“God allows more to live within the walls of your hospital, Brother. Tyndal’s reputation for healing has spread throughout the kingdom.” Durant smiled. “But your deeds are legendary as well. A man from Amesbury, who sought a cure for the stone, stayed with us in those guest quarters and pointed you out. With awe, he told us how you had chased a foul murderer up a steep roof at the priory there so God might more easily strike him down.” His face glowed with enthusiasm.
Thomas gritted his teeth. Would that tale never die? “As you see, my function was minor. It was God who rendered justice.”
The merchant protested that the monk was too modest and then gestured toward the inn. “Will you join me for a jack of ale? The inn is respectable, and pilgrims of all vocations, including clerks with tonsures, find lodging there.”
Thomas began to refuse.
“Please, Brother. I would take little of your time and would profit from speaking with you.” He pulled a battered pilgrimage badge of older design from his pouch. “As you see, I come here from time to time to worship Our Lady of Walsingham and donate coin to the Holy House of her Annunciation. When I do, I seek edifying conversation with men vowed to God’s service. Will you not aid me in this endeavor to grow wiser?”
Thomas’ mouth was dry. He longed for good ale after the unfortunate meeting with Prioress Ursell and Father Vincent, followed by prayers and conference with his prioress at the Shrine of the Virgin’s Lock.
Although he felt ill-qualified to offer the wisdom requested by this merchant, he did not want to suggest the man speak with Father Vincent. His own dislike of the priest aside, Thomas assumed Durant must have met him before and would have gone to him if he had wished to do so. Perhaps Master Durant did not consider Father Vincent any better qualified to offer godly advice than Thomas judged himself.
Surrendering to his need for ale and not wishing to be discourteous, Thomas nodded consent and followed the wine merchant into the nearby inn.
The rushes on the floor were freshly laid, and the smell of roasting fish for the Lenten meal filled the air with the pleasing aroma of warmed spices. The scent made Thomas long for Tyndal. Sister Matilda’s simple Lenten meals were worthy of Eden and brought all who ate them closer to an appreciation of God’s generosity to mortals. He wondered what she was planning for the monks and nuns today, then suddenly realized he was getting hungry.
As the monk looked around, he concluded that the wine merchant had been correct about the nature of the inn. Those who served were modest in dress and brought food or drink promptly. Although the men sitting at the tables were jovial, no one was drunk. The tables were quickly cleared and wiped down. Unlike some at other pilgrimage sites, this innkeeper seemed to keep an honest house and gave fair value for the coin he received.
A bench in a corner was quickly found, jacks placed near to hand, and the two men drank deeply. Nodding to each other with mutual appreciation of the refreshment, they fell into that companionable silence common between friends but seldom found with strangers.
Durant of Norwich was pleasant company, Thomas decided. He rarely felt such ease with another and should have welcomed the moment, but this was a man about whom he knew nothing. Studying the merchant seated across from him, the monk chose to be cautious. Despite the merchant’s friendliness, Thomas found him puzzling. Perhaps, he thought, that ought to trouble me.
Had Master Durant not been dressed in a robe of finely woven cloth that proved affluence, Thomas would have doubted that such a man could be a successful merchant as he claimed. Perhaps his wine business was so flourishing that a bold manner was not needed, but Durant’s demeanor was quiet, almost shy. He did not advertise his wealth, and his clothes were modest in color and design. Were he to guess the man’s vocation, he would have said Durant was most likely a scholar or a pious landowner of comfortable means.
While he was regretting his lack of familiarity with the ways of commerce, Thomas realized that the man was gazing at him with a questioning look. Had he asked something for which he expected an answer, or, as the monk feared, was he perplexed at being under such close scrutiny?
Thomas felt his face grow warm with embarrassment. “I beg pardon, Master Durant. I did not hear what you said.”
The merchant bowed his head. “It is I who must beg forgiveness for indulging in idle matters. I had heard that you found the body of a Ryehill Priory nun near the bell tower. What a sad experience that must have been!”
“I did so only this morning, before dawn in fact, and already the tale has spread?” Thomas shook his head.
“This inn is close to the priory, Brother. I assume some from here may have been asked to carry the body away.”
“I alerted Father Vincent, and he took charge of finding someone from Ryehill Priory to do so.”
“Of course. Father Vincent! He must have been praying in the chapel when the nun fell to her death. Perhaps that was why he did not hear her.”
Thomas blinked. “Hear her?”
“Scream. I assume she did unless she was dead before she fell.” Durant’s look suggested he thought it obvious that she must have been alive.
“She did cry out. That is why I rushed to the bell tower.”
“And yet Father Vincent heard nothing. His piety is an example to us all. Few leave the world behind so completely when they pray. I am sure you had difficulty drawing him back from his prayers to handle the problems involved in such a tragic death.”
“I met him on my way to Ryehill.” Apparently, the wine merchant did not share his opinion of the priest, but Thomas was more concerned about something else Master Durant had said. If the priest was known for such devotion, why was he not kneeling at the altar? He was certainly not asleep in his bed. When he met Father Vincent, he assumed he was coming from the priory, but he had no proof of that. Where had the priest been?
“God must have alerted him.” Durant took a moment to drink more ale, but his eyes never left Thomas. “There are rumors about the nun’s death. Have you heard them?”
Thomas shook his head. He wanted to hear the tales but did not want to appear too eager.
“The story is that Satan pushed the nun from the tower.” The man’s hazel eyes took on a green cast as he put his jack down on the table.
The changing color of the merchant’s eyes disquieted Thomas, and he shivered. Concealing his discomfort with a shrug, he said, “I saw no evidence of the Evil One. The ground was moist, and the exposed floor of the tower must have been as well. As I was told, she was in the bell tower for a good purpose. The cause of this tragedy remains a simple thing. She fell by accident.”
“I am most grateful to you for telling me that, Brother. If I hear this slander again, I shall counter it. More ale?” He looked over his shoulder and waved to the serving girl.
“A kind offer, but I must refuse.” Thomas rose. “Prioress Eleanor wished me to accompany her to another of the shrines. I must not keep her waiting any longer.” A forgivable lie, he hoped, since he intended to visit the priory kitchen and beg food for the street child.
Master Durant thanked the monk for his company, then asked a blessing.
As the man slipped off the bench and knelt before him, Thomas gave him both a blessing and a prayer for the continued health of his wife. They parted after a few courteous words and just as the girl arrived with a small pitcher of ale.
Thomas had only gone a little distance from the inn when he suddenly realized that he and the merchant never once discussed God. Durant of Norwich was interested only in Sister Roysia’s death.
How strange, the monk thought, and frowned.
He walked back and looked inside the door at the bench he had shared with the merchant.
The pitcher remained.
The man had vanished.