Valley of Dry Bones (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

Thomas stared at the black sky above his hut. How vast it seemed and how insignificant he felt in comparison with God’s heavens. He wanted to weep. His eyes remained dry and gritty as desert sand.

Glancing back inside, he could see the boy’s dark shape, curled peacefully on the straw pallet. If he held his breath, he could hear a light snoring above the chirping of crickets in the night heat. Did he ever sleep so deeply at Simon’s age? He must have. He could no longer recall.

As for his own rest, all sleep had fled. Tonight he had wrestled with the Prince of Darkness and survived. As he gazed into the infinite darkness of the sky, dotted with the flickering lights of candles carried by angels, he wondered which of them had truly won the bout. His body was weary beyond measure, and his spirit ached too much to admit any peace. Now melancholy ruled. Even if he could claim one victory, perhaps another if he was fortunate, he suspected Satan had bested him in some way he did not fully understand.

He had come to this hut for solitude, longing to hear God’s direction in that silence. Tyndal’s anchoress had discovered this behind the walls of her cell. All he ever heard was the roar of worldly praise from men who concluded he was possessed of greater holiness because of his choice. Although he denied the assumption, his words only fed the fire of their error. And in this way he had deceived, even though he had never so intended. He had befouled truth and himself with the delusion of sanctity.

After this night in particular, he knew he must leave the hermitage. He had lost all confidence in his ability to live without the comfort and support of his fellow religious. Perhaps that was what God had wanted him to learn despite knowing Thomas lacked a monk’s faith and suffered his torturous longing for a man’s love.

Had he learned anything else in this place? If so, he was blind to it. The only certainty was the realization that he must ask Prioress Eleanor for permission to return and perform whatever task she had for him. With patience, humility, and time, he might see more wisdom revealed with greater clarity.

Reaching down, he picked up the jug of ale he had brought outside. There was some left, and he inhaled the sharp scent before draining it all. He sighed and rubbed his face. At least he had not succumbed to lust when Simon embraced him and, in tears, begged for kisses. Thomas knew that was his clear victory. The rest remained questionable.

“Simon ached only for a miracle,” Thomas muttered, “that his dead father would return to praise and advise him. He may own the features of a man, but his soul has a child’s fat cheeks.” So the monk had given soft words and chaste caresses. What he feared he had not done was give the lad wise direction. Indeed, he worried whether he himself had become complicit in treason.

What else could he have done except listen? He had heard the lad’s tale as a priest hears confession. The lad may have longed to turn traitor against God’s anointed king, but he had truly done little. Hadn’t his mother suffered enough with her own husband’s death? Must she lose her only son as well because he was more foolish than wicked?

And thus he had wrestled with the Devil a second time this night and tried to drag Simon from a sure and horrendous death as a traitor to a safer path. “Have I truly saved him or have I sent him along a road that may lead nowhere near God?”

“Are you talking to yourself, Brother?” a voice asked.

Thomas grew cold, despite the warm air, then realized the shadow standing a few feet away had the comfortable outline of a familiar crowner, not an imp.

“I did not mean to startle you,” Ralf said, coming closer. “I brought a fresh pitcher of ale from the inn.”

“My own company has grown tiresome. To enliven the hours, I have taken to arguing with myself, only to find I lose both sides of any debate.”

“You’re not meant for this hut. Go back to caring for the sick. They miss your soothing words.”

Thomas smiled, grateful that the darkness kept his friend from reading anything more in his expression than humor.

“Have some ale.” Ralf tilted his head toward the hut. “Where is Simon?”

Again, despite the heat, Thomas shivered and quickly drank from the jug. “He sleeps. Deeply, I think.”

“When did he first come to you?”

The monk knew the question was not based in mere curiosity. “Just after the corpse was found, identified, and examined on site.” His spirit instantly grew more cheerful, not with prayer but with the promise of a murder inquiry. Since he felt no guilt over this, he suspected the influence of evil and then wondered if God instead was actually pleased.

“You know he is the son of Lady Avelina and part of the group that traveled here on Queen Eleanor’s behalf?”

“Aye, and he has also told me of his father’s death at Evesham, the allegiance with de Montfort, and the loss of his inheritance.”

The crowner chuckled, his white teeth a flash of brightness in the greying light that promised dawn. “To save time in this matter, I should have come to you first. What is your opinion of the boy?”

“He longs to be a man but has little understanding of what that means. For him, battles are full of glorious deeds, not cleaved skulls and festering wounds that send soldiers to Hell, screaming from their own agony and stench. Whether he will become worthy or a man with greater fondness for indulgence than charity is beyond my ability to foresee.”

