Satan's Lullaby (12 page)

Chapter Twenty-three

Gracia opened the door to the prioress’ audience chamber.

Davoir strode in.

Seated in her carved wooden chair, Eleanor held her staff of office, an unequivocal symbol of her leadership over Tyndal Priory.

On her right side stood Brother Thomas, on the left Crowner Ralf.

“We have just received word that your clerk, Renaud, has regained consciousness,” she announced in a gentle voice, “and has suffered no significant harm.”

The priest nodded once, his body rigid and his expression replete with disapproval over the presence of the two men. The news of his clerk’s recovery did not merit even a blink of interest.

Eleanor tried not to judge him for his lack of compassion, but, to her knowledge, he had neither gone to his clerk’s side nor sent anyone on his behalf. She suspected that the first positive word he had received about the condition of his wounded clerk was what she had just relayed. As hard as she struggled not to condemn, she could not completely set aside her conclusion that he owned a stone heart.

His expression almost luminous with disdain, the priest folded his hands into a prayerful attitude, raised his chin, and cleared his throat. “I have decided that you are not fit to rule this priory,” he announced. “Although you will be treated with courtesy, I shall now take your place.” He stepped forward with his hand outstretched to take the staff from her hands.

“Indeed?” Eleanor swallowed her fury at his presumption and kept her tone even. “Although I choose to believe you spoke those words without malice or intent to defame the king who appointed me to my position here, I find your words offensive and, of course, refuse to comply.”

He reddened. “You have no right to contradict me. My clerks, if needed, will lock you away as we have your wicked sub-infirmarian.”

Ralf stepped forward.

Eleanor murmured something, and he stopped. She turned back to the priest. “Your authority in this investigation lies in discovery of wrongdoing and the offering of recommendations to our abbess in Anjou. When we last spoke, you said you had found no fault with Tyndal, other than some minor repairs, all of which we had planned to correct. Apart from your conviction that Sister Anne killed Jean, an unproven accusation, you have given me no reason to believe that Tyndal is in such fearful peril that you must take extraordinary measures beyond your authority.” She tilted her head and smiled. That expression might have been benign, but her eyes flashed with contempt for his arrogance.

He stiffened. “You allowed an incompetent woman to treat my clerk. She killed him out of ignorance or spite.”

“Unproven and thus irrelevant,” Thomas said.

“Silence!” the priest roared.

“I have given him permission to speak, and he shall.” Eleanor voice remained calm.

“You both are the Devil’s creatures, filthy with lust and rotten with sin!”

“Other than an allegation from an unnamed source, have you any proof that this tale is true?” Eleanor held her breath for just a moment and silently prayed.

The room filled with a silence that was as heavy as the air before a summer storm.

Davoir began to sway as if suddenly faint, and he put a hand over his face.

At a sign from the prioress, Thomas brought a chair for the priest and helped him to sit.

“Jean is dead. Renaud was attacked trying to protect me. My life is surely in danger. You cannot protect me. No woman could,” he mumbled.

“Again, Father, I ask whether or not the accusation against Brother Thomas and me has been proven.”

“No,” he muttered. “All hold you both in the highest regard.”

Briefly, Eleanor shut her eyes in gratitude. “Then you have no cause to remove me from the leadership of this priory.”

He slammed his fist down on the chair arm. “You have failed to safeguard my clerks!”

“You have failed to allow anyone to properly protect you,” Ralf snapped.

“This is God’s earth! Armed men have no right to be here,” the priest replied, half rising to his feet.

“And your clerks failed when they tried to use prayer as you insisted,” Ralf said. “Tell me how that proves you should wrest the priory from its proper leader and take over yourself.”

Davoir’s face turned blood red.

Eleanor bent toward the crowner, said something only the two of them could hear, and again faced the priest. “Father Etienne, you and I agree that the Church rules over this priory. We also agree that your two clerks have suffered violence, one fatal and one not.” She studied him for an instant and noted that his high color was fading. “You have also exonerated Brother Thomas and me from the vile accusations hurled at us.” She waited.

“I have found no evidence that the allegations are true, but I have not yet questioned everyone…”

“Have you spoken with Sub-Prioress Ruth?”

He nodded with evident reluctance.

“Surely you know that King Henry, as a boon to my father for his loyalty, sent me to lead this priory, although Tyndal had already chosen Sister Ruth, as she was then, to be their prioress.” Surely he did, she thought, but it was a fact that bore repeating.

