Covenant With Hell

Chapter Twenty-two

Master Larcher gazed down on the street below his shop and belched. His stomach was sour.

He had been in a fine mood until he discovered one of his apprentices asleep. The boy had failed to complete his allotted number of badges, and this laxity caused production to fall behind the obligatory schedule. For each day there was a minimum number to finish. Today’s requirement had not been met. Since the prioress would use any delivery delay as reason to pay less for the next order, no matter what he argued or threatened, he had personally whipped the offending youth to encourage refreshed enthusiasm for responsibility.

“All these youths care about is drink and whores,” he muttered.

He turned from the window and poured himself another cup of wine. The vintage was silky and soothed his rebellious digestion. Drinking it also improved his mood. When Mistress Emelyne arrived for supper later that day, she would surely find the wine perfect.

Absently, he ran a hand through his hair and down his face. In her honor, he had had his hair washed and the stubble on his cheeks shaved. Even without looking into his wife’s highly polished silver disk, he was confident the woman would be pleased.

The cook had been ordered to find a good roast as well, although a small one was preferred. This Lenten season might require abstinence on most days, but he told God he would trade a feast day for this one and still honor the forty days of sorrow. As added penance, his priest would probably require him to fast an extra day. He would do so willingly, but the day might have to occur after this order for the priory was complete and Lent had passed.

He licked his lips. The meat would be succulent, as spring lamb was, and would be surrounded by tender root vegetables with spices from Outremer. His cook had told him that Grains of Paradise had been purchased from the spice merchant who swore their peppery origin was from the Garden of Eden itself.

Such pleasant thoughts and the cup of wine warmed him all the way down to his manhood. He chuckled. That pleasure must be saved for last. Even though he was still virile, he believed it wise to restrain himself and, during Lent, went so far as to tie his organ down at night. Indeed, he had recently discovered that he was better able to perform with his favored leman if he swyved her less frequently. His wife did not seem to mind that he practiced abstinence with her.

He set the cup down and shifted his thoughts to another matter.

Sister Roysia’s death was lamentable.

The day Prioress Ursell so outrageously cheated him on the new order, he had been quite ill with fear. The slayer was nigh, but he had no name, and his master would soon demand it. Then the nun had given him a sign that she had a message. He uttered the phrases agreed upon at their last meeting, and her reply told him to meet her that night.

Such urgency was unusual, and the meeting was ill-fated from the start. His leman had kept him too long in bed. For once, he had been thankful when his manhood failed to stiffen again at her bidding. He had rushed away but was late for the meeting with the nun. Now he was grateful.

Had he met her when expected, he might have been caught in the tower, after she slipped to her death, and been accused of heinous crimes. Instead, he was still in the road when he heard the scream, saw a man racing toward the bell tower, and wisely chose to flee back to his house.

Unfortunately, he believed she had discovered the name of the one coming to Walsingham to murder King Edward. Her urgency about meeting suggested that, and he had no way of learning it by himself. Although he was never sure how the nun got her information, she was reliable, which was why he suffered Father Vincent’s bribery and the trials of meeting in that ridiculous place.

Looking down at his hands, he noted they still had burn marks from the rope used to climb the tower. At least he need no longer bribe the priest to remain silent. The man could say what he liked about lusty nuns coupling with men. Larcher’s true purpose for the meetings was safe from discovery. Now that Sister Roysia was dead, no one cared about old sins when there were new ones to talk about.

But who was this assassin? It could be any man, even the wine merchant, although Master Durant had approached him in the proper manner and uttered the expected phrases to prove his authenticity. Yet there was something about the man the craftsman did not trust. Larcher felt uneasy, but there was no time to get any message through to his master and receive a reply. Durant was here and demanded answers soon.

Larcher’s master did not like to be contacted, and his own messages to the craftsman were terse. His last one, slipped into a pouch and delivered by a filthy youth, had been: “A man will meet you.” A few phrases were given to identify the agent, and that was all. But the enemies of the king had spies as well. The phrases might have been learned by one of them.

He shivered, and his stomach churned again. He must end his involvement in this nefarious trade. Despite the greedy prioress, he still gained enough from the pilgrimage badges that his apprentices made from a cheap tin and lead alloy. But the extra work paid him what he needed to keep his mistress in comfort and eager to welcome him to her bed.

It also paid for a man to watch her to make sure she remained faithful. A few lemans were stupid enough to seek the occasional young stallion to supplement their pleasure, but his seemed wiser than that. Give a woman enough baubles, he had decided long ago, and she would stay with the source. Although he suspected she filched from him, claiming a clasp or ring had been stolen and begging a replacement, he was tolerant. Women always seemed uneasy about their futures, but she had little cause. She was still young. He planned to keep her for a while.

Larcher sighed. So was the wine merchant his contact? He had no choice but to think so, yet he did not like it. Durant was like a ghost, insubstantial in a way no mortal ought to be.

But if he was the man to whom he was to pass on information, how could he bring him the name of the killer he was supposed to provide? The nun was dead. And if he did not succeed in his mission, he knew he might well suffer for his failure and just how painfully. He had heard of men beaten beyond all healing, bar a miracle.

Cursing, he walked back to the jug of wine and poured another cup. Somehow he must find a way to satisfy his obligation. Durant had shown profound displeasure with him, but what could he do? The number of pilgrims, amongst whom a traitorous murderer could hide, was small at the moment. When Easter week arrived, and most labor slowed to honor the death and resurrection, penitents came in swarms. If discovering a killer amongst the other sinners was beyond him now, how could he hope to do so beginning Easter week?

He cursed Sister Roysia for being so careless as to die like she did and leave him such a dilemma. She should have been more careful on the slippery floor of that damned bell tower.

His head swam. His eyes teared. Staring heavenward, he begged God not to let him suffer for his unavoidable failure at this ill-conceived task. Even the promise of Mistress Emelyne’s plump breasts did not brighten his spirits.

A knock on the chamber door disrupted his grave musings.

He roared permission to enter.

A man servant nervously looked around the open door. “Master, you have a visitor who begs to see you.”

Larcher growled his displeasure and looked at the light outside his window. It was too early for his tryst with Mistress Emelyne. On the other hand, perhaps the guest was a customer wanting to order an expensive piece of pewter.

“Someone I might want to see?”

“A business offer, I was told.” The man looked relieved that his master had not thrown something at him.

“Bring the man up.”

Master Larcher swallowed the rest of his wine, and then hid the jug. If the client needed refreshment, he would offer him a cheaper but still acceptable vintage.