Otes started to speak and then seemed to think better of it.
The prioress rose.
Seeing the grim expression on her face, even the baron dared not argue that his requested audience had just concluded.
Chapter Nine
Brother Thomas reached up to lift the cloth-covered, woven basket off the hook above the door of his hut, then bent to retrieve the pottery jug of fresh ale. This daily offering of food and drink was meant to be anonymous. It might have been, had the gift been left by an adult more skilled in deception. When he saw little Nute disappear down the road, he knew the donor was Signy from the inn.
The woman’s charity had never surprised him, for he had gotten to know her best at the time Martin the Cooper was poisoned. Her gifts of sustenance after Thomas entered this hut as a hermit were indicative of her frequent small graces. Many who suffered as she had turned inward and bitter. She had softened with kindness. Although he was thankful for her benevolence, he was more grateful she had found peace. He had grown fond of the new innkeeper.
Pushing open the door, Thomas stepped inside.
The hut was tiny, but it pleased him. Ivetta the Whore had lived here until her death during the last summer season. When he begged permission to spend some time in solitude, hoping to earn God’s guidance in dealing with his own tormenting sins, he decided her former lodging would be most appropriate. That no one understood his choice mattered little to him. He knew the reason, and he was content to let others come to whatever conclusions they wished.
On first arrival here, he saw that the roof had collapsed and tall weeds were taking firm hold in the ground between the slanting walls. The hut had never been well-built, and he was grateful. Each morning he awoke, rejoicing in the prospect of strengthening the walls, restoring the roof, building a small altar, and finally crafting the rough bench and table where he ate.
In the spring, he had planted a small garden just outside his door. Some of the vegetables he ate himself. Most he gave to the needy. And to honor the desert fathers, whom he was determined to emulate for now, he had let his hair and beard grow wild. The sight of him did frighten young Nute. That was his only regret.
Thomas was unsure what this time alone had accomplished. He was not a man suited to long silence or the rejection of human companionship. Despite the Church’s belief that there was much virtue in such a life, he dared to question the idea, his soul being a most contrary thing. Yet he was so wretched that he was willing to try almost anything once lest he miss what God wanted to teach him.
He had not been left completely alone, although he discouraged local visitors and sent the poor travelers he was obliged to shelter on their way as soon as was meet. Brother John came often to hear his confessions, and Thomas also urged him to return to the priory as quickly as courtesy and kindness allowed. The novice master might be compassionate, but Thomas hesitated to confess his specific agonies to him, as he had to other priests. No matter how dark Brother John believed his own sins to be, Thomas knew him to be a good man who suffered simpler lusts.
Only God could heal Thomas, and he was waiting for Him to explain why the act of sodomy was a grave sin while lying in arms of another man filled him with such peace and so much love. Although God might not have graced him with an answer, he believed He had not minded the question and would respond in time. Patience was a virtue the monk was trying to learn.
As he sat down on the bench and stared at the crude cross hung from a slim rafter over the altar, he could not suppress the bitterness that too often assaulted his heart. Squeezing his eyes shut, he put all his strength into fighting back. “Get thee behind me, Satan,” he growled. “I know I am a flawed creature. Go trouble those who deem themselves otherwise.”
The heavy darkness inched back, leaving Thomas exhausted from the struggle. Bending forward, he rested his head in his hands and wept.
When his sobs ended and Thomas sat up, questions began buzzing in his head like bees outside a hive. Was a hermit’s life no longer the path he should be traveling? If not, what was he supposed to do next? Abandon this place, return to the priory, and again take up his work at the hospital?
At least that work had often given him solace, he thought. And he was growing ever more uneasy when others looked on him as some holy creature because he was a hermit. He shuddered. For a sinner to be called a saint was surely a travesty of all that was holy.
And why had Ralf chosen this day to visit? Perhaps the decision to do so had meant something. When Thomas took residence here, the crowner avoided him. A few months ago, Thomas might have even turned Ralf away. Today his old friend arrived at his hut, despite fearing that the monk would not welcome the sight of him, and Thomas had been filled with delight when he saw the crowner in the doorway. Walking down to the pond for a swim, they had talked together much as they were wont to do in the past.
Something had changed. God might be pointing out some new path for him to take. When next Brother John came to see him, Thomas would seek his advice in the matter. Signs from God were things with which the novice master had had much experience, and Thomas could ask his counsel without misgivings.
He had been musing too long and had not knelt to honor God since rising at dawn. “As penance, I shall delay my one meal until after the next Office.” It was a small denial but would do until he decided on a worthier deed to offer in return for his negligence.
Lowering himself to the hard earth in front of the altar, he prepared to approach God with total humility. He pressed his cheek against the dirt, closed his eyes and ears to the world, and fell silent in reverent and hopeful anticipation.
A chill instantly filled him and he shivered, trying not to let rising fear suggest the meaning of this. Do not be anxious, he told himself, and then cautiously opened one eye.
A dark shadow extended over him, flowing from the doorway. He prayed that a cloud had only veiled the sun.
“I did not wish to interrupt your prayers, Brother.”
Leaping to his feet, Thomas stared at the dark-robed figure standing in the entrance.
Father Eliduc gestured toward the bench inside. “May I?”
“Would I ever refuse you,” the monk replied. “Please sit down. I confess I have neither good wine to offer as refreshment nor fine chalices from which to drink.” His voice trembled, cravenly betraying his pounding heart.
Lightly running his fingertips over the rough boards of the bench, the priest replied with a modest upturn of his thin lips. “Out of respect for this hermitage, I shall stand.”
Thomas walked to the table and uncovered the basket from the inn. He pulled out a loaf of bread and a sweating cheese with high odor. “There is this gift from the local inn.”
Eliduc stared at the presented objects in the monk’s hands before replying, “I am fasting.”
It was rare that Thomas was able to discomfit this man and so he felt some joy. The pleasure was fleeting. He knew this visit did not bode well.
“Come, Brother, do not look so bleak. Is the sun not warm? Do the birds not sing with delight? Are you not free-to worship God in this hermitage?”
How cleverly this man reminds me of my past, the monk thought as the melancholy he had chased to the borders of his soul came thundering back with the force of destriers charging into battle. Shall I ever be free of him? Begrudgingly, he acknowledged he did owe Father Eliduc gratitude. It was this priest, and whomever he served, that had plucked Thomas from prison and kept him from rotting like the corpse of some rat.
“What a profound sigh! Oh, fear not, Brother. I have not come to wrest you from this tiny hut and drag you into the world.” He fell silent, studying the monk for a moment that seems endless. “Dare you claim that I have ever summoned you when God’s purpose did not demand it?” The priest’s smile was as thin as the edge of a knife.