It disappeared in a trice, as did she.
“Getting her side of the story?” Fulke slid back onto the bench. “Why would a woman’s word be more trustworthy than your brother’s?”
Ralf chuckled. “I never knew you had such endurance in bed sports! She came to tell me that,” he lied, then slapped the sheriff on the shoulder.
Fulke flushed with evident pleasure. “You wanted to know about Otes and the rest of us.”
As the serving wench put down a jug, she added a platter of bread and cheese.
With a wink, Ralf handed over more coin.
“The baron has never demanded payment from me for his silence. Sometimes I suspected that my obvious fear was pleasure enough for him.” He looked at his brother out of the corner of his eye.
Ralf knew how difficult it had been for Fulke to admit a weakness. Respecting his brother’s pride, he said nothing.
“When you asked about acres, did you mean for sale, in trade for some favor, or as a free gift?”
“All.”
“Baron Otes never spoke to me of such a thing. I have heard rumor that the baron promised to donate profitable land in his will to the man Father Eliduc serves. Since Otes had already given land to found a leper hospital, I assumed any other such gift to the Church was meant to buy more prayers for his mottled soul.” He laughed. “Lest you think any of his get had a quarrel with his new-found piety, there was plenty left to satisfy his sons and his daughters’ husbands.”
“Otes was widowed, was he not?”
“To the grief of every pretty serving woman in his castle! And it is true that he banned the ones he deemed ugly. No bantlings, though. God showed mercy.”
“If the land was profitable enough to bring joy to his lord’s heart, Father Eliduc might grow fearful should the baron change his mind and offer the same land to another.”
Fulke tore a handful of bread in half. “Methinks you have heard more than I about this matter.” Taking a bite, he lifted his cup, then smiled at Ralf. “As we both learned from watching our Odo, a religious calling is no deterrent to avarice or violence.”
“So Father Eliduc might have a motive for making sure Otes never changed his will.” He scowled. “I do not like matters involving a struggle of authority between the Church and the king’s justice. As sheriff, neither should you.”
“Then we must pray he is as innocent as a priest should be, although I confess I neither like nor trust the man. He’s as slippery as a trout, but I have no proof of any guilt.”
“What of Lady Avelina and her son?”
“If they have deep secrets concealed, I have heard nothing of them. What more could be hidden? Their story is known well-enough. There can be little worse than being the widow and son of a dead traitor.”
“Not all followers of de Montfort lost favor with our new king,” Ralf said thoughtfully. “King Edward also knows the dangers involved should he seek retribution against them when so many claim miracles have been wrought at the earl’s gravesite. He himself smiled on the man at one time, and there are many of all ranks that continue to believe the earl served the interests of every man while King Henry served only his own.”
Fulke put his palm against his brother’s mouth. “Do not speak treason!”
Ralf shoved the hand aside. “I report what I hear. As for treason, I am as loyal to this king as I was to the last. All I suggest is that Lady Avelina might have cause to hope her son’s inheritance will be restored. Or did Baron Otes know something that would prevent that from happening?”
“Others may be returned to favor. Not this particular family. The father loudly and foolishly proclaimed that de Montfort should be king, not just an honored counselor. Some call it blasphemy that the earl raised a sword against God’s anointed. Of those who stay silent, many shiver in fear. None dare speak up for declared traitors and few for their get. King Edward might forgive any who changed course, as he himself did. He will never pardon anyone who stubbornly fought against the very kingship he now owns. And Simon is much like his sire, imprudent in his ways and blinded by his passions. I do not think the boy is likely to breed trust in a king’s heart, no matter how sweetly the mother begs.”
Ralf stabbed at a hunk of cheese. “That matches what little I have seen of Simon. The boy troubles me, Fulke. He is now staying with Brother Thomas, a monk who is living as a hermit in the forest hut near the priory mill. Although I might believe the lad opened his eyes one morning, saw the horror of his sins, and fled to a man of God for guidance, I find it strange that he should run away at the very sight of me after Otes’ corpse was found.” He gnawed in silence. “Is there nothing more you can tell me about Simon and his mother?”
“Staying with a hermit nearby, you say?”
The crowner nodded. “Aye. Just above the pond where the baron was killed.”
The sheriff thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I know nothing about the young fool other than the usual boyish swinking and maternal outrage when he can’t keep his pintle in his braes. I heard rumor that he tried to breach the wrong girl recently, then struck her with his fists for refusing him. That news was silenced as well as might be.”
“None of this explains why Simon hid from me when Brother Thomas and I spoke. Maybe Simon has another secret, apart from tearing maidenheads. I had best pay a visit to our good hermit and his recent guest.” He rose.
Fulke glanced through the crowd, eager to catch the eye of his favored wench.
The crowner slammed his hand down on the sheriff’s shoulder. “In the meantime, brother, take my advice and keep your own tarse strapped down tonight. If Signy discovers you riding one of her women in the stable, she might mistake you for a bull that needs some trimming.”
Grinning with wicked delight at his horrified brother, Ralf walked away.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Thomas stared at the black sky above his hut. How vast it seemed and how insignificant he felt in comparison with God’s heavens. He wanted to weep. His eyes remained dry and gritty as desert sand.
Glancing back inside, he could see the boy’s dark shape, curled peacefully on the straw pallet. If he held his breath, he could hear a light snoring above the chirping of crickets in the night heat. Did he ever sleep so deeply at Simon’s age? He must have. He could no longer recall.
As for his own rest, all sleep had fled. Tonight he had wrestled with the Prince of Darkness and survived. As he gazed into the infinite darkness of the sky, dotted with the flickering lights of candles carried by angels, he wondered which of them had truly won the bout. His body was weary beyond measure, and his spirit ached too much to admit any peace. Now melancholy ruled. Even if he could claim one victory, perhaps another if he was fortunate, he suspected Satan had bested him in some way he did not fully understand.
He had come to this hut for solitude, longing to hear God’s direction in that silence. Tyndal’s anchoress had discovered this behind the walls of her cell. All he ever heard was the roar of worldly praise from men who concluded he was possessed of greater holiness because of his choice. Although he denied the assumption, his words only fed the fire of their error. And in this way he had deceived, even though he had never so intended. He had befouled truth and himself with the delusion of sanctity.
After this night in particular, he knew he must leave the hermitage. He had lost all confidence in his ability to live without the comfort and support of his fellow religious. Perhaps that was what God had wanted him to learn despite knowing Thomas lacked a monk’s faith and suffered his torturous longing for a man’s love.
Had he learned anything else in this place? If so, he was blind to it. The only certainty was the realization that he must ask Prioress Eleanor for permission to return and perform whatever task she had for him. With patience, humility, and time, he might see more wisdom revealed with greater clarity.