Then he watched the gentle current rock thick green scum back and forth in the rushes. Wading in that rank vegetation would only transform him into a mortal version of some moss-like imp, a grass-colored creature with auburn hair who frolicked like a hungry fish in the pond. He imagined how that might frighten passers-by.
“Your smile suggests pleasant thoughts, Brother.”
“Brother Gwydo! I did not see you.” Thomas was startled but pleased over the unexpected encounter. Of late, he had found a rare ease in the lay brother’s company and often sought the man for conversation or even a quiet time filled with companionable silence. Gwydo seemed equally content when they met.
“Would you share some ale with me? I was about to get my jug and escape to the shade of that tree.” The lay brother gestured toward a small meadow bounded by fruit trees just off the path to the mill.
Grateful for the offer, Thomas nodded, knowing he could indulge in a few moments of peaceful company. Prioress Eleanor might have sent him to search for missed clues where Kenelm’s corpse was found, but she had not required an immediate report of his findings.
Gwydo leapt effortlessly into the mud at the edge of the pond, then bent to retrieve a tan pottery flagon from a shaded patch of shallow water. With a grin, he swung the dripping object up for appreciative view.
“A hand?” Thomas reached out to help Gwydo up the bank.
The two men found a spot to sit where a slight breeze added cool comfort to the relief from the sun. The air was filled with a low hum as uncountable bees flew back and forth to their woven straw hives that were scattered throughout the open space.
“Have you had success with your skeps?” Thomas waved aside a dark insect only to realize it was probably a bee.
The lay brother gave the jug to the monk. “Well, I think the war of the kings has finished,” he said.
“Of what war do you speak?”
“When the summer heat rises, the army of bees ascends like a black funnel, and they do battle. I was here, and it is a wonder to behold.” His hands folded as if in prayer. “The king blows his horn. You can hear the tooting all through the meadow. Then he flies into the midst of his enemies like any brave and noble lord. You can hear the clicking of weapons and see the bodies of his victims fall to the ground. After the battle is done, the surviving bees and their victorious king return to the straw skeps I have woven. They now make honey for the priory.” He smiled with loving delight. “Don’t they sound peaceful?”
Thomas looked out at the many baskets, each placed wide-side down and sitting on a sturdy platform, and listened to the loud buzzing. The noise did not exactly signify tranquility to his ears. “All have foresworn combat?”
Gwydo pointed to one side of the hive collection. “Two groups remain querulous, but I think they will grow quiet in time. Do men not embrace peace after the violence of war? I would expect no less of bees.”
The monk opted to take the lay brother’s word on faith. “Many are grateful that you offered to do this task. I, for one, have no wish to get stung.” He savored the cool bitterness of the ale, sighed, and passed the flagon back.
Gwydo drank, then ran his hand across his mouth. “Honey may taste sweeter after the bitterness of pain. Might that be an allegory for our life on earth and the rewards of heaven?”
Thomas suffered a chill of cruel memory. Was his life sweeter here because of his earlier imprisonment where even the rats mocked him? “Where did you learn this skill?” He hoped his voice did not betray his thoughts.
“In Outremer. Those golden bees made sure I suffered enough from their tiny swords, but these are good English black bees and rarely sting me.” He looked at the skeps, his expression benign as he gazed on the busy creatures he tended.
“Perhaps God has told them that they must be kind because of your service as a pilgrim striving to restore Jerusalem to Christian hands.”
“Or else they know I left my sword behind and returned unarmed. I am no menace to anyone, even these smallest creations of God.”
Thomas met the man’s gaze and smiled. If he was so easy in the lay brother’s presence, he could understand why the bees might feel equally comfortable with him.
“But I do not think you came here to speak of bees, Brother.” Gwydo chuckled as he again passed the jug, “Nor do I think you were on your way to serve God in the village. You rarely linger to stare into the mill pond even on hot days when you have a purpose to fulfill.”
Thomas leaned his head back against the rough bark. “The memory of your performance as Daniel in the Christmas drama gives pleasure all year. Perhaps I had hoped to hear you sing again, even if it was only to those buzzing creatures.”
Gwydo smiled. “You are good to say so, but my time for vanity is long past.”
“My praise was honestly spoken.”
“Then your words are soft in my ears even if your reason for speaking them was intended to disguise your true purpose here.”
Thomas grinned. “You mean I longed for a cool draught of your ale?”
“Nay, good brother.” His expression grew solemn as he leaned forward and embraced his knees. “Your reputation is well known. If a crime has been committed, men pray that Prioress Eleanor and Brother Thomas will be nigh to render justice. I have less trust in our crowner, although I’ve been told he is both clever and honest.”
Thomas flushed at the compliment. Perhaps his own time for vanity had not quite passed. “I do not spend my days longing for murders to solve.” He hoped to suggest humility, but the eagerness he heard in those words betrayed a lust for adventure that was unsuitable in a pious monk.
“Nor does our prioress, but Death follows you both like a pup of that legendary, hell-spawned, black hound from Norfolk.”
Without warning, Gwydo began gasping.
“Are you ill?” Thomas grabbed the man’s shoulder.
The lay brother shook his head, managed a shallow breath, then another. Although his face was scarlet, he looked relieved. “Fear not. The moment is over. I live.” He was wheezing badly. “Sister Anne feared I had the lung disease when I first came to this priory. Now she thinks otherwise. Only in summer do I suffer these moments…” He coughed. “And I do fear I will suffocate.”
Thomas jumped up. “Shall I summon a lay brother from the hospital? Or does Sister Anne have a potion I could bring for relief?”
Shaking his head, Gwydo gestured for the monk to sit. “Your company is all I need. Please stay. In a moment, I will be well enough to stand.” He sucked in more air. “And then I shall take you to…where I found the body…and answer any questions you might have.” This time the breath he took was a deeper one, and his eyes grew bright with relief. “But only if you wish to do so.”
“I should not trouble you with my idle curiosity.”
“I welcome the distraction from my mortal afflictions and long to offer a small service to the cause of justice.”
Thomas opened his mouth to protest but quickly saw that the man meant what he had said. “If the bees will not miss your warrior’s skill, should they have plans for a future battle, I would be grateful.”
Gwydo stretched his hand out, and the monk pulled him to his feet. The lay brother’s hand was rough, Thomas thought, but his grip was so gentle. Then fearing he had held the man’s hand an instant too long, he drew back and folded his arms into his sleeves.
“We may leave the bees to the labors they understand better than we,” Gwydo said, his tone showing no hint of disapproval. He motioned for the monk to follow him.
As they approached the bank of the mill pond, the lay brother pointed to a particular spot in the rushes. “I found the body when I went to sink my jug into the cool water,” he said. “The man called Kenelm was floating here.”
“You believed he had drowned?”
“I prayed he was still alive, but, when I reached him, I saw that his throat had been cut. I had no doubt he had been murdered.” He bit his lip. “Killed by another, that is. No man wishing to commit self-murder could cut so deeply.”