Chapter Eighteen
Thomas looked around the simple room that had once been home to the dead priest.
There had been no cause to search here before. Even now he wondered if he should bother, but the priest had probably been murdered. Although the monk had much to report to Prioress Eleanor, he would not do so until he investigated all he could without further direction.
Running his fingers along the wall, he walked quickly around the room.
The quarters were tiny, the only luxury being nearness to the family chapel. The furnishings were plain. There was a small bed, hard enough for any man of God, and a crudely made chest. On the wall a badly carved cross was hung. That was askew.
Thomas straightened it.
He knelt on the floor and examined the stones. None were loose. Sitting back on his heels, he looked carefully at the wall but saw nothing within reach that suggested a hiding place. To make sure, he walked around a few more times, studying the stones and touching a few suspicious ones. All was as it ought to be: solid, austere, and proper for a priest whose concerns should not have included earthly comforts.
“Except this one did not lack interest in a worldly pleasure or two,” Thomas muttered. Where, for instance, had the man kept his supply of wine?
Briefly he poked at the mattress, finding no odd shapes or lumps. Not that he had expected to find a wineskin there, but he felt better having made sure.
Sighing, he leaned against the wall, shut his eyes to exile all assumptions from his mind, and then studied the room anew.
Near the door and against the wall sat that wooden chest. He stared at it with forced interest.
When he first arrived, he rejected the object instantly as possible storage when he saw that the corners were gnawed. Knowing that he did not want to provide castle mice with fresh nesting material, he had hung his few possessions on a peg high in the wall. He had never looked inside, having no curiosity about what might have moved into it after the priest’s death.
Now he walked over to the chest and gripped the lid. There was no lock, and the hinges were red with rust. As he raised the top and gazed at the interior, one fragile hinge disintegrated into gritty fragments.
There was little enough to see, and nothing to spark curiosity. In the center lay a robe, threadbare and carelessly folded. A large, chipped pottery jug sat in one corner. Although a stranger might have puzzled over that, Thomas believed its purpose was to store ale or any wine the priest could get. An equally battered cup lay tilted against the side.
At least the priest took the time to pour his drink into a cup instead of gulping it straight from the pitcher. There is a sad dignity in that, Thomas thought.
He straightened. None of this was informative, nor were the wood dust and mouse droppings. The man may have been too fond of drink, but he seemed to have honored his vow of poverty.
Thomas started to lower the lid but, on a whim, reached down instead and picked up the discarded robe, shaking it open. Amidst a flurry of dark lumps and bits, something fell to the floor. Dropping the robe, he retrieved it.
His first impression was that the item was a pilgrimage badge. Then he saw it was made of wax and concluded it was more likely to be a seal. “Yet it is attached to nothing,” he said, perplexed. Looking into the chest again, he found no parchment, or fragments of same, and turned back to study the image in his hand.
The figure was faint yet clear enough to be that of a seated man in a bishop’s miter, giving a blessing. Below him was a figure, perhaps a monk, hunched in the attitude of profound reverence. What struck Thomas most were the clappers in one of the bishop’s hands.
He frowned. “Saint Lazarus?”
This saint was the man raised from the dead by Jesus. Legend held that Lazarus of Bethany and his sisters, Mary and Martha, later fled to southern France where he became a bishop in Marseilles. Although the poor and sick often prayed to him, the most frequent supplications for relief came from lepers.
Where had this seal come from, and why keep it? The old priest had so few possessions. Shaking his head, Thomas assumed that the seal must have had especial meaning for the man. Perhaps a brother or another beloved kinsman had suffered from leprosy.
In England, there was a religious order, founded in Jerusalem, called the Order of St. Lazarus. Many referred to the members as the leper knights. If the priest were of high enough birth, someone in his family might have begged entry after discovering he had the tragic affliction.
“When the reply came,” Thomas murmured, “the priest must have kept this seal in remembrance.” How sadly anonymous this man and his life had become, the monk thought. Men spoke of his fondness for drink, not the sorrows he suffered.
He picked up the discarded robe, folded it, and returned it to the chest. As he started to tuck the seal back into the garment, he glanced at the floor.
The odd lumps of dark material intrigued him. He picked one up. It was not wood, most certainly not mouse droppings, and it had a faint peppery scent. He reached down for more.
Some of the bits crumbled into his hand. He sniffed again. Slightly sweet as well as peppery, he thought. Were he to guess, he’d conclude it was a strange vegetable or herb. The kind was unclear.
Suddenly he stiffened, thinking he had heard something. Were those muffled voices in the chapel?
Although Umfrey did move about, his footsteps were silenced by the thick walls. Thomas now realized he could have heard a door open just as he began to search this room. He had ignored the sound then. After all, the chapel belonged to the family, and someone might have come to comfort the terrified son.
A chill swept through him. Stuffing the lumps and seal into his pouch, he raced out the door and immediately collided with a large servant passing by in the corridor.
“Quickly!” he said, pointing to the chapel entrance behind the man. The servant froze and stared at him with utter lack of understanding.
A hooded figure emerged from the chapel.
Thomas called out, but the unidentifiable being rushed away without speaking.
The monk hesitated, longing to give chase, but the immobile lump of a servant blocked his way.
Fear for the well-being of the baron’s heir gave him strength, and Thomas grabbed the servant by the arm. Dragging the man toward the chapel, the monk dreaded what he might find inside.
He pushed open the door.
“Umfrey?”
No one replied.
On the floor near the altar was a huddled shadow.
Thomas rushed in and fell to his knees beside the figure.
Herbert’s son was bent double, his hands clutching at his chest.
Thomas grasped the son’s shoulder. The body fell over, and the monk realized that his own hand was now wet and sticky. “May God have mercy on your soul!”
The servant screamed and ran from the chapel.
Tenderly, the monk eased Umfrey onto his back. A pool of blood was on the floor. A knife lay near the heir’s hand.
Thomas looked back toward the chapel door. If he had not seen the unknown creature leave, he would have concluded that Umfrey had killed himself. Now the monk was certain this was murder.
Gently holding the man’s head, he started to whisper absolution into the dead man’s ear.
A light fluttering of warm air caressed his hand. “Is it possible?” Thomas whispered.
Putting his hand on Umfrey’s chest, he confirmed his rising hope. The son still breathed.
“If You are merciful,” he cried out, “I will not have to tell this family that one more son has died.”
Tearing cloth from Umfrey’s garments, Thomas pressed a handful into the bleeding wound and tightly bound the padding against the gash with the man’s belt.