Chapter Ten
The church bell sounded louder than usual, perhaps because of the message it conveyed. Not a call to worship, but an obituary, since the toll, thrice times three, announced the death of a man.
Abbot John sat at his desk staring at the crucifix on the wall. He sought to find comfort from it, reminding himself that the Son of God had died for the sins of mankind. All morning he had prayed to Father and Son both, an invocation that had bolstered his spirits.
Somewhat.
But a shadow continued to creep unchallenged across the land. It seemed God had stepped back and given this hellish pestilence leave to wreak havoc at will. There was no sanctuary to be had. No safe haven. Were the sins of man so great as to merit such a punishment?
The bell ceased its third knell, and the subsequent silence felt all the more ominous. John knew the bell rope would not be abandoned for long. So far, only one man had succumbed, but the rapidity of Brother Daniel’s demise had stunned everyone. He had collapsed during morning prayers and been dead by sunset. Three more brothers had developed fevers that afternoon and now lay awaiting their fate in the infirmary. John knew their chance of recovery was unlikely. He also knew the decimation had only just begun.
As had the exodus.
Those who were able had already begun to leave the coast, heading inland, many passing by Abbotsbury on their way north. The last John heard, two people had succumbed in Melcombe, and several others showed symptoms. The sickness seemed to be spreading all along the coast and would, no doubt, soon follow those seeking to escape it. Of course, poorer folks, trapped by circumstance, had no choice but to stay and face their fates.
John’s thoughts turned to Cristen St. Clair and her enigmatic sentinel. Had they managed to stay ahead of it, he wondered? He offered up another heartfelt prayer as a knock came to the door.
“Enter,” John said, straightening his spine.
“My lord abbot.” Brother Francis, one of Abbotsbury’s scribes, stepped into the room. “We have visitors.”
John frowned at the worried expression on the man’s face. “Seeking shelter?”
“Nay.” Francis threw a nervous glance over his shoulder. “They are apparently seeking –”
The door flew wide open, narrowly missing Francis, who flinched.
John caught his breath and rose to his feet.
“Abbot John.” Ralph St. Clair strode into the room, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Good of you to spare the time. You do remember me, I trust?”
John cast a glance at the man’s weapon. “I do, indeed, Sir Ralph. Welcome to Abbotsbury. Brother Francis, be good enough to take the man’s sword for safekeeping.”
Ralph shook his head. “My sword stays with me. Besides, this shouldn’t take long.”
John held the man’s gaze for a moment. Ralph St. Clair’s eyes, a dark, ominous gray, possessed no hint of warmth. Indeed, they appeared empty of any and all emotion.
It had been over a year since John had last seen him, the occasion being Cristen’s marriage to Ralph’s brother, Cedric. Physically, the man had changed little. His lank, brown hair had thinned, perhaps. Although half-a-head taller than his older brother, Ralph shared the familial aquiline nose and square chin. He was a bully and, therefore, in John’s estimation, a coward. But a coward with a sword, and John was no fool.
He glanced at Francis and gave the monk a reassuring nod of dismissal. Francis scowled his disapproval and left.
“Please, have a seat, Sir Ralph,” John said, retaking his own. “What brings you to Abbotsbury?”
“I’m hunting my fugitive sister-in-law, but I suspect you already know that, since you don’t seem too surprised to see me.” Ralph settled in the chair and leaned back, legs sprawled apart. “So, don’t deny knowledge of her whereabouts. One of your brethren already admitted that a woman matching her description visited the abbey a few days ago.”
A strong odor of garlic assaulted John’s nostrils. It turned his stomach and he struggled to keep his expression neutral. “I deny nothing without merit. Lady Cristen was here, aye, but she left Abbotsbury three days ago undecided about her destination. I have no knowledge of her direction or her likely whereabouts.”
“May God smite you for your lies, Abbot. You know fine well her direction, as do I. She came from the east, so is unlikely to return that way. She cannot go south, unless she means to take a boat. West?” Ralph grunted. “My instincts say otherwise. The logical and only remaining direction is north.”
John shrugged. “She said nothing of her destination to me,” he said. “Nor did I press her.”
“You should have held her.” Ralph gave a patronizing smile. “The girl is an outlaw.”
John responded with a tight smile of his own. “According to Lady Cristen, what happened to your brother was an accident and I had no cause to doubt her story. Besides, this is a monastery, not a garrison.”