He mumbled concurrence.

“She has good cause to resent that decision by our king, but Sub-Prioress Ruth is God’s most devoted servant.” She smiled. “She and I rarely agree, but I chose her as my sub-prioress over all others because of her competence and honor. If anyone would tell you of my failings, including the breaking of my vows, she would be honest enough to do so.”

“And she has not,” the priest replied, once again slumping in his chair. The admission had obviously and deeply distressed him. “She defended your virtue and that of Brother Thomas with fervor.” Unable to look at either monk or prioress, he turned his face away.

“Then let us agree that you have no cause to remove me from my position as head of Tyndal…”

“That statement in support of your innocence aside, I still do! You are a weak woman…”

She raised her hand. “Please let me finish, Father. You have not questioned all those whom you would like. That is understood, but you have yet to discover any proof that would suggest my guilt.” She hesitated for a moment, then continued. “Regarding the attacks against your clerks, I am obliged to protect all guests here from assault. We may debate which of us was the most negligent in this tragedy, but such an argument is futile when swift action is needed to catch a killer.”

“Action is what I require,” Davoir growled.

She ignored his tone. “I believe we agree that we must find a method to do this without the use of swords.”

The priest blinked.

“I wish to make the situation perfectly clear,” Ralf said, returning the prioress’ subtle nod at him. “Jean was murdered. You accused Sister Anne of this. Renaud was subsequently struck down. This attack could not have been done by the sub-infirmarian. It is my suspicion that you are the ultimate target for this violence. Even if you are not, you could still be in danger. Your other clerks have not been troubled in their duties, and they sleep in the monks’ dormitory where they are far safer. You, however…” He shrugged as if suggesting the final conclusion was obvious.

“This sub-infirmarian may have a host of imps under her control, those who are eager to turn suspicion away from her.” The priest’s voice shook.

“According to the lay brother who treated Renaud, the blow was a heavy one, not a woman’s light tap. For that reason, we can eliminate the possibility that the assailant was a nun or lay sister,” Ralf said. “When I questioned your clerk, he believed he had seen a ghost beckoning him, a shade that bore a man’s shape. I spoke with Prior Andrew. He knows his monks and lay brothers. He did not see any empty dormitory beds or notice anyone missing at an Office. Although this is not absolute proof that no monk or lay brother could be guilty of attacking Renaud, Prior Andrew’s testimony suggests that the men in Tyndal are innocent.”

Davoir’s eyes still flashed with annoyance, but his hot fury had muted. “Then what do you suggest?”

Ralf did not hesitate. “Allow the priory to free Sister Anne.”

Seeing the high color return to the priest’s cheeks, Eleanor winced. Although she longed to release her friend from her narrow cell, she knew she had to lead this reluctant priest to that decision slowly. Patience came hard, but the desire for a complete victory over this man made it easier. She asked the crowner to remain silent.

“You are probably safe in the company of your many clerks during the day,” she said to Davoir in a conciliatory tone. “At night, we must provide you with a proper guard and preferably set a trap for the guilty man. If we can catch him, we will end this chain of tragedies and bring justice to the dead and injured.”

“No weapons,” Davoir replied.

Eleanor was pleased that he had accepted the basic plan. “I agree in principle,” she said, “and believe the plan would not require several armed guards. I do fear that one sharp sword is advisable, lest the killer be armed himself or the man fall under the jurisdiction of the king’s law.”

Davoir scowled. “God will protect us here.”

“And He often does that by urging us to use the sagacity He gave us. Although I would not want more than one sword, two at most, I have learned that our crowner only uses his when God gives him no other choice. He would be the one chosen to carry the weapon, a sword which was once blessed on our altar.”

Ralf instantly stared at his feet with apparent humility. Only the prioress knew how shocked he was to learn that anything of his had been on the priory altar.

Davoir’s eyes shifted unhappily as he tried to find grounds to reject this idea. Finally, he sighed. “Very well.”

Eleanor tried not to betray her joy. “You may, of course, continue to question all whom you wish during the day in the continuation of your investigation. I would advise you to keep several of your clerks with you at all times.”

He nodded.

Ralf whispered a request to the prioress. When she agreed, he asked, “Do your clerks have any enemies? I apologize for this next question, but I must know. Is there anyone who might wish you ill?”

