Sorrow Without End (11 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

Had Thomas ignored the bare walls, the narrow space, the lack of windows, he might have imagined that he was not in a cell. An earthen pitcher of Tostig’s good ale from the priory brewery sat on the rough boards of his small table alongside a bowl filled with thick cabbage soup, still steaming from Sister Matilda’s kitchen and fragrant with spices. Next to the soup were a loaf of fresh bread and a slice of good yellow cheese. Prisoner he might be, but Prioress Eleanor was making sure he ate well at his midday dinner.

But imprisoned I am, he thought, noting that there was no knife at his place. Despite the abundance set before him, he had no appetite.

Cuthbert coughed. “I will cut your cheese if you wish it,” he offered.

“Like a rat, I’ll gnaw it,” the monk replied with a weak smile, “but I do thank you for your kindness.”

“It may be of little solace, Brother, but many in the village grieve that this has happened to you. Those you have comforted in the past long for your release.”

“The word has traveled then?”

“If you will forgive me for saying so, monks and nuns do gossip.”

Thomas shrugged. “We are all mortal.”

Cuthbert carefully looked around and listened for a moment before continuing. “Some say our crowner has been bribed to do this so that someone of rank will escape justice.”

“What think you?”

The sergeant spat. “Ralf would sooner cut off his own balls than take any man’s bribe.” He looked up, turning red. “I spoke before I thought, Brother. Forgive me my rude language.”

For the first time, Thomas laughed. “Then I assume our crowner’s manhood is intact.”

Cuthbert nodded, turning yet a deeper shade of wine-red.

“Since gossip travels swiftly in the village, I wish you would spread the word that I am in good spirits and know that our crowner will soon capture the man who killed this soldier. Thus my residence in this cell is but temporary, and I will soon be released.”

“The villagers believe he arrested…?”

The monk shrugged. “Since men are sometimes placed in safe custody to protect them from harm, I believe Ralf fears that I know something that could put me in danger. In fact, I was on that road where the man was found, although I left it before the glade. You may also pass the word along that I know Ralf to be an honorable man who would never set justice aside for his earthly gain.”

“That I will, Brother. Your words may save our crowner from an accidental shower of night soil as he passes through the village of Tyndal.” Cuthbert grinned, then bowed out of respect for Thomas’ vocation and left.

Despite the sergeant’s sympathy, Thomas noted that the man did carefully lock the door behind him.

***

Thomas sat in silence and stared at the meal in front of him. He still had no appetite. Briefly he might have broken the surface of his black pool of melancholy, but his head had slipped beneath it again. Even Sister Matilda’s finest efforts now failed to restore his humors.

Suddenly rage filled him, and he struck the table with so much force that great drops of soup flew in all directions. “I am cursed,” he cried. “Cursed!”

A knock at the door and a muffled question reminded him that Cuthbert remained near to guard him. He shouted back that he had accidentally bitten his tongue and all was well.

How he wished that was true! He must find some way out of this prison. He could not remain in it, haunted as he was by his past. If he were to stay, he surely would go mad.

Thomas closed his eyes. When Ralf reminded him about the last prisoner who had been put here, he had grown angry with passion fueled by the humiliation of his tears. Anne and Ralf had meant him no ill. He knew that and had apologized to them for his outburst before they left. Nevertheless, he had refused to tell them what they wanted to hear. What could he say? How could he say anything?

Nor, despite his speech to Cuthbert, could he easily forgive Ralf. Although he knew the crowner had not put him in this cell as a cruel jape, Ralf had been his friend and he had placed him here. Did friendship count for nothing?

Thomas knew that his behavior had been questionable and that he had been on the same road where the murder had taken place. The madman had been right, if he had seen him as he claimed. He could quarrel with none of this. What had hurt him was that Ralf had not set aside appearances and let the bonds of friendship weigh more heavily in this matter.

“Were I a better man,” he muttered, “I would respect him for that. A less honest man would have ignored a friend’s apparent guilt.” The monk’s shoulders sagged. “But I am not that better man.”

