Satan's Lullaby (7 page)

Chapter Thirteen

As that hour approached when God tints the sky with blues and lavenders, the time when weary creatures long for the blessing of rest after their labors have ended, Philippe of Picardy slipped out of the hospital grounds and found the path that led to the guest quarters.

Lest someone look curiously at him, he slowly hobbled on his crutch. If anyone chose to question why he was walking that particular way, he could honestly say that he was healing and the easy path let him strengthen the ankle before he traveled on. One look at his ragged attire would confirm that Philippe was too poor to pay for a horse or a ride in a cart and needed two sturdy feet for any journey.

As the sun slipped into its bed below the earth’s edge, the air swiftly cooled and he shivered. Briefly, he wondered if the world was flat, like some claimed, or round, as others averred, but quickly decided it was a question too immense for any flawed mortal to answer. All he knew for sure was that the earth was the center of God’s universe and the sun must be obedient to it. He thought it regrettable that the orb had not retained that submission a bit longer so he need not suffer this nighttime chill.

As he approached the quarters, he looked around. In that moment, there were no others to see him. He slipped to his knees and crawled into the shrubbery where he had previously found a comfortable clearing with a nice mat of leaves on which to sit and view the place where the hated priest stayed.

It was regrettable that the clerk had died, he thought. The lad was innocent, but Philippe did not overly grieve. Anything that hurt Davoir gladdened his heart, and Jean was as beloved as a son to the man. “Of which he has had many,” he muttered with sharp bitterness. Jean was but one of those the priest had begun to prepare for a career in the Church that would complement the stellar heights Davoir hoped he himself would eventually obtain. Or perhaps Jean would have been cast aside to suffer the oblivion of poverty no matter what his talent.

This time Philippe shivered for a reason besides the chilly air. Then his eyes filled with hot tears. He rubbed them away, but the pain lingered, for the heat was born of hatred. Only one thing would purify his heart of this rage, and he was feeling more confident that he could soon achieve it.

His one fear in coming to this place was the knowledge that Prioress Eleanor and Brother Thomas were blessed by God with uncanny abilities to ferret out guilty souls. Although he might be willing to die if he could make sure Father Etienne suffered agony enough to pay for his cruelties, Philippe preferred to escape back to France and live with the sweet peace he believed revenge would bring him.

Now that Jean was dead and a rumor was spreading that Sister Anne was accused of murder, perhaps under the direction of her prioress, he felt more certain of survival.

Even before he met her at the hospital, Philippe had heard of this sub-infirmarian’s reputation for healing and her keen eye for a suspicious death. That she had been cast into a cell was good news. And the prioress herself was under enough suspicion that she dared not investigate lest she be charged with unlawful meddling.

His heart beat with increasing joy. As for the monk, Brother Thomas had been accused of bedding his prioress, information he learned from his informant who had alerted him to Davoir’s journey here. Anything the monk did to look into the clerk’s death would also be deemed questionable. As for the local king’s man, Philippe assumed he would be as ignorant as any other without medical skills when it came to death by something other than a sword or rock.

“God wills it!” Philippe caught himself before he spoke above a dangerous whisper, but his self-assurance was growing rapidly.

With the sub-infirmarian safely locked away, another death would cast more blame on the prioress and perhaps on the monk as well. The resultant commotion would also allow him to escape, or so Philippe hoped. If any subsequent investigation proved all three innocent, so much time would have passed that he would be far away. Why should anyone suspect a poor pilgrim with an injured ankle to have any part in heinous crimes? All he had to do was discover the perfect way to achieve his desire.

He looked back toward the hospital. The darkness was now growing like a malignant shadow. Philippe knew he must return or leave himself open to questions by people who might remember that he had been gone far too long for brief exercise.

Crawling out of his hiding spot, he pretended he had fallen and dragged himself to his feet with appropriate grunts. With the sub-infirmarian gone, others might take her place in the apothecary, but he counted on them being less skilled than Sister Anne and unaccustomed to careful practices with the herbs and poisonous roots. If God truly blessed his efforts, Philippe hoped to slip into the apothecary and steal an especially fine poison to slip into Father Etienne’s food. Although he was no apothecary, he knew enough to recognize monk’s hood and make a lethal dosage.

