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  “Then God has blessed you with a pious lad.”

  “The request was most unexpected, I fear. Until now, he has longed only to fight and perform brave deeds like some mythical knight so I hid my surprise and expressed pleasure over this sudden interest.” She sighed. “In truth, I would be happy if he did find a calling to serve God.”

  “He is not your eldest then?” Eleanor struggled to remember if her father had mentioned how many children were in this family and failed to bring such details to mind.

  “He is my only living son who faces an empty legacy. Surely you know that my lord was an early follower of de Montfort? The earl honored us by agreeing to be our son’s godfather and for this reason my son is also named Simon. The honor turned bitter when my husband was declared a traitor after his death at Evesham. All his lands and title were forfeited to the crown, and so my boy has little inheritance and less honor.”

  The prioress grieved she had humiliated the lady by making her recount a tale that must bring her sorrow. Although the prioress never intended cruelty, she attempted to ease any pain by adding, “You now serve Queen Eleanor and must have her confidence for she sent you here on her behalf. Perhaps she will help your son recover what his father lost. Others in similar circumstances have won back their lands.”

  “I am honored to wait upon our king’s lady wife and do so only because my kin were all loyal to the crown. Had my family not fought for King Henry, my son and I might have starved. The old king, at the urging of his brother, showed charity. I was allowed to keep a few manors to support us.”

  Eleanor was unable to read Avelina’s expression, muted as it was by soft shadows, and wondered if it betrayed bitterness over the past or pride that she had gained favor despite her husband’s unfortunate allegiance. “Your own fidelity is unquestioned,” she said, bending forward with a gentle smile after deciding to emphasize the woman’s trustworthiness.

  Had Avelina’s husband rejected de Montfort when the Lord Edward finally did, matters would have been quite different for this family. The new king himself had a history of flickering loyalties, and Eleanor’s eldest brother, Sir Hugh, had followed his direction no matter which way Lord Edward had twisted and turned. Her brother suffered no ill and had even been knighted in Outremer by the king.

  “How old is your son?” Eleanor shifted the subject away from these painful matters.

  Apparently less discomfited by the unhappy topic than the prioress had thought, the Lady Avelina went on. “The boy was but a babe in arms at his sire’s death and innocent of any treason,” she said. “I have hoped Queen Eleanor would approach the king on my behalf and persuade him to restore both land and title even though I know the possibility is remote.” She brightened. “So you can understand my happiness were Simon to declare that his soul longed to serve the Church.” Pressing a hand to her heart, she added with greater enthusiasm, “And I think it most likely that our queen could convince King Edward to arrange some profitable living for my boy!”

  “I shall pray for an honorable and just conclusion to this matter.”

  Avelina bowed her head with the required gratitude.

  Eleanor sat back. Perhaps she would try again to raise the subject of Baron Otes, since the lady seemed content enough to talk about the past. “Evesham was a cruel battle, for cert. My own father suffered a horrible wound, as did Prior Andrew. Of those who accompanied you on this journey, I have heard that Baron Otes fought there as well, although not, I believe, Sir Fulke.”

  “Many on both sides did suffer.” Avelina looked away. ”Their names fade from memory over the years, except in the hearts of the survivors.” She fell silent and picked at the quilt.

  Eleanor slowly raised her mazer and sipped. What path should she now take? This time, Avelina had clearly avoided talking about the baron. Were she to pursue this subject, the prioress feared she might cause offence.

  Like the Trinity, three was a sacred number, and so she decided to try a third time. If the lady showed annoyance, she would quickly turn to another subject. “The war brought a few to God,” Eleanor said. “Prior Andrew took vows when he regained health, and I have heard Baron Otes was making gifts of land in exchange for prayers on behalf of his soul.”

  It was unclear whether the lady coughed or snorted with disdain. “So I have heard. A leper house in Yorkshire, I believe. Nor shall his sons suffer from these bequests. He will leave them prosperous enough.”

