Priscilla Royal - Chambers of Death

“Nor are honest ones.” Huet turned back to the monk, all merriment dismissed from his expression. “In truth, I took no final vows, Brother. The tonsure has nearly grown out, and a falcon would be jealous of your keen eyes in noticing it.”

“As guest in this manor, I have no cause to pry. That would be poor thanks for charitable hospitality.” Thomas reached his hand out in peace.

Huet took it.

Thomas concluded he could do worse than to respect the cook’s good opinion of the steward’s younger son.

Content that the monk had no wish to condemn her favored lad, Hilda pushed herself from the table. “Then I must find enough chickens for the evening meal, lest Mistress Constance complain next that I am starving the master’s guests.” With that, she departed to seek some aged hens.

“Will you share this with me, Brother?” Huet gestured at what was left of the round loaf. “There is ale as well, and that cheese is dry enough to cry out for some.”

Thomas nodded and cheerfully sat down with the man.

“You honor courtesy by asking no questions, Brother, but I must confide my whole story to my father in due course. Until then, I confess a wicked but delightful pleasure in telling my sister-in-law nothing.” Huet poured the amber liquid into two pottery cups and passed one to the monk. “Despite her oft-repeated abhorrence of any hint of sin, Mistress Constance would take a knife to my soul if she thought she could learn the reasons for my return. In fact, my sins are dull enough, but she is convinced they are so loathsome that I have seen her salivate while imagining the horror.”

Thomas grinned.

“I should not accuse my elder brother’s wife of hypocrisy, for I do believe she honestly fears Hell, but I have oft wondered if she protests the evil in others just a bit too eagerly.” He cut into the cheese wheel and dug out a crumbly orange chunk to offer the monk.

“Does your brother share this eagerness?”

“Ranulf reminds me of our dead mother in his ardent faith, although she chose to follow Our Lord’s more charitable commands. As his example, my brother took the desert fathers. Like them, he roars against sin.”

“I am surprised he did not wish to enter a monastery.”

Huet chuckled. “Ranulf suffers from lust, Brother. He was wise enough to know he must marry for he is incapable of celibacy.”

Remembering the look Mistress Constance gave him, Thomas hoped the wife pleased Ranulf more in the marital bed than the husband obviously satisfied his wife. “I grieve that they have found so little peace in God’s love,” he replied gently.

“And you show more charity than I ever have, Brother. Yet, for all his faults, my brother is kin to whom I owe a dutiful love. Ever since their marriage, however, he has grown more rigid in his ways, a change that I blame on her influence.” He shrugged. “Did you look closely at her beady eyes? I have seen rats with a sweeter gaze. Whenever I meet her, I am transformed into a hunting cat and feel compelled to bat at her like prey.” He bent his fingers into claws and swatted at a piece of bread.

“I heard that!” Hilda marched in from the courtyard and tossed her chosen fowl to a young girl for plucking and gutting. “Be careful, lad, or your father will take you to task for tormenting her,” she said, glancing over her shoulder as she picked up a heavy knife.

“I doubt he’ll pay me much mind, except to demand I prove myself no wastrel despite the abandonment of my studies. My father has enough to worry him with his new wife.” Huet bit his lip as if he had not meant to say the last aloud, especially in a stranger’s hearing.

Although his curiosity was pricked, Thomas pretended to have heard nothing of interest.

“I’ll not make ill comment about Mistress Luce,” the cook snorted, then looked down at one naked bird just placed on the table. She picked it up and tossed it back to the girl. “There are still pin feathers on this! Did I not teach you to singe them? Are you asleep?”

Comparing the woman’s words to her tone, Thomas decided Hilda had been quite artful in expressing an unfavorable opinion of her mistress without the danger of condemnation.

“But your sire has a right to an explanation,” the cook continued, and to add emphasis, she cracked through the joint of a chicken thighbone with a mighty thwack.

“Aye, but I confess I have yet to find the words.”

“Talk to Mistress Maud, then. She’s come to help the mistress and always did have a weakness for you despite your wicked tricks. She’ll find a way for you to soften up the master.”

“Our good cook thinks me awfully bad,” Huet whispered loudly to Thomas.

“Only when he was a boy and would slip into the kitchen to steal bites of my pastry.”

For just a moment, Thomas saw a little boy reflected in the man’s eyes.

“I thought she’d blame the mice,” Huet said.

The cook put her hands on her hips and glared at Huet with mock anger. “Mice have tiny teeth. I know a boy’s mark from that of any rodent!”

Thomas roared with laughter. “I tried that myself as a boy and failed as well!”

“But she never told my mother.” Huet went over to the cook and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

She blushed and quickly grabbed another fowl, whacking it neatly in half with one blow.

“Did your mother die very long ago?”

“What does it matter?” Huet then waved those words aside. “Forgive those callous words, Brother. I should have said that a son may learn to live with the grief, but he never ceases to miss a mother even when he believes her soul must surely be in Heaven.”

For just an instant, Thomas wondered where his own mother’s soul might be and quickly nodded with sympathy.

“Although I encouraged my father to marry again for his comfort and prosperity, I did not like his choice. Mistress Luce is near to my age and nothing like her honored predecessor.” His brow darkened, and he stared at the fireplace where the soup pot continued to bubble with dogged enthusiasm.

Thomas watched him with increasing interest. Although courtesy did forbid questions, he wondered much about this younger son.

Huet looked back at the monk, his melancholy lightening from black to gray. “I have been told that a member of your company is gravely ill, Brother. Although I shall sincerely pray for her recovery, her sickness will require you to stay with us until she has regained health. I confess to some pleasure at the thought of your company.” He tilted his head and now grinned mischievously. “Though I fear you may learn more about this family than you might perhaps wish.”

“No dark secrets, I hope?” Thomas replied in like manner, but he was jesting only in part.

Huet’s smile was equally inexact.

Eleanor awoke with a jolt, but her eyes focused with painful slowness. The light in the room was gray as an old man’s hair, but the steady brightening proved the hour was after dawn rather than that fading grimness of coming night.

All was silent.

Terrified, the prioress jumped up from the bench against the wall and hurried to the bed. Bending over, she put her ear close to Mariota’s almost colorless lips. The girl’s breath was audible and ragged but steady, her skin dry and hot to the touch.

“But alive still,” Eleanor said, anger with herself for falling asleep replacing the fear she had just suffered. At least God had been merciful, and her charge’s soul had not left her frail body during the badly kept watch.

The wooden door creaked open.

“Is all well?” Maud whispered, slipping into the room.

“She sleeps.”

The widow put the back of her hand against the girl’s forehead. “Her fever is still too high. Would you hold her head just so for a moment?” She reached over to a ewer on a stand next to the bed and poured water into the basin. Dampening a cloth, she wrung it out and washed the girl’s face. “We have tried an infusion of masterwort root and hope she will take some barley broth soon when she is alert enough to sip it. I hope that meets with your approval.”