Thomas thought for a moment. “Not a single man? Some stranger, perhaps, or an infrequent merchant?”
“For all the man’s failings, he was strong, built like his father. He’d have squashed most men’s heads like a handful of sand.”
“A difficult man to drown then?”
“I’d say! It would have taken more than one plus careful planning. Besides, he hated the sea. When he was a wee lad, he fell out of a boat. Would have died if his cousin hadn’t saved him. So he believed the sea was the Devil’s creation and never would go too near it again. Nay, Brother, you’d best look for demons in this death.”
“Where was he found?”
“In the cove. He went missing one night, although that was common practice if he had some woman. The next day someone saw a body on the beach. When we went down to investigate, we recognized him. No one could discern what had happened. There was no boat, although he’d never have set foot in one.”
This was a strange story indeed, Thomas thought. “No evidence that he might have been killed by a blow, for example, and not by drowning?”
“Sir Leonel was with us. He asked the same question and examined the body but found no strange wound. The corpse was battered. He thought that was from the rocks. We all assumed drowning.”
“Had any woman gone with him that night?”
“None of ours. As for the servants of any guests, the baron has welcomed no one until Sir Hugh and his party arrived.”
The monk grunted. He was at a loss for any more questions.
“Maybe he saw the lights too and was lured down by the Devil. That’s what I believe. Then the riptide might have caught him, pulled him out to the island rocks, and Satan spat him back on the beach.” He looked longingly at the pitcher.
Thomas walked over to the table and poured what remained into the man’s cup. Although it was clear that something villainous was happening, his logic could not discover the root of it. If only they had come here sooner, the bodies of at least one of the two sons might have been examined by Master Gamel or Sister Anne. Now all evidence was lost to them, buried in the earth blessed by God.
“Imps,” he muttered, watching the man swallow the last of the wine. That was as good an explanation as any for the moment and might even be true. He shuddered.
“I had best be back on watch, Brother.” He looked up at Thomas, his eyes just unfocused enough to suggest the wine might keep him quite warm on this next round of the wall. “Your gift of wine was charitable.” His smile was lopsided, but honest gratitude shone through.
Thomas promised to return soon with another pitcher, then let the soldier descend the stairs ahead of him. Before following, he looked out the window one more time but saw nothing of note.
Now he felt obliged to tell his prioress what he had learned, but, before he did, Thomas had one more thing he wished to do.
***
Hunched down in the shadows near the next watchtower, a hooded man wrapped his thick cloak tighter around him and waited. When Baron Herbert and Sir Hugh left the windbreak of the other tower for the bailey stairs, he stood, looked around, and scuttled along the wall, taking care to remain in deep shadow.
Just as he reached the place near where the two men had met, he heard a sound above and drew back against the wall. Looking up at the watchtower, he saw someone lean out of the window. Although he could not identify the man in the darkness, he concluded it was the usual sentry, taking more time than usual with his ale on a cold night. He waited until the man retreated, then walked to the fortress wall and slipped far enough into the crenel to look down with safety into the cove.
Raoul wondered if either his father or Sir Hugh had seen the lights, but, from what he had overheard, he doubted it. They were too concerned over the state of his mother’s virtue. He snorted with contempt.
Perhaps that was just as well, he thought. He knew the incident had been investigated once. The cause was determined to be a drunken soldier’s imagination, although he was surprised that his father had thought no more on it.
As for tonight, Raoul decided that his father and the knight would have dismissed the sight if they had noticed it. The lights had been only briefly visible and had not reappeared. Even he could have concluded they were nothing more than the moon shimmering on the water before a storm cloud quickly cast a veil over it.
He hesitated long enough to make sure the men could not look back and see that he was following them down the same stairway into the bailey. Still amused at their foolishness over his mother, he grinned. His father must soon acknowledge that he, the despised youngest son, was a man worthy of respect.
Then he disappeared once again into the shadows and down the bailey stairs.
Chapter Seventeen
The chapel’s darkness weighed down on Umfrey like cold ash.
He squirmed in distress.
As his brother and the monk from Tyndal had promised, a servant brought him both food and drink. He had eagerly devoured and imbibed but now regretted such lack of restraint. The chamber pot was full, and he needed to piss.
Cursing the sinful weakness of his aching bladder, he remembered Raoul’s mockery and touched the large gifted cross he now wore. He would have to leave the altar since he dared not defile this sacred place again. “Protect me,” he whispered, fondling the cross.
Then he pulled himself to his feet, scurried away from his sanctuary, and out the chapel door. As he splashed urine against the far outside wall of the corridor, his relief was immense, but terror returned with greater force. Not even pausing to secure his braies, he clutched at them and shuffled back through the door toward the altar.
A tall shadow stood between him and comforting asylum.
Umfrey whimpered.
The shadow stepped aside and gestured for him to come forward.
“Who are you?” Umfrey fumbled with the ties on his braies and willed his bowels not to betray his fear.
“You asked to see your father, lad.” The hoarse whisper cut the silence like a dull saw on wood.
His teeth began to chatter, all words sliced to bits before he could utter them.
“What reason do you have to fear? Come closer.”
Umfrey took two steps and stopped.
“Why did you summon your father if you have nothing to say?”
“I don’t want to die!” Tears began to flow down his cheeks.
The shadow said nothing.
“There is evil in this place.” Umfrey’s tone was beseeching as he gestured to the creature. Was it man or spirit, he wondered. “What have any of us ever done to deserve assassination? We have always been loyal sons. In your absence, we protected and served our mother as you commanded us to do. We did nothing to dishonor you and greeted your return with joy. What have we done to displease either you or God?”
“Nothing.”
Rubbing at his nose, Umfrey peered into the darkness. His legs shook so that he feared he might collapse. “Then why?”
The shadow spread his arms. “Be comforted in my embrace!”
The son hesitated, then uttered the sob of a small boy seeking a parent’s soothing, and rushed forward.
But the hug he received had a sharp sting. His eyes widened in horror as the knife pierced his chest and grated against his ribs. Without a sound, Umfrey slid to the floor, his body bending as if praying to the altar that now failed to grant him refuge.
“Indeed, none of you committed any sin at all,” the shadow muttered, “except for that of living.” Then he quickly placed Umfrey’s limp hand around the knife and left the chapel as silently as he had arrived.