A Killing Season

Chapter Nine

“Identify yourself!”

Brother Thomas uttered an oath and jumped back from the creneled curtain wall.

A soldier emerged from the shadows. His spear glittered in the moonlight.

“Brother Thomas.” Despite the cold, Thomas pushed back his hood, hoping there was enough light to reveal his tonsure and give strength to the honesty of his claim.

“A monk? Where did you come from?”

“I am with the party of Prioress Eleanor and her brother, Sir Hugh of Wynethorpe. We arrived yesterday.”

“An ill-timed visit.” The soldier stepped companionably close to the monk like any creature seeking precious warmth in a biting wind.

Thomas swiftly pulled the hood back over his head and nodded.

“I advise you not to stand still, lest you become a pillar of ice. I’d not like having to explain to my sergeant how a monk came to resemble Lot’s wife, albeit in a more frozen form.” He laughed at his own humor.

There was enough truth in the poor jest, Thomas decided, and walked on.

The soldier kept pace beside him. “As I said, the arrival day was badly chosen if the prioress and her brother sought merriment and feasting. You’re a welcome enough sight though. We need God to save us from the Devil’s claws, Brother.”

Thomas stopped. “All mortals do. Are you suggesting there is more reason than usual here?”

“Demons abound.”

“Satan’s legions are always about. Why conclude there is a more formidable invasion?”

“Unnatural deaths.” The soldier’s voice trembled more than the cold would explain.

“Surely not murder?” Growing increasingly numb, Thomas resumed walking at a brisk pace toward the watchtower.

The soldier trotted alongside. “Not by any human hand.”

“Truly?”

“Nor is this current death the first here committed by the Evil One.”

“You would serve God well if you helped me understand what you mean. I have only heard that another son died not long ago. Drowned, was it?”

“Or so some say.” He lowered his head. “And then our old priest. After that, we’d none of God’s servants until your party arrived. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

Caught by the implications in this news, Thomas slowed his pace.

“A little faster, Brother?” The soldier rubbed his hands and broke into a jog.

Obliging, Thomas hurried after him.

When he reached the entrance to the high watchtower, the soldier pointed at the top of the structure. “We could both find shelter from the wind, Brother. I’ve done my round of the wall for now. It’s time for a stint up there with the falcons, although they’re wise enough to find refuge inland for the winter. Fortunately, the good baron built some protection there for us sentries.” He pulled opened the entry door and gestured for Thomas to go inside. “Up the stairs. Should be ale. Warm us both.”

The wind whipped sea-salted air against his face. It stung. Needing no further urging, the monk hurried through the door and raced up the narrow steps.

The round space on the top of the tower was chill enough, but the walls and a short overhang of wood held the wind at bay. Near the staircase, a poorly crafted table had been pushed against the wall. A jug rested precariously on top of the unevenly hewn wood.

Grabbing two ill-shaped pottery cups from the floor, the soldier poured.

Thomas drank. The ale was rough but served its purpose of sending warmth through to his bones. “You think the priest’s death was not a natural one?” Although he was interested in what this man might say about the deaths of both sons, he was more intrigued by the soldier’s apparent belief that the Devil had killed a priest.

“If Satan kills a man, is that not unnatural?”

The monk agreed. “How did you learn the Devil did it?”

“I found the corpse.” He shuddered and downed the contents of his cup in one draught, then poured another. “More for yourself?”

Thomas placed his cup close to the pitcher.

“It was morning. A couple of months after the drowning.” The sentry took a deep breath and leaned against the tower wall.

Glancing into his cup, Thomas hesitated, then gulped the drink down and reached for the jug. The man’s beginning did not bode well for a story much shorter than some ecclesiastical history. If he were fortunate, the tale might prove as entertaining as anything by the Venerable Bede. He doubted he would be so lucky.

“Lady Margaret and the sons had waited a long time for the priest to come to the family chapel for Mass. He was an old man, she finally said, and perhaps he had fallen ill. Never considered whether he might have drunk too much wine the night before.” Raising his own cup, he gave it a significant glance, then chortled. “She commanded me to seek him out.”

Thomas was struck by two things. The soldier had not mentioned that the baron was with his family, and the priest’s immoderate drinking seemed to be common knowledge if this sentry knew about it. If the latter were true, it was odd that the Lady Margaret would be ignorant of the priest’s vice, unless she was being charitable. These details had implications, but he held back on questions, choosing only the one that would hurry the tale along: “What did you find?”

“A dead man. He was lying in bed, hands modestly folded as if he had been praying when Death came for his soul.”

“Your description suggests he died at peace. Why conclude he had been staring into the Devil’s face?”