“Words like these make me suspect again you were something more than a soft-fingered clerk before you took vows, Brother.”

The monk retreated into silence.

“Simon ran from me when I met you at the stream. Why?”

“He said he came here to seek God’s wisdom. You and your brother remind him too much of the world. For this reason, he fled.”

“Do you believe that tale?”

“A boy who thinks a knight’s life is like some story from the adventures of Lancelot might well conclude that God’s direction comes from another sinful mortal who lives alone in a whore’s cottage. And it is possible such a lad would resent the intrusion of the world when he longed to escape any reminder of it.” Catching the bitterness in his tone, he laughed as if he had intended to jest. “Let me reply to what I think you meant by asking such a question. I do not believe he killed the baron.”

“Why?”

“As we both have described him, Simon is a boy. If he had slit the man’s throat, his nostrils would no longer quiver as if the gates to Eden had just slammed shut and he still held the scent of the garden within him. Murder brands a man with the especial mark of Cain. That is not to say he might not have committed lesser sins, but I smell his mother’s milk on him, even though I do not like the lad.”

“Have you learned where he was when the baron was killed?”

“First he spent much time in conversation with Father Eliduc who counseled him on God’s mercy and compassion. This moved him to attend his mother, a duty he admits neglecting often. The lady suffers dizziness and nausea, especially if she is fatigued, and she was unwell after the tiring journey here. When his mother fell asleep, his still troubled spirit drove him to the chapel, where he spent the remainder of the night in prayer. He claims it was there God showed him the path he must start to follow.”

“I should have known that you would have questioned him.”

The monk paused to take breath. “Although there were no witnesses to his actions after he left his mother, Ralf, I am inclined to believe his story for the reasons I have given.”

“Like your prioress, Brother, I learned early after we first met to respect your conclusions.”

“I, too, was troubled by his quick retreat when you appeared at the pond. As God knows well enough, I’m a flawed monk and sometimes doubt loud protestations of ardor in faith. Thus I question the depth of Simon’s piety, even though I think he believes he is sincere. The latter may prove him innocent of killing Baron Otes. I do not think he has yet learned to cover insincerity with the tapestry of delusion.”

“Was all of this learned in confession?”

“What I have just told you was not. Anything I did hear in formal confession must remain only in God’s ears now.”

“Would you tell me if he confessed to murder?”

“Had he admitted to killing the baron, I would have urged him to seek you out immediately.”

Ralf took the jug and swallowed several deep draughts of cool ale.

“And if he refused to honor my plea, he would not be sleeping in my hut.”

Laughing, the crowner handed over the jug. “Thank you, Brother. I may not quite dismiss him as a suspect, although I hear his snores and believe he would not be in your bed if you thought him a killer.”

“Might it help if I told you more about what he and I discussed after his arrival?”

Ralf nodded.

“I told Simon he could find adventure enough serving God if he cannot win wealth and a knighthood with a borrowed lance and his mother fails to regain the lands taken from his dead sire. Tonight he grew more eager for God’s service. This might suggest he feels greater inclination toward peace than violence.”

“Indeed? Have you told him tales of your exploits in the service of Prioress Eleanor?”

Thomas shrugged. “He thinks little of Eve ruling Adam, and so our Order will not find him begging to serve it. Before he fell asleep, he did say that God had opened his eyes, and he could now see how glorious deeds were possible in the service of other Orders.”

Ralf stood and stretched. “His high birth merits a horse. Maybe Father Eliduc will find the money to help the lad become a Hospitaller, Templar, or member of some other military Order. Considering the heritage of treason he got from his father, I fear that only his mother will weep if he goes to Outremer.”

“Have you any other suspects besides Simon?” The monk held the nearly empty pitcher out to his friend.

Taking the proffered jug, the crowner drank before answering. “Although I bear little enough love for my eldest brother, he was elsewhere at the time of the killing.”

“Risking his wrath, you confirmed this?” The monk grinned as he imagined the scene between the two men.

“And greatly enjoyed his discomfiture.” Ralf lowered the pitcher. “Nor have I found any reason to suspect any of the armed escort, a sudden spate of outlaws in our area, or revengeful village folk. As for others, I doubt the Lady Avelina slit the man’s throat. Women may kill, which we both have learned, and yet her age and ill health argue most strongly for her innocence. The deed required more strength than she possesses.” He folded his arms as if bracing for a struggle. “Were I to point the finger of distrust at anyone else, it might be at Father Eliduc.”

