Priscilla Royal - Satan's Lullaby

Ralf cautiously peeked through the shrub branches, then relaxed. “Greetings!” he shouted as the person drew near.

Renaud screamed.

“It is nothing, lad!” Ralf stood up as he called out. “We have no wish to harm you.”

The clerk fell to his knees and raised his hands heavenward.

“What is your purpose in coming here?” Conan picked up his sword, climbed out of the shrubbery, and walked over to the clerk. The blade of his weapon glittered in the moonlight.

Renaud’s mouth opened and shut but no sound came forth.

Conan grabbed him by his robe and dragged him to his feet. “Did the Devil castrate you?” He shook him gently. “If not, speak as a man ought.”

“I have brought an urgent message from Anjou.” The clerk squawked like a chicken.

Conan glared at him, then glanced over his shoulder at the crowner.

Ralf raised his hands, signifying that he saw no cause to question this.

“It is for my master,” Renaud added. His voice still trembled.

Conan let go of the clerk’s robe and gave him a slight shove. “Then go to him,” he said.

Freed, Renaud fled toward the entrance to the quarters.

As they watched the clerk disappear into his master’s chambers, Ralf walked over to join Conan. “Let us pray that Abbess Isabeau has learned that the accusation against Prioress Eleanor and Brother Thomas was fraudulent and has ordered her brother to return immediately to Anjou,” he said and then muttered, “which means that our prioress may release Sister Anne in time for my child’s birth.”

“I shall pray for your wife,” Conan replied.

Ralf looked surprised at this sudden display of piety.

The guard captain grinned, his teeth gleaming in the pale light. “With you as a husband, she needs God’s mercy.”

Ralf jabbed the man’s shoulder with his fist.

Each now satisfied of the other’s innocence, the two fell silent and waited for the expected killer.

The roaring wind from the north continued to slash with icy claws.

The subject of the pilgrim from France had been forgotten.

The room reeked of sweat and candle smoke.

Thomas finished his prayers and glanced over at the murmuring priest beside him.

Perhaps Davoir had many worthy qualities he ought to admire, the monk thought, but they were not evident to him. If God was willing to forgive the penitent who had once eagerly leapt into the arms of the Evil One, as well as those who had merely stumbled, why did Davoir believe he could do less, especially for the negligible sinners? Although Thomas understood the reluctance to pardon the truly wicked, he scorned this man for his lack of compassion for any who did not match his own self-declared brilliance. Tonight the monk had prayed that God would force the priest to see, with brutal clarity, just how blind and ignorant he was.

The prie-dieu creaked as Father Etienne shifted his weight on the pillow under his knees.

Having suffered brutality in prison and seen mortals murder their fellows, Thomas was disinclined to accept the honeyed platitudes which excused cruelty. Most men would advise him to blunt his doubts and accept the judgements of influential men for it would serve his interests to do so.

He smiled at the thought. Any expectations of advancement had been shattered the morning he was taken from Giles’ arms. For years he had mourned the loss of his beloved with the pain of a mortal illness. That he had forsaken all hope of high ecclesiastical status became meaningless in the face of such anguish. Now that he was healed of his grief, he remained content to be a man of no standing at Tyndal Priory and serve his prioress as she required.

Today he had been especially grateful to be in his position. He had seen the effort it took Prioress Eleanor to exercise the required diplomacy with this priest because he was a man of great influence. Thomas was pleased it would never become his duty to do this and that his disdain for self-absorbed ecclesiastics could remain between him and God.

Quietly backing further away, the monk rose to his feet.

Davoir was unaware that his fellow religious had moved and continued to mutter his prayers.

For his own devotions tonight, Thomas had knelt on the plain wooden prie-dieu placed in front of the simple altar where a cross was hung on the wall. All this was provided in the guest quarters for those who needed a place for private prayer while staying at Tyndal Priory. But the priest had ignored these and knelt on a finely embroidered pillow, at his own intricately carved and highly polished prie-dieu, in front of a bejeweled cross. Each item he had brought with him on the journey to England.

In the guttering candlelight, one blood-red gem embedded in that cross glittered unsteadily.

Thomas stared at it. At least he would not have to deal with this man’s arrogance much longer, but he did pray that God would have mercy on the man’s new flock which must. Yet miracles did occur, he reminded himself. Perhaps Davoir would repent someday, when he discovered that his soul had turned to dust, and finally become the man he now believed he was.

The monk shook his head. I have grown querulous, he thought. Considering his own bitter quarrels with God, over things he had done and felt which the Church condemned as more evil than anything Davoir might have committed, Thomas knew he had no right to throw stones at anyone.

Staring at the shadowy ceiling, Thomas silently confessed that he simply longed to be elsewhere this night, doing whatever brought peace to a soul or relief from mortal pains. Guarding a man whom he did not respect wore on him even if he knew he must do so. When this night was over, he would pray for forgiveness. Now, he could not.

Thomas eased into the shadows where the candlelight failed to penetrate. If he was going to think gloomy thoughts, he had best sit in the dark.

The priest continued to mumble.

Holding his nose to prevent a sneeze caused by the acrid candle smoke, the monk felt a twinge of guilt. Perhaps this man, to whom he had taken such a dislike, was confessing his deficiencies to God and suffering from the knowledge of his imperfections. After all, Thomas had not been asked to be Davoir’s confessor and the state of the man’s soul was not his responsibility, nor was the choice of penitential acts. Having conquered the sneeze, he forced himself to concentrate on what he was here to do.

Maybe Devoir had been right, he thought. Ralf should have taken the alleged pilgrim into custody rather than set a trap. Even with Conan and the crowner outside, there was still a chance that the man could slip through. Traps were risky things, which, of course, was the reason Prioress Eleanor had insisted that he stay by the priest’s side.

Someone was likely to come here tonight, a man with murderous intent. Davoir had listened to this plan only because the prioress reminded him of his stated belief that no sword could match the power of prayer. When she added her final argument that the orisons of two priests would surely be the strongest defense of all, the priest had consented, albeit with ill-concealed reluctance to share the company of Brother Thomas.

At least Thomas felt comfortable with the probability that he might have to deal with the man from across the British Ocean. Even assuming that the alleged pilgrim did not suffer an injured ankle, the man from Picardy was slight of build. Thomas looked like a man born to swing a sword even if he had never been trained for battle. And, he thought, I have the advantage in this planned surprise and am more likely to keep my wits about me.

A knock at the door disturbed his thoughts.

As agreed, Thomas stayed where he was.

Davoir remained on his knees for a moment longer before turning his head and shouting permission to enter. His voice betrayed his annoyance at the interruption, and he bowed his head again as he returned to his recitations.