Wine of Violence

Chapter Sixteen

“You’ve got yourself quite the wound, brother.” Crowner Ralf stared fixedly at the back of Thomas’ head, then reached out his hand as if to touch it.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Ralf! Brother Thomas is no corpse that you can prod and jab with impunity. I’ll describe anything you need to know.”

It was the morning after the attack against him and Thomas sat on the edge of his bed in the hospital while Sister Anne removed the dressing and examined the injury. He winced slightly and she patted his shoulder once in sympathy before reaching over to a nearby basket for a fresh poultice of yarrow and bandaging. “It’s healing well, brother,” she said.

The crowner looked at her, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Very well, Annie, then describe to me in detail the man who did this to the good brother, for I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“A strong one,” the nun said without hesitation, “and left-handed.”

“Ah, our sinister friend again? And how, may I ask, did you come to that conclusion?”

“The wound slants thus.” Sister Anne drew a line in the air about an inch from Thomas’s skull from a high on his left side to a low on the right of the head. “He swung from the side. If he had hit him here…” she pointed to the top of Thomas’ head, “he’d have killed our brother.”

“Are you saying you don’t think he meant to kill him?”

“I don’t know, Ralf. You’ll have to ask the man who did it.”

Ralf snorted. “If I can find him, and so far he has left few traces. We have had no recent problems with highwaymen or any other masterless men, but no one has seen or heard anything unusual around the village. I would guess that the culprit might be the same who killed Brother Rupert only because Tyndal has never suffered such a spate of crime in my long memory. Nonetheless, I have been unable to unearth a reason for either the murder or the attack you suffered, brother. Perhaps you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. What do you remember?”

“Nothing much.” Thomas raised his head gradually to avoid the pain of any sudden movement and turned just as slowly to face Ralf. Behind the crowner stood the prioress. She had said little to anyone this morning, but Thomas noticed that her face was unusually pale. Her right hand was clenched in a fist and she held it tight against her waist.

“Perhaps you can start with the reason you left the priory in the first place, brother,” Ralf suggested.

As Thomas started to speak, Eleanor raised her hand in a gesture of precaution. “Please do leave out the call of nature. That story wasn’t even clever.”

“My lady…” Thomas began and then stopped as he watched the prioress’s face flush pink. He wondered if she was feverish.

“Lest you were in doubt on this matter, brother, I am neither ignorant nor stupid. The truth, therefore, would be quite refreshing. It might even make it easier to discover who did this to you, and, perhaps, to find Brother Rupert’s killer.”

Thomas shut his eyes. The pain had diminished from yesterday, but his head still ached and the prioress’s tone was harsh. He was not in the mood to be treated thus even if he had lied to her and she was the prioress to whom he owed obedience. The cowardly attack on him was a matter of honor, an attack on his manhood, and no woman should hold authority over him in such an affair. He would deal with the man who had hit him in his own way. Nor did he want the crowner here either. It was none of his business. He’d find the perpetrator himself, although he was almost certain it was that grim-faced, green-eyed Brother John. “’S blood,” he muttered.

“Presumably you can find your confessor better than you could find the privy. Profanity is unacceptable in a man dedicated to God. You must have known that long before you took your vows.”

Thomas covered his face with his hands.

Sister Anne turned to Eleanor. “He hurts, my lady.”

The prioress drew in a deep breath, let it out very slowly, and started again with a gentler tone.

“I know you are in pain, brother, but we need the truth if we’re to prevent more violence. First, we had Brother Rupert’s death, and now we’ve had the attack on you. We don’t need a third such incident because you are suffering from the sin of pride.”

Thomas nodded. Ralf and the prioress were right. It hadn’t been that clear to him that the two incidents were related, but he did not want someone else killed or injured. Still, what truth could he tell? What made sense and what should he or even could he explain?

He remembered following Brother John and the young man as they ran out of the chapel. Following them had been an instinctive act; thus the reason he had done so was quite inexplicable. Nor was he sure he wanted to try. He might be chary of the somber monk with glittering green eyes, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to tell what he had witnessed either. The scene between monk and youth had been intimate, poignant. Thomas’ interest had been piqued for sure, but he also felt protective of them.

Perhaps there had been no sin between the two, although the observed encounter rather lent itself to the darker interpretation. The youth he had seen with the monk was no high-voiced child. He had had the shoulders and height, if not the girth, of a man. No, he thought, he would never be guilty of doing to another what had been done to him. Thomas shook his head to shatter the image of Giles in his arms and turned his thoughts back to what had happened outside Tyndal Priory.

It had been difficult to see far in the outer court. Clouds or fog had drifted across the sky. The moon gave only meager light and the stars were hidden from view. The area was still strange to him, and he had stumbled on the unfamiliar, rough ground as he tried to keep the shadows of monk and youth in sight.

He remembered crossing a small wooden bridge below which he assumed must be the priory mill from the sound of groaning wood and splashing water. Then he had seen the silhouette of the mill itself. It loomed blacker than the night along what had suddenly become a smoother, well-worn path.

Distracted by his attempt to keep his bearings, he had tripped. As he picked himself up, he saw the two had gained on him, their outlines growing fainter in the distance. Then he spotted them as they opened a creaking gate in the wall. It must have been used by the townspeople who had need of the mill, he guessed. Perhaps a monk or lay brother guarded it during the day, but there was none such to be seen in the gloom of that night.

When he passed through the gate, however, the shadows he was chasing had vanished. There was no sign of them to either left or right. Ahead of him was the forest.