“I have a little knowledge of the man,” Thomas said with care. “He is clever, and I think it unlikely he would commit rank violence if he could achieve the same ends by other means.”

“Might he kill if he could only get what he wanted by so doing?”

Thomas shook his head. “I could not say for cert.”

“Then I shall place him a step higher than Simon on my ladder of possible killers. And I am grateful you did not argue that no priest would murder.”

“Just as there are king’s men who are more lawless than those who hide in the forest out of fear they shall hang for their crimes, there are imps dressed as men of God.”

“I know that well, Brother, for enough imps have called me
kin.
” He groaned. “This should have been a simple murder. Sadly, my only success so far has been in finding the innocent.”

“You have conferred with Prioress Eleanor?” Thomas decided to say nothing about Prior Andrew and his past history with the baron. By now, the prior had surely spoken with the prioress, and it would be her decision how best to handle the knowledge.

Ralf chuckled. “I have, and she did mention a possible connection between one of her religious and Baron Otes. She swore there was nothing in that tale which might lead to murder. Although I honor her authority within Tyndal, I confess curiosity. I don’t suppose you know anything about the matter?”

“If I did, I would be bound by her decision, and that appears to be silence.”

“I have kept you from honest rest long enough. Sleep, Brother! If God listens to the prayers of wicked crowners, He will send saints to appear in your dreams and order you back to the priory.”

Reaching out, Thomas grasped his friend’s shoulder. “Methinks God has already sent them,” he said. “And I shall pray that He guide you soon to the discovery of the killer.”

As the monk watched the crowner walk down the road until he was swallowed up by fading shadows, he wondered if Simon was truly guiltless of murder, as the lad had claimed. Although his heart insisted the youth had been truthful, his mind warily argued against the assumption. Dare anyone conclude that a man, dreaming of a king’s murder, was too innocent to steal another’s life?

Chapter Twenty-nine

Sitting in the nun’s gallery that overlooked the nave of the church, Eleanor leaned forward to see who stood below, waiting for the drama to begin.

Father Eliduc was in conversation with Brother John. The priest was animated, chopping the air with his fist as if wielding a hammer. Although only an occasional word drifted upward, there was little doubt he was determined his opinion must be triumphant.

In contrast, the choir master’s tonsured head remained bowed and, except for an infrequent nod, quite motionless.

If she could control her flaring temper in the presence of Father Eliduc and emulate the humility of Brother John, Eleanor suspected she might lull her adversary into complacency. In this way, she could possibly thwart him with far greater success than she had achieved so far. Considering how the priest had abused her trust, such force of will would be difficult. With clenched teeth, she vowed to practice that diffidence both monks and all women are taught. She was determined to win her battles with this man.

Now turning her attention to the others in the nave, she saw Crowner Ralf, arms folded and leaning against a pillar near the edge of the group. Surprised at his presence, she wondered what could possibly have drawn him to this event, a limited and unpolished performance intended solely to satisfy Eliduc that the final creation might be worthy of a queen’s gentle edification. Although Ralf was a good man, Eleanor was well aware he possessed only a common faith, and his appearance inside a church, apart from formal celebrations, was rare enough to be noted.

He might have come in his brother’s stead. Sir Fulke had sent his regrets, pleading an unruly stomach. If recent rumors were true and he had honored the local inn with his presence last night, he probably suffered more from a sour head than belly. In any case, the prioress suspected the sheriff cared little more than his younger brother about liturgical drama. Any excuse to avoid suffering through it would suffice.

When both the Lady Avelina and Father Eliduc would be here, she did think it unnecessary to send Ralf as replacement. Putting a hand over her mouth to hide a grin, she imagined just how sharply Ralf would have raised that same question with his brother. Perhaps Sir Fulke had requested his presence as a way to torment him.

As she watched the crowner and his steady gaze, she began to comprehend that he had not come here to listen to the sweet voices of the novice choir. He was looking to discover a murderer, and the man he was staring at was the priest.

The realization gave her pause. He must have learned something that made him suspect Father Eliduc of either killing the baron or being implicated in some way. If the king’s man now shared her distrust of the creature, she might have to reconsider whether the priest could be guilty of murder, although she hesitated doing so.

Her intuition continued to insist he had limits to his evil, a conclusion based less in reason than her woman’s frail insight. As she thought more on this, she grew convinced her instinct was not so lacking in virile logic.

After all, Brother Thomas had served the priest, and, despite the monk’s duplicity in concealing his fealty to another, he had proven to be diligent in her service. She had learned to respect his judgement. Even if she dare not trust her own opinion of him, there were others who shared it, like Sister Anne, who called the monk a good man. Even Sister Ruth had once commented favorably on his work with the sick and dying.

