A Killing Season

Chapter Twenty-Three

The two men watched Prioress Eleanor disappear into the stairwell. The door fell shut behind her with a thud.

Folding his arms, Hugh turned to the monk. “I have the right to know what you learned from Baron Herbert,” he snarled. “Any new information might help capture a killer. Your willful delay of this hunt is reprehensible.” He rudely gestured at the monk. “A man of your ilk may find the need for principled action difficult to grasp, but surely even you can understand that the rest of us must react swiftly.”

There was such contempt in the knight’s narrowed eyes that Thomas felt his temper flare like a blacksmith’s fire. Only rarely did he want to cast aside the vocation thrust upon him and strike back like any other man whose honor was ridiculed. This was one of those times.

He put his hands behind his back and clenched them. This is my prioress’ brother and Richard’s father, he said to himself. Whatever Hugh had against him, he ought to simply remind the man that the priesthood was owed courtesy even if he himself was not. The words stuck in his throat and instead he chose to say, “I may not speak of it.”

Instantly he knew he had betrayed his fury with his tone.

“Master Gamel has decided otherwise, it seems, and chooses to share his knowledge even with a woman.”

Thomas ground his teeth but kept silent.

“Or is the truth of it that you know nothing at all? Perhaps my lord smelled your rank impiety, shut the door in your face, and spoke alone with Master Gamel. Surely you are not claiming the sanctity of confession for the baron?”

Thomas’ ears burned from the acidic scorn in the knight’s voice. “If you will,” he muttered, knowing that any attempt to explain or dispute would be futile.

Those three uttered words were still three too many.

“If I will? It is God’s command if you dare claim that the baron confessed anything to you for His ears.” He shrugged. “Yet your soul is so befouled that I doubt you even risk uttering His name. He might strike you with lightning for your blasphemy if you did.” Hugh stepped forward to wag a finger in the monk’s face. “I see rage burning inside you, Brother. In Outremer, King Edward’s gaze often turned earth into fire when he was displeased, but he is God’s anointed and that conflagration purifies. You are the Devil’s liegeman. Your passions pollute creation.”

Thomas grew dizzy as fury mixed with fear. This man did know who he was.

“You mock those of honest vocation when you wear a monk’s robe, Thomas of London.”

“All men sin, but God forgives those who beg His mercy.”

Hugh laughed. “You must have failed to repent and win His pardon. The stench of your true master still emanates from you.”

“What offence have I committed against you?” Thomas shouted, his words slicing the air like the sword he did not have. “Since I am a man who serves God, I may not take up a sharp blade and fight for my honor’s sake. My only recourse is to beg that you have mercy on me and forgive.” But his evident flash of anger contradicted any claim of meekness in his heart.

“What mercy did you grant Giles when you raped him?”

Thomas staggered backward.

Hugh pushed the monk up against the wall. “His father was my friend and told me the story of his only son. Giles screamed, did he not, begging you not to use him like some woman. Nonetheless, you defiled his manhood, an abomination that still festers, leaving him tormented with moments of madness.” Hugh grabbed the monk by the robe, twisting it in his hand until the cloth grew tight around Thomas’ throat. “His father is now dead, a good and pious man whose life was cut short by the ruination of his son.”

The monk gasped for air, and what little he was able to inhale was sharp with the rank sweat of panic.

“I should castrate you. Would that not be proper justice?” The knight laughed, then hit Thomas with the flat of his hand.

Blood splattered as a cut opened in the monk’s cheek.

Now outraged and desperate for air, Thomas swung his own fist, an ineffective blow on the ribs, but his knee hit the knight’s thigh.

Surprised, Hugh loosened his hold.

The monk shoved him away and struck again.

Ducking, the knight rammed his head into Thomas’ chest, forcing breath from the monk’s lungs.

Wide-eyed and gasping for air, Thomas summoned will and strength enough to grab Hugh around the neck, immobilize him, and strike again at his groin. This time he succeeded.

Howling with pain, the knight fell to the floor.

The monk collapsed as well. Crouching on all fours, Thomas struggled to pull air back into his lungs.

Hugh cupped his genitals and moaned.

The smell of hate filled the hall like acrid smoke.

It was Hugh who first staggered to his feet.

Thomas sat back on his heels and looked up at his adversary, fully aware that he would lose any further fight. He was weak, his position vulnerable. Should the knight press his advantage, however, the monk swore he would not leave the man unscarred. After the cruel lies Hugh had flung at him, Thomas would not face defeat without making sure that the knight had permanent mementos of the monk he had attacked.

But Hugh stepped away. “Grovel to God, cokenay,” he jeered, “and thank Him that I did not cut off your balls. For the good service you have rendered my family, I shall leave you in peace unless you ever fail my sister or address one word to my son. Should you do either, remember this fair warning: I shall find you, tie you to a tree, and slowly peel your genitals as if they were apples until you beg Satan to take you home to Hell.”

Biting his tongue to keep silent, Thomas nodded. His temper cooled. Reason returned. No matter how Hugh treated him, the monk repeated to himself, the knight was still Prioress Eleanor’s brother. Owing her fealty, he must also honor her kin, even when the sibling was this man who hated him for a horrible crime Thomas had never committed.

Bowing his head, the monk hoped he could hide his agonized grief. From Hugh’s tale, profound anguish had festered in Giles, unbalancing his humors with even greater severity than Thomas endured. Were he to insist on telling the truth of what happened, his boyhood friend would suffer still greater humiliation and far more than his fragile spirit could ever bear.

Thomas had loved Giles too much and too long to cause him further distress. He had little choice but to remain silent and accept full blame. Tears, bitter with loss and outrage, stung his eyes.

Hugh strode down the corridor.