A Killing Season

Chapter Seventeen

The chapel’s darkness weighed down on Umfrey like cold ash.

He squirmed in distress.

As his brother and the monk from Tyndal had promised, a servant brought him both food and drink. He had eagerly devoured and imbibed but now regretted such lack of restraint. The chamber pot was full, and he needed to piss.

Cursing the sinful weakness of his aching bladder, he remembered Raoul’s mockery and touched the large gifted cross he now wore. He would have to leave the altar since he dared not defile this sacred place again. “Protect me,” he whispered, fondling the cross.

Then he pulled himself to his feet, scurried away from his sanctuary, and out the chapel door. As he splashed urine against the far outside wall of the corridor, his relief was immense, but terror returned with greater force. Not even pausing to secure his braies, he clutched at them and shuffled back through the door toward the altar.

A tall shadow stood between him and comforting asylum.

Umfrey whimpered.

The shadow stepped aside and gestured for him to come forward.

“Who are you?” Umfrey fumbled with the ties on his braies and willed his bowels not to betray his fear.

“You asked to see your father, lad.” The hoarse whisper cut the silence like a dull saw on wood.

His teeth began to chatter, all words sliced to bits before he could utter them.

“What reason do you have to fear? Come closer.”

Umfrey took two steps and stopped.

“Why did you summon your father if you have nothing to say?”

“I don’t want to die!” Tears began to flow down his cheeks.

The shadow said nothing.

“There is evil in this place.” Umfrey’s tone was beseeching as he gestured to the creature. Was it man or spirit, he wondered. “What have any of us ever done to deserve assassination? We have always been loyal sons. In your absence, we protected and served our mother as you commanded us to do. We did nothing to dishonor you and greeted your return with joy. What have we done to displease either you or God?”

“Nothing.”

Rubbing at his nose, Umfrey peered into the darkness. His legs shook so that he feared he might collapse. “Then why?”

The shadow spread his arms. “Be comforted in my embrace!”

The son hesitated, then uttered the sob of a small boy seeking a parent’s soothing, and rushed forward.

But the hug he received had a sharp sting. His eyes widened in horror as the knife pierced his chest and grated against his ribs. Without a sound, Umfrey slid to the floor, his body bending as if praying to the altar that now failed to grant him refuge.

“Indeed, none of you committed any sin at all,” the shadow muttered, “except for that of living.” Then he quickly placed Umfrey’s limp hand around the knife and left the chapel as silently as he had arrived.