Priscilla Royal - Valley of Dry Bones

“Sibely thrives, and Gytha comes often enough to spoil her should my child lack any attention from this fond father or from the gentle maid who tends her.”

Thomas nodded with relief. Although Ralf’s dead wife had never won the crowner’s heart, she had given him a child he adored. The monk was grateful no tragedy had struck the wee babe.

“It is Fulke’s visit.” Grabbing his clothes, the crowner tugged them on with angry impatience. “Methinks he plans another marriage for me.” His voice was taut with fury.

“Are you so set against it? Having a mother of her own might be a wise thing for your daughter. However much Gytha loves her, she will surely marry, bear children of her own, and have less time for Sibely. The nurse may wed as well. She is a local lass and, with what you pay her, she must have lads preening like cocks at her door.”

“Satan’s tits!” Ralf snatched up a rock and hurled it at the closest tree. Bark exploded off the trunk from the force of the impact.

Awaiting an explanation for the outburst, Thomas said nothing.

“I did Fulke’s bidding once,” the crowner growled. “If I do take another wife, I shall wed as I choose.”

Sir Fulke paced like an anxious fox seeking refuge from a pack of hounds. Where were those lay brothers who swore they’d stable the horses, then return to take the party to the guest quarters? Although the men had appeared once to serve the Lady Avelina, they had long since vanished.

Now that the requisite words of courtesy had been spoken and graceful bows executed with that horde of religious gathered to greet the queen’s party, Fulke was impatient to be freed from this company of courtiers, none of whom he liked. He had been traveling for much too long and itched from the dust that had bonded firmly with his sticky flesh. Today the hot ride had been made interminable because Baron Otes had insisted on retreating into the bushes for lengthy prayer.

“Or more likely relief of his leaden bowels,” he muttered. Rubbing his neck, the sheriff winced. In addition to everything else, his skin was burned raw by the sun.

To further befoul his mood, Fulke had a proposal he must present to his youngest brother, a conversation he dreaded. Of the three brothers, Ralf was the contrary one, prone to resisting any reasonable plan and possessed of a tongue that was sharp and profane. The sheriff longed to complete the unpleasant task as quickly as possible. Although the queen’s business with Tyndal Priory might be amicably settled in the time between Sext and dinner, the discussion with his youngest brother promised to sour Fulke’s stomach for days.

Growing ever more disgusted with this long wait, he scrutinized the priory grounds. If the lay brothers did not return soon, he might seek out the fish ponds, strip, and wade around to cool his reddened flesh. If nothing else, the sight of his naked body splashing companionably with the evening meal might force either prior or prioress to find those errant lay brothers. He grinned with impudent pleasure.

Then he looked at the walls of the priory, darkly stained with stubborn moss, and lost even that brief joy. “The only things thriving in this place are rot and mold,” he muttered to his sweating horse. “In this heat, the ponds have surely gone dry, and all fish must long be dead.”

His eyes stung, his head ached, and his heart filled with hatred for this vile land. He had lost nothing by leaving behind the noxious fogs, plagues of biting insects, brutal storms, and pervasive mold. Since boyhood, he had hated the fens and the sea. His nights had often been filled with sweet dreams of escape.

Glaring at the earth beneath his feet, Fulke grudgingly acknowledged he was grateful Ralf had taken on the position of crowner here. While his brother handled all those trifling matters of local justice in this forsaken mud hole, Fulke was free to stay at court and further family interests. Ralf was not only tolerant of East Anglian winter mire and the thick summer air, he seemed to like it. A modicum of fond appreciation for this insolent brother slipped into Fulke’s heart. It was just as quickly chased away.

After all, his rough brother was possessed of little subtlety, less tact, and was far better suited to examining rotting corpses and hunting down lawless men. Fulke might own the title of sheriff, but he cared nothing about assessed fines, unless the money came from his own coffers, or whether a man, other than one of his villeins, was murdered or died by accident. Why should he waste his talents on these matters when he could play the intricate political games at the king’s court and thereby increase family land and wealth?

Unfortunately, the question reminded him of the matter he must discuss with prickly Ralf. He rubbed his eyes and groaned.

“You are troubled, my lord?”

Turning to see Father Eliduc nearby, Fulke swallowed a curse. The fellow made him uneasy.

The man in black smiled.

Could the creature read thoughts? Fulke instinctively shut his eyes to protect his soul. Maybe this man was no priest at all, but rather Satan’s liegeman instead of God’s. For an instant, the sheriff hoped that was the case and wondered if God would forgive him if he throttled Eliduc.

The priest’s left eyebrow twitched upward.

Despite the heat, Fulke shivered and quickly replied, “I was only thinking about how we should proceed on this visit for the benefit of our queen.” In silence he prayed that both words and tone were sufficiently bland to prevent any discomfiting interpretation.

The priest folded his hands and bowed his head.

Although the gesture was innocuous enough, the sheriff’s throat went dry. He looked away. What was it about this man that made him want to flee? Fulke had met many other priests who served mighty Church lords, dressed in soft robes, and rode fine horses. This one was different. What was it? Inhaling deeply, he realized that, despite the hot journey, Father Eliduc did not even stink like a mortal man.

“Ah!”

Startled, Fulke gasped.

Eliduc nodded at something behind the sheriff. “Young Simon comes nigh.” His tone was edged with warning.

Angry to be caught off-guard, the sheriff knew his face had flushed. Vulnerability in a man was a failing for which Fulke felt contempt. In himself, he despised it even more. Spinning around, he frowned at the approaching youth and snapped, “What problem do you have?”

“My mother begs a mercy of you, my lords. A frail woman, she has been wearied by the long journey and begs that the queen’s business be delayed until tomorrow.”

Although normally amenable to the needs of Eve’s delicate daughters, the sheriff found this plea too much for his brittle patience and glared at the youth, willing him to tremble.

Simon glowered back.

Fulke clenched his teeth. Traitor’s whelp! Surely King Edward’s queen had other priests, nobles, and ladies who were capable of confirming proper lodging along the pilgrimage route. Why had he been cursed with the leadership of such an ill-assorted and ill-favored party, and why had Queen Eleanor even chosen to stop at this remote priory when Norwich was near enough? He bit back a spirited oath.

Father Eliduc smiled with benevolence at the young man. “Please assure your mother that we will wait on the morrow. I will come visit her soon for prayer and shall beg God to grant her a good night’s rest. I am sure the priory fare will also help to renew her strength.”

Simon nodded with due reverence at the priest’s response and started to turn away. Suddenly he stopped and spat on the hoof of Fulke’s horse. Without even a glance at the sheriff, he marched off with an arrogant swagger in the direction of the guest quarters.