Then a third possibility struck him, one that gave him far greater cause to panic. He covered his face and bent forward until his brow hit the stone floor.
What if Baron Otes had confided to Father Eliduc all he knew about the corruption that had occurred during the reign of the old king? Whether or not the knowledge was conveyed to the priest as a confession or the simple sharing of information by an uneasy soul, Fulke knew he remained in great danger despite the baron’s death.
He took a deep breath and calmed himself. Otes only cared for his own advancement. Eliduc played for higher stakes in the struggles for power between the Church and kings. Whereas the baron pondered the value of each man’s secrets as if they were gemstones he might want to purchase, Eliduc had no interest in the individual sin or man, caring only about the value of the aggregate. Even if Eliduc knew all the sheriff had done, the priest would find little of it useful to the Church. Fulke was not powerful enough, and surely Eliduc never dealt in trivial matters.
Yet there were others who might find benefit in minor secrets. If someone had overheard Otes talking to the priest, Fulke was not as safe as he had assumed.
Overwhelmed by uncertainty, he began to weep in self-pity. Since his father’s death, the sheriff had devoted his life to increasing family prestige and wealth. The baron might be dead, but Fulke remained in danger of losing rank and all he had struggled to gain. Should the new king chose harsh measures to punish wrongdoers, he might also be stripped of his freedom or even his life.
After some time, Fulke’s tears did cease. When he looked around, Father Eliduc had disappeared.
Had he only imagined the priest was here? God might have sent the man’s image as a fearsome reminder to Fulke that his sins were many and grievous.
Once again the sheriff’s teeth began to chatter as if he had been struck with an ague.
Chapter Twenty-three
“Why did you flee from Crowner Ralf?” Thomas shoved a roughly cut, wooden mazer of ale across the table toward Simon.
“I did not want to talk to him.”
Although the youth covered his eyes with a weary gesture, Thomas suspected the act was feigned and meant to hide a forthcoming lie. He waited for it.
“The world and mortal men trouble me.” Simon sighed. “Must I give any other reason for my flight?” He gave the monk a quick look, gauging the effect of his words.
Thomas raised an eyebrow.
“The wicked roar of men’s sinful voices drowns out His direction.”
Although the monk knew the young man must have come to the hermitage for some reason, he did not believe Simon was possessed by any sincere religious longing. Had Thomas seen any indication of a soul tormented over issues of faith, he would have sent Simon to the priory to speak with men better suited to advise him. Whatever troubled the youth, the monk also doubted the problem was the comparatively simple issue of unbearable lust.
In his years at Tyndal, Thomas had learned about a vast range of vices, some horrible, others touching in their innocence, and a few even amusing, albeit embarrassing to the sinner. There was little left to shock him, and he was growing impatient for Simon to get on with what he needed to confess. Thomas may have felt obliged to offer lodging to truth-seekers. Simon’s annoying presence had begun to outweigh the value of the charity.
“I do not believe you want to hear God’s voice.” The monk softened his gruff tone by offering more ale.
Simon blinked and turned his head so his eyes did not meet the monk’s. “I do seek counsel.”
“That, I believe.” Deciding to hurry the revelation, Thomas returned to the previously admitted problem, hoping that had been the first step in Simon’s path to confessing his purpose. “Hesitate not to admit the full power of your lust. God knows all men struggle with desire, especially the young.” As he watched the youth turn pale, he wondered if the cause of the young man’s disquiet was truly this simple.
Thomas remembered what he had been like at Simon’s age, a time of comparative innocence, yet one filled with fear of his own body. There were countless times he and Giles had confided their lust-filled dreams, the irresistible longing to pleasure themselves for relief, and how powerless they had felt to resist temptation. So driven were they by Satan’s prickings that days went by when they seemed incapable of anything except copulating, sleeping, and eating enough to keep up their strength to satisfy the sexual craving.
“Like you,” the monk said, “I was conceived in lust, born of woman, and suffer mortal failings. Be assured, however, that God understands this and does forgive the truly penitent.”
Simon said nothing. A muscle twitched in his cheek, and he shut his eyes as if fearing they might betray something deeply hidden in his soul.
Thomas did not know which course he ought now to follow. Simon was of high enough birth to be named prior of some profitable house, should he choose God as his liege lord, and many of Thomas’ fellow priory monks had discovered that His service cooled passions over time. Even he had found comfort if not tranquility at Tyndal, although his own lusts took a different shape and rape had rendered him practically impotent.
On the other hand, Simon could still marry and find relief with a wife for his rebellious genitals, if he had land or title enough to tempt fathers with too many daughters. Some followers of the Earl of Leicester had bought back the lands stripped away after the rebellion, although Thomas suspected Simon’s mother possessed neither the coin nor the means to acquire it. Or Queen Eleanor might persuade the king to show mercy, return a small portion of the lands, and demand little or no payment. If she wanted to reward Simon’s mother for faithful service at less cost to the royal coffers, the queen could also arrange a profitable marriage for the lad.
Whatever path Simon might pursue, he needed direction to protect him from his own bad judgement and keep him from seeding a babe in the wrong woman. His current situation was difficult enough. The youth did not need to destroy any hope for reconciliation with the new king because he did something ill-considered.
Simon sat ever so still.
Telling the lad that he should honor his mother’s advice would do no good. Simon had already uttered contempt for feminine governance. Most religious would advise him to just exercise self-restraint and pray to dampen his obsession with lust, but Thomas recalled how quickly he and his friends had shoved aside such advice at the same age. It had taken prison, the loss of the man he had loved, and mocking impotence to learn that selfless deeds could numb the pain until he fell asleep and became vulnerable to dreams.
His mind raced. He must find a path for Simon to follow that would accomplish a beneficial result without the horrible suffering he had experienced. The idea must also be something the youth had not heard too often and already rejected. At least it must surprise him into considered thought.
The bench tipped over as Simon shoved away from the table and went to the altar. Bowing in reverence, he continued his silence as if he were deep in prayer.
Annoyance scraped like a persistent rat at Thomas’ good intentions. Why did he suspect that everything Simon did was pretence? Shaking the thoughts away, he decided he must treat the youth’s visit as sincere until he found good evidence that proved falsehood.
“Before I took vows,” he said, “I swyved many women. I could not even tell you the number. Here at Tyndal Priory, I have experienced a miraculous transformation. In this Order of Fontevraud, we serve a woman who represents the Queen of Heaven on earth. As the beloved disciple was commanded at the foot of the cross, we obey and protect her. In doing so, I discovered I had lost all desire for a woman’s mortal body.”
Simon continued to face the altar. “I have heard many tales of you,” he murmured.