Rhiannon (23 page)

She looked quizzically at Thaddeus. “Granna saw a robed brother knocking upon the church door in her firewatch yestermorn. Does that bear on this thing at all?”

Thaddeus looked some sheepish. “I left a robe behind in the gaol when I visited Jim the evening before the vicar's visit to him. I'd heard that Guy sometimes lets a condemned murderer slip to sanctuary, and I hoped that if the manor court found Jim guilty, Guy would let Jim robe himself to better reach the church door unhindered.” He covered his eyes with his hands and added, “Little did I think the need for it would arise the very next morning! I'd hoped for the delay a scheduled trial would provide so's we could somehow prove Jim innocent, but with this ill-gained confession, he will have the forty days of sanctuary and then his fate's sealed, with no trial or possible reprieve.”

The young monk shuddered and looked again to the choppy waters, clenching and unclenching the muscles of his jaws. For her part, Rhiannon was tapping her chin with that cross again, trying to work out in her head some pattern to the earl's recent unpredictable doings.

“The earl first gives coin to have the church here made grand, which I guess is to the good,” she mused. “Though it displaces peasants such as Jim, which is to the ill. He also endows your outpost monastery, which is good. But he has a band of lepers brought to the woods he owns, which I'd say is ill, since he appears to care not one fig what happens to them now they've come. And here's this new and . . . and
hideous
gesture that the earl thinks God should find praiseworthy. Thaddeus, it's as though the earl would please God, but has no sense at all about it. He flails like a fish thrown upon the beach.”

Thaddeus nodded. “These are strange times, Rhiannon,” he said quietly. “Since the
White Ship
went down last November, many gentlefolk who are normally too well fed and comfortable to worry one whit about the Great Hereafter have suddenly developed extreme concern for the condition of their souls. At Glastonbury we saw constant evidence of this newfound and oft misthought piety last winter. Noble parties would arrive at our gates daily, demanding that God immediately forgive their sins as they'd taken the time and expense to make such a pilgrimage. Or many nights a band of gentry would awake the abbot from his sleep, ordering him to tell them where they could join a quick Crusade to the Holy Lands, as they knew for a certain fact God forgave Crusaders of all sin. When the royal ship carrying Prince William and his party went down so suddenly last winter, I believe the elders of those young gentry, lords and ladies throughout the realm, were shocked into awareness of their own bleak chances for eternal survival. And exactly as you say, they now flail like grounded fish. Most would
buy
heaven, as the buying of lands and people is what they understand. Others excel at warfare, which explains their preference for bloody Crusading. Few indeed comprehend compassion as being heaven's true route, as that trait is not useful when acquiring a knightly portion of manors and titles. In fact, most rulers think it a trait of fools.”

They were both silent for a moment, then Rhiannon murmured, “All this jives with something mentioned by one of Granna's friends today. She said Jim's daughter, Beornia, will profit from Jim's confession as she'll inherit if he hangs confessed. It rings true that, as you've said, Beornia
is
the true reason for Jim's false confession, now there's inheritance involved. But do you think she knows of the earl's coin she'll have? She called Jim dimwit, though she said not whether she believed he'd murdered. Did she mean dimwit for murdering, or dimwit for confessing to a crime he did not do?”

Thaddeus sounded miserable as he said, “I doubt if she knows the twisted schemes that have led to her father's dilemma. And even if she
did
know Jim had been bribed to confess, I doubt she could reverse what the vicar has set upon simply by renouncing a claim to Jim's inheritance. Vicar Pecksley
will
have his hanging, though I still know not who is being protected by it. I only know the coin the earl's given as a gesture to God can only have been needed so that a murderer may walk free.”

Rhiannon's ears rang. “Thaddeus, has it really not occurred to you that the earl himself may indeed be the one being
protected
by Lord Claredemont and the vicar?”

Thaddeus looked quickly over at her. Was he puzzled, or thinking a similar thing?

She shrugged, suddenly exhausted. “I don't know what I meant by that. Truly, I don't. I'm just angry at the earl's false piety in bringing the lepers to the bluff, as it's caused Mam a fine dilemma. And the earl's son and his cronies lately ride like demons through the woods and the town, careless of all. But I suppose they don't exactly
sin
with their brash ways when all's said and done.”