“No cause to doubt her?” Ralph huffed. “The lass fled like a thief in the night. ’Tis as good as an admission of guilt. I’m curious, too, about what brought her to your door.”
John saw no reason to lie. “She hoped I might know of her son’s whereabouts,” he replied. “I do not, of course, and can only condemn those who would separate mother and child so cruelly.”
“Your condemnation is noted.” A malevolent glimmer came to Ralph’s empty eyes as he leaned forward. “She is traveling with a man, I understand.”
John cursed inwardly and resolved to reprimand whoever had imparted the information. “An innocent liaison. He serves as her protector. He saved her life when she was set upon by an assailant.”
“Innocent?” A flush of color circled around Ralph’s throat like a noose. His lip curled. “Who is this man? What is his name? Is he of noble birth?”
For a moment, John toyed with a temptation to fabricate a name and description. But what purpose would it serve? “His name is Turi,” he said. “Who he is, precisely, I cannot say. I did not feel the need to ask, since I judged him to be an honorable man. I would not have let her leave with him otherwise.” John gave Ralph another thin smile. “I consider myself to be a good judge of character, Sir Ralph.”
Ralph either missed or ignored the subtle jibe. He deliberated for a moment. “A young man?”
“In the latter part of his twenties, at a guess.”
“A eunuch?” A mocking tone edged Ralph’s voice.
John sighed. “Nay.”
“Then don’t insult me with ridiculous claims of innocence.” Ralph sat back again, a sneer stamped on his face. “Even here, within these celibate walls, I warrant carnal thoughts are as common as prayer. Men are men, no matter their calling.”
John bit down against a thrust of anger. “Turi will do her no harm, sir. Indeed, I suggest you ask yourself why the lady feels the need to flee. ’Tis you she fears, in truth.”
Ralph’s eyes narrowed and his face colored. “And with good reason,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “Make no mistake, Abbot, I will find her and this… this protector she travels with.” He rose to his feet. “Are they afoot or on horseback?”
“They are –” The bell tolled once. John frowned, twisted in his seat, and looked at the window. He knew, of course, even before he measured the amount of daylight leaching through the thick glass, that it was yet early. Too early for Vespers. The bell spoke again and, after another slight pause, a third time.
Then it fell silent.
“We have lost another,” he murmured, crossing himself as he turned back. “May God rest his soul.”
“You were saying?” Ralph’s spurs rattled as his feet shifted. “Afoot or on horseback?”
“Horseback.” John’s gaze drifted to the crucifix.
“A single horse?”
“Aye.”
“What color?”
“Gray.” His only lie. And it came easily to his lips. “Although I’m not certain that any of this really matters.”
“What do you mean?”
The bell tolled again. Once. Twice. Thrice.
“Get used to the sound of death knells, Sir Ralph,” John said, offering the man a grim smile. “I fear you’ll be hearing them a lot more in the future. That is, if anyone is left to ring the bells.”
*
Ralph strode from the Bird in Hand inn with a flush of rage warming his face.
“They were here two days ago.” His head, for some reason, pounded like a battering ram and had done so for the past hour. That, combined with what he had learned moments before, had pushed him well past his flimsy boundaries of patience. He wanted to punch someone. Or better yet, kill someone. He hauled himself into the saddle and snatched up the reins with harsh hands, startling his horse. “They came in from the rain. The innkeeper said he thought they were man and wife, since they shared a room. Christ’s blood, I knew it. The whoreson is bedding her. I swear I’m going to skewer him. Nail him to a tree. Hack his balls off and make him eat them.”
Dudley, who had remained in the saddle while Ralph went into the inn, gave a wry smile. “Well, now that his punishment is sorted, what of the lass?”
Ralph scoffed. “She can watch him die, then I’ll deal with her.” He hawked out a wad of saliva. “And that’s not all. It seems they are now three. According to the stable lad, they left with some ancient northern baron who had been traveling alone. He’s riding a chestnut palfrey. And the Abbot, rot his holy bones, lied about the other horse being a gray. It’s black, with odd colored eyes. Blue and brown.”
Dudley raised a brow. “And does the stable lad know which way they went?”
“Aye. ’Tis as I thought.” Ralph pressed his spurs to the horse’s belly and left his comment hanging in the air. “They’re heading north.”