She rubbed her fist against the hard wood of the railing.

With so many praising him, Brother Thomas would be unlikely to agree to doing anything truly wicked. If a man like that had followed Father Eliduc’s direction, the priest could not have taken Satan as his sole liege lord and must have some constraints on his wickedness.

Even if he had not slit the baron’s throat, however, Eleanor was unable to say that he was not implicated somehow in the death. The extent of Eliduc’s possible guilt remained unclear. The thought did little to dispel her uneasiness.

Sighing, Eleanor sat back in her chair, then realized she had been contemplating murder instead of entertaining her guest. Embarrassed, she turned to the Lady Avelina.

Even in the light shadows of the ill-lit gallery, the prioress could see the mottled skin of Avelina’s cheeks and the dark circles under her eyes. At least Eleanor had ordered a chair brought for the lady to sit on. Others might stand, the prioress had told her, but Avelina’s rank demanded the comfort even though Eleanor had actually provided it out of concern for the woman’s fragile health. To allow the lady to save face, the prioress had also asked for her own chair.

“Can you see well enough from here?” Eleanor leaned closer to her guest.

“I can,” Avelina said, her reply barely audible. The woman had shrunk so deeply into the chair that she seemed almost part of the wood itself.

How profound was this woman’s fatigue? Had the heat and long journey strained her health so much or was she sickening? Eleanor stole a quick look over her shoulder to make certain that Sister Anne had arrived and was close by.

Surely, the lady would not have come if she had been unwell, the prioress concluded. The heat was certainly intense in this gallery, or perhaps Avelina’s lethargy was due to boredom. Eleanor decided to see if a few details about what they were about to see would spark interest.

“We have had little time to improve the presentation. If God graces us, the pleasure with which Brother John has prepared the novice choir and the boys’ enthusiasm may dim the imperfections. Our novice master himself will sing one of the parts. The role of Daniel went to a man who came to our hospital for healing and has remained to serve the priory both as recompense and penance. Our performance may be crude, compared to what the queen has seen elsewhere. May our zeal and dedication to God’s teachings make up for the deficiencies, touch her heart, and allow her to smile on our efforts.”

“Edward’s queen is a pious lady. This pilgrimage was never intended to seek worldly amusements, and her heart will grow joyful in your company of God’s servants.” Sweat glistened on Avelina’s forehead in the reflected light. “I know Father Eliduc expressed doubts that Tyndal Priory could entertain our queen. After he spoke with the novice master this morning about this
Play of Daniel,
he has grown quite enthusiastic.” Avelina smiled. “I have rarely seen him so excited by anything. He reminds me of my son when he was a little boy and was given a toy trebuchet!”

Eleanor bowed her head, a gesture that suggested humility while hiding her delight in surprising her adversary. “With his joy, the good priest reminds us that God is always generous when simple hearts honor Him with well-intended offerings,” she murmured, “even if they do lack worldly elegance.” And, she prayed with some apprehension, may Brother John’s art not disappoint this priest who bowed more to kings than he bent knees to God.

Avelina swallowed several times and then bent forward to gaze down into the nave. “Father Eliduc told me that this rendering of
Daniel
would not be as rustic as he feared.”

The prioress nodded modestly in acceptance of the compliment. Concerning his work with the novice choir, Brother John was as self-effacing as his vocation demanded. Brother Thomas balanced this humility with high praise. Although she herself had little understanding of music, other than to take pleasure in the reverent joy it brought her spirit, she believed her monk knew far more about the subject. After all, he had heard the finest choirs in London churches before he took a monk’s vows.

Suddenly her heart suffered a familiar ache. How she missed Brother Thomas. His absence had cooled her wretched longing to couple with him, but she also missed his wit and insight, pleasures that gave her a more chaste joy.

Curtailing further thoughts of the auburn-haired monk, she prayed that Eliduc would not be dissatisfied after he saw
Ludus Danielis
and quickly turned her attention back to the small group of men below.

Father Eliduc now stood alone. In the beam of dusty sunlight, his robe had taken on the hue of burned wood. All but the crowner kept their distance from the priest, and even Ralf stood several feet away.

How strange, Eleanor thought, and wondered if they had stepped back out of respect for the priest’s status as envoy from the queen or whether they shared her almost primordial unease in the man’s company. She shook the question away and studied the others who had come to watch this play.

There were lay brothers and monks, all to be expected, and several in secular dress as well. Although Eleanor recognized the religious, the others were unknown to her and thus not from the village. One man balanced on a crutch; another had a large poultice wrapped around the back of his neck. They must have walked from the priory hospital.