Thaddeus smiled, but his smile held no mirth. “Their
brash
ways. So might have said those who watched the dockside revels before the
White Ship
set sail last November. Youth will have its fun, those fond watchers surely thought, those parents and sisters and doting aunts.”

“I've never really heard what happened,” Rhiannon whispered, her exhaustion instantly gone. A grand curiosity had just perked her like a week's dose of Mam's most potent tonic. “I merely know that the prince and others drowned when that ill-constructed ship hit a rock coming back to England from the wars in Francia.”

Everyone knew that much, but until now, Rhia'd not met anyone who might know more—an aristocrat, that is. She held her breath, though she wouldn't hound Thaddeus for details, as his day had already been so fraught. Unusual restraint, for Rhia.

“You say the
White Ship
was ill-constructed, Rhia, but you've got that wrong,” Thaddeus said quietly. “It was the most worthy of all ships, newly fitted out, and offered by its proud captain for the king's transport back from Francia after his great victory there last winter. King Henry thanked the captain and then gave over the sleek ship to his son William, who'd fought valiantly at his side, though barely seventeen. William invited one hundred forty young knights and some young ladies of the highest rank to sail back to England in victory with him aboard the fine
White Ship.
Those privileged youth danced in the moonlight and made merry with many casks of wine before they finally boarded. It's said a group of priests traveled from Rouen to bless the ship, but were thrown into the water by the laughing crowd. All were in high spirits at the midnight of their departure, dressed in brilliant mantles of festive color, as for a grand occasion. The other vessels of Henry's fleet had long since departed, and as William's party sped through the dark waves, the prince laughingly cajoled the fifty strong oarsmen to row faster and faster so they might overtake the slower craft of their elders.”

He stopped. Rhiannon swallowed. “And they . . . wrecked?” she asked.

The young monk shrugged. “The rock was there beneath the waves. Going so fast with a drunken crew, they hit it hard and square. All aboard are said to be drowned.”

Rhiannon crossed herself. “But . . . who told of it, if all died?”

“A stowaway butcher from Francia survived to swim to land. They say he'd snuck aboard the ship to collect a bill owed him by one of the revelers aboard. He told of the prince's attempt to save his half-sister's life. Prince William, it seems, was quickly taken by his bodyguards to the small cockboat that was pulled behind, and he would have been rowed safely to land had he not, upon hearing Adela's screams, ordered the rower to return to the sinking ship. There, so many jumped into his lifeboat that it was swamped, and he perished with the rest.”

Rhiannon had stopped listening—indeed, had stopped hearing altogether. She sat as one turned to stone. She hardly drew breath.

Thaddeus took her arm. “Rhiannon?” Alarmed, he shook her. “Rhia!”

She looked at him. “Not Adela,” she breathed. “Prince William's sister was never called Adela.”

Thaddeus nodded. “Adela, Countess of Perche.” He leaned around to search her face. “Rhiannon, you've lost your color. Have a care upon the rocks, and let's hasten to get you something to eat before you start for home. Here, let me help you stand.”

But Rhia got herself to her feet, swaying a bit. “It waxes late,” she said shortly, adjusting her pack. “I must start up the trail right
now,
Thaddeus.”

She snatched her skirt to her knees and well nigh ran back along the slimed rocks of the narrow beach, and not until she'd reached the place where the bluff trail merged from the sand and started its steep climb upward did she turn around to bid Thaddeus a courteous farewell.

He was behind her some paces, looking confused, as well he might. She was some sorry for that, but she'd have to confuse him more. There was no help for it.

“The butcher, Thaddeus?” she called to him. “The one who swam to shore and told the story? Do you . . . know what he looks like? I mean, might he be young and well-formed, with slender bearing and a certain pirate-like elegance?”

“I heard he was barrel-chested, bald, and of some fifty years,” Thaddeus called back.

“And he the only survivor? Are they so sure of that? That he
was
the only?”