“My mother taught me well enough,” he muttered with grim appreciation for the woman who had raised him with little love and a much-callused hand. If not monk’s hood, he thought with a smile, he would find something equally deadly.

Carefully limping back down the path to the hospital, completely distracted by his plans for another untimely death, Philippe did not see the person who stepped into the path behind him.

After briefly following the man from Picardy, the shadow stopped to watch until the purported invalid disappeared into the hospital grounds. Then the figure turned back and faded into the darkness.

Satan’s hour had come.

Chapter Fourteen

Gracia hurried to keep up with the long-legged woman who accompanied her to the hospital that next morning.

Although she said she did not need the assistance of Anchoress Juliana’s servant to get the information, Gracia suspected that Prioress Eleanor was right to involve the woman. Hiding the real purpose of visiting the apothecary with an alleged request from the anchoress was a good stratagem, and Juliana had agreed she might need a toothache cure. “If not now,” the anchoress had said to the prioress, briefly considering whether this qualified as a lie, “then surely someday.”

Nor would anyone question why Gracia had to come with the servant. The woman never spoke, although there was a rumor that she was not mute but stammered so badly she had given up all attempts to speak. The story might be accurate, for the woman bore a scar across her mouth. Pressing hot metal against the lips was a common attempt to cure the affliction.

When the anchoress’ servant visited Sister Anne, the sub-infirmarian understood the signs that the anchoress and her maid used to communicate between them. Their language was mostly gestures often employed by monastics during periods of silence, but some had been devised to meet the special needs of the anchorage. Because of the differences, others had not learned to read the meanings. Some did not want to.

Many, including a few who worked in the hospital, found the silent woman unsettling and avoided her when they saw her coming. Had she not served the unquestionably holy anchoress, they might have whispered that the Prince of Darkness lived inside her and that was why she was unable to utter words. Knowing that some villagers had already concluded this and that marriage for their daughter would be out of the question, her parents were grateful that the priory took her to serve the anchoress, a duty that seemed to please the daughter well.

The servant looked behind her and slowed her pace, realizing that Gracia’s legs were not as long as hers. Smiling at the young girl, she stopped and waited.

Although there were several years between their ages, they both lived on the edge of acceptance in a world that feared the different and deemed it evil. A growing sense of affinity was developing between the abused orphan girl, too knowing for her years, and the woman whose unsettling eyes, the color of a winter sky, and lack of speech caused many to sniff the air for the sulphurous reek of hellfire.

The servant took Gracia by the hand and they walked together down the path to the priory hospital.

***

The hospital was a formidable place, not because of the rough stone walls black with damp, but for the cries and stench that filled it. Most came here to die, comforted by the religious attendants and the symbols of their faith. But for the living, not yet ready to surrender their souls to eternity, the process of dying was a fearful thing, even for the most faithful.

It was not a place where Gracia went often. When she was sent to summon Sister Anne for her mistress, she ran through the aisles lined with the sick. Never once did she stop, as some did, to stare at cancer-eaten faces or other disfigurements suffered by mortals. Sometimes she put her hands over her ears to blunt the moaning and rattling breath. The latter reminded her too much of the sounds her own mother had made as she slipped into death from a fever.

On one occasion, a girl, not much younger than she, grabbed her robe, forcing her to stop. Instead of tearing her robe from the child’s grasp, Gracia knelt by her side and held her hand while the girl fought to pull breath into her useless lungs. After the girl had died, Gracia looked at her own hand and found the palm bloody from the dead girl’s nails. For the first time since her parents had died, Gracia prayed.

As was her wont, Gracia and the anchoress’ servant now hurried down the aisle and past the chapel to the door leading to the apothecary. When they reached the hut, they saw a young nun inside, busily grinding something with mortar and pestle.

Hearing a sound, Sister Oliva looked up, saw the servant with the maid, and smiled. “How may I serve?”

Gracia explained what had been troubling the anchoress.