The crowner might have proven his integrity, but that was cold comfort when Thomas did not know how he could explain the basis for his guilty behavior. It had been true that he had been so eager to return home that he had forsworn sufficient food that day. This omission had not given him the fortitude to withstand the sharp questioning from both his prioress and Ralf about the circumstances and timing of his return. Then he had faced the corpse and, with his humors set off-balance, had seen his rapist in the features of the dead soldier.

Nor did it help matters that he was in a cell once again, one that not only brought back London memories but also those from last year when he had chanced his own life to save another’s. This last part Ralf might understand, but that alone was insufficient to explain all.

Thomas shook his head. Ralf was right. He did have something to hide, and he knew he could not blame the crowner for putting him in this cell, whether to keep him safe or to wear him down so he would tell what he knew. The crowner had been sharp-witted enough to sense the oozing fear when Thomas’ past sorrows met with current circumstances. Ralf might be a friend but he was also the representative of the king’s justice. The difficulty Thomas faced was how to justify what had happened without revealing things about which he had no wish to speak.

He could not confess to Ralf that he had been held so long in prison, and, even if he were to do so, he certainly would never admit he had been put there for an act of sodomy. If he admitted to the former, Ralf would surely ask why. In a land where sentences for minor crimes were usually quickly executed, the crowner might well wonder if Thomas had committed some grave, even treasonous act.

Were he to divulge the prison time and the sodomy, he would not only lose a friend, but Ralf could still ask why Thomas had been released into the priesthood when conviction for sodomy should have prevented that. This realization posed a more complex problem for the monk.

Thomas might hate the very sight of his sinister master, but he owed him loyalty. Or rather he owed it to that man’s lord, the one who had ultimately saved Thomas’ life. Although that man had never been named, Thomas had good reason to suspect he was of high ecclesiastic rank. Reluctant monk though Thomas might be, he had given his oath to remain silent about his role as a Church spy, as well as any secrets he might learn. Breaking any oath might be unthinkable, but telling secrets was rank betrayal. If one were a spy, the latter was also most cruelly punished. Thomas would keep his word.

No matter how independent the crowner seemed, Ralf had his own allegiance, and his was to the king. Since the secular powers were often in conflict with religious ones, Thomas knew that his loyalties and those of his friend might be at odds someday. Therefore, he could never explain why he was a monk or anything about his prison past to the crowner, even as a friend. He must find another way to escape this misery.

He began to pace the boundaries of his cell. His predicament was impossible, and his throat was dry from all the tears he had shed. At last, Thomas returned to the table, poured from the pitcher, and drained the cup slowly. The ale had a bitterness to it, albeit a pleasant one. The taste fitted his mood, and he poured another cup.

All of a sudden, a possible solution fluttered at the edge of his thoughts. Thomas looked down at the trencher and smiled.

Although Cuthbert had not left a knife, he had given Thomas a spoon. The monk picked up the implement and played with it for a moment as the idea took form. He dipped the spoon into the soup and swallowed.

Had Sister Matilda added garlic?

With the other hand, he reached for the bread. Grainy but sweet, he concluded after savoring a bite.

Sister Matilda was most certainly a wonder in her kitchen.

By the time Thomas had reached for the cheese, he knew what he must do, say, and to whom in order to gain his freedom.

Chapter Twenty-three

Ralf raced along the path, Anne’s rebuke from last night still roaring in his ears. How dare she claim he was careless of Thomas’ plight when the monk lay weeping in her arms? Had not Thomas’ tears proven his innocence, she had asked. Why else would a man shed tears in front of another?

Women! Did they believe that men never wept? He had seen battle-hardened soldiers sob without shame. How could one not weep when friends and brothers screamed for their mothers as flaming pitch burnt their flesh all too slowly into ash or they lay dying from wounds that had turned their bodies inside out. “If God made Eve from Adam’s rib, He must have failed to include his heart if her daughters think men do not mourn.” He spat into a puddle.

Panting with anger, Ralf stopped to catch his breath. The rain had ceased for the moment, but the air felt cool against his hot cheek. He continued on at a slower pace toward the hospital courtyard.

