Satan's Lullaby

Chapter Twenty-five

Thomas hastened down the path to the hospital.

The tale of Brother Imbert troubled him. The name was uncommon in East Anglia, which suggested he was not a local man. Prior Andrew certainly knew nothing of him, but Father Etienne had not recognized the name as belonging to one of his clerks either. Was the hooded one, who had visited Sister Anne, Brother Imbert? If his existence wasn’t a complete lie, the mysterious monk owned a corporal body.

Although many claimed to have seen ghosts, Thomas never had and often doubted there were such creatures. Even if this Imbert was a damned soul, condemned to restless wandering and the tormenting of wayward mortals, he was more likely to inhabit dreams than steal a lethal dose of autumn crocus for a clerk who, by all accounts, was a gentle lad.

Sensible as this sounded, it was also the case that reason has always been a matter for debate amongst those with differing interpretations. After Thomas had spent much time at the hospital, engaged in lengthy questioning of lay brothers, lay sisters, and even a few of the patients, he begin to question how sensible his beliefs were about the character and existence of the wandering damned. Brother Imbert was very elusive indeed.

One patient said he might have seen a shadowy figure come from the direction of the apothecary hut and pass by his bed on the night in question. But he had had a fever and also swore that a fiend danced around his bed, forked tail twitching in response to an unheard melody.

Another man thought for a moment and then recalled that he had seen a hooded man rush by his cousin’s cot. He remembered because he called out to him to pray for the soul of his dying kin. When the figure did not stop, he screamed at him, for he knew no lay brother would ever deny prayer to a soul about to face God. The hooded one disappeared, but another lay brother had come to his aid and his cousin was able to die a good death. The man was now convinced the hooded creature was no man at all but rather Satan, fleeing the sight of the cross.

Just as Thomas was about to give up, a lay brother suggested that he might ask the pilgrim who had come here with a twisted ankle. Although the injury was not severe, the lay brother noted with a hint of sarcasm, the pilgrim had been given a place to sleep near the apothecary hut. “He is well enough to see and hear as clearly as you or I, Brother. He was in the right place to notice a hooded man holding a pot too large to put in a pouch.” He rubbed his chin as if wondering whether it was time for his shave. “I asked him about this matter once before, and he claimed to know nothing.” He grinned. “Looking up at you as you ask stern questions might brighten his memory.”

But the straw mattress where the pilgrim slept was unoccupied, and Thomas decided to talk with Sister Oliva lest some detail had come to mind after Gracia last talked with her. As he reached the passageway leading to the apothecary, he glanced into the chapel. Only an elderly woman was there, kneeling in front of the altar. Her back was bent so severely that her nose almost touched her breasts.

He hurried down the walkway to the apothecary hut.

As he grew near, Thomas froze, and then slipped to one side so he would not be too visible from the hut’s open door.

A man was standing in front of the shelves. A crutch was leaning against the wall. He was taking items down from the shelves, studying the labels, lifting the lids of some and peering at the contents.

Thomas watched just long enough to make sure this was not just idle curiosity, then walked in. “Are you searching for something?” His question was not asked in a kindly tone.

The man started, almost dropped a jar, and spun around. His face was pale and his eyes wide with terror.

The monk stepped closer and put his hand on the crutch to keep the man from using it as a weapon. “Did I startle you?”

“My lord…”

“I am a monk of Tyndal Priory.”

“Brother,” he croaked. The man’s expression suggested that he did not believe a man of Thomas’ height and breadth of shoulder was anything but a knight with a sword by his side. As one who stood no taller than most, the man obviously feared this monk who loomed over him.

“Neither our sub-infirmarian nor her assistant is here.” The monk slowly looked at the man from head to foot. “You are in no distress. Why are you riffling through the shelves instead of waiting for another to bring whatever you think you need?”

Trying to recover some dignity, the man puffed out his chest. “I am in pain, although you may not have noticed that. I do not like to whine about my ills.” He hesitated, then winced as if deciding it would be wise.

Noticing the man’s accent, Thomas smiled. “You are not English,” he said, knowing he was stating the obvious and carefully not asking more. With luck, the man might believe the monk was not overly concerned with details beyond the apparent.

