Priscilla Royal - Satan's Lullaby

Thomas wanted to raise his fist to the heavens and demand an explanation for this doom he believed unjust, but he was weary and the wound in his arm stung. Today, he must concentrate on his next duty. Tomorrow, he swore, he would spend the day on his knees and argue with God.

All but Davoir were delighted that Sister Anne was free, and the monk longed to share the joy to the fullest, but he knew he must talk with his prioress for advice about one more matter. Even if it was no longer urgent, he believed the question still called for an answer.

And if he needed the crowner, Ralf must be close to hand. As he now overheard, the crowner was begging Sister Anne to examine Gytha as soon as possible and swearing he would arrange for his wife to be brought to the priory. From the smile on the nun’s face, the monk had no doubt of her reply.

He hurried to his prioress’ side.

She turned with an expression of encouragement as if she had anticipated his request. “Of course, we may meet, Brother,” she said. Inclining her head toward the pair discussing the perils of birth, she added, “And now might be the best time to do so.”

The north wind swept through the priory grounds, lashing the sea mist into razor-sharp swirls. Thomas pulled his cloak closer to his body. He had heard tales of northern lands covered in eternal ice. Today, he believed them.

Why had he decided he must make this effort? His treated knife wound still ached. Other monks were huddled around a warming fire in the Calefactory while his tonsure grew numb with the cold despite the hood over his head. But as he pressed against the wind he knew he had little choice. Some matters should be left to God for resolution. As his prioress said, this was not one of them.

Peering through the fog, he still could not distinguish any outline of the hospital even with its dark stone. In fact, he could only see a few feet in front of him on the path. At least he knew Sister Anne would soon be back at the apothecary hut, treating the suffering with her gentle touch and keen insights. That brought warmth to his heart, and the cold retreated just a little.

As the path curved, Thomas stopped, uncertain of his direction, and then realized he had taken the wrong turn. Instead of going to the hospital, he was walking to the main gate. Through the mist, he could just recognize the dim shape of the priory walls. Sighing, he decided he could find another way from the gate back to the hospital with ease. He certainly had no wish to retrace his steps in this bitter wind.

As he approached the gate, the fog suddenly thinned, and he noticed a party of men milling about. In that group, Thomas saw the one he had come to find. Picking up his pace, he hurried toward the man.

Philippe saw the monk coming toward him. He looked around as if seeking a way to escape, then grew still, his shoulders hunched with resignation. “You are seeking me,” he said as Thomas reached his side. The words were a statement of fact, not a question.

“And I believe you know the reason,” Thomas replied, keeping his voice low so those nearby could not overhear.

“Shall we step further away, Brother? These men are pilgrims on the way to Canterbury. I would not have them distracted from their pious intent by the tale of my unique wickedness.”

“You expected to flee, hidden in their midst?” Thomas kept close to the man, although he had no great fear that the man would run off.

“I had meant to join them.” Philippe’s smile was thin-lipped. “There is a difference.”

Thomas said nothing.

The man stared longingly at the pilgrims he had planned to accompany. His eyes lost the little hope they had briefly owned.

“Why did you attack the priest’s clerk that night?” Thomas kept his voice low although he knew the fog muffled speech.

“I came to kill the priest.” Philippe’s reply was equally muted. “I did tell the truth about blood being the purpose for my journey here when you last asked, Brother. I failed to mention that it was blood I wished to shed.”

The monk folded his arms and waited.

“You are a man, Brother. In the days before you took vows, did you ever wish to kill another?”

Of course he had, both before and after he took his enforced vows, but Thomas knew that did not matter. Only his acknowledgement of understanding did, and so he nodded once.

“We all do, I fear, but I did not know that there is a great difference between longing to do the deed, even planning it, and actually striking the blow.”

With growing interest, Thomas encouraged him to go on.

“I came here under the guise of being a pilgrim, walking to Canterbury in expiation of my many sins.” Philippe rubbed at his eyes. “Surely it is blasphemy to go on pilgrimage with the intention of committing murder. I did not think of that when I began my journey, but heated and willful obsessions blind us.”

“You would not be the first to commit that sin,” the monk replied as the events in Walsingham last year flooded his memory.

“After I had obtained a bed in the hospital, I decided to search the apothecary hut for a poison I could use to kill the priest.” He shrugged. “My hope was to slip something lethal into Father Etienne’s food.” His laugh was a brittle thing. “I must thank you for catching me there, Brother. I think you brought God with you, for my eyes were opened slightly and I saw how foolish I had been to plan such a deed. I realized I could never come close enough to the priory kitchen, or to the lay brother who brought the meals, unless I wished to injure an innocent. My heart held no passion for that crime.”

“Yet you struck the priest’s clerk.”

“With a very light blow. The youth lived. I saw him leave the hospital with his master after a brief stay. I now believe that God stayed my hand and allowed that clerk to take the blow in order to save his master’s life.”

And later try to kill the priest himself, Thomas thought sadly, but this information was also irrelevant to the man from Picardy. “We shall return to that,” the monk said. “Go back in time with your tale. Did you know that Jean, the clerk, had died?”

“I did and that perplexed me. My fear was that someone else had arrived with a deep grievance and accidentally poisoned the clerk instead of the priest. Yet I knew of no one with a cause as terrible as mine, and so I assumed the clerk had been felled by a swift fever with no earthly cure.” He hesitated. “Then I heard a rumor that his death was not from a fever but a deadly herb.” He began to shake. “I swear I had nothing to do with the lad’s death, Brother. On the cross I give my word.”

“Nor do I accuse you. The killer has confessed.”

Philippe looked hopeful that the monk would elaborate.

The monk shook his head. “You have not told me the reason for following Father Etienne here with this murderous intent. After you have explained that, I want to hear how you pursued your desire, after you rejected poison as the means, and yet failed to accomplish it.”

Philippe again looked into the fog at the ghostly figures of the gathering pilgrims. “My brother was once a clerk to Father Etienne, his most favored clerk in fact. But my brother fell from grace when it was discovered that he had a weakness for female flesh. Although he fought against it, he needed help to gain the strength to resist, a gift he dared not beg from his master. Father Etienne may be flawed like all mortals, but women have never tempted him, and he has no tolerance for men who copulate. My brother would have been banished in disgrace just for the sin of craving the act. Instead, he was caught in a brothel, dragged before his master, and mocked for his frailty.”