  At least Avelina had responded, and she did not seem upset over the land gifts as Father Eliduc had. Even if the mention of the baron’s charitable donations had provoked her mild contempt, that reaction was no different than what many others had expressed.

  Eleanor pressed on, hoping to learn something of interest if not of obvious value. “For all his charity, he died violently. I marvel at that and grieve as well.”

  Avelina stiffened. “His reputation may not have reached your ears at Tyndal Priory. He was not well-loved. The wonder may be that no one killed him long ago. I can only conclude he died now because of an accidental meeting with some brigand.”

  “How had he offended?” Eleanor crafted an innocent look.

  Avelina matched her effort. “Do not men always find a cause over which to quarrel? We women are often left in ignorance of their reasons.”

  Nodding, Eleanor kept her tone light. “Were there arguments on the journey?”

  “Considering some of the inns we stayed in,” Avelina replied with equal levity, “I could not have heard a battle over the noise of animals and ruder men, let alone hot words between a pair of them. I know nothing of disagreements. During the day, we spoke little. What energy the heat left us was used to endure the long ride.” She sat back and frowned.

  Eleanor sensed there would be no further discussion of Otes. All this conversation had accomplished was to bring the prioress back to her first concern about any link between Father Eliduc and the land offered to Tyndal.

  Otes had possibly offered the gift to several religious leaders to see which man offered his soul the best terms for escaping Purgatory. To Eleanor’s mind, no land had such high value that possession of it was worth committing murder. Then she scolded herself for being a fool. Others would disagree about killing over a bit of fertile earth, and she had been wrong before in making similar conclusions.

  So the priest again became a foremost suspect, and Eleanor found herself still uncomfortable with the conclusion. Eliduc might suffer from worldly ambition, but, for all his flaws, she did believe he feared God too much to utterly damn his soul.

  There was far more to learn, and Eleanor suspected she must seek elsewhere for answers. In fact, Lady Avelina might not know much more that was pertinent. Even if she did, the prioress doubted she would dare question the lady more closely in this matter that rightfully belonged to the king’s justice.

  “Such earthly concerns!” the prioress said with proper dismay over her weakness in gossiping. “I came, not to speak of such sad matters, rather to offer some relief to you. I fear the journey here has unbalanced your humors.”

  “You have the right of it,” Avelina responded. “I am no longer a young woman and long journeys require rest.” She gestured to a small vial on a table nearby, next to which sat a mortar and pestle. “I do have a tonic which will revive me. When I am ready to sleep, Kenard prepares it. I usually awaken to find myself improved the next day. After so many days, the relief does take longer. My strength will return by tomorrow.”

  “If you or your servant need anything from our herb garden, Sister Anne is an experienced apothecary and can make whatever you might require.”

  Lady Avelina nodded. “Her reputation for skillful treatments has reached the court.”

  “If you would like her to visit and discuss your health, I will send her to you.”

  “I would be grateful for her opinion.”

  “Then she will await your summons, and I shall not fatigue you further.” Eleanor rose. As she turned to leave, she recalled ano
ther matter she meant to mention. “Our novice and choir master had hoped to perform The Play of Daniel for the queen. Father Eliduc wishes to see it, and Brother John readies his choir for a performance. If you are well enough, I would be honored if you joined me in the nuns’ gallery when this occurs. Although undue pride is a sin, I believe Brother John is most talented and that his choir sings like angels must. This enactment of the tale might both entertain and cheer your soul.”

  “I would be delighted!”

  “Then I will let you know when it is to take place and send someone to accompany you to the chapel.”

  Assuring the lady she did not need Kenard to accompany her to the door, Eleanor left the guest quarters, relieved she did not have to see the troubling servant again.

  She may have been disappointed with her failure to get the information she had hoped, but her visit did seem to raise Lady Avelina’s spirits. The invitation to watch The Play of Daniel certainly pleased her. Whatever Eleanor did not accomplish, she had honored the commandment to practice charity.