If the crippled and suffering could find the strength to come here, surely she could set aside her own troubling concerns. There was much to learn from this Daniel tale, Eleanor thought, and she should open her spirit to the lessons, rather than brood over murder, lust, and the whims of worldly creatures. Leaning back in her chair, she willed herself to relax and eagerly waited to see what Brother John had created.

No matter what Father Eliduc thought of it, Eleanor knew the performance would be special for the faithful in both Tyndal Priory and village.
The Play of Daniel
was a favorite, traditionally performed during the season of Christ’s birth, but it had not been done here since Eleanor had become prioress. Although she had been told how much Brother John’s choir delighted all several years ago, those novices had grown into men, their clear voices cracking, and the monks who sang in deeper tones had died. If Queen Eleanor was truly coming to Tyndal at the time announced, it was propitious that the choir master had again found that combination of voices he wanted to best portray the contrast between virtue and iniquity.

Quickly glancing around the nun’s gallery, she decided there was not a better place for the queen to see the drama than here. Although it was now only used by the nuns on those rare occasions when the entire priory and village came together, the prioress believed that the location was a special favor to women.

When the monks performed the
Quem quaeritis
at Easter, the sound of their voices rose with especial power and resonated in her ears like the voices of angels, not mortals. When she had spoken of her experience with Prior Andrew, he confessed he might have felt like a real witness to the empty tomb with the Marys on Easter morning, but he had not heard the voices as she had.

The ringing of hand bells and the mellow tones of a recorder brought silence to those in the church.

A hooded monk walked out of a side chapel and stood, head bowed, in the center of the nave. Behind him, two youths appeared with a chair, placed it to the monk’s right, and quickly disappeared.

“It is about to start,” the prioress whispered.

Avelina moved to the edge of her chair, and Sister Anne slipped forward to stand behind her prioress.

The monk raised his head and began to speak, each word of his deep voice resounding with a cornet’s clarity throughout the church.

“He tells the tale in our language,” Avelina murmured.

“So that the meaning of the story may be understood by all, not just the religious who can follow the Latin in the choral songs,” the prioress said. “See! Here comes the novice choir.”

The high, bright voices of the young boys blended with the eager joy of the hand bells and the warmth of a recorder as the choir walked through the nave from the back of the church. Following behind were four monks, their deep voices lending both gravity and foreboding to the celebratory processional. Brother John, at the very end, carried a simple scepter to indicate he was meant to be King Belshazzar.

Avelina clasped her hands together as the novice master sat in the chair and waved his hand.

From the left chapel, two boys emerged, one raising a golden chalice and the other a glittering platter as they approached the king’s throne. When they placed them on the ground at his feet, two deep-voiced singers rejoiced that the sacred vessels from Jerusalem’s desecrated temple had become mere ornaments for the royal table.

Awestruck, Avelina looked at Eleanor.

“The plate belongs to the priory,” the prioress whispered. Brother John had welcomed the offer to use them in the play, and they both hoped the items might finally be cleansed of their sad origin by performing this sacred role as vessels from Jerusalem’s holiest site. They had been bought at the time when a former sub-prior had almost destroyed the priory with his greed for the flashing plate. That had also been a time when blood stained the cloister garth and Brother John had been accused of murder.

Suddenly the scene below froze in place. All song ceased. From the right chapel, two shadowy figures appeared and unfurled a banner that stretched behind the king’s chair. On it were embroidered the words:
Mane, Thechel, Phares.

Avelina gasped.

Recovering from the fright herself, Eleanor was delighted. She would congratulate Brother John on that chilling touch.

After the magi failed to interpret the meaning, the moment came that the prioress had been eager to see: the queen’s processional and her speech to the king.

Accompanied by the choir, the tinkling of hand cymbals, and the softness of a harp, a young novice, his amice unfolded and draped over his head to represent a woman’s veil, approached the king and began to sing in such sweet tones that Eleanor almost wept. Even if Queen Eleanor did not find favor in this, she knew God would.

Avelina leaned toward Eleanor. “Belshazzar’s queen is finely portrayed! Our own noble lady should be delighted. Is it not a wife’s duty, when her lord husband strays from virtue, to bring him back to the path of righteous acts?” Then she sat back, her hands folded prayerfully.

Overjoyed herself with the singing, Eleanor was pleased that the play had so far met with Avelina’s approval. Even though she worried about Father Eliduc’s final judgement, the performance seemed to be gaining strong support from this lady-in-waiting.