Priscilla Royal - Valley of Dry Bones

The sheriff reached for his sword.

The priest laid a hand on his arm. “This is God’s land, Sir Fulke. Remember Simon’s youth and circumstances. Forgive, as He requires.” Even if Eliduc’s tone was soft, there was sharp iron in his meaning. Then he nodded to the sheriff and followed after Avelina’s son.

Slamming his weapon back into its scabbard, Fulke tried to regain calm by repeating to himself that Simon could strut all he wanted. Nothing would change the young cur’s lack of standing in the world despite his mother’s best efforts. Were it not for Lady Avelina’s pitiful living from those dower lands she had retained, he would not even have food to put into his impertinent mouth or clothes to cover his skinny nakedness.

Simon was fortunate his mother’s family had wisely supported King Henry throughout the de Montfort rebellion. After the youth’s father was slain at the earl’s side in the battle at Evesham, the king had taken away all lands and the title, leaving Simon with nothing. The only inheritance passed on to the boy was the shame of a dishonorable sire, the curse of having Simon de Montfort for a godfather, and that traitor’s name. The thought almost made Fulke smile.

These facts meant more to the sheriff than any demands for Christian charity. This once he would refrain from striking the lad’s head with the flat of his sword for the insult of spitting on his horse. He might not be so charitable should Simon dare to defy him again.

Voices interrupted Fulke’s thoughts and he looked up.

Two lay brothers walked toward him.

“At last you have come,” Fulke said, making sure his annoyance was evident to the approaching men.

A louder voice grew more demanding.

The lay brothers abruptly changed direction and went to Baron Otes.

While the baron roared for assistance, his servant gestured frantically at the horse. The pitiful beast did look as if its legs were ready to buckle.

Nodding their understanding, the lay brothers eased Otes out of his saddle with deliberate care. Soon, the nobleman’s feet were firmly settled on God’s earth.

The horse snapped at his former rider. The gesture was indifferent and missed its mark by a foot.

Otes jumped away with impressive alacrity.

Had Fulke not been so exasperated, he might have laughed. “The animal should have bitten him,” he fumed. “And if God were merciful, the wound would have festered. Satan could have had his company then and the horse my blessing.”

As if he had overheard Fulke, the baron looked up, caught the sheriff’s eye, and stared like a hawk hovering over a mouse.

Fulke willed himself to turn around and focus on the abhorrent moss covering the priory walls behind him. His heart filled with bitterness. Why had the Devil failed to lay claim to the baron’s wicked soul? Or was God to blame for this delay?

He looked heavenward and hissed, “How can You allow the man to live? It would be unjust if one of his victims was hanged for taking revenge because of the baron’s crimes.”

Then terror struck him with an ague. Crossing himself, he wondered whether there was an ominous meaning in the baron’s stare. Perhaps the man had decided it was now Fulke’s turn for destruction.

Anger over the baron’s profitable use of extortion was quickly extinguished by the waters of remorse. As Fulke well knew, it was his own fault for owning a secret this ruthless man could use against him.

Eleanor was deeply troubled. Either the heat had chased away her reason or her heart did have cause to pound so.

Realizing she was panting with exertion, she slowed her determined rush along the path to the hospital and put a hand over her breast. As she took in a deep breath of hot air, the prioress willed her heart to a softer thudding. Then she abruptly halted. Looking across the priory grounds, familiar landmarks shimmered.

Were her eyes bewitched, or was she was going to faint? “You shall not,” she commanded, and her body stiffened like a reprimanded soldier.

She changed direction and left the path, walking at a more moderate pace toward the monks’ cemetery. A visit to the sick might not be wise until she had calmed sufficiently to think more of their needs than her own concerns. Just because Father Eliduc was an unexpected member of the queen’s company, she should not feel such turmoil.

Of course she had cause to distrust him. After discovering how he had lied about the true nature of his visits to Brother Thomas, with piteous tales of the monk’s dying kin, she grew outraged. It was such shameful abuse of her compassion.

She had seen the priest once thereafter and sent him on his way without the slightest tremor of unease. That day, her only emotion was unrepentant glee when she told Eliduc that her monk could not travel this time to care for some sick relative. Brother Thomas had vowed to become the hermit of Tyndal and emulate a desert father because the weight of his sins had become unbearable. Today, the arrival of the priest had inexplicably frightened her.

Eleanor was not so naïve as to think she had ultimately chased him away after his last visit, nor was she so foolish as to conclude that this devious man was less skilled in clever ploys than she. She should not be shocked he had come back to Tyndal. Instead, she must ask the significance of his inclusion with these envoys from the queen. Perhaps the priest’s influence was more extensive than she had imagined. If it extended to the new king and his consort, both she and her family must be wary.

As Eleanor pushed through the tangled grasses, she recalled she was not the only one to react with shock when the queen’s envoys arrived. Prior Andrew had stumbled backward, when the members of the party dismounted to greet Tyndal’s religious, and had even cried out.

Although he claimed to have stepped awkwardly, Eleanor noticed his eyes bulge and his face pale as if he had seen Satan himself. A man who fought at Evesham and survived a near-fatal wound would not respond like this to some lightly sprained ankle. The cause must be deeper. Terror seemed likely.

Unless a man’s secrets posed some threat to her priory, Eleanor was inclined to leave them to the ears of confessors. Andrew might explain later and in private. She doubted it and suspected the reason for his lie was more than an attempt to conceal pain from a lame leg.

Was his reaction also caused by seeing Father Eliduc, or was it brought about by something else? Did Prior Andrew even know the man? She tried to recall if he had met the priest. While still a monk and porter at the gates of Tyndal, he had probably greeted Eliduc. It was odd that the prior had never mentioned this to her.

As she reflected more, there was one incident that seemed unusual. When Father Eliduc came to tell Brother Thomas that his father had died, just before the journey to Amesbury two years ago, Eleanor had offered him the hospitality of Prior Andrew’s quarters. Eliduc quickly refused, claiming another obligation required him to leave Tyndal that day. Since the hour was late and other accommodation some distance away, his excuse struck her as odd. He might have told the truth. Eleanor believed it more likely he had lied.

She would be wise to consider whether the two men did know each other and had cause to keep their acquaintance secret. As she thought more on this, she feared she might have to seek the truth behind Prior Andrew’s outwardly simple lie today after all.

“May God have mercy on me,” Eleanor murmured as a frightening idea struck her. “Surely the good prior is not another spy in my priory.”

She had now arrived at the low stone boundary wall of the cemetery. Before entering, Eleanor banished her new worries about the loyalties of priors and the worldly schemes of priests. These were temporal matters, and she had a vow to honor, one made for the good of her immortal soul.