Satan's Lullaby (2 page)

Chapter Three

“Abbess Isabeau, my beloved sister, sends her blessing from the mother house at Fontevraud. I know your heart gladdens at my coming, for I am eager to expose the imperfections at Tyndal Priory. Rejoice, my daughter, as well you ought! When your dedication to Him falls short, your prayers reek in His nostrils like rotten meat. But if the errors are corrected, the scent grows sweet, and you please Him once again.”

The priest’s two attendants mumbled “Amen.”

Something in the manner of these dark-robed men filled the room with foreboding. Prioress Eleanor had always been fond of crows with their sailors’ walk and raucous cries. But gazing at the man who sat before her, with his young attendants standing on either side of him, she was reminded that the black-feathered birds were considered harbingers of doom for a reason. She was grateful her abbess had sent her blessing. She was in need of it.

“Please be assured that I welcome your inspection,” she replied calmly. That the abbess had sent her youngest brother, a priest so favored by the French royal court of Philip the Bold that he would soon be invested with a bishop’s miter, was a gesture of respect appropriate for the prioress’ status. Not only was Eleanor’s own eldest brother a valued companion of the English king, but she was the daughter of a baron. Nonetheless, this man’s presence was unsettling.

Father Etienne Davoir smiled but said nothing. He watched her as if waiting for something to happen which inexplicably had not.

Was he expecting to see fear, she wondered. If so, she would not satisfy his longing. Pride might be one of her failings, but she refused to tremble over vague hints.

Although Eleanor knew there had to be a specific purpose for this investigation, she was ignorant of the precise intent. Other religious houses, under the authority of a local bishop, might expect these comprehensive reviews often, but the Order of Fontevraud served only Rome. Because there was no intermediary between the abbess and the papacy, Abbess Isabeau enjoyed an authority over her daughter houses that others of equal ecclesiastical rank in other Orders did not. That included the right to send a representative of her own choosing to examine any house she deemed in need of some correction. In practice, she rarely did this. Eleanor was not pleased that her abbess had decided to make Tyndal Priory the exception.

Davoir remained silent. One of his clerks, thin and of medium height, stared at the ceiling and stifled a yawn. The other, a short and plump youth, glanced with a pained expression in the direction of the priory’s garderobe.

When Eleanor received word that Father Etienne Davoir was coming and the approximate date of his arrival, she had talked to Prior Andrew about what might have generated such scrutiny. Neither could come up with a cause. She knew of no moral lapse. Tyndal Priory was financially sound. Soon after her arrival several years ago, she had reinstituted the Rule regarding diet and prayer. There were repairs needed to various buildings, but a few cracks were not worth risking the life of a high-ranking priest by sending him on the dangerous voyage between France and England. An admonitory letter would have sufficed.

The bored young clerk to Davoir’s left twitched with ill-disguised impatience. The other also twitched, but, Eleanor suspected, his bowels were the motivation, not apathy.

She ignored the youths and continued to gaze back at Davoir with benign expectation. Of course, she could ask this man why he had been sent, but a flash of anger stopped her. Was she not a competent prioress? Had she not pulled Tyndal back from financial devastation and cleansed its reputation from the taint of dishonor? The abbess owed her the courtesy of greater detail in her missive. Since she had failed to do so, Eleanor resolved that she would not grovel to Abbess Isabeau’s younger brother and beg for what she ought to have been given freely.

“I hope your journey was a pleasant one,” she said.

“The weather was favorable during the voyage. We thought God had smiled on us.” Father Etienne cleared his throat. “When we landed and were met by the armed escort sent by your gracious king to keep us safe on the journey here, we were pleased.” He glanced over at the pale clerk on his right. “Yet I fear the ride from the port to your priory was difficult. Jean is unwell.”

When Eleanor saw the gentleness with which Davoir put a hand on the plump clerk’s arm, she softened. “I grieve that you have been distressed.” She looked at the youth more carefully. His soft features had the gray-green pallor of a corpse.