Thaddeus was growing used to Rhia's mode of thinking, which seemed some helter-skelter, but honestly was only so in the way of a spider's webweave. Her thoughts came from all directions but would eventually yield a pattern—most—times, at least.

“Of such a thing there
can
be no certainty, Rhiannon, can there?” he said gently, walking closer. “Bodies have washed up weekly ever since it happened, all of them in tatters of fine raiment and with jeweled bones where ringed fingers once were. Mothers watched the beach for their lost children for days and days after the catastrophe, and watch these late days for their children's corpses. None swam ashore to arms yearning for embrace. None walked ashore seeking home. All that came ashore were brought in the icy arms of the merciless waves, and so it's said there were no survivors save the butcher, and that's the best end that can be given it. Five months have now passed. There needs
must
be an end, you know? False hope is surely much heavier to bear in the long run than lost hope.”

Rhiannon dropped her head. “Yes. Those grieving mothers must go on, even if their comfort is chilly. There must be an end to it, as you've said.”

Thaddeus cleared his throat. “Uhm, Rhiannon? I . . . would now ask a large favor of you. But before I do, will you stay right here? I'll be back in but a moment.”

Without waiting for answer he turned and ran along the beach to the place where several drifted logs made a tangled heap. He knelt in the sand and reached into that snarl, then, with a jerk, he pulled forth a damp woolen bundle. He carried that sand-shrouded pack in both arms as he ran back to where Rhiannon waited, puzzled.

“Rhia, I've decided I can't go back to your vicar's church right now,” he told her in a rush. “I can't chance meeting him, looking him in the eye. Instead, I'm going on retreat for some days, or longer if needs be. That is, until my mind clears and God gives me grace to see the situation more clearly.”

She swallowed. “Your brother monks would let you . . . do that? Just ... leave?”

And what of Jim? His situation wouldn't wait for Thaddeus's mind to clear!

He nodded, then thought again and shrugged. “Retreat was encouraged at Glastonbury when a brother was troubled in mind. But here? I really don't know. I've told Brother Silas that when I'm missed he's to tell the prior I'm on retreat, and if our prior likes it not and calls me to account, Silas is to say he knows not my location.”

Thaddeus looked down and solemnly brushed sand from the bundle he held. “Not a lie, as I don't know myself where I'm going, Rhia. But I don't think anyone here will miss me much. I've become a thorn in the vicar's side with my questions about Jim. It's obvious he finds me annoying, though I doubt he considers me a real threat, young as I am. My brother monks will surely welcome a break from me as well. The vicar's annoyance with me has begun to stir the waters, as he is ofttimes testy with all.”

He then knelt, put the woolen pack upon the ground, and concentrated on carefully unrolling it as he spoke in a voice that was much changed, quieter and hoarse. “It's been six years since my father gave me as oblate, and now I'm seventeen. I love God, and the good abbot at Glastonbury was in all things His servant. I saw in him that a brother might attain great wisdom and peace of heart through serving others in Christ's name, but is that in me to do? On retreat, I
must
decide whether to take my final vows.”

Rhia's throat ached, so much did Thaddeus's dilemma suddenly remind her of her own. Mam, too, was a great servant of God, but Rhia often doubted her own ability to be such a selfless healer as Mam. To tell it true, Rhia oft doubted her own willingness to stay forever upon the bluff doing such hard work,
that
was the thing.

“I hope you fare well with this, Thaddeus,” she forced out. “And if the favor you seek is that I tell no one of seeing you, rest assured my lips are sealed.” She then made the rash decision to quickly spill her real thoughts, though he might think her a meddlesome scold. “But Mam and the rest of us upon the bluff
will
miss you sorely! We call you true friend, and would have cherished your considered advice and ready help right now. With the lepers, that is. And, of course, with Jim.”

The young monk blew out a long, relieved breath, then looked up at her and smiled.

“Your words have made my request much easier, Rhiannon, as I wondered if you and your family would grant me use of one of the hospice cottages for my retreat from the brotherhood? I'd pay my way with chores, and as well, I'd ask leave to paint inside the little church. It's some dark the way it is, and paintings of Our Lord's life here on earth would be fitting treatment for those walls. I would pray as I worked, for my work
is
my truest form of prayer.”