Misinterpreting the monk’s silence to mean he had revealed something better left unsaid, the soldier turned pale. He waved away his words, then clasped both hands together to keep them from betraying his fear. “Now I never really meant anything about actual murder, nor did I claim the good priest was wicked, only that some devilish creature may have stolen his soul. Maybe the priest was caught unprepared because he was sleeping? But I’ll leave any conclusions about imps to others, especially a man of God like yourself.”
The monk started to allay the man’s fears.
Now the soldier leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Whatever you do decide, Brother, I beg you to say nothing about where you heard this. I’m just a simple man who honestly believed he smelled the stench of hellfire near the priest’s corpse.”
Thomas looked at the soldier with sympathy. “I never asked your name.” He grinned. “I probably overheard the tale, shared amongst men standing in shadows. How could I point out the one who told it?”
The soldier poured them both more ale.
After a companionable silence, Thomas decided to ask his unspoken questions. “You said that only the Lady Margaret and the sons were waiting for the priest. I wondered if Baron Herbert had not yet returned to England, or was he in the chapel as well?”
“He was home, but no one sees the baron much, least not in daylight. He walks the walls when darkness falls, just like you were, although he prefers those that look out to sea and not these closer to English soil. I might have mistaken you for our lord, except he’s much thicker around here.” He pointed to his chest.
“He does not attend Mass?”
“Before the priest died, he did. Not with the family though. My lass, who washes the linen, told me that our lord never shares his lady’s bed, nor does he break bread with her. He’s never seen in her company. My lass thinks Lady Margaret must have committed a grave sin while her husband was fighting God’s war, although she can’t imagine what. The lady’s always been a kind mistress.” He nervously rubbed at his cheeks, waiting to see how the monk would react.
Thomas nodded encouragement to continue.
“Mind you, all that is only woman’s talk. They’re sweet things, but they do cluck away like all hens. Being a monk, you might not give credence to their rumors.”
“Does Baron Herbert never speak with his sons?”
“I don’t know. They are a sad lot compared with Sir Leonel. Not that they’re bad ones, but they lack their father’s fire. Now that nephew is a man, fought in Outremer, and has the scars to prove his mettle. I think the baron has always favored his brother’s son over his own.”
Thomas started to ask another question
The soldier leapt to his feet. “I’m due back on watch, Brother.”
Perhaps it was just as well, Thomas thought. Despite the ale and the shelter, the damp cold was too bitter to continue talking. He would have to leave the details of the sons’ deaths for another time and had probably gained enough of the soldier’s confidence to query him later. There was one last thing he could do to guarantee that.
He rubbed the cup dry on his robe and put it down on the table. “Since I was given the old priest’s chambers near the chapel, while my prioress is a guest here, I should search the place. If I find any hidden wine, I will bring it to share with you another night,” Thomas grinned.
“That’s charitable of you, Brother. Considering how much he drank, I doubt you’ll find any. If there had been a drop left, he would have fought the Devil before he let him steal his soul. Forgive me for saying this, but I could have wrung the priest out and gotten wine enough to drink for supper if the cellar had been empty of it.”
Thomas laughed and slapped the soldier’s back, before retreating down the stairs. As he hastened toward the steps leading to the bailey, he wondered if he should tell Prioress Eleanor what the soldier had told him.
“Perhaps not until I have learned more,” he whispered to the pummeling wind. “Although some foul deed may have been committed, I have no proof, except this one soldier’s word. He seems a good man, but I do not know him well enough to conclude that he actually saw what he claims.”
The evidence was thin, and, as a guest in this place, Thomas knew he had no right to cry murder quite yet.
Chapter Ten
Prioress Eleanor and Sister Anne emerged from the common chapel just off the Great Hall. Although the body of Herbert’s son was no longer there, removed by the family to prepare for burial tomorrow, the wretchedness of his death had given a sad direction to their prayers.
Without uttering a word to each other, they both stopped at a window in the corridor and looked down into the bailey. Such was the nature of their friendship that their spirits were bonded even when each was preoccupied with private thoughts.
Eleanor stole a glance at her friend. She was worried about her.
In repose, Anne often bore a solemn expression but was still quick to laugh or raise spirits with her clever wit and shrewd observations. For several days now, Anne had fallen into unusual silence, her jests and insights halting or absent as if her thoughts had fled to some distant place.
Of course winter was a bitter season, filled with little joy, and this journey in particular had been a hard one. All this was cause enough for anyone’s weary sadness, yet it was quite unlike her sub-infirmarian to succumb to such emotions for long. It was also rare that Anne did not confide troubles.
Puzzled and unable to put a finger on the exact nature of Anne’s distraction, Eleanor turned her attention to what little she could see from the window.
Despite this being the family home of Baron Herbert, the prioress found little beauty in the fortress. Grey snow lay against walls and was pushed into corners, well-stained with the yellow-brown effluence from the living. And thus it remained, in stubborn defiance of any hope of spring. During the day, people and animals scurried to and fro in the bailey, noisily occupied with the demands of their lives and duties. She found little joy in their activity.
Were she honest with herself, she knew that such was the state of any castle in winter, when the cold made outside work a misery. Had she been at her father’s fortress in Wales, she would have seen similar sights and thought nothing of them. Here, she found fault.
What illogical creatures we mortals are, she thought, then concluded that a prioress, obliged to strive toward God’s perfection, had no excuse for such irrational and unacceptable failings.
Although a dying sun never meant that all activity ceased, there was little enough to see in the courtyard now to distract her. Torches flickered in the hands of soldiers. One blacksmith beat red-hot iron with a rhythmic clanging, and sparks flew like fireflies. The pungent stench of animals, too long in one spot, rose in the wind and assaulted Eleanor’s nose.
As she well understood, a castle was built to accommodate war, not the comfort of women and children, yet this fortress did seem uniquely grim, even when she tried to exile her bias. She understood how it had earned the name of dur, but what reason was there to ever call it doux?
Melancholy tugged more forcefully at Eleanor’s soul, and she quickly cursed whatever dark spirit resided here that seemed so determined to destroy all gladness in the heart. Thou shalt not win, she swore with fierce determination.
To drive away the morbid feeling, she turned her thoughts away from herself. It was time to draw her friend out and try to heal whatever burdened her. Her first question addressed the most likely problem: “Are you well?”