The servant walked back toward the chapel.

With a mildly curious expression, the young nun watched the woman leave, then walked to the shelves lined with jars, woven baskets, and sealed, glazed bottles. She pulled down a large earthenware container, pried off the wooden stopper, and began to weight out what would be used in the simple cure.

“I am grateful you are here, Sister, but grieve over the burden laid upon you due to the absence of Sister Anne,” Gracia said, gazing at the markings on the stored items. She had just begun to read, a skill for which she found both aptitude and interest, and used every chance to hone her knowledge.

“No one at Tyndal questions her innocence,” Sister Oliva replied, securing the seal back on the jar with a thump of her fist.

Gracia tilted her head and frowned as she pretended not to be able to read the label attached to one woven basket. “Sister, would you mind telling me what that is? I can see a ‘b’ and a ‘k’…”

“That contains blackthorn flowers. As an infusion in wine, it opens the bowels for those who suffer a binding thereof.” She put the jar she had just used back on the shelf, ran her finger along the shelf, and selected another.

“This all is so tidy.” Gracia gazed at the articles before her. “Different colored and shaped jars. Metal and wooden containers. All labeled, it seems.”

Dumping a pinch of a pale green powder into a mortar with the measured amount of the other herb, the nun began to grind and mix. “Sister Anne did not want us to accidentally use the wrong ingredient. A few items can be dangerous if used incorrectly, and many look the same to the untrained eye. Although she makes the majority of the remedies, she had trained a few of us to prepare the most common cures.”

“So she would let you mix a cure for an uneasy stomach?”

The nun stopped grinding and gave the maid a sharp look.

“I do not suggest that you or anyone else here mixed the wrong things together for Father Etienne’s clerk, Sister!” Gracia decided to trust the nun. After all, Sister Anne did, having found the young woman reliable and worthy of more advanced training. “I ask so I can better comprehend what might have happened and thus find a way to prove our sub-infirmarian’s innocence.”

Sister Oliva nodded, bent toward the maid, and whispered, “Do you know what Sister Anne believed to be the cause of the clerk’s illness?”

Gracia glanced around. She and the nun were alone. “A surfeit of ale,” she murmured.

With a grin, Sister Oliva gestured to the maid. “Come and I will show you.”

Gracia followed her to the other side of the hut.

“The remedy would consist of one of two preparations,” Sister Oliva said. “A drink of chamomile with ginger is often used to ease the symptoms as well as one of mixed yarrow and elderflower to balance the humors.” She pointed to a basket. “Here is the container of elderflowers, for instance.” She dropped her hand to a lower shelf and put a finger on a basket. “Here is the one filled with yarrow leaves.” Stepping back she gestured at the entire wall of shelving. “If one cannot read, one can learn the jar shape, color, and size. As for baskets, Sister Anne attached a colored cloth in the lid of each.”

Gracia studied the items. “It would be easy to memorize the position of each ingredient as well?”

“Yes, and she insisted that every item be put back immediately after use and in the space allotted for it. For those who could read, Sister Anne preferred to keep everything in alphabetic order. Other than the most needed remedies, and the simplest to make, only she and I made the cures. And lest you fear that a truly lethal item might be used accidentally, let me assure you that this was not possible. The toxic roots, seeds, leaves, and flowers are kept over here, well out of the way.”

The nun led Gracia to a large covered chest and raised the lid.

Gracia peered in. There was a strange smell coming from the chest. It made her uneasy. She drew back.

“You can see that a poison could not be sent by accident, even by one of us. We were not allowed to touch the dangerous ingredients, not even I, although Sister Anne had promised to train me in those skills.” Sister Oliva flushed with pride. In an older woman, this might be called a sin. In one of the nun’s youth, it was an innocent display of joy.

Gracia clapped her hands with pleasure. “How wonderful to be chosen by Sister Anne to learn from her!”

The nun bowed her head. “I am humbled by her confidence,” she said, “and have atoned for my conceit.”

“Surely it is no sin to be grateful that God gave you the ability to learn this astonishing craft, Sister. Since I have taken no vows, I shall be proud for you!”

