Valley of Dry Bones

Chapter Thirty-one

“Have you seen my brother?”

Awakening with a start, Thomas cried out, his dreams fleeing with all hope of remembrance.

“Forgive me!” Ralf stared down at the wide-eyed hermit whom he had assumed was only lost in thought.

“There is no reason to beg pardon, Crowner. Sinner that I am, I shut my eyes for a moment and fell asleep. I had meant to pray.” He put his arms around his knees and shook his head free of the last remnants of sleep. “If you seek Sir Fulke, he has gone back to the priory.”

“He was with you then?”

“Something has happened. Will you tell me the news?”

“Lady Avelina’s servant, Kenard, was found dead outside the side chapel. Your sub-infirmarian suspects poison.”

“And you think your brother had cause to murder.”

Ralf squatted beside him. “I pray he has not.”

“After you left him at the inn, Sir Fulke drank far too much and staggered to this hut, arriving not long after you yourself departed. Considering the profit from the number of pitchers he must have consumed, Signy could surely confirm his presence there.” Thomas stood and looked inside the hut. “As for Simon, he has never left here. Unlike me, he is praying.”

Saying nothing, the crowner jerked his head in the direction of the woods.

The monk bent to pick up the jug near the door and sniffed at the contents. “I fear the heat has turned this ale. If you are thirsty, we can go down to the stream.”

In silence, the two friends walked down the steep path. Halfway to the pond, Ralf stopped. “I did not want Simon to hear what he should not.”

“So I assumed,” Thomas said with a brief smile. “Ask what you will, and tell me all you can.” Leading the crowner off the path to a bit of shade, the monk eased himself into a sitting position on the ground.

“There is little enough known so far. Prioress Eleanor agreed to let Father Eliduc see the novice choir’s presentation of the Daniel story, which she hoped might entertain the queen. Kenard was given permission by Brother John to watch it from the chapel. The servant slipped out the door toward the end of the performance and died. One of the novices found the body.”

“Why does Sister Anne suspect poison?”

“He carried a wineskin, which he apparently drained quickly as if attacked by great thirst. She found suspicious leaf bits in his vomit and said she would examine them more carefully. There were no outward signs of injury.” He shrugged. “Although God may have struck him down, I trust Annie’s observations.”

Nodding, Thomas said nothing about the crowner’s failure to use the nun’s formal title. Indeed, he was always touched by Ralf’s deep affection for a woman he had known long before she had even married the man whom she later followed to Tyndal Priory.

“Why was Fulke here?”

The monk grinned. “You frightened him!” Then he grew more serious. “For all his faults, your brother longs to own a virtuous soul. When he pounded on the walls of my hut, I opened the door to a man so drunk he could barely stand, but I did not doubt that his supplication for wisdom was sincere.”

“And so he kept you from your rest. I’ll make sure he never bothers you again,” Ralf growled.

“You must never speak to him of this. Show mercy, Ralf. He is worth that.”

The crowner’s shoulders sagged. “We have no love for each other, or little enough, and yet I neither hate him nor do I want him to be a suspect in murder.”

“If there is any possibility that poison was slipped into Kenard’s wineskin last night or up to the time he died, your brother is innocent. You stayed with him at the inn, and surely Signy or others will confirm how long he remained there. While he was here, we talked, wept, and prayed. When Nute came with food and drink from the inn, the sheriff sent him to Prioress Eleanor, explaining he could not meet with her this day.”

“When I did not see him in the church, I assumed he had suffered too much from drink,” Ralf muttered. “And you also swear that Simon was with you the entire time?”

Thomas stiffened. “He is innocent as well.”

“I confess I had hoped he was guilty of one or the other murder.”

“It seems he is not.”

“You sound confident. What have you learned?”

Rising, Thomas stretched. His eyes were red from lack of sleep. “You and Signy succeeded in convincing Nute that I am no imp, eager to devour little boys.”

The crowner looked puzzled over the significance of this.

“The child approached with caution this morning, perhaps reassured by the sight of Sir Fulke. Once here, he relaxed when I did not fly at him, claws extended.” The monk grinned. “When your brother sent him to Prioress Eleanor, Nute whispered that Signy had told him he must confess something to me. I walked with him a short distance along the road.”

Ralf struck the ground with his fist. “He has remembered something more about the murder he witnessed!”

The monk raised an eyebrow. “You will know best if this detail is meaningful. Nute said that the man, who met with Baron Otes the night he was murdered, owned a shadow of short stature with wide shoulders. His voice was hoarse.”

For a moment, the crowner considered this. “When I first talked to him about what he had seen, he said only that he saw two men, one fat and the other lean. The first was obviously the baron.” He frowned. “The description of the killer does not fit my brother. Although his shoulders are broad enough, he is of my height and has a voice like a rutting bull.”

“Nor Simon either. He is thin, tall, and spoke with clarity the morning he arrived here.”

“Father Eliduc?”