“The world is filled with Satan’s minions,” Davoir said, turning back to her. “Those who have chosen to serve God outside the walls of religious houses are never far removed from sinful violence.” He bent to the young clerk and murmured a question.

Jean swallowed, then shook his head.

Eleanor wondered what might have so shaken the youth that he had taken ill.

Davoir brightened with pride. “But Jean has always found the greatest strength in God.”

“What occurred?” The question was not idly asked. Eleanor wanted to establish whether the clerk needed prayer, one of Sister Anne’s cures, or both. Fortunately, she thought, this priest will assume I suffer from the wanton curiosity deemed common in women. In fact, it was advantageous for others to assume she was infected with this feminine vice. If it was only curiosity needing satisfaction, mortals were inclined to give details. Crowner Ralf, because he hunted those guilty of crime, had a harder time prying information from the innocent, let alone the guilty.

“I shall be brief. One of the soldiers in our escort quickly became a congenial companion for my clerk. The man was a fine storyteller and entertained Jean on the long journey from the sea. For one disinclined to admire earthly beauty,” Davoir smiled at his clerk, “the journey would feel endless.” He looked down and twisted the bejeweled ring on his finger. In the sunbeam coming through the window, one of the larger gems flickered with a murky light.

Eleanor folded her hands and patiently waited.

“Last night, there was no religious house to give us beds. We stopped at an inn. This morning, Jean went to the stable to seek his companion.” Davoir chewed on his lip. “He found the man’s corpse. Someone had cut his throat.”

Jean gagged and looked away.

The prioress’ eyes opened wide with shock.

Davoir’s expression softened with concern over Jean. “When my clerk cried out, the innkeeper ran to his aid as did the captain of the soldiers. The local crowner might have been called, but the captain said there was no need.”

Eleanor was surprised, then chose not to interrupt and to let this priest finish his tale.

“The captain swore he knew the cause for the death. Since the soldiers were under his command, he was responsible for rendering the required justice. He gave me his solemn oath, his hand on a crucifix, that we had nothing to fear and were safe from all harm.”

“The crowner was not summoned?”

Davoir shook his head.

Perhaps Ralf should be told anyway, Eleanor thought, but saw no purpose in saying anything to the priest. He had made his decision about the matter. She would make her own. “I shall pray for the poor man’s soul and that His comfort will ease the pain his death brought you,” she said, directing the last words to the clerk.

The lad nodded, but his expression suggested he was not comforted in the slightest.

“It was cruelty born in sin and executed by wicked men,” Davoir said. “You may thank God that you will never suffer this kind of violence within the safety of your priory walls.”

Eleanor had seen far worse deaths and many more of them since entering the gates of Tyndal Priory but chose not to enlighten the abbess’ brother. Instead, she murmured the expected words and changed the subject.

“Your sermon to the nuns was most instructive,” she said. The topic had been worldly temptations. She wondered if he preached the same message to the monks and lay brothers. Did the subject hold any clue to the reason he had been sent?

“When we vow ourselves to God’s service, much is demanded from our imperfect flesh. It grows weak and eagerly reaches out for the false joys promised in Satan’s lullabies. The Devil strikes hardest at those who choose the path to Heaven, and he rejoices most in those he wins back from God.”

Eleanor might have been offended at the suggestion that her monastics were lax in honoring their vows, but, as she studied the man seated before her, she felt he meant his words more as commentary than criticism.

Her opinion of this priest remained ill-formed. Had he come dressed in chain mail with a sword by his side, he would not have looked out of place as the warrior son of a French nobleman. That he chose to fight the Prince of Darkness, not the English, was a decision she respected. Yet she had learned from her brother, a returned crusader, that God’s knights could be indistinguishable from those who longed less for Heaven and more for land and castles. Each maimed, killed, and tortured with equal ferocity. Did this man follow the gentler God she had discovered in her particular prayers?