Laughing, the nun kissed the girl on the cheek. “You are good to say so,” she said.

As the pair went back to the place where the nun had been working, Gracia considered what she should ask next. “Poor Sister Anne,” she said, “but surely her tale that someone was sent by the priest can be proven.”

Sister Oliva shook her head as she picked up the pestle and ground away at the toothache treatment. “None of us saw anyone. We have discussed it. It grieves us all that we cannot offer proof that she told the truth.”

Gracia gestured to the hospital. “None of the healthier patients witnessed a hooded man near the hut?”

“Most look only to God, my child. One pilgrim with a sprained ankle was questioned. He sleeps on a mat near the chapel. After he asked many questions to aid his memory, he still denied seeing anyone.”

“I was there when Sister Anne told Father Etienne that she would send the remedy with a lay brother who could give instructions. After we had left, she told Brother Thomas that the cure was a simple thing.” Gracia blinked with a suggestion of confusion.

“It is. And I was here soon after she was arrested. Nothing had been mislaid. Everything was put back on the shelf. All looks as it should.”

“I have heard a rumor that what killed the clerk was autumn crocus.” She pointed to the large chest. “I assume it would be in that?”

“It is a noxious thing. Most certainly it would be there.”

“Was it often used?”

The nun ran her finger through the mixture she had been grinding to check the consistency. “Rarely. Sister Anne was using it to treat our sub-prioress’ gout. A few courtiers come here with the complaint, and she has used it on some, but not all.” She laughed. “Courtiers do not always wish to remain out of the king’s sight long enough for that cure to work, and it is too dangerous for them to use without close observation.”

“Will you show it to me?” Gracia’s eyes sparkled with interest. “I am curious to see this extraordinary thing.”

They went back to the chest. Lifting the lid, the nun reached in, then hesitated. With a puzzled expression, she bent to look deeper into the chest. After a moment, she straightened with a frown. “It isn’t here.”

Gracia walked to her side and stared inside at the stored jars and boxes. “There are not many in there. It cannot have fallen into some hidden place.”

Now the nun’s face was pale. “It could not.” She rushed back and carefully looked at every item on the shelves. “I cannot find it!” Her voice rose in panic.

Looking around, Gracia knew that the room was too small for something to be easily hidden. All looked neat. It would be hard to lose a container, and the nun had checked to see if it had been placed in the wrong spot.

“Has anyone come here asking for autumn crocus?” Gracia asked.

“Sister Christina,” Sister Oliva said, her voice hoarse. “But all know she is close to God. She would never harm that clerk!”

“Why did she ask for it?”

“Sister Anne had given her a few, carefully measured packets for our sub-prioress. Sister Christina was the only one who could get her to take it. After Sister Anne was arrested, the infirmarian ran out of her supply and came back for more. I could not give her any because I am not trained in this treatment, nor could anyone else.” The nun glanced back at the chest. “And because there was nothing we could do to help our infirmarian without Sister Anne’s help, I did not even look for the item in the chest.”

Gracia had been in the priory long enough to know that Sister Christina was too saintly to bring harm to anyone. Sub-Prioress Ruth, although known for her dislike of Prioress Eleanor, might own a murderous tongue, but she would never poison someone. “Fear not,” she said to the nun. “You are not to blame for this missing item. It will be found. I am confident of it.”

Indeed, it had been found, or at least some of it, in the dead clerk’s room, but this was not information Gracia believed she had any right to divulge. She asked no more questions, and let Sister Oliva finish the preparation for the anchoress.

Taking the packet she had allegedly come for, she thanked the still-troubled nun, hurried out of the apothecary, and found the anchoress’ servant praying alone in the chapel.

As they left the hospital, Gracia tried to think how she could question Sub-Prioress Ruth about her supplies of the gout remedy without offending her. Perhaps Prioress Eleanor would think it was wiser for another to do that. If need be, Gracia knew she could talk to Sister Christina.

Glancing at the packet in her hand, Gracia decided that her teeth still troubled her on occasion, and she would keep this cure for herself.