A Killing Season

Chapter Six

Thomas walked out of the corridor’s grey light and down a step into the small family chapel located on the floor above the Great Hall.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, shapes slowly formed. He sought the one owned by a frightened son but saw no one at all. The only sound came from the wind whistling through the tiny barred window high in the stone wall.

How odd, he thought, looking around this place dedicated to God’s worship. The baron’s family had been long graced by God with wealth, yet the altar was made of grey stones, little different from those forming the walls of the castle and not even more finely chiseled. The thick beams in the low ceiling lacked any carving or painted images. The floor was laid with wood, roughly hewn. Only the cross on the altar suggested a donor who wished to share his worldly fortune with God. The bright gold glittered in the thin shaft of dim light.

This austerity seemed at odds with a man whose actions suggested a rigorous faith. Baron Herbert had not only felt compelled to take the cross but unlike many of his rank, also promptly honored the vow and spent several years in Outremer. Yet this chapel resembled a monk’s cell in its plainness. Men of fewer means or even less faith filled God’s house with greater riches than he had done.

Thomas frowned, then reminded himself that he had not come to find fault with decoration but to seek the baron’s son. Peering around again at the chapel, he saw no alcoves or hidden corners. There seemed no place for a man to hide. Perhaps the heir had recovered his courage and rejoined the family in their quarters.

Someone sneezed.

Thomas saw movement in a small gap between altar and wall. “I accompanied Sir Hugh of Wynethorpe, a friend of Baron Herbert,” he said, “and reside at Tyndal Priory where I serve Prioress Eleanor and God.”

There was no response.

Thomas waited.

“Prove you are no imp.”

The monk brushed back his hood and raised both hands, his open palms facing the cross. “If you can see me, you will observe that I own neither horns nor hooves.” That he could honestly claim. In his opinion, there were men with tonsures and soft hands who served Satan better than any imp. Thomas did try not to be one of them.

“Approach the altar and honor the cross on which God’s son was crucified.”

He accomplished that in three steps, then knelt, crossed himself, and clearly recited a prayer.

“What is your name?”

“Brother Thomas of the Order of Fontevraud. I have learned of your brother’s death and bring God’s consolation for the grief you suffer.”

“Remain where you are.” A man pulled himself up by the side of the altar. Clutching the stone as if unable to stand otherwise, he peered without blinking at the monk.

“And you are called Umfrey?”

The man grunted in response, then squeezed his thin body through the narrow space until he got to the front of the altar. Sliding into a crouch on the floor, his right hand reached back to touch the stone as if seeking reassurance that he still had God’s protection.

“How did you know where I was?” With only a couple of feet separating the two men, the son’s musty sweat was rank and potent.

“I learned that you had come to pray for your brother’s soul.” A small lie but a kind one, Thomas thought. The man mending the harness in the bailey had called Umfrey a coward, hiding in a chapel when he should have taken a sword to do battle with Satan’s army. Whether the son had come here out of fear or devotion, the monk knew he must be pleading to God for something while he was in His sanctuary.

Baron Herbert’s current heir whimpered.

“The prayers of two men are stronger than those of one.”

“If this family is to escape the Devil’s grip, we shall need all of England to kneel on our behalf!”

“You believe the Prince of Darkness has chosen your family for special torment?”

“Satan has most certainly taken residence here since my father’s return.”

Did Umfrey believe the baron had brought the Evil One with him? That would be an unusual accusation against a man who had taken the cross, Thomas thought. “Why conclude such a thing?” The answer, he hoped, would be illuminating.

“The last honest death in this place, Brother, was that of our eldest brother who died of a winter fever when my father was in Acre.” Umfrey began rubbing the altar with the back of his outstretched hand. “After our father’s return, my third oldest brother drowned. Some say that Roger’s death was an accident. Others whisper self-murder, but I don’t agree with that. Now the second son, Gervase, has fallen from a window, shouting that he could fly.” He snorted. “Fly like some bird? Would it not be unnatural for a man to emulate a soulless creature? God would never allow such a thing. The Devil must have promised it. Surely you would agree, even though you know nothing of us?”

“I might well.” Thomas had not learned enough to conclude anything, but he did not want to cut short further confidence when the son seemed so eager to talk.

“My brother, who died yesterday, had hoped to serve the Church before he became heir. Do you think it likely that such a man would claim he could fly like one of Satan’s imps? There is too much evidence that God has forsaken us! Although my father served Him in Outremer, he now avoids honorable light and walks abroad only in Satan’s hours. That must be a sign too.”

The monk nodded encouragement.

“As for my brother who drowned, he was afraid of the sea. He neither swam nor went out in any boat. Had he not been too young, he might have begged to go with our father on crusade, but only if he could have taken a land route. His worst dreams involved spending an eternity bobbing in some hellish lake. Why would he go near enough water to drown in it? Self-murder is a false conclusion. The only logical explanation for his act is that evil rules here.”

Although Thomas was inclined to agree that something troubling was happening, he knew that men often did strange things out of fear, grief, or guilt. We are rarely reasonable when our fondest hopes are dashed, he thought.

In this instance, the heir had longed to serve God. The third may have desired, with equal fervor, to avoid that vocation. As one who had once lost all he loved, Thomas understood how despair might so ravage a man that the torments of Hell seemed mild compared to the agony suffered on earth. He would venture the question.

