Priscilla Royal - Valley of Dry Bones

“A short man might stretch in moonlight or shoulders grow with adjacent shadows. Large men rarely shrink.”

“Agreed, but I do not think the priest is the one you seek. Although the baron was fat, he would have been more than a match for a man as small as Father Eliduc. I think we must look for a stronger killer.”

“Prior Andrew?”

“Why name that good soul?”

“Your prioress said one priory inhabitant had cause to hate the baron. As I told you, she refused to name him. Since then, I have heard rumors that your prior has had himself shut up in a cell to serve penance for sin.”

“If he has done so and the same person killed the baron and Kenard, Prior Andrew is innocent.”

“As I most certainly hope. I must confirm that the prior remains locked away with no opportunity to leave the cell.” Ralf picked up a stick and ran it through the earth like a small plow. “Why did no one send for me when Nute remembered this detail?”

Thomas smiled. “He admires you, Crowner, and longs for you to think well of him. When he told Signy that he was afraid you would call him a worthless creature for not recalling all he saw at first, she advised him to tell me and I would convey the message.”

“Signy cannot believe I would be so cruel with the boy.” Ralf looked hurt. “She knows I understood he might summon up further details later.”

“She does. By having Nute talk to me, she also hoped he would finally lose his fear of the terrifying Hermit of Tyndal. That was her motive in handling this as she did. You must admit she achieved what she wanted. Did you not get the information quickly enough?”

The crowner nodded, then forced the stick deeper into the earth. It snapped, and he frowned with continued unhappiness.

Two birds argued in the trees overhead. Below them, a fish leapt out of the stream for an insect, then splashed back into the water.

Thomas shifted his weight. “Are you sure one man murdered both the baron and the servant?”

Ralf blinked, then swatted at a persistent fly. “Why do you ask?”

“The baron had his throat slit. The servant was poisoned. The first at night. The next in broad daylight. One victim is a man of rank, the other a servant. Two different methods. Two different times. Two different…” He fell silent and squinted at the treetops as if looking for guidance.

“You seek consistency where there need not be any.”

“Both required planning.” Thomas shook his head. “These crimes were not committed because a man was in the wrong place at an unfortunate time like some wealthy merchant meeting with a band of outlaws as he traveled through a forest. There is reason hiding behind each act. The logical link between them eludes me.”

“This killer is surely a courtier, monk, and men like that love intrigue and clever plotting.”

“Courtiers are still men, and men follow patterns.” He pulled at his beard as if the hair annoyed him. “We know Baron Otes had many enemies. How had Kenard offended?”

The crowner grunted, then fell silent.

***

Thomas watched Ralf walk away and down the road toward the priory. “Weary,” he whispered. Every muscle in his body felt unbearably leaden with fatigue. Leaning against the wall of the hut, he went limp and let the weight of his body pull him to the ground.

“Perhaps it will rain later,” he said as he stared at the promising cloud wisps that were stretching white fingers across the sky. At least summer rains cooled a man’s body for a short while, even if they left the air heavy with damp afterward.

Turning his head, he looked into the hut and saw that Simon remained stretched out on the floor in front of the altar. As a monk, he should be overjoyed he had been able to convert the young man from bedding women and playing in tournaments to serving God. Instead, he feared he had created a monster, more likely to be a better servant of the Prince of Darkness than he had been as some thoughtless youth.

He had meant well by telling Simon how he had striven, in the service of his Order and prioress, to discover God’s more perfect justice and how worldly sins should be treated under it. In doing so, he had hoped to teach the youth compassion, charity, and a way to find peace.

Instead, he had seen the lad’s eyes begin to glow with sharp fire, and, when the youth threw himself on the floor in front of the altar and began to twist, buck, and moan, Thomas knew he was not witnessing holy ecstasy. The act might look godly. It stank of evil.

Had Sir Fulke not arrived when he did, the monk feared he would have fled the hut and run until he collapsed from exhaustion. If some wild and ravenous creature had come upon him then, he might have prayed for a quick descent to Hell and blessed the beast for killing him.

Mercifully, the sheriff’s grief had calmed him. With growing compassion, he learned how deeply this man loved a wife whom he called good, but whose health now prevented her from welcoming him to her bed. Although Thomas knew that Fulke’s tears must taste more of ale than salt, he had believed his sorrow and took pains to soothe him. The monk had not found a way to heal himself, but his heart understood how deeply both body and soul ached when lust could not find comfort in permitted love. Even if his own wounds might still bleed, he had learned the right words to console other men.

So he had sent Sir Fulke on his way back to the priory with knees as sore as his head from long prayer and much guidance. Perhaps the sheriff would return home a kinder husband and a better man.

Then, as the sound of Simon chanting incomprehensible prayers grew louder, Thomas begged God to keep the monster he had created out of good intentions from wreaking havoc on the world.

Eleanor settled into her chair, gripped her staff of office, and begged God for wisdom. Quickly glancing to her right, she took comfort in knowing Sister Anne stood close by. At least she had had time to confer with her before this meeting, and the company of her dearest friend never failed to give her courage.

Not that she minded discussing matters with Ralf, but she must treat that eldest brother, standing next to the crowner, with care. Sir Fulke, for all his evident disinterest in local crime, was highly enough placed at court to cause problems for her, Ralf, and even her own family if he was sufficiently offended.

“Kenard’s body rests safely in the hospital chapel,” she began. “There the corpse has been more carefully examined in the presence of Crowner Ralf.” She nodded at Fulke. “I hope this has met with your approval, my lord sheriff.”

“It has.” Fulke stood, legs slightly apart and arms folded.

Although the sheriff had reminded her earlier of some bright-feathered rooster, today he resembled a more bedraggled fowl. What had kept him awake all night was probably ale and not a fox. She hoped this had not made him more contrary.

Eleanor turned to Ralf. “What have you learned from your study of the corpse, Crowner?” Or rather what has our sub-infirmarian found, she amended in silence, and was grateful that he respected Sister Anne’s knowledge enough not only to listen but seek her advice.

“There were no signs of violence on his body, nor any other indication of struggle. His skin was mottled with red patches. His pupils were enlarged. He had vomited and had also drooled a great deal, staining his clothes. This suggests poison. Although the wineskin nearby was almost empty, there was enough left to find bits of leaves in it. The vomit contained the same. All this suggests Kenard drank wine mixed with a lethal dose of leaves from a plant called Lily of the Valley.” Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at Anne.