For the first time since his initial roars of outrage, Father Etienne gave some indication of cooperation. “My clerks are virtuous and have no enemies, other than some who might envy them. But I can think of no one who would let resentment morph into murder.” He looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “As for myself, I have been shown great favor by King Philip and his brother. Even more honor awaits me on my return home. As all men are sinners, there will be those who wish me ill. But I can think of none who so hate me that they would endanger their souls by killing me.”

Ralf was not confident about that. He found the man reprehensible, an opinion he was wise enough not to express.

“Do you agree to set a trap for this creature that has killed one of your clerks and injured another?” Prioress Eleanor opted for a mollifying tone. Her own position and authority once again secure, she believed it tactful to offer the priest a choice. “It will be done at night.”

“I do, if I must,” Davoir replied, but his gaze remained on the ceiling as if hoping God might offer a better option.

With a sideways glance at Brother Thomas, she said, “Then let us plan it now.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Gracia stood outside the hospital trying to decide how to help her mistress in this matter of the autumn crocus jar without actually disobeying her commands. Were she still dwelling on the streets of Walsingham, she would have done whatever she deemed necessary, but she had a home again, different concerns, and others to consider. Dwelling in a priory was no different from residing with any family. There were rules.

But after her family had died and she was left to subsist by her own wits, she could no longer afford the habits or practices that the well-fed and warmly clothed deemed immutable. Survival demanded different precepts, and those lessons remained useful, even if they must be modified. In this matter of the clerk’s murder, all she had to do was look beyond the obvious, recognize the perfect opportunity to assist Prioress Eleanor, and not do anything foolish.

That opportunity presented itself.

“Sister Christina,” Gracia cried out and quickly rushed to the infirmarian’s side. “You look troubled. May I help in some way?”

The nun stopped and squinted. “Gracia,” she said, her face softening as she recognized the girl’s voice.

Gracia took Christina’s arm. Although Sister Anne was kind, the girl sometimes felt intimidated by her gravity and well-honed intelligence. With the gentle, extremely near-sighted infirmarian, Gracia felt only affection. “I was going to the hospital. If you were as well, may I accompany you?” While she would willingly take the nun wherever she wished, Gracia fervently hoped the planned destination was the apothecary hut.

“Sub-Prioress Ruth sent me to seek Sister Oliva, my child. Do you know where I might find her?”

Gracia almost skipped for joy. “I do, and we shall go together for I wished to ask her a question.” Truth enough, she thought, and was pleased she did not have to lie to this good woman.

The journey through the hospital was slow. The infirmarian’s eyes were weak, but her ears never missed the weakest sigh or softest groan of anguish.

Several times, Sister Christina stopped to kneel and pray by a bedside, not caring what rotting flesh her hand grasped. Once she spoke with a woman sitting in a hot bath, violets drifting in the water, and expressed joy that the patient had gotten relief from the horrible pain of bladder stone. When a heavy, red-faced man cried out in fear when told he must suffer blood-letting between his finger and thumb for his severe headaches, Sister Christina knelt with him and distracted him with pleas to God while the lay brother made the cut. With kind touch and tenderly spoken prayers, she brought peace to the dying and those in unspeakable pain.

Although the sight of so much agony was difficult for Gracia, she waited while the infirmarian gave consolation. Tears for the suffering stung the maid’s eyes, and she admired Sister Christina for her compassion. Like so many at Tyndal Priory, she was certain the nun was a saint. Some claimed to have been cured by Sister Christina. Gracia had never witnessed this herself, but Sister Anne had confirmed the stories and this convinced the girl that they must be true.

At last, the pair reached the door leading to the hut where the medicines were stored.

“It was Sister Anne who had this place built,” the infirmarian whispered to Gracia. “She believed the suffering had too long to wait for what little ease we can give them and begged permission to have all remedies here, rather than in the tiny hut on the other side of the priory near the gardens.”

Gracia saw tears in the infirmarian’s eyes and loved her more for that.

“She is a godly woman, my child. Everyone at Tyndal knows she is innocent.”

Gracia looked through the door and saw Sister Oliva in the hut. “The nun we seek is there,” she said and lightly pressed the infirmarian’s arm to guide her in that direction. As she did, something caught her eye, and she turned to glance into the chapel just opposite.

A man quickly turned his head and covered his face with his hands as if lost in prayer.