“Might both your brothers have suffered a profound grief, a sorrow so dark that it drove them to self-murder?”

“They had no reason to commit such a vile sin! Roger may not have had a calling to serve God, while Gervase did, but some satisfactory resolution with our father’s blessing could have been reached. It is true that he never granted them any audience after his return, but I see no rational cause for them to despair. Leonel was always ready to help us. Nay, the only conclusion is that the Prince of Darkness has put this castle under a spell, and God allows it because we have gravely displeased Him.”

Thomas’ attention was caught by one remark. “You say that your father did not speak to those two sons after his return from Acre. How could he have ignored his heir?”

“They never spoke together. None of us did.”

“Was there some quarrel?”

Umfrey folded his arms, although his back still pressed against the altar stones. “On the day our father returned to English soil, he sent word ahead that separate quarters must be prepared for him. When he rode into the bailey, he bowed to our mother but refused her welcoming embrace. As for his sons, he dismissed us without so much as a blessing and has since denied all pleas for any audience. There was no occasion for any disagreement to take place, Brother. All four of us, Gervase excepted, were mere boys when he first left us.”

Thomas was mystified. To say that no quarrel had occurred was ridiculous. Something must have happened to make the baron shun all contact with his family, whether or not the event occurred before he arrived home. Rather than argue, the monk opted to remark on the obvious difficulty in this situation: “Your father must communicate with someone, else his orders and wishes could not be honored. Perchance his steward?”

“Only to Leonel. Our cousin gives orders to the servants and takes messages to our father when need requires. When a reply is requested, he brings it. As always, he shows kindness by the swift delivery of our particular wishes.”

“And this cousin has been long with you?”

“Since the death of his own father. He is older than all of us, excepting the eldest, and took the cross with our father. He fought in Outremer with distinction.”

Thomas frowned. What had caused Baron Herbert to behave in such a strange way? Was it fear that someone in his family might wish him harm? Or was all this due to either a misunderstanding or true quarrel? There was yet a third concern. Although he hesitated to suggest such a thing about a man who had vowed to recover Jerusalem, he knew he must ask.

“Do you think your father is possessed?”

“He is my sire, one who slaughtered many in God’s name. How can I believe that the Devil has found any place in such a Christian heart?”

Respectful though this reply was, Thomas heard doubt in Umfrey’s tone. Possessed or not, the baron was a troubled man. His behavior toward his family was baffling. Added to that was the issue of why he had begged Sir Hugh to bring healers of both body and soul to this castle, a question yet unanswered.

Hearing a scratching sound, Thomas nervously glanced over his shoulder.

A small, round shadow raced across the floor and vanished into a gap in the wall.

He sighed, grateful that it was not the Devil he had heard, scraping his claws on the stones. Nonetheless, he wondered if the Evil One was about as this baron’s son believed.

Like Umfrey, Herbert might fear that Satan had spread his foul embrace around this castle. Or did he think some unnamed plague was raging here? When he sent for Sir Hugh, one son had died in an unusual manner, if Umfrey were to be believed. The baron could have some reason to think that death meant an exorcism should be done. With this second death, the baron might either be convinced of the need for godly intervention, or else he suspected that an unknown illness was driving his sons mad.

Umfrey was now staring at the ceiling, his lips moving in silent conversation with some invisible entity.

Thomas hoped it was God.

Why had the baron refused any contact with his wife and sons? Why was he reportedly seen only at night? Despite taking the cross, Herbert could have subsequently committed an unspeakable sin. As punishment, God might have inflicted his sons with wild frenzy so they lost all reason, the one drowning despite his fear of the sea and the other believing he could fly. Thomas had his doubts about this but concluded that the need for healers of souls was clearer than why the baron had also called for medical help.

Sin was always the most common worry. Rampant plagues, particularly confined to one family, were infrequent. The secular healers might have been requested for the baron himself, but if Herbert had suffered a grievous wound in Outremer, he would have felt no shame in admitting to it. It would have been suffered in God’s service.

Shaking his head, the monk decided that the baron must fear that some illness, requiring the most knowledgeable physicians, had infected his family. In any event, Thomas could see no rational answer to what was happening. He knew too little.

“Brother?”

“Aye.”

“Although I do not know how he did it, Satan has killed two of my brothers.” Umfrey’s voice trembled. “And I believe the Evil One lurks just outside that door, waiting to murder me next.” He reached out a hand in supplication. “Save me! I do not want to die. I do not want to spend eternity in Hell.” Leaning his head back against the altar, he gazed at the ceiling and began to wail. The despair in his choking sobs was unbearable.

“I promise that I shall seek out this evil,” Thomas replied. “There are three of us here who serve God, one of whom is Prioress Eleanor. Her service to His justice has gained enough respect that even the Devil must surely quail when he sees her.” Then the monk stepped closer to the cowering man, put his hands on his shoulders and urged him to pray.

By the time Thomas left, Umfrey had slunk back into the gloom surrounding the altar. When the monk shut the door to the chapel, he looked down the narrow, dark corridor and shivered.

“I hope I have not made a promise that is impossible to keep,” he whispered and hurried back through the changing shadows to his chambers.