup, Thomas hesitated, then gulped the drink down and reached for the jug. The man’s beginning did not bode well for a story much shorter than some ecclesiastical history. If he were fortunate, the tale might prove as entertaining as anything by the Venerable Bede. He doubted he would be so lucky.
“Lady Margaret and the sons had waited a long time for the priest to come to the family chapel for Mass. He was an old man, she finally said, and perhaps he had fallen ill. Never considered whether he might have drunk too much wine the night before.” Raising his own cup, he gave it a significant glance, then chortled. “She commanded me to seek him out.”
Thomas was struck by two things. The soldier had not mentioned that the baron was with his family, and the priest’s immoderate drinking seemed to be common knowledge if this sentry knew about it. If the latter were true, it was odd that the Lady Margaret would be ignorant of the priest’s vice, unless she was being charitable. These details had implications, but he held back on questions, choosing only the one that would hurry the tale along: “What did you find?”
“A dead man. He was lying in bed, hands modestly folded as if he had been praying when Death came for his soul.”
“Your description suggests he died at peace. Why conclude he had been staring into the Devil’s face?”
“His eyes belied any calm, Brother. They were wide open and streaked with red. They looked like the Devil had sucked blood through the man’s eyes. The last thing the poor priest must have seen was the fires of Hell in the maw of the Evil One.”
The monk swallowed more ale and nodded as foreboding increased.
The soldier leaned closer. “I’ve seen men killed in many ways, Brother. Never have I seen a corpse with eyes like that!”
Thomas had. One of the softest paths to death was with a pillow. It leaves no marks, except for the eyes which are streaked with red. He had seen this once before, when a clerk died in his bed a few nights after beating a mere youth for a minor error in transcription. The man had severely whipped others for equally small infractions. This time, his latest victim seemed likely to die or be crippled by his wounds. When Thomas found the body and asked questions, another had taken him aside and whispered that he would be well-advised to let matters be. Thomas had regretfully heeded the caution, realizing that no one would cooperate in bringing any killer to justice, but later overheard how the clerk had been smothered.