“His eyes belied any calm, Brother. They were wide open and streaked with red. They looked like the Devil had sucked blood through the man’s eyes. The last thing the poor priest must have seen was the fires of Hell in the maw of the Evil One.”

The monk swallowed more ale and nodded as foreboding increased.

The soldier leaned closer. “I’ve seen men killed in many ways, Brother. Never have I seen a corpse with eyes like that!”

Thomas had. One of the softest paths to death was with a pillow. It leaves no marks, except for the eyes which are streaked with red. He had seen this once before, when a clerk died in his bed a few nights after beating a mere youth for a minor error in transcription. The man had severely whipped others for equally small infractions. This time, his latest victim seemed likely to die or be crippled by his wounds. When Thomas found the body and asked questions, another had taken him aside and whispered that he would be well-advised to let matters be. Thomas had regretfully heeded the caution, realizing that no one would cooperate in bringing any killer to justice, but later overheard how the clerk had been smothered.

Misinterpreting the monk’s silence to mean he had revealed something better left unsaid, the soldier turned pale. He waved away his words, then clasped both hands together to keep them from betraying his fear. “Now I never really meant anything about actual murder, nor did I claim the good priest was wicked, only that some devilish creature may have stolen his soul. Maybe the priest was caught unprepared because he was sleeping? But I’ll leave any conclusions about imps to others, especially a man of God like yourself.”

The monk started to allay the man’s fears.

Now the soldier leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Whatever you do decide, Brother, I beg you to say nothing about where you heard this. I’m just a simple man who honestly believed he smelled the stench of hellfire near the priest’s corpse.”

Thomas looked at the soldier with sympathy. “I never asked your name.” He grinned. “I probably overheard the tale, shared amongst men standing in shadows. How could I point out the one who told it?”

The soldier poured them both more ale.

After a companionable silence, Thomas decided to ask his unspoken questions. “You said that only the Lady Margaret and the sons were waiting for the priest. I wondered if Baron Herbert had not yet returned to England, or was he in the chapel as well?”

“He was home, but no one sees the baron much, least not in daylight. He walks the walls when darkness falls, just like you were, although he prefers those that look out to sea and not these closer to English soil. I might have mistaken you for our lord, except he’s much thicker around here.” He pointed to his chest.

“He does not attend Mass?”

“Before the priest died, he did. Not with the family though. My lass, who washes the linen, told me that our lord never shares his lady’s bed, nor does he break bread with her. He’s never seen in her company. My lass thinks Lady Margaret must have committed a grave sin while her husband was fighting God’s war, although she can’t imagine what. The lady’s always been a kind mistress.” He nervously rubbed at his cheeks, waiting to see how the monk would react.

Thomas nodded encouragement to continue.

“Mind you, all that is only woman’s talk. They’re sweet things, but they do cluck away like all hens. Being a monk, you might not give credence to their rumors.”

“Does Baron Herbert never speak with his sons?”

“I don’t know. They are a sad lot compared with Sir Leonel. Not that they’re bad ones, but they lack their father’s fire. Now that nephew is a man, fought in Outremer, and has the scars to prove his mettle. I think the baron has always favored his brother’s son over his own.”

Thomas started to ask another question

The soldier leapt to his feet. “I’m due back on watch, Brother.”

Perhaps it was just as well, Thomas thought. Despite the ale and the shelter, the damp cold was too bitter to continue talking. He would have to leave the details of the sons’ deaths for another time and had probably gained enough of the soldier’s confidence to query him later. There was one last thing he could do to guarantee that.

He rubbed the cup dry on his robe and put it down on the table. “Since I was given the old priest’s chambers near the chapel, while my prioress is a guest here, I should search the place. If I find any hidden wine, I will bring it to share with you another night,” Thomas grinned.

“That’s charitable of you, Brother. Considering how much he drank, I doubt you’ll find any. If there had been a drop left, he would have fought the Devil before he let him steal his soul. Forgive me for saying this, but I could have wrung the priest out and gotten wine enough to drink for supper if the cellar had been empty of it.”

Thomas laughed and slapped the soldier’s back, before retreating down the stairs. As he hastened toward the steps leading to the bailey, he wondered if he should tell Prioress Eleanor what the soldier had told him.

“Perhaps not until I have learned more,” he whispered to the pummeling wind. “Although some foul deed may have been committed, I have no proof, except this one soldier’s word. He seems a good man, but I do not know him well enough to conclude that he actually saw what he claims.”

The evidence was thin, and, as a guest in this place, Thomas knew he had no right to cry murder quite yet.