  Hurrying back to her chambers, the prioress remembered she had promised to call for Brother Beorn. If God is kind, she thought, the matter distressing him will be of minor consequence.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Fulke knelt in the darkest part of the chapel and prayed. Even in these shadows, his head throbbed after that night of drinking.

  If someone offered to chop off the offending part, he might have considered the proposition. Only the state of his soul would have stopped him, a concern that rarely troubled the sheriff except when he was reminded of death. Seeing Baron Otes’ corpse was one of those painful moments.

  “I have sinned,” he muttered, dutifully herding guilt into his heart.

  An insistent hiss of protest rose above the thundering inside his skull. Were his transgressions worse than others? Hadn’t he been less corrupt than most in his situation? He had taken only one substantial bribe, looking the other way when a man paid far less into the king’s treasury than was due.

  Fulke had used that coin to buy a rich, ecclesiastic position for his brother, Odo. Since the money had gone to Church coffers, he deemed it only just that the ultimate beneficiary of the bribe count in his favor and that his deed be cleansed of any wrong.

  Odo had also vowed to pray daily for his elder sibling’s soul in gratitude for the gift. Since his middle brother spent more time lusting over his accounting rolls than he did bending his fat knees in prayer, Fulke had little confidence in the efficacy of that promise.

  Even without Odo’s infrequent intercessions with God, there must surely be less cause for apprehension now that the baron was dead. How would King Edward learn about that one act of corruption? Few had ever known what the sheriff had done, and they were unlikely to reveal the secret.

  The man who had given him the bribe died long ago with neither wife nor sons surviving. Odo had gotten the position he craved and would never endanger his smooth wine, fat meat that crackled on the spit, and the soft pillow on which to kneel at his artfully carved prie-dieu. As for the crowner, his code of honor might be peculiar, but he did have one. Despite his errant ways, Ralf was loyal to family.

  Fulke sat back on his heels and smiled up at the cross on the altar. He had nothing to fear. He was secure in his position as sheriff. The baron’s death was fortunate. Countless men could now sleep easily, and many would bless the man who had killed Otes.

  As for his soul’s more common transgressions, Fulke also grew confident that God would not be too harsh. Muttering contrition for his drunkenness and whoring, the sheriff vowed he would seek the required penance once this unfortunate journey had ended. Briefly, he imagined his wife’s oval face brightened with an approving smile.

  His heart now beating so loud with its celebratory joy, Fulke belatedly became aware of another sound in the chapel: the whisper of soft shoes gliding across the stone floor.

  The sheriff opened one eye and cautiously glanced to his right.

  Father Eliduc moved toward the altar with the lightness of a spirit, his hands raised heavenward with reverence. Slowly he knelt, lowered his head, and began murmuring hushed prayers with a chanting cadence.

  Fulke edged deeper into the shadows, inexplicably fearing the priest had seen him. There is no good reason to care if he had, the sheriff thought, and just as quickly hoped Eliduc had not recognized him.

  Eliduc sighed between prayers.

  Fulke shivered.

  It was irrational to be frightened of this man of God. He could not be some imp in disguise, for no creature from Hell ever wore a cross around his neck. Although Satan was clever in the ways he used to deceive mortals, fallen angels did have their limits. Eliduc must be a true priest.

  Maybe my soul is more troubled with sin when I am in the priest’s presence, Fulke thought. The image of his wife returned, this time scowling. How often he had betrayed her with other women after he was refused her bed. “She is virtuous and kind,” he murmured, swearing he would be a better husband.

  He winced. He could not deceive God. Any vow he made to remain chaste was brittle and therefore he might well have good reason to avoid Eliduc’s company if the man did read thoughts as the sheriff suspected. The more he thought on that, the stronger his sins began to stink like rotting fish.

  Another, darker image came to him next. Might this priest, who wore such vibrant black, be Death’s messenger? Cold sweat was now rolling down the sheriff’s back. Otes was already dead. With Eliduc still here, Death might harvest other souls. And whose might they be?