As she listened to Davoir elaborate on the theme of his earlier sermon, she noted that he was missing a few teeth but that his hair was still dark blond. If neither young nor old, she wondered if he was in that middle time, one she longed to achieve, when neither the passions of youth nor the fears of age fully ruled. His face bore furrows, which could suggest either worry or humor. His brown eyes were bright with intelligence, perhaps curiosity, maybe zeal. Davoir might be a man inclined to fairness, Eleanor thought, but she had already noted signs that he could harbor a rigid view of human frailty. Uncertain over which had most shaped his reasoning, she prayed it was the kinder mold.

He had paused to take a breath.

“The wisdom you gave us today in your sermon was received by eager souls,” she said. “The sisters of Tyndal Priory will benefit greatly from your insights, as will our brothers.” She smiled with a hopeful expression. Now, surely, was the time when he would give her the specific message from Abbess Isabeau that would explain the point behind this unusual investigation.

It was in that moment of expectation that Jean turned scarlet and began to cough until he could barely catch his breath.

The other clerk jumped back as if fearing contagion.

Rising quickly, Davoir put his arm around the youth. “I would speak further with you, Prioress Eleanor, but this young man needs prompt care. I insist that the monk in charge of the hospital come immediately and examine him. Jean needs some remedy. I shall offer prayers.”

The lad’s face was scarlet as he gasped for air.

“Our hospital is run by Sister Christina and her sub-infirmarian, Sister Anne,” she replied.

He looked surprised. “No monk is trained in healing?”

“Sister Anne is a physician’s daughter. He trained her so well that she became an apothecary with her husband when they were both in the world.”

“The husband is nearby, or is he dead?”

“He came first to Tyndal and is now known as Brother John. She followed and also took vows here.”

“Then I would have my clerk seen by this brother who is an apothecary.”

“He has become a hermit and sees no one, nor has he treated any man since his arrival here. I may assure you that Sister Anne’s reputation as a healer is known throughout England.”

He twisted his hands with displeased impatience. “No other monk? That is most unusual.”

Sensing a criticism of the priory hospital, Eleanor swallowed her indignation. “Brother Thomas has been trained by her in some areas of treatment,” she replied with icy calm.

Father Etienne waved that aside. “I will not have Brother Thomas. Send Prior Andrew and this sub-infirmarian to the guest quarters, but she must be properly accompanied and may not touch my clerk. Should an examination of Jean’s body be required, including his urine, Prior Andrew must do all that is needed.”

“As you will.” Eleanor wondered why he had first insisted on a man treating his clerk and then rejected the offer of Brother Thomas’ help.

“This shall be done before the next Office.” Davoir rose. “I will have the evening meal sent to us in our quarters tonight. Tomorrow, I will discuss my plans for all reviews with you.”

Bowing her head with modest concurrence, Eleanor’s unexpressed reaction to his commanding tone was less humble.

After Gracia had ushered the men out and firmly shut the chamber door, Eleanor uttered a sigh of relief. “Please go the hospital and bring Sister Anne,” she said to her maid. “Then find Prior Andrew and ask him to join us. I pray we will not need a veritable army of monastics to accompany our sub-infirmarian, lest the good priest find some impropriety.”

Gracia knew her mistress well enough to chuckle at those words but then chose gravity and a swift departure to carry out the prioress’ wishes.

Chapter Four

The lay brother wrapped yellow flowers of arnica around the man’s ankle, and then bound it as tightly as he could. Despite the patient’s groans, he doubted the injury was serious and bit his tongue to keep from saying so.

He glanced at the ankle again. Even with the wrapping, it didn’t look swollen.

If the complaint had been blisters on tender heels, he might have sympathized. These feet, despite the man’s claim that he was a poor pilgrim who had walked from London, were as soft as a baby’s skin.

“I beg the kindness of a roof and sustenance,” the pilgrim said, his accent suggesting he was not of English birth.

The lay brother looked back at the sole of the foot he held. Very tender indeed. “We have no guest accommodations, if that is what you require, nor have we a bed in the monks’ dormitory.”

The man pulled his foot from the lay brother’s hand. “You are refusing charity? A priory? I cannot walk on this…” His lips stretched across his teeth in a well-formed grimace.

