But the straw mattress where the pilgrim slept was unoccupied, and Thomas decided to talk with Sister Oliva lest some detail had come to mind after Gracia last talked with her. As he reached the passageway leading to the apothecary, he glanced into the chapel. Only an elderly woman was there, kneeling in front of the altar. Her back was bent so severely that her nose almost touched her breasts.
He hurried down the walkway to the apothecary hut.
As he grew near, Thomas froze, and then slipped to one side so he would not be too visible from the hut’s open door.
A man was standing in front of the shelves. A crutch was leaning against the wall. He was taking items down from the shelves, studying the labels, lifting the lids of some and peering at the contents.
Thomas watched just long enough to make sure this was not just idle curiosity, then walked in. “Are you searching for something?” His question was not asked in a kindly tone.
The man started, almost dropped a jar, and spun around. His face was pale and his eyes wide with terror.
The monk stepped closer and put his hand on the crutch to keep the man from using it as a weapon. “Did I startle you?”
“My lord…”
“I am a monk of Tyndal Priory.”
“Brother,” he croaked. The man’s expression suggested that he did not believe a man of Thomas’ height and breadth of shoulder was anything but a knight with a sword by his side. As one who stood no taller than most, the man obviously feared this monk who loomed over him.
“Neither our sub-infirmarian nor her assistant is here.” The monk slowly looked at the man from head to foot. “You are in no distress. Why are you riffling through the shelves instead of waiting for another to bring whatever you think you need?”
Trying to recover some dignity, the man puffed out his chest. “I am in pain, although you may not have noticed that. I do not like to whine about my ills.” He hesitated, then winced as if deciding it would be wise.
Noticing the man’s accent, Thomas smiled. “You are not English,” he said, knowing he was stating the obvious and carefully not asking more. With luck, the man might believe the monk was not overly concerned with details beyond the apparent.
The man exhaled with relief. “I am from Picardy,” he said. “On pilgrimage to your shrine at Canterbury for my sins.”
“Surely there are shrines closer to home, Pilgrim. Why Canterbury?”
“Blood,” the man stuttered. “My penance involves blood.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow.
“I am not fleeing the hangman.”
Had the man been telling the complete truth, he would not be squirming like a boy trying to hide a stolen pastry behind his back. On the other hand, Thomas doubted he was escaping execution or was even the elusive Imbert. The monk smelled fear issuing from the man but no malice. Watching him twitch, Thomas doubted this alleged pilgrim had enough composure to hide his identity and pretend to be a clerk sent by Davoir.
But he is from Picardy, the monk thought. Davoir was from Anjou. The priest came from a noble family, and this pilgrim was not of great worldly rank, although his body suggested he was not accustomed to hunger or to hard labor. There was no cause to see a link between priest and pilgrim. Surely this man had not traveled all the way from Picardy to kill a clerk.
Reluctantly, Thomas concluded that the pilgrim must be trying to pilfer medicines, hoping to sell nostrums on the road to Canterbury to those who did not object to some earthly help while waiting for the miracle of healing from the sainted Becket.
The monk gestured for the man to sit on a nearby bench.
Dutifully, the pilgrim obeyed.
“Explain more fully what you are doing here.”
“I am in pain. My ankle needs to be rewrapped. I know something of herbs, and all the lay brothers are busy. I came here to find the remedy myself.”
Thomas asked him to raise the foot so he could exam it, then he undid the binding. Not only were the herbs fresh, the ankle was not discolored with bruising. There was no sign of any swelling to suggest a recent injury. No wonder the lay brother had been skeptical of the tale told about a sprain.
He looked up at the man. “This foot?” He pressed his thumb against the ankle bone.
The man cried out.
Thomas knew he had not caused any pain but became more firmly convinced that this man was just a thief while the prey he sought was a murderer. “I will treat you,” he said but refused to apologize for the pain he had supposedly produced.
As he went over to the shelf that held a small basket of arnica, he asked, “Do you sleep on the straw mat near the chapel?”
“That I do,” the pilgrim replied. His tone was hesitant.
Thomas mentioned a night. “Did you happen to see a hooded man leave this hut and go through the hospital with something in his hand?” He turned around.
The man’s expression suggested genuine surprise-with a hint of relief. He took time to consider the question. “I was asked before, Brother, and swore I had not. But you just said that he was carrying something, and that makes me think I did see a man, although he may not be the one you seek.” He looked sheepish as if embarrassed by the poor excuse for the sudden recollection. “He was of medium height, as are most men, I fear. Nor did I see his face. He had a hood and kept his head down, and I thought he held something against his chest. He seemed to be in a great hurry. I remember him only because a man called out to him to stop and bring succor to his dying cousin, but this hooded creature did not even slow his pace, nor did he call for a lay brother.” He drew a deep breath and frowned. “I thought that odd, so grabbed my crutch and went to seek a man of God myself.”
Thomas waited, then asked, “You did not see where the hooded man went or hear his voice?”
“Neither, Brother. That is all I know.”
Thomas tried to decide if he believed the pilgrim or suspected he had been the man he was seeking. Either the guilty man or an innocent one could have mentioned these details.
Yet this pilgrim had been upset enough to seek a lay brother for the dying man after the hooded figure so callously rushed by. And, he suddenly remembered, this matched the story told by the cousin of the one whose soul was facing God. No matter what this pilgrim’s real crimes might be, he did not strike Thomas as an especially cunning man. He wasn’t even good at telling a plausible lie. Twisted ankle indeed!
After a brief pause, the monk concluded that this man from Picardy could not be Brother Imbert. He thanked him for his help and finished wrapping the ankle, then gave him his crutch.
As Thomas stood there hoping he had not made a mistake in judging the man innocent of murder, he blinked at what he just noticed. Was he wrong or had this pilgrim gone several steps out of the hut, hobbling on the wrong foot?
Chapter Twenty-six
Renaud struggled to keep up with Father Etienne, wishing the priest would slow his pace. His head ached from the blow, and his shoulder hurt where it was bruised by his fall.
Indeed, the clerk felt more wretched than he ever had in his life. If only his master would turn, smile lovingly, and say something kind. That was all he truly longed for.
“Father!”
Davoir spun around and frowned as if his pondering over the shades of meaning in a significant theological problem had been rudely interrupted.
Renaud stared. Did his master not recognize him? Might he have forgotten he was beside him?
The priest blinked, his eyes slowly focusing on his clerk. “Ah.” His lips twitched upward. “Yes?”
A thin-lipped gesture for sure, but it warmed the clerk’s heart and eased a bit of his pain. This pause also let Renaud catch his breath.
“Your plan for the protection of our quarters addressed the problem,” the priest said, a statement related to nothing he had said since leaving the hospital. His expression also suggested the comment was less a compliment than a problem requiring analysis.