  Fulke clenched his chattering teeth. Such fears were foolish things, more suitable to old women and little children. Wasn’t he a full-grown man?

  Then a third possibility struck him, one that gave him far greater cause to panic. He covered his face and bent forward until his brow hit the stone floor.

  What if Baron Otes had confided to Father Eliduc all he knew about the corruption that had occurred during the reign of the old king? Whether or not the knowledge was conveyed to the priest as a confession or the simple sharing of information by an uneasy soul, Fulke knew he remained in great danger despite the baron’s death.

  He took a deep breath and calmed himself. Otes only cared for his own advancement. Eliduc played for higher stakes in the struggles for power between the Church and kings. Whereas the baron pondered the value of each man’s secrets as if they were gemstones he might want to purchase, Eliduc had no interest in the individual sin or man, caring only about the value of the aggregate. Even if Eliduc knew all the sheriff had done, the priest would find little of it useful to the Church. Fulke was not powerful enough, and surely Eliduc never dealt in trivial matters.

  Yet there were others who might find benefit in minor secrets. If someone had overheard Otes talking to the priest, Fulke was not as safe as he had assumed.

  Overwhelmed by uncertainty, he began to weep in self-pity. Since his father’s death, the sheriff had devoted his life to increasing family prestige and wealth. The baron might be dead, but Fulke remained in danger of losing rank and all he had struggled to gain. Should the new king chose harsh measures to punish wrongdoers, he might also be stripped of his freedom or even his life.

  After some time, Fulke’s tears did cease. When he looked around, Father Eliduc had disappeared.

  Had he only imagined the priest was here? God might have sent the man’s image as a fearsome reminder to Fulke that his sins were many and grievous.

  Once again the sheriff’s teeth began to chatter as if he had been struck with an ague.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Why did you flee from Crowner Ralf?” Thomas shoved a roughly cut, wooden mazer of ale across the table toward Simon.

  “I did not want to talk to him.”

  Although the youth covered his eyes with a weary gesture, Thomas suspected the act was feigned and meant to hide a forthcoming lie. He waited for it.

  “The world and mortal men trouble me.” Simon sighed. “Must I
give any other reason for my flight?” He gave the monk a quick look, gauging the effect of his words.

  Thomas raised an eyebrow.

  “The wicked roar of men’s sinful voices drowns out His direction.”

  Although the monk knew the young man must have come to the hermitage for some reason, he did not believe Simon was possessed by any sincere religious longing. Had Thomas seen any indication of a soul tormented over issues of faith, he would have sent Simon to the priory to speak with men better suited to advise him. Whatever troubled the youth, the monk also doubted the problem was the comparatively simple issue of unbearable lust.

  In his years at Tyndal, Thomas had learned about a vast range of vices, some horrible, others touching in their innocence, and a few even amusing, albeit embarrassing to the sinner. There was little left to shock him, and he was growing impatient for Simon to get on with what he needed to confess. Thomas may have felt obliged to offer lodging to truth-seekers. Simon’s annoying presence had begun to outweigh the value of the charity.

  “I do not believe you want to hear God’s voice.” The monk softened his gruff tone by offering more ale.

  Simon blinked and turned his head so his eyes did not meet the monk’s. “I do seek counsel.”

  “That, I believe.” Deciding to hurry the revelation, Thomas returned to the previously admitted problem, hoping that had been the first step in Simon’s path to confessing his purpose. “Hesitate not to admit the full power of your lust. God knows all men struggle with desire, especially the young.” As he watched the youth turn pale, he wondered if the cause of the young man’s disquiet was truly this simple.

  Thomas remembered what he had been like at Simon’s age, a time of comparative innocence, yet one filled with fear of his own body. There were countless times he and Giles had confided their lust-filled dreams, the irresistible longing to pleasure themselves for relief, and how powerless they had felt to resist temptation. So driven were they by Satan’s prickings that days went by when they seemed incapable of anything except copulating, sleeping, and eating enough to keep up their strength to satisfy the sexual craving.