The old woman suddenly gazed up at him, all sleep fled and her eyes shining with wide-eyed zeal. “And now the priory has a new anchoress. A holy woman, for cert!”
“You think her blessed by God?”
“Her advice brings hope to us in the village. And I’ve heard it true that pilgrims, even from London, delay their journey on the way to the shrine of Saint William to crouch by her window.”
Although he had seen some whom he had not recognized at Sister Juliana’s window, he had no idea that her reputation as a woman touched by God had spread quite so far abroad. “Have you spoken with the anchoress yourself?”
“What woman hasn’t?” Tibia sighed. “A friar traveling through the village preached that women are the most sinful creatures. We destroy any hope men might have to return to Eden.” She closed her eyes as if wearied by the effort to talk. “That’s hard to bear. Since I’ve committed much wickedness, I know I must take my share of blame. But those words must weigh heavy on a virtuous woman. If the Anchoress Juliana can spread balm on my evil heart, she’ll do more for the innocent.”
“Nevertheless, she cannot give you God’s forgiveness.”
The silence grew long, except for the sound of the old woman’s steady breathing. Had Tibia finally fallen asleep? He bent over to listen and decided that the potion had finally worked.
That was just as well, he decided. His curiosity about Sister Juliana and her advice was sparked, but he should not question this poor soul about her experience with the anchoress. As a priest, he might be able to hear any willing confession. As a mere man, he had no right to pry into what had transpired between the old woman and the young anchoress.
As Thomas rose to leave, he heard old Tibia mutter something. Was she just talking in her sleep or had she spoken to him? He leaned over and brought his ear closer to her mouth.
“A priest may bring a father’s forgiveness,” the woman said clearly enough, “but we all long for a mother’s embrace. A holy woman brings that from God, Brother.”
Startled by her meaning, he drew back.
Tibia now slipped into a sleep so deep it foretold the peace of death.
Chapter Fourteen
Aided by the full moon’s ashen light, Thomas hurried along the path to the priory. His mood was darker than the Devil’s heart.
After leaving Tibia, he had taken one more potion to a man who suffered a deep and oozing sore in his throat. As the monk helped him drink a measure of poppy juice, the man screamed, his eyes wide like a wounded animal, terrified by the unimaginable pain before the numbing drug took affect. Glancing up at the wet cheeks of the man’s wife, Thomas knew that both of them would call God merciful if He took the man’s soul quickly, even though that aged widow would be left to the care of their son’s spouse, a woman of few mercies and even less charity.
“Is there any earthly happiness for mortals?” Thomas growled as he entered the priory grounds near the mill. His eyes were gritty with fatigue-or was it bitterness?
He rubbed angrily at them.
The light might be bright enough to see along the path, but the shadows cast in front of him were sinister, twitching like tortured souls in Hell. Although daylight might reveal the cause to be as harmless as wind-stunted brush moving in a sea breeze, Thomas found night to be an ominous time. When God’s sunshine deserted the earth, Satan most certainly rejoiced, ruled his kingdom with bleak terror, and filled the hours with hideous deeds.
The monk shuddered. Madness lay in these thoughts. Surely, if he were able to sleep, he would awaken to a more joyous view of God’s creation and cast his foe, the Prince of Darkness, out of his heart. Thomas quickened his pace as he passed the creaking mill wheel.
Of course there were men who experienced an honest pleasure in life: those with loving wives and children; some who found salvation in killing infidels and gaining prestige with a well-honed sword; or men filled with such rapturous faith that they longed only for God’s company, either in a hermitage or the cloister.
Thomas did not regret the lack of a wife, although he was sometimes sorry he had never fathered a son. Nor did he wish for the military life. Despite his bastardy, he might have gotten horse and armor from his father had he shown talent in warrior sports, but the monk had always preferred jousts with sharp wit to those with lances. The Church was the only logical place for a clever by-blow with reasoning skills, high enough birth, and a pleasing manner but no lands to tempt noble fathers demanding more than a handsome face for their daughters.
As for faith, he had always assumed the truth of what the Church taught but rarely thought much beyond that, unless struck by terror that his sins were so horrible that his soul must plunge directly into Hell. In short, his piety was of the common sort and made him unsuited to the monastic life. Might he have felt differently if he had not been forced to take the tonsure? He doubted it. As a clerk in minor orders, he had prayed respectfully but mostly out of habit and duty. Of course he wished to serve his Lord, as all Christian men did in this land, but he had never, until now, hungered for God’s voice.
Even before his imprisonment, he had never found tranquility on his knees before the altar. Now that he sought it after the events at Amesbury, God seemed to be taking a most cruel pleasure in mocking his pathetic attempts to pray. The only time he found peace was in the comforting of the sick at the hospital or helping his prioress bring justice to the aggrieved. At this moment, the monk almost wished his spymaster had an assignment for him. Perhaps that would distract him from these gangrenous musings?
Thomas rubbed his eyes again with the heel of his hands and cursed. All these thoughts were wicked self-indulgences. Had he been in his narrow bed dreaming of heaven, or on his knees praying to God, Satan would not have found such joy in pricking his soul like this. No matter what his doubts, was he not still a priest sworn to serve God? His duty was to fight the evils that tortured him, not give in to mortal weakness.
Despite his clenched fist, Thomas knew that such fine thoughts were as hollow as his heart. His dreams were never of heaven, and the only thing Thomas ever heard, when he lay on the rough-cut stones of the chapel, was the chatter of rats and his own babble of repeated prayers. Death might well be kinder, he often thought. Even the certainly of Hell seemed preferable than the spiritual torment he now suffered.
Thomas stopped and shook his head as if that would scatter his brooding thoughts. His hard bed in the monks’ dorter would give him no relief tonight. The looming, dark outline of the priory church was just in front of him. He might as well try prayer again. At least God must surely understand that he wanted to be a true liegeman, even if he did fail in practice.
As he neared the church door, he glanced at the anchorage. For once, there was no one at Sister Juliana’s window. Dare he kneel there at last and seek whatever curse or blessing she might have for him?
He stumbled toward it, weary with fear and sleeplessness. Had some unseen force taken him by the arm and pushed him there? Whatever the cause, he did not even try to resist. At the curtained window he dropped to his knees and started to weep, his cheeks stinging as if the tears were made of vinegar.
“What brings you here, Brother Thomas?”
How did she know it was him?
“I remember that sigh from the time we met in the snow at Wynethorpe Castle.”
“You recall that, Sister?” Thomas’ voice rose with terror. If she could not see him, how could she distinguish one stranger’s moan from another?
“Memory’s vivid colors dance in my heart. In this way I am reminded of the reasons I left the world.”
“Then I should not remind you of such troubling times,” Thomas replied, struggling to rise without success.
“Stay, Brother. I hear your heart’s dreadful groaning. God must hear it as well.”