The man exhaled with relief. “I am from Picardy,” he said. “On pilgrimage to your shrine at Canterbury for my sins.”

“Surely there are shrines closer to home, Pilgrim. Why Canterbury?”

“Blood,” the man stuttered. “My penance involves blood.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow.

“I am not fleeing the hangman.”

Had the man been telling the complete truth, he would not be squirming like a boy trying to hide a stolen pastry behind his back. On the other hand, Thomas doubted he was escaping execution or was even the elusive Imbert. The monk smelled fear issuing from the man but no malice. Watching him twitch, Thomas doubted this alleged pilgrim had enough composure to hide his identity and pretend to be a clerk sent by Davoir.

But he is from Picardy, the monk thought. Davoir was from Anjou. The priest came from a noble family, and this pilgrim was not of great worldly rank, although his body suggested he was not accustomed to hunger or to hard labor. There was no cause to see a link between priest and pilgrim. Surely this man had not traveled all the way from Picardy to kill a clerk.

Reluctantly, Thomas concluded that the pilgrim must be trying to pilfer medicines, hoping to sell nostrums on the road to Canterbury to those who did not object to some earthly help while waiting for the miracle of healing from the sainted Becket.

The monk gestured for the man to sit on a nearby bench.

Dutifully, the pilgrim obeyed.

“Explain more fully what you are doing here.”

“I am in pain. My ankle needs to be rewrapped. I know something of herbs, and all the lay brothers are busy. I came here to find the remedy myself.”

Thomas asked him to raise the foot so he could exam it, then he undid the binding. Not only were the herbs fresh, the ankle was not discolored with bruising. There was no sign of any swelling to suggest a recent injury. No wonder the lay brother had been skeptical of the tale told about a sprain.

He looked up at the man. “This foot?” He pressed his thumb against the ankle bone.

The man cried out.

Thomas knew he had not caused any pain but became more firmly convinced that this man was just a thief while the prey he sought was a murderer. “I will treat you,” he said but refused to apologize for the pain he had supposedly produced.

As he went over to the shelf that held a small basket of arnica, he asked, “Do you sleep on the straw mat near the chapel?”

“That I do,” the pilgrim replied. His tone was hesitant.

Thomas mentioned a night. “Did you happen to see a hooded man leave this hut and go through the hospital with something in his hand?” He turned around.

The man’s expression suggested genuine surprise-with a hint of relief. He took time to consider the question. “I was asked before, Brother, and swore I had not. But you just said that he was carrying something, and that makes me think I did see a man, although he may not be the one you seek.” He looked sheepish as if embarrassed by the poor excuse for the sudden recollection. “He was of medium height, as are most men, I fear. Nor did I see his face. He had a hood and kept his head down, and I thought he held something against his chest. He seemed to be in a great hurry. I remember him only because a man called out to him to stop and bring succor to his dying cousin, but this hooded creature did not even slow his pace, nor did he call for a lay brother.” He drew a deep breath and frowned. “I thought that odd, so grabbed my crutch and went to seek a man of God myself.”

Thomas waited, then asked, “You did not see where the hooded man went or hear his voice?”

“Neither, Brother. That is all I know.”

Thomas tried to decide if he believed the pilgrim or suspected he had been the man he was seeking. Either the guilty man or an innocent one could have mentioned these details.

Yet this pilgrim had been upset enough to seek a lay brother for the dying man after the hooded figure so callously rushed by. And, he suddenly remembered, this matched the story told by the cousin of the one whose soul was facing God. No matter what this pilgrim’s real crimes might be, he did not strike Thomas as an especially cunning man. He wasn’t even good at telling a plausible lie. Twisted ankle indeed!

After a brief pause, the monk concluded that this man from Picardy could not be Brother Imbert. He thanked him for his help and finished wrapping the ankle, then gave him his crutch.

As Thomas stood there hoping he had not made a mistake in judging the man innocent of murder, he blinked at what he just noticed. Was he wrong or had this pilgrim gone several steps out of the hut, hobbling on the wrong foot?