For an instant, the girl hesitated. She would have sworn he had been staring at them. His body remained twisted at an awkward angle. He might wish for an observer to assume his soul looked to Heaven, but Gracia was convinced he was far more curious about what was happening on earth.

Yet there was a crutch lying next to him, Gracia noted. Surely he was just one of many who came here for healing and had been distracted from his orisons for a moment by their arrival. But she remained troubled and did not set her uneasiness aside. The instinct honed for survival is never lost or wisely dismissed.

“Is something wrong?” Sister Christina squinted.

“No, Sister,” Gracia replied. “I thought I saw one of the lay brothers approaching, but he did not need your assistance. Let us go to the hut.”

Sister Oliva brightened when she saw her visitors. “I pray you have come with news that Sister Anne has been sent back to us,” she said.

“I fear not,” the infirmarian said.

Gracia shook her head in confirmation.

“I have come on behalf of our sub-prioress who prays that some way has been found to make more of the medicine for her gout.” The infirmarian smiled hopefully.

But Gracia wondered if the smile also suggested that even the kind Sister Christina could find gentle amusement in the sub-prioress’ change of mind after discovering that Sister Anne’s earthly remedy took away her great pain.

Sister Oliva frowned. “I fear there has been no alteration in what I said before. There is nothing left of the preparation.”

“The redness on her toe has brightened, and the throbbing returns.” Sister Christina frowned, but the expression never meant anger with the infirmarian. She was worried.

“Only Sister Anne has the skill,” the young nun replied. “She may have promised to train me in some of the more complex treatments, but the one for gout is both difficult and dangerous. Not even her former husband knew how to balance the ingredients. I would not even try to do this.”

Sister Christina stepped closer. “If we were to smuggle all she needed to make the medicine into her cell…”

“And chance the great anger of Father Etienne, Infirmarian? I do not know what she would need even if we could.”

“Might there be just a little left?” Gracia smiled eagerly.

Sister Oliva stared at the girl with surprise.

Gracia quickly put a finger up to her lips and shook her head.

Sister Oliva raised an eyebrow but remained silent.

“Do you remember the color of the container, Sister Christina?” Gracia asked. “Perhaps our sister can look for it.” A foolish remark, the girl thought. Sister Oliva would surely know where it was and what it looked like. She only hoped the infirmarian knew less than she did about how much this nun had been taught.

The infirmarian shook her head. “It was dark and round, I think, and about this large.” She drew a circle in the air, and then gestured toward the area where the chest of poisonous herbs sat. “When Sister Anne made up the pouches for me to take to our sub-prioress, she went in that direction.”

Sister Oliva tilted her head, looked at Gracia, and pressed one hand against her mouth.

Gracia nodded, relieved that the woman grasped the need to pretend. Deciding she liked the young nun for her sensitivity, she also appreciated her cleverness and understood why Sister Anne had chosen her to learn the apothecary art.

“Your description has helped me recall the item,” the nun said. “It was a dark brown pot with an ill-fitting lid.” She made a rough circle with her hands but carefully watched the size she was indicating. “Round as you described, Infirmarian.” She made a show of checking the chest and glancing around the shelves. “I fear I see nothing like that here.” Looking down at Gracia, she smiled, knowing the infirmarian was too near-sighted to note it. “I suspect our sub-infirmarian may have sent the pot away for a better-fitting lid after the last dose was used.”

The prioress’ maid grinned back.

“I fear we have absolutely nothing left of the remedy, Infirmarian. I shall ask God to give our sub-prioress more strength to endure her pain.”

“I shall as well and also pray for the swift return of our good Sister Anne,” Sister Christina said, bowing her head. “Until then, many will suffer.” She looked up in the general direction of the young nun, her expression benevolent. “I know God has blessed your hands with skill…”

“As we both know, Infirmarian,” Sister Oliva said in a low voice, “God has endowed Sister Anne with the skills of a great healer. Although those of us working under her direction do so with dedication and prayer, we are not as honored with those same gifts.”

With that, Sister Christina turned to leave. Gracia once again took her arm and guided her through the hospital where the suffering reached out to receive the relief she gave.

As for the penitent with the crutch in the chapel, he was nowhere to be seen.

Folding her arms and with a thoughtful air, Sister Oliva watched the pair depart, then went back to the table where she had been crushing rotten apples used to treat sore eyes.