Good teeth too, the lay brother noted. “I did not say we were refusing your request, but the only space we have is in this hospital.”

“And there will be food for my growling belly?”

“The priory provides simple but nourishing fare,” he said. The man was very thin, the lay brother observed with more compassion. Perhaps he had been deathly ill and long enough in bed to soften those feet.

“Why did you not tell me immediately that I was as welcome as Our Lord would have been?”

“Because we normally have room, at least in the dormitory. Few want a bed next to the dying.”

“Have so many travelers stopped here?” The pilgrim frowned. “Are any on the way to Canterbury as am I?”

The lay brother shook his head. “Our priory has just welcomed a priest sent by the abbess of Fontevraud Abbey in Anjou. He and his attendants have come to review our lives, our accounts, and our roofs, a common practice in many monastic houses. We are honored to have such a noble visitor.” He could not help the note of pride in his voice. “Father Etienne Davoir is not only confessor to a brother of the King of France, he is soon to be invested as a bishop.”

“I thought I saw a large party of armed men in the village when I sought directions to your gate.”

“The local innkeeper will house the men sent by our king to protect our visitor and his clerks. We accommodate all those men devoted to God’s service.”

The pilgrim looked thoughtful. “I have been told that the more clerks a priest has, the higher in rank he stands. How many did this man bring?”

“I could not say. Father Etienne and his two senior clerks were given the largest accommodations as is proper for visitors of the highest rank. The others have been lodged with the monks. We are not a large priory and room for guests is limited.” He gestured toward the priory. “Our buildings are old. I fear the clerks will be busy over many days checking for cracks, leaks, and mold.”

The man nodded with appreciation. “Then I am grateful for the bed and fare you offer me, Brother, and shall stay only as long as it takes my injury to heal. The moans of dying men will remind me that our sins drag our naked souls into the pits of Hell. In return for your charity, I shall add my prayers for those trembling spirits as they anticipate God’s judgement.”

The lay brother’s eyes widened in surprise at this unexpected show of concern for others. After the pilgrim’s whining over a minor injury, he would not have expected that. With a nod, the lay brother found a crutch for the man and led the pilgrim to the straw mat that would be his bed.

***

Philippe was not a pilgrim, although he did come from a town in the region of Picardy and he most certainly had tender feet. His sprain was fabricated, but the pain from walking, when he could not beg a ride in a farmer’s cart, was not. Sandals were not his usual footwear, nor was this rough and filthy robe. He scratched at his head and feared he had lice.

When he saw the thin straw mat on which he must sleep, he suspected his smile had resembled the frozen grin on a corpse more than an expression of gratitude, but he was weary of pretending. Not that he truly expected the comfort of a mattress with clean sheets and a coverlet on cold nights; those were for the dying or seriously ill, but he had hoped. Oh, how he had hoped! He ached with hope.

Kneeling, he sniffed at his bedding. At least the straw was clean.

He stretched out and closed his eyes. It had been a long journey, and he was exhausted. For a moment, he must have dozed, but a piercing scream shattered any dreams. He sat up and looked around.

A few yards away, a tall nun was holding a woman back from a bed. The captive was howling like one possessed and flailing her arms as if she were trying to fly. Beside her, a man knelt, his hands pressed to his face. Sobbing loudly, he raised his eyes upward. “My son!” he shouted to the heavens. “Why did you take my son from me?”

Philippe might not have devoted most of his hours to worshiping God, but he deeply felt the grief these two were suffering. Rolling onto his knees, he prayed for the lad’s soul and that God would give comfort to the parents. “More than You have given me,” he whispered. “Please!”

Finally, the grieving pair were led away, the woman whimpering and straining against the arms of the nun who tried to pull her along as gently as possible.

He lay back on his straw and stared at the high ceiling over his head. Sleep was now impossible. Silently, he uttered a curse.

In a short while, the tall nun returned with a lay brother, and they fell into a hushed discussion over the corpse on the bed. Philippe could not hear their words, but he understood the meaning. The lay brother reached down, picked up the small body, and carried it down the aisle.

