For his own devotions tonight, Thomas had knelt on the plain wooden prie-dieu placed in front of the simple altar where a cross was hung on the wall. All this was provided in the guest quarters for those who needed a place for private prayer while staying at Tyndal Priory. But the priest had ignored these and knelt on a finely embroidered pillow, at his own intricately carved and highly polished prie-dieu, in front of a bejeweled cross. Each item he had brought with him on the journey to England.
In the guttering candlelight, one blood-red gem embedded in that cross glittered unsteadily.
Thomas stared at it. At least he would not have to deal with this man’s arrogance much longer, but he did pray that God would have mercy on the man’s new flock which must. Yet miracles did occur, he reminded himself. Perhaps Davoir would repent someday, when he discovered that his soul had turned to dust, and finally become the man he now believed he was.
The monk shook his head. I have grown querulous, he thought. Considering his own bitter quarrels with God, over things he had done and felt which the Church condemned as more evil than anything Davoir might have committed, Thomas knew he had no right to throw stones at anyone.
Staring at the shadowy ceiling, Thomas silently confessed that he simply longed to be elsewhere this night, doing whatever brought peace to a soul or relief from mortal pains. Guarding a man whom he did not respect wore on him even if he knew he must do so. When this night was over, he would pray for forgiveness. Now, he could not.
Thomas eased into the shadows where the candlelight failed to penetrate. If he was going to think gloomy thoughts, he had best sit in the dark.
The priest continued to mumble.
Holding his nose to prevent a sneeze caused by the acrid candle smoke, the monk felt a twinge of guilt. Perhaps this man, to whom he had taken such a dislike, was confessing his deficiencies to God and suffering from the knowledge of his imperfections. After all, Thomas had not been asked to be Davoir’s confessor and the state of the man’s soul was not his responsibility, nor was the choice of penitential acts. Having conquered the sneeze, he forced himself to concentrate on what he was here to do.
Maybe Devoir had been right, he thought. Ralf should have taken the alleged pilgrim into custody rather than set a trap. Even with Conan and the crowner outside, there was still a chance that the man could slip through. Traps were risky things, which, of course, was the reason Prioress Eleanor had insisted that he stay by the priest’s side.
Someone was likely to come here tonight, a man with murderous intent. Davoir had listened to this plan only because the prioress reminded him of his stated belief that no sword could match the power of prayer. When she added her final argument that the orisons of two priests would surely be the strongest defense of all, the priest had consented, albeit with ill-concealed reluctance to share the company of Brother Thomas.
At least Thomas felt comfortable with the probability that he might have to deal with the man from across the British Ocean. Even assuming that the alleged pilgrim did not suffer an injured ankle, the man from Picardy was slight of build. Thomas looked like a man born to swing a sword even if he had never been trained for battle. And, he thought, I have the advantage in this planned surprise and am more likely to keep my wits about me.
A knock at the door disturbed his thoughts.
As agreed, Thomas stayed where he was.
Davoir remained on his knees for a moment longer before turning his head and shouting permission to enter. His voice betrayed his annoyance at the interruption, and he bowed his head again as he returned to his recitations.
Renaud eased his way through the entrance with the reluctance of a child called for a scolding. Closing the door softly behind him, he hesitated.
Not the man expected, Thomas thought, then slipped back into even deeper shadows and squatted with his back against the wall. Of course he did not expect a killer to knock at the door and politely beg permission to come in so he might wreak havoc. The monk folded his arms and regretted that he must witness Davoir exercise his habitual humiliation of this clerk without interfering. Was it only a favored one or two whom he greeted with any kindness?
“Father?” The clerk’s voice trembled.
Davoir looked up at his jeweled cross, shimmering in the dim light, and continued his prayers. When he came to a point where he chose to pause, he stopped but remained kneeling with his back to the clerk. “Why have you disturbed me? Have you no respect for my need to speak with God?”
“It was necessary,” Renaud said as he inched closer, his hands clutched in a gesture of supplication.
“Has the king called me home? Has Abbess Isabeau sent further instructions?”
“No, Father.”
The priest snorted. “Jean would never have troubled me for less. Leave me.” And he returned to his recitations.
Renaud screamed, his howl like that of a frenzied beast. Drawing a knife from inside his robe, he rushed at the priest.
Thomas leapt to his feet and lunged at the clerk.
Chapter Thirty-two
Renaud lay bound on the floor, but he did not lie peacefully. Writhing, he grunted and yanked at his bindings, but they held fast.
Conan and Ralf stood in front of the culprit. For all the emotion their expressions betrayed, the clerk might have been a large fish flopping about on a wharf.
Thomas handed the knife to the crowner. “He missed his mark,” he said, inclining his head toward the priest. The monk failed to mention the cut on his own arm which he pressed against his robe to stop the bleeding.
Davoir, eyes glazed with shock, knelt by the youth’s side. “Why?” he whispered.
Squirming to one side, the clerk raised his head and spat at the priest.
As the spittle rolled down his cheek, Davoir grew rigid as a statue, but he continued to look bewildered as if he had just awakened into an incomprehensible world.
Putting a gentle hand on the priest’s shoulder, Thomas said, “You should leave us, Father. These men must question your clerk.”
Davoir leapt to his feet, all confusion melted by fury. “This clerk is under God’s law, not your king’s. I shall remain and hear all he has to say. Only I may be the judge in this matter, not these men.” He waved at the guard and crowner, the gesture proclaiming his confidence that his mere will could make the men vanish.
Thomas looked down at the clerk. Whimpering like a hurt child, or else snarling like a maddened dog, the youth showed only glimpses of sense, but there was no hint in the clerk’s eyes that the Evil One was peering out of his soul and mocking God. The monk pitied Renaud, despite the attack on Davoir’s life. As a boy, Thomas had yearned for approval, although he had not been driven mad by it.
Surely someone other than Davoir would judge whether the clerk was mad or possessed. Thomas prayed for such to be the case. Although Davoir was right about jurisdiction, the monk doubted the man’s ability to see beyond the attempted assassination and Renaud’s maniacal rants to whatever torment had led to this longing to kill.
Thomas knew that men pointed to God’s hand when murder was deemed righteous, or to Satan’s touch when it was judged a wicked act. He wondered how often the cause was best sought in less significant places.
In the distance, a cock crowed. As the gray light of cold morning slipped into the room, the pale candlelight faltered.
With regret, Thomas turned to the crowner and guard captain. “Father Etienne must remain,” he said.
Ralf looked at the priest. “He was one of your favored attendants. His words shall cause intense grief,” he said, but his tone suggested he spoke only of facts and without compassion. “Should you leave the room, you may do so in confidence. I would never deny your right to take him away for Church judgement.”