Tears might well signify pain, but he knew that they did not always prove innocence. Although he loved Thomas more than he did his own kin, Ralf was convinced that the monk was guilty of something. He could not ignore that no matter how much Anne berated him.

As he entered the courtyard, an old woman from the village waved at him. He raised a hand in greeting but added no smile. His hand ached. When he looked down at it, he realized he had been clenching it for some time.

Uncaring, was he? Did he not care about the man who had been cruelly murdered, a brave soldier who had gone to fight in Outremer? Why should he show Thomas mercy when none had been given that man?

“The monk knows something,” he muttered, “and had you not given him the soft comfort of your embrace, Annie, he might have spoken the truth.” Yet he knew that he would confess all his secrets and sins were Anne but to take him into her arms.

The crowner kicked at a rock in his way. “Oh aye, and I was jealous, Annie, seeing you holding him in your arms, but I fought the demon back.” He cursed. “Why must I always be reasonable? Will no one grant me just mercy in return?”

“Watch your step!” someone shouted.

Ralf looked up. A young couple stood just in front of him. The woman, big with child, gestured at her belly. Her companion put his hand where she had indicated, then grinned with so much joy that even his rough features softened.

Walking around the couple without a word, the crowner felt a growing chill. His bleak mood deepened. Any autumn might be cheerless, he thought, but this one seemed especially so.

Just then, a familiar figure came into sight.

“Brother Beorn!” the crowner shouted.

“You wish to see the same man again, Crowner?” Although the lay brother came forward readily enough, his expression suggested that he was less than overjoyed to see Ralf.

“Not him. Your prioress has given me permission to order any travelers who came from the village yesterday to the chapel where they may look on a corpse. Perhaps one will recognize him.” Ralf caught himself before he called the death “murder” since he had not asked if the prioress had told the priory about this tragedy or what she might have said.

Beorn muttered an almost inaudible oath. “We had so many at our gates. Without asking them, how can we tell which came by what route? Some were but children…”

“The men first, or at least those with one good eye who can walk without much assistance. If they had women or children with them, we may not have to trouble those, at least not now.”

The lay brother exhaled a grateful sigh.

“I shall need your help in this questioning, however, for I have just sent my sergeant off to see a nearby farmer about a lost sheep.”

Beorn briefly bent his head in prayer, then hesitated as if eagerly awaiting a response. When he looked back at the crowner, his expression suggested disappointment. “Whatever our prioress wishes, I shall do,” he said.

“We should begin with any that bear the crusader cross. How many of those?” Ralf’s chuckle sounded almost gleefully wicked.

“One has died already. Another is blind and would help you little unless he heard something helpful. A third has leprosy and will be sent to a lazar house in Norwich, but we will keep him here should you wish to question him.” Beorn smiled back at the crowner with impish delight.

Ralf shuddered, then gestured for the lay brother to continue with his list.

“Thus ends the list of strangers who bear the crusader cross.”

“I think we can leave the two still living in peace.” However willing Ralf might be to drop a coin for the good of his own soul into a leper’s bowl, he had no desire to come close enough to catch the disease. If he had to question the two crusaders, he’d leave the leper to the end.

“We had many from the village or nearby. Most were known to us…”

“And those men I leave to you to question on the route they took, when they did so, and what they might have seen.”

The lay brother nodded wearily.

“Other strangers?”

“Three from court, men of some weight in both rank and person.” A brief smile twitched at Beorn’s mouth. “They needed assistance to dismount.”

Ralf grinned. Although he and the good lay brother had often clashed over the years, he did enjoy Beorn’s sharp wit. “Their weapons?”

“Bejeweled, I do think. The glitter, even in this weak light, blinded us.”

Such men were not likely to attack anything with passion, other than a roasted pheasant redressed with feathers for dinner, Ralf thought. If he learned nothing from anyone else, he might question them later. “No one else?”

The lay brother fell silent for a moment. “Two in particular,” he continued. “One was a badly scarred young man of some rank, if I might judge from the quality of his dress. An older servant with only one eye accompanied him. Neither bore the red cross, yet I did wonder if they had once been soldiers to have gotten those wounds.”

“Let us begin with them.”