As the man passed by, Philippe covered his nose. For such a small corpse, it stank horribly. Trying not to breathe, he glanced back at the nun who was tearing linen off the bed. A lay sister ran to her and bent to pick it up.

“Burn it,” the nun said.

Philippe trembled. Priories were not wanton with their hospital linen. If this was so foul, what noxious vapors from the sheets and the corpse had contaminated the air?

He groaned. Might he die too? He would not mind as long as he accomplished his purpose first. Turning onto his side away from the deathbed, he covered his eyes and prayed again. This time his plea was for himself.

“Is this man waiting for a bed?” The woman’s voice was very close.

He looked up to see the tall nun standing over him. Her expression was unsettling as her eyes studied him. Had she been a man, he would have feared her. As it was, he still shivered. Despite her habit, he wondered if she might be a servant of the Devil.

The lay brother, who had treated his ankle, appeared at her side. “No, Sister Anne. He came with a sprained ankle and now begs shelter as a poor pilgrim. Since we have no other space for him…”

“I ask for nothing more than the charity of clean straw and food, for which I bless you. Let those in far greater distress have any free beds.” Philippe of Picardy sat up, carefully winced, and forced a brave smile. “Are you the leader of this religious house?” He knew better. What noble prioress would tear befouled linen from a bed? But he understood the art of the compliment.

“I am the sub-infirmarian. Prioress Eleanor leads us.”

She did not even blush at the flattery, he thought with displeasure. “And the infirmarian?”

As if hesitant to name the person, she was silent for a moment. “Sister Christina. Do you have need of her prayers?”

Philippe shook his head. “If she is so saintly that her pleas to God heal men, I am too unworthy to be in her presence.” He lowered his eyes. “I am on my way to Canterbury to expiate grievous sins.”

“Are you in pain?”

He grimaced before nodding which, he hoped, suggested brave endurance.

The lay brother snorted and turned away.

“I shall send someone with a soothing potion after I have seen to those who are more gravely ill.” She gestured toward the back of the hospital. “We have a chapel there, near the apothecary hut. You may go to pray and ease your soul until you can continue on your pilgrimage.”

He brightened with a glow of genuine happiness at her words. Spending time in the chapel would give him a view of the apothecary, but the sub-infirmarian would assume his joy came from a purer motive.

She smiled and walked on. The lay brother went with her, although he glanced back with a puzzled look.

Philippe crawled to his feet. His wince rose from the pain of his abused feet. At least he did not have to feign that soreness. The discomfort should not last long, however. His soles bore no blisters. Not wanting to chance infection, he had made sure of that.

Awkwardly, he bent for the crutch, picked it up, and hobbled off in the direction the sub-infirmarian and lay brother had gone.

He did not have to walk far before he saw an open door across from the chapel and glanced into the hut where, he assumed, this nun kept her baskets of herbs and jars of powders from which she made her potions and ointments.

A girl flew passed him. “Sister Anne!”

Philippe slipped closer to the chapel, hoping the shadows would hide him. If not, he could argue that he wanted to pray but had stopped to rest his foot. He put his hand over his nose. Even at some distance, he could smell the corpse that had been placed near the altar.

The nun came out of the hut to greet the child. “What is it, Gracia? Who is ill?” The sub-infirmarian’s tone suggested alarm, but Philippe did not dare move to a spot where he could observe more closely.

“Not my mistress,” the girl replied. “One of Father Etienne’s clerics is ill and needs your immediate care. Prioress Eleanor has asked that you, Prior Andrew, and a skilled lay brother from the hospital attend our visitor. She will explain what is needed.”

Sister Anne told the lay brother that he must accompany her, then asked the child to seek Sister Oliva so she could give directions on specific treatments to administer while she was gone. “As soon as I am done, we will come to the prioress’ quarters, as she requests.”

Philippe watched the child run back through the hospital aisles. Indeed, he felt like a child himself. There was that much joy filling his heart.