Of course he did not trust the man. Herbert was of the prosperous merchant class, a greedy lot as far as the monk was concerned, demanding prompt payment of debts from those for whom coin was scarce. No student or poor clerk liked them, and Thomas had been both. As far as he was concerned, the fellow would say anything to make a profit. When Herbert mentioned the ghost, Thomas could not imagine what gain a wandering spirit might bring, but he would not dismiss his belief that there might be something.
His strongest reason for disliking the tradesman was the indisputable fact that he had bested Thomas in their battle of wills. His honor had been befouled, and he was disinclined to let that pass. "I should turn the other cheek as a monk with a true calling would," he muttered aloud, "but I likely shall not and, without question, not tonight."
He was falling into a black mood and disinclined to benevolence. Satisfying his pride must wait, of course, until he had pleased his masters in the Church, but he would make sure the eventual restitution would be even sweeter for the delay. In the meantime, he had been granted freedom by Sister Beatrice that allowed him to look into the Psalter theft. For that he would have to be grateful even if he was annoyed by the restrictions placed on him.
He shrugged his shoulders. He would make the best of the situation, discovering what he could. If he listened with discretion, he might still hear something of use. Maybe he would learn more from ale-loosened village tongues in gossip as the night wore on than from anything Mistress Jhone might tell him. After all, the shock of seeing her brother-in-law's headless corpse was surely cause enough for horror. The merchant's snide comments aside, Thomas had no wish to increase the poor woman's pain.
Deep in thought, the monk arrived at the village side of the river and headed toward the inn. Suddenly a movement caught his attention, and he paused to peer into the shifting patches of shadow.
Two men emerged from a gloomy lane just in front of him. One he did not recognize, but the other he most certainly did.
Keeping a safe distance, he slowly followed.
The men leaned toward each other in earnest but whispered conversation before stopping some yards away from the inn door.
Thomas slipped into the darkness between two houses.
"It would not be wise if we were seen together," he heard Sayer say to the plump young man beside him.
"Aye, you have the right of that. This matter is too important to have anyone suspect we are in it together. Yet are you sure…?"
"I am your man on this and shall not fail you, but let us not seem friendly or be seen to speak together in public."
"Aye. Go into the inn, although I shall follow in a while and find myself a quiet corner. This talk of plots and plans has made me thirsty." He put something into Sayer's hand. "Something for your thirst as well, my friend."
As the roofer opened the inn door, enough light fell on the other man's face for Thomas to note his features well.
A merchant by his dress, the monk thought. If this one had some guilty secret he wanted no one else in the village to discover, he might welcome the distracting company of a stranger. Were Thomas particularly fortunate, the man might even find some comfort for his troubled soul in talking to a man of God.
Chapter Twelve
A spotty-faced serving woman gaped when Thomas walked in, licked her lips, and tossed her head in the direction of the rooms upstairs. He lowered his gaze and inched into the mass of sweating men.
One burgundy-cheeked fellow, a wooden tankard of brown ale in hand, stared pointedly at the monk's tonsure, poked him in the ribs, and made a lewd gesture. Feeling his face turn hot, Thomas transformed his blush of outrage into an expression of sheepish unworldliness. The man snorted but let the monk edge by.
If God were willing to grant him just a little grace, Thomas thought, He would lead him to the plump merchant and keep him away from Sayer. If He were truly merciful, He would let him get answers to his questions and allow him to escape this place before he broke some lout's jaw.
When he had at last untangled himself from the milling crowd, Thomas found himself in a comparatively quiet corner of the hostel. At a small table, next to a large pitcher of wine, sat the round young man with dimpled pink face.
He was in luck.
The man rested his cup against his lips as if interrupted by a thought in the act of drinking. Something heavy crashed overhead and he blinked, raising his pale brown eyes and studying the ceiling, fearing perhaps that those carousing above might fall into his lap.
Thomas smiled. "May I join you in what passes for solitude in this worldly place?"
The young man's eyes came to rest on the monk's tonsure. "You are new to the area, Brother?"
"Aye," Thomas replied, happy to answer this one question with truthfulness.
"There is the priory of Amesbury across the river. You would find more congenial company there." He examined the monk with some curiosity. "Your habit is not one commonly seen on the king's roads. Is your Order…?"
"…that of Fontevraud. In truth, I knew about the priory, since I bring a message of greeting from another daughter house, but my journey has been long. The hour is now late, and I fear the gates have been closed." Thomas looked around him with wide-eyed amazement. "I thought I might clear the travel dust from my throat before I found a stable in which to sleep, but I have long been out of the world. I had no idea that this inn would be so…"
"Popular?" The man's laugh was merry and utterly devoid of ridicule. "Forgive my discourtesy, Brother." He gestured to a seat opposite him. "I am Bernard of Amesbury, a glover in this town. Will you join me in some wine?"
Although this Bernard was as sober as he had looked, he turned out to be a most sociable man, much inclined to talk as he poured Thomas a generous cup of wine. The stout fellow might be a merchant, but Thomas warmed to him as he sat back and listened to the glover tell him about Amesbury and its unusual environs. With more drink, he thought, the man's tongue would surely loosen, and he could pose some questions.
"There is a great stone circle not far away. If you came to Amesbury by the western road, surely you saw it."
Thomas shrugged. It was just as well, he decided, to remain vague about his journey. Even though they had traveled from the east, he had heard talk of this circle on the way. "The sun was setting, and our party was hurrying to reach the village before dark. I noted it but little. A strange pile of huge rocks?"
"Perhaps you were wise not to tarry, for many believe it a haunt of Satan and his minions. The plain on which it sits is bleak enough for hellish things, and there are always robbers to beset lone travelers even if the Devil is not about."
"Robbers, imps, or both? What is your opinion?" Thomas carefully sipped his drink and was surprised to find that the wine was a pleasant one. He hoped he was not sampling Master Herbert's wares.
"Lawless men are everywhere in England, Brother, but I cannot believe the stones shelter imps." Bernard shut his eyes and smiled as if falling into a pleasant dream. "It is a wondrous place. Sometimes I have imagined that a knight of the Round Table raised it as a monument after King Arthur's death on Salisbury Plain, or else Brutus of Troy came here, hoping to rebuild the city of his father. When the days are at their longest, I ride out to watch the light playing amongst the stones and how the shadows dance. I feel no fear, even when I walk to the center. Instead, there is only profound silence, one that is as calming as if God had blessed the place. I doubt any evil lives there." He laughed, dimples plunging deep into his cheeks. "I burden you with my fanciful thoughts and beg pardon!"