He stopped, held his breath to keep the hoarse sound from masking what he hoped to hear. His ears were straining, listening for any sound of human life.

Nothing.

Then he heard something, deer or man, running through brush. He raced headlong into the trees, but they had slowed and confused him. Soon he knew he was lost. Sweating and tired, Thomas had lurched through snagging vines and rotting tree limbs until he came into a clearing of sorts. He stopped and tried to get his bearings, staring into the dark, moving shadows for two more. The shapes he saw were eerie impish things, not human, which seemed to reach out to him and snatch at his cowl and habit.

He remembered taking a deep breath, then hearing the gurgling of a brook nearby. And just as he thought he detected the sound of hushed voices above the noise of the water, something hit him, forcing a cry of surprised pain from him as he fell into the soft leaf mold and slipped into total oblivion.

So what could he tell the crowner and Prioress Eleanor? If the voices he thought he had heard were those of the lad and the monk, then the man who hit him was a stranger. If he had imagined the voices, then monk was still the most likely suspect. Perhaps the less said, the better, Thomas decided. For the moment.

“You are long silent, brother.” Ralf was looking at him with curiosity.

“I was trying to remember what had happened, crowner, but I fear I can summon up little.” Thomas nodded to the prioress. “Indeed, it was not a call of nature, my lady, but I was shamed by my foolishness in leaving the passage door open. The truth is simple enough. I was unable to sleep and slipped down to the chapel to pray, but my body was restless and sleep still would not come. So I did what I used to do as a boy and took a short walk, albeit outside the priory walls. I had no evil purpose. I am not yet familiar enough with the priory to know where I could walk and meditate without disturbing others at such a dark hour.”

That much, Thomas thought, was reasonably true.

“When I entered the forest, I became confused but when I came to the clearing, I stopped. I thought I heard a brook and remembered that such ran through the priory. Just as I was thinking I could follow it back to the grounds, something hit me and I remember nothing more.”

“What was the first thing you do remember?” Ralf asked.

“I was cold. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder and someone turned me over. The morning light hurt but I was able to see Brother John’s face clearly.” Thomas laughed. “Indeed my head hurt worse than it did the time I fell down some stone steps as a boy when I was wrestling with…” With Giles, he thought, and winced.

“And still does, I see,” said Sister Anne with such a steady look that Thomas feared she could see into his very soul, stained as it was with half-truths, lies, and dreams of Giles.

Thomas turned his head away.

“And when did you leave the chapel, brother?” asked Ralf.

“It was long after Matins but before Prime,” Thomas replied. “I felt the sharpness of the morning mist and saw it covering the stars.”

“Indeed, Brother John found you not long after Prime,” Eleanor said. She seemed lost in thought, her chin in her hand as she looked at him. He could read nothing in her gray eyes.

“Not much to go by, son, but at least you are alive and lucky indeed to have the good care of Sister Anne at the hospital here.” Ralf glanced over at the tall nun. His smile as he looked at her was surprisingly gentle for such a rough man.

Despite the look from her that made him fear she saw all his secrets, Thomas could understand how a man might become fond of such a remarkable woman as Sister Anne. For all her unfeminine candor and logical mind, the nun had gentle hands and thoughtful ways. Her binding of his wound had been quick, almost painless, and she had not only given him a soothing mixture to aid sleep but also a comfortable bed last night well away from those so sick they moaned despite her herbs and calming draughts. In truth, he had slept well.

Although he had had two strange dreams, which made him wonder what had been in that sleeping potion to cause such fantastic imaginings. The first one was almost spectral. In his dream, Thomas had opened his eyes and seen nothing but darkness. All was quiet in the blackness except for the low, uneasy muttering of the sleeping sick. Then, through the opening of the screen which gave him privacy, he saw two shadowy forms standing close together in whispered discussion and softly silhouetted by the light of the candles each held. When one figure moved his taper, Thomas recognized Brother John. The monk’s murmuring was rapid and intense, and although Thomas could not hear what either said, he recognized Sister Anne’s voice when she briefly responded.

Thomas looked around but saw no sign of another sister, monk or lay person present and remembered thinking that surely it was not allowed for the two to be together without proper attendance. Then Brother John put his hand on Sister Anne’s shoulder and kissed her on the cheek before slipping away into the darkness. Thomas must have fallen back into his deep sleep for he remembered nothing more of them.

The most troubling fantasy came later. Again he had dreamed that he had opened his eyes. And, again, all was dark. He could hear only the steady or irregular breathing of the other sick and wounded. This time there were no candles or ghostly figures, but he did hear a soft rustling. A mouse or rat, he remembered thinking, and closed his eyes. At that moment, he felt a presence next to him, the movement of a garment against his arm, and the sound of breathing above him.

Instinctively, he kept his eyes shut and waited, wary but oddly not unnerved by the quiet figure. It was a man, he was sure. He could smell his sweat, an acrid scent, not the sweetish, sometimes metallic smell of a woman.

The man did nothing. He just stood there. Then, with a stroke as soft as a feather brushing against his face, he touched Thomas. A lay brother perhaps, he thought, tensing ever so slightly. Someone checking for the dead amongst the quick? Then the robe swept across his arm once again as the man turned and moved away. He heard the man’s feet crush the floor rushes with that whishing, rodent-like noise he had heard before.

Thomas opened his eyes. He would have sworn that the bulky shadow moving away from him was Brother Simeon, but as he fell back into a profound sleep that lasted until the morning bells for prayer, he decided he must surely be mistaken.