“He is short. The descriptions of the shoulders and voice do not match. Those arms never lifted a sword, and his voice has the endurance of any man who preaches.”

“A short man might stretch in moonlight or shoulders grow with adjacent shadows. Large men rarely shrink.”

“Agreed, but I do not think the priest is the one you seek. Although the baron was fat, he would have been more than a match for a man as small as Father Eliduc. I think we must look for a stronger killer.”

“Prior Andrew?”

“Why name that good soul?”

“Your prioress said one priory inhabitant had cause to hate the baron. As I told you, she refused to name him. Since then, I have heard rumors that your prior has had himself shut up in a cell to serve penance for sin.”

“If he has done so and the same person killed the baron and Kenard, Prior Andrew is innocent.”

“As I most certainly hope. I must confirm that the prior remains locked away with no opportunity to leave the cell.” Ralf picked up a stick and ran it through the earth like a small plow. “Why did no one send for me when Nute remembered this detail?”

Thomas smiled. “He admires you, Crowner, and longs for you to think well of him. When he told Signy that he was afraid you would call him a worthless creature for not recalling all he saw at first, she advised him to tell me and I would convey the message.”

“Signy cannot believe I would be so cruel with the boy.” Ralf looked hurt. “She knows I understood he might summon up further details later.”

“She does. By having Nute talk to me, she also hoped he would finally lose his fear of the terrifying Hermit of Tyndal. That was her motive in handling this as she did. You must admit she achieved what she wanted. Did you not get the information quickly enough?”

The crowner nodded, then forced the stick deeper into the earth. It snapped, and he frowned with continued unhappiness.

Two birds argued in the trees overhead. Below them, a fish leapt out of the stream for an insect, then splashed back into the water.

Thomas shifted his weight. “Are you sure one man murdered both the baron and the servant?”

Ralf blinked, then swatted at a persistent fly. “Why do you ask?”

“The baron had his throat slit. The servant was poisoned. The first at night. The next in broad daylight. One victim is a man of rank, the other a servant. Two different methods. Two different times. Two different…” He fell silent and squinted at the treetops as if looking for guidance.

“You seek consistency where there need not be any.”

“Both required planning.” Thomas shook his head. “These crimes were not committed because a man was in the wrong place at an unfortunate time like some wealthy merchant meeting with a band of outlaws as he traveled through a forest. There is reason hiding behind each act. The logical link between them eludes me.”

“This killer is surely a courtier, monk, and men like that love intrigue and clever plotting.”

“Courtiers are still men, and men follow patterns.” He pulled at his beard as if the hair annoyed him. “We know Baron Otes had many enemies. How had Kenard offended?”

The crowner grunted, then fell silent.

***

Thomas watched Ralf walk away and down the road toward the priory. “Weary,” he whispered. Every muscle in his body felt unbearably leaden with fatigue. Leaning against the wall of the hut, he went limp and let the weight of his body pull him to the ground.

“Perhaps it will rain later,” he said as he stared at the promising cloud wisps that were stretching white fingers across the sky. At least summer rains cooled a man’s body for a short while, even if they left the air heavy with damp afterward.

Turning his head, he looked into the hut and saw that Simon remained stretched out on the floor in front of the altar. As a monk, he should be overjoyed he had been able to convert the young man from bedding women and playing in tournaments to serving God. Instead, he feared he had created a monster, more likely to be a better servant of the Prince of Darkness than he had been as some thoughtless youth.

He had meant well by telling Simon how he had striven, in the service of his Order and prioress, to discover God’s more perfect justice and how worldly sins should be treated under it. In doing so, he had hoped to teach the youth compassion, charity, and a way to find peace.

Instead, he had seen the lad’s eyes begin to glow with sharp fire, and, when the youth threw himself on the floor in front of the altar and began to twist, buck, and moan, Thomas knew he was not witnessing holy ecstasy. The act might look godly. It stank of evil.

Had Sir Fulke not arrived when he did, the monk feared he would have fled the hut and run until he collapsed from exhaustion. If some wild and ravenous creature had come upon him then, he might have prayed for a quick descent to Hell and blessed the beast for killing him.

Mercifully, the sheriff’s grief had calmed him. With growing compassion, he learned how deeply this man loved a wife whom he called good, but whose health now prevented her from welcoming him to her bed. Although Thomas knew that Fulke’s tears must taste more of ale than salt, he had believed his sorrow and took pains to soothe him. The monk had not found a way to heal himself, but his heart understood how deeply both body and soul ached when lust could not find comfort in permitted love. Even if his own wounds might still bleed, he had learned the right words to console other men.

So he had sent Sir Fulke on his way back to the priory with knees as sore as his head from long prayer and much guidance. Perhaps the sheriff would return home a kinder husband and a better man.

Then, as the sound of Simon chanting incomprehensible prayers grew louder, Thomas begged God to keep the monster he had created out of good intentions from wreaking havoc on the world.