***

After accompanying the infirmarian to the sub-prioress’ chambers, Gracia hurried away.

If there was no other reason for thinking Sister Christina was at least
Blessed
if not quite a saint, her tolerance of Sub-Prioress Ruth’s faults would be enough. All knew that the infirmarian was much loved by the sub-prioress, but, as the raised voice of pained outrage from the chambers suggested, even Sister Christina was not completely safe from the sharp rebukes for which the sub-prioress was known.

Safely on the path back to her mistress, Gracia saw two men coming toward her. One was Brother Thomas and the other Crowner Ralf. She waved with enthusiasm and ran to meet them.

Seeing the girl’s happy expression, Thomas called out to her. “Do you bear good tidings?”

“I wish better, Brother, but I do have some news.” She nodded at the crowner with a friendly smile but reserved her highest regard for the auburn-haired monk.

“The missing pot containing autumn crocus was about this big.” She studiously replicated the young nun’s estimation. “It was dark brown and had an ill-fitting lid.” She hesitated and looked hopefully at her favored monk before adding, “Sister Christina could not see the pot well but said it was round, dark, and about this big.” She frowned and drew a bigger circle with her hands.

“Well done!” Thomas grinned.

“Hearing this news from you is fortunate,” the crowner added. “I have just searched Jean’s room and found no pot there.”

Gracia’s enthusiasm vanished like the flame on a snuffed candle.

Ralf reached into his pouch and pulled forth a brown pottery lid. Holding it out to Gracia, he said, “But I did find this just outside the guest quarters in the tall grass close to the stables.”

She took it in her hand and studied it. “Sister Oliva said the pot had an ill-fitting lid.” Running a finger around the edge, she grinned. “This would be ill-fitting,” she said. “It turns up just here.” She pointed out the flaw and handed it back to the crowner. “That lid would not sit firmly on any jar.”

Thomas thanked her for her observations.

Gracia blushed.

“I questioned Renaud,” the crowner said, “but he could not recall anything about the pot. It was he who was given the responsibility to administer the required dosage to Jean. He was outraged over my questions and swore he did not care about the shape of any container, only that it held a cure. He did remember how much he had been instructed to mete out by the elusive Brother Imbert. After Jean’s death, he paid even less attention to the pot because he saw no cause to do so. When I noticed the absence, he said he did not know when he last saw it.” Ralf snorted. “Davoir claims he never saw the jar or the monk who brought it.”

“I share your disdain for this priest, Ralf, and know what you are thinking,” Thomas said. “But I agree with our prioress in this matter. No matter how unkind and unobservant he seems, Father Etienne has excellent motives not to have killed his clerk.”

“I more than dislike him, Brother,” Ralf replied. “I despise the man for his vindictive treatment of Sister Anne and his irrational refusal to disallow the obvious lies told about you and our prioress. Yet I reluctantly concur with your opinion.”

“He loved his dead clerk,” Thomas said, “although that might not be one of the best reasons to conclude his innocence.”

“Love? That requires a heart, and, if the man had one, I’d agree that affection precluded violence. Family honor? I accept this as justification not to murder Jean. In addition, my court-loving brother says that King Philip has been negotiating for peace with our king for years. This would argue against any conclusion that Davoir was sent from the French court to trouble the sister of one of King Edward’s favored knights by committing murder in her priory in addition to the slander from an unnamed source.” He took a deep breath. “That would not be politic.”

“Although he accused Prioress Eleanor of ordering Sister Anne to kill Jean, he did so in anger and has not pursued that matter with any vigor,” Thomas said.

Ralf shrugged. “And this man will go home to receive a miter?” He chuckled. “The French claim we are governed by kings so raving mad they chew the rushes on the floor, yet they choose bishops who condemn the innocent with no better cause than spite. If these are the men the French believe to be holy, they shall soon burn saints and praise God when the bishops excommunicate angels!”

Gracia listened with fascination to the two men. Although she had rarely heard any good spoken of the French, she did not know much about them, except that they were not English. Once, when she asked her mistress about these strange people, she learned that Prioress Eleanor’s maternal family had come to England from the Aquitaine with King Edward’s great-grandmother and had spent some time at the French court. “When we speak of French kings descended from King Louis VII,” the prioress had said, “we do so with sympathy, my child. Those ruled by these kings deserve our compassion, not contempt.” What her mistress did not explain was why she had smiled when she spoke those words.