Satan's Lullaby

Chapter Thirty-one

The room reeked of sweat and candle smoke.

Thomas finished his prayers and glanced over at the murmuring priest beside him.

Perhaps Davoir had many worthy qualities he ought to admire, the monk thought, but they were not evident to him. If God was willing to forgive the penitent who had once eagerly leapt into the arms of the Evil One, as well as those who had merely stumbled, why did Davoir believe he could do less, especially for the negligible sinners? Although Thomas understood the reluctance to pardon the truly wicked, he scorned this man for his lack of compassion for any who did not match his own self-declared brilliance. Tonight the monk had prayed that God would force the priest to see, with brutal clarity, just how blind and ignorant he was.

The prie-dieu creaked as Father Etienne shifted his weight on the pillow under his knees.

Having suffered brutality in prison and seen mortals murder their fellows, Thomas was disinclined to accept the honeyed platitudes which excused cruelty. Most men would advise him to blunt his doubts and accept the judgements of influential men for it would serve his interests to do so.

He smiled at the thought. Any expectations of advancement had been shattered the morning he was taken from Giles’ arms. For years he had mourned the loss of his beloved with the pain of a mortal illness. That he had forsaken all hope of high ecclesiastical status became meaningless in the face of such anguish. Now that he was healed of his grief, he remained content to be a man of no standing at Tyndal Priory and serve his prioress as she required.

Today he had been especially grateful to be in his position. He had seen the effort it took Prioress Eleanor to exercise the required diplomacy with this priest because he was a man of great influence. Thomas was pleased it would never become his duty to do this and that his disdain for self-absorbed ecclesiastics could remain between him and God.

Quietly backing further away, the monk rose to his feet.

Davoir was unaware that his fellow religious had moved and continued to mutter his prayers.

For his own devotions tonight, Thomas had knelt on the plain wooden prie-dieu placed in front of the simple altar where a cross was hung on the wall. All this was provided in the guest quarters for those who needed a place for private prayer while staying at Tyndal Priory. But the priest had ignored these and knelt on a finely embroidered pillow, at his own intricately carved and highly polished prie-dieu, in front of a bejeweled cross. Each item he had brought with him on the journey to England.

In the guttering candlelight, one blood-red gem embedded in that cross glittered unsteadily.

Thomas stared at it. At least he would not have to deal with this man’s arrogance much longer, but he did pray that God would have mercy on the man’s new flock which must. Yet miracles did occur, he reminded himself. Perhaps Davoir would repent someday, when he discovered that his soul had turned to dust, and finally become the man he now believed he was.

The monk shook his head. I have grown querulous, he thought. Considering his own bitter quarrels with God, over things he had done and felt which the Church condemned as more evil than anything Davoir might have committed, Thomas knew he had no right to throw stones at anyone.

Staring at the shadowy ceiling, Thomas silently confessed that he simply longed to be elsewhere this night, doing whatever brought peace to a soul or relief from mortal pains. Guarding a man whom he did not respect wore on him even if he knew he must do so. When this night was over, he would pray for forgiveness. Now, he could not.

Thomas eased into the shadows where the candlelight failed to penetrate. If he was going to think gloomy thoughts, he had best sit in the dark.

The priest continued to mumble.

Holding his nose to prevent a sneeze caused by the acrid candle smoke, the monk felt a twinge of guilt. Perhaps this man, to whom he had taken such a dislike, was confessing his deficiencies to God and suffering from the knowledge of his imperfections. After all, Thomas had not been asked to be Davoir’s confessor and the state of the man’s soul was not his responsibility, nor was the choice of penitential acts. Having conquered the sneeze, he forced himself to concentrate on what he was here to do.

Maybe Devoir had been right, he thought. Ralf should have taken the alleged pilgrim into custody rather than set a trap. Even with Conan and the crowner outside, there was still a chance that the man could slip through. Traps were risky things, which, of course, was the reason Prioress Eleanor had insisted that he stay by the priest’s side.

Someone was likely to come here tonight, a man with murderous intent. Davoir had listened to this plan only because the prioress reminded him of his stated belief that no sword could match the power of prayer. When she added her final argument that the orisons of two priests would surely be the strongest defense of all, the priest had consented, albeit with ill-concealed reluctance to share the company of Brother Thomas.

At least Thomas felt comfortable with the probability that he might have to deal with the man from across the British Ocean. Even assuming that the alleged pilgrim did not suffer an injured ankle, the man from Picardy was slight of build. Thomas looked like a man born to swing a sword even if he had never been trained for battle. And, he thought, I have the advantage in this planned surprise and am more likely to keep my wits about me.

A knock at the door disturbed his thoughts.

As agreed, Thomas stayed where he was.

Davoir remained on his knees for a moment longer before turning his head and shouting permission to enter. His voice betrayed his annoyance at the interruption, and he bowed his head again as he returned to his recitations.

Renaud eased his way through the entrance with the reluctance of a child called for a scolding. Closing the door softly behind him, he hesitated.

Not the man expected, Thomas thought, then slipped back into even deeper shadows and squatted with his back against the wall. Of course he did not expect a killer to knock at the door and politely beg permission to come in so he might wreak havoc. The monk folded his arms and regretted that he must witness Davoir exercise his habitual humiliation of this clerk without interfering. Was it only a favored one or two whom he greeted with any kindness?

“Father?” The clerk’s voice trembled.

Davoir looked up at his jeweled cross, shimmering in the dim light, and continued his prayers. When he came to a point where he chose to pause, he stopped but remained kneeling with his back to the clerk. “Why have you disturbed me? Have you no respect for my need to speak with God?”

“It was necessary,” Renaud said as he inched closer, his hands clutched in a gesture of supplication.

“Has the king called me home? Has Abbess Isabeau sent further instructions?”

“No, Father.”

The priest snorted. “Jean would never have troubled me for less. Leave me.” And he returned to his recitations.

Renaud screamed, his howl like that of a frenzied beast. Drawing a knife from inside his robe, he rushed at the priest.

Thomas leapt to his feet and lunged at the clerk.