Priscilla Royal - Justice for the Damned

Sincerity colors that speech, Thomas decided. "Are there any strangers in town or at the priory, Master Bernard? Might the phantom be found amongst them?"

"Our town is known for hospitality, else we would not have this well-stocked inn, nor is the priory ungenerous to travelers. There are always strangers here, but they come and go. A few in their late years have made accommodation with the priory for care in exchange for lands or other wealth, but I cannot see any silver-haired man or his hunched dame playing a cruel spirit that beheads innocent men."

"No younger strangers who have shown a special interest in the priory?"

"Other than you, Brother? Nay."

"And I but long to learn more of the Evil One's devious ways!" The monk folded his hands and lowered his eyes. "Does anyone local have a quarrel with the monks and nuns there?"

Bernard snorted and quickly swallowed his cup of wine. "You are looking at the only man who might."

Thomas' eyes widened with hope.

The glover rose hastily from his seat. "I have grown too merry, Brother, and must seek my bed. Morning comes early for those of us who live by trade, and gloves need a steady hand at stitching if they are to please a woman's critical eye."

"Nay, not yet!" Thomas reached out in genuine supplication. "Your words have struck fear in my heart. If this priory has brought grief to mortals, I question whether I dare approach the gates without meeting with evil spirits."

"Do not be alarmed. My remark was but a common complaint amongst men who have no wives but see so many eligible women encloistered. Take my words as the poor jests they were. The wine made me forget that becoming a nun is a holier choice than wedding a man like me."

"I hope one of those who chose God did not betray your hopes…"

The glover shoved the nearly full wine pitcher toward Thomas. "I will not offend your ears with the meaningless speech of a sinful man, Brother. Please finish this and remember me in your prayers." With that, he dropped a coin into the monk's hand, bowed, and disappeared through the crowd.

Thomas hit the table with clenched fist. "I have let myself be fooled by a boyish face," he growled. "I should have pressed him harder. Surely this glover has some quarrel with the priory. Does it involve a woman?" He stared at the coin the man had donated to him. It was not the meager offering of those given to the token gestures of superficial faith. "No one who fears for his soul, like this man may, plans to steal a nun for his bed. Nay, if Master Bernard and Sayer have some plot together, it must mean profit for them both. After all, the glover is a merchant and the roofer is a rogue."

Growing gloomy with frustration, the monk tilted the pitcher and contemplated the large quantity of wine remaining. Quickly, he downed what was in his cup, poured another, and listened to the raucous joyfulness that filled Amesbury's best hostel.

Had Thomas been possessed of a more selfish nature, he might have viewed such merry crowds with envy. Were he a man of greater faith, he would have leapt upon this table and screamed abuse at the people, describing how they would look as they tottered on the maw of Hell. He was neither, however, and all he could feel was distance from any kind of happiness, a profound melancholy that he blamed only on himself.

"I have failed," he muttered, finishing the wine he had just poured and replenishing his cup. Now that the glover had escaped him, he felt defeated and did not know what he should do next. Without a clear purpose to occupy his thoughts, Thomas grew increasingly uneasy sitting in the inn. "I should never have come here," he said to his crudely wrought mazer.

In his days as a clerk, he had often partaken of an inn's particular joys. The darkness of his prison may have dimmed the shimmering lure of enjoyable ale and willing women, but Thomas would never pretend his past had been other than what it was or that he had become a monk as penance. Perhaps, he thought with some bitterness, he was too sober to find the women here as attractive as they had seemed when he and Giles had shared them.

He finished the cup, poured another, then another, and tried to force such memories away. He did not succeed. With the energy of some dark will, the past roared back into his soul. Even his normally quiescent flesh had inexplicably hardened, mocking his long impotence.

Thomas summoned the serving wench. With only a brief glance at the coin in his open hand, she put another pitcher in front of him. He drank deeply.

A voice began to hiss in his ear. Was it his dead father? "No son of mine would ever release his seed in another man's body," it echoed with contempt. Thomas shook his head and the voice faded, replaced by laughter. Surely that belonged to the Prince of Darkness.

"We haven't seen any of your vocation for some time, Brother."

Thomas looked up.

The innkeeper stood over him. As the man bent his head in the direction of a woman beside him, his grin seemed unnaturally wide.

Thomas turned his head carefully from one side to the other. "I am a monk," he enunciated carefully.

The pair disappeared.

He finished his cup and poured more from the new pitcher. A soft wall was slowly surrounding him, and the noise of the inn began to fade. The wine was acting like a balm on the deep bruises in his soul. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, the world was muted, blessedly so.

Thomas looked into his cup. He should not be drinking like this. Did he think he was still some boyish clerk, unburdened by a man's responsibility? Whatever his pain, honor was at stake. Both his prioress and his spy master had set him tasks, and he had given his word that he would carry them out. Maybe he had learned nothing from Master Bernard, but surely there were other men here with looser tongues. He shoved the pitcher away and focused his aching eyes on the figures in front of him.

Many in the crowd had grown quite cheerful with drink. In one corner, several sang with ragged harmony. Despite the press of bodies, with little room for privacy, two men sat nearby, heads almost touching as they spoke with some apparent urgency.

What were they talking about? Women? Thievery? Crops? Were any of them plotting to steal the Amesbury Psalter?

Thomas sat forward and pretended to sip his wine. Could he ease himself toward the pair and listen in on what they were saying? If he heard something of interest, how could he join them?

He swore under his breath. Even if he posed as a wayward monk, and a drunken one at that, he would learn nothing. Like the red-faced man who had mocked him when he first arrived, these men would never treat him like a fellow. Instead, they would surround him, taunting with ribald jests, pressing and grabbing at him, jabbing their fingers…

"God save me!" he gasped as reawakened pain and humiliation raged through his soul like flames shot from Hell. Grabbing the pitcher, he threw back his head and gulped the wine, praying that would extinguish the inferno, but the fire seemed unquenchable. He set the empty jug down and, trembling, covered his face with his hands.

He knew he must leave, but he could not move. Satan had stunned his will. Thomas tilted the pitcher back once more. It was empty. He dropped it. In despair, he tried to pray, but his charred soul had grown numb with tortured memories.

A hand pushed a tankard of ale toward him, and a man slid onto the bench beside him.

"I am pleased to see you here, Brother, and quite admire your cleverness in discovering a way out of the priory." Sayer's face was red, his look unfocused.

God had most assuredly forsaken him. "Nor am I surprised to find you," Thomas replied softly.

The young man gestured at a nearby serving wench. "You can do better than that one," he said. "Every man has her."