Covenant With Hell (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

Master Larcher gazed down on the street below his shop and belched. His stomach was sour.

He had been in a fine mood until he discovered one of his apprentices asleep. The boy had failed to complete his allotted number of badges, and this laxity caused production to fall behind the obligatory schedule. For each day there was a minimum number to finish. Today’s requirement had not been met. Since the prioress would use any delivery delay as reason to pay less for the next order, no matter what he argued or threatened, he had personally whipped the offending youth to encourage refreshed enthusiasm for responsibility.

“All these youths care about is drink and whores,” he muttered.

He turned from the window and poured himself another cup of wine. The vintage was silky and soothed his rebellious digestion. Drinking it also improved his mood. When Mistress Emelyne arrived for supper later that day, she would surely find the wine perfect.

Absently, he ran a hand through his hair and down his face. In her honor, he had had his hair washed and the stubble on his cheeks shaved. Even without looking into his wife’s highly polished silver disk, he was confident the woman would be pleased.

The cook had been ordered to find a good roast as well, although a small one was preferred. This Lenten season might require abstinence on most days, but he told God he would trade a feast day for this one and still honor the forty days of sorrow. As added penance, his priest would probably require him to fast an extra day. He would do so willingly, but the day might have to occur after this order for the priory was complete and Lent had passed.

He licked his lips. The meat would be succulent, as spring lamb was, and would be surrounded by tender root vegetables with spices from Outremer. His cook had told him that Grains of Paradise had been purchased from the spice merchant who swore their peppery origin was from the Garden of Eden itself.

Such pleasant thoughts and the cup of wine warmed him all the way down to his manhood. He chuckled. That pleasure must be saved for last. Even though he was still virile, he believed it wise to restrain himself and, during Lent, went so far as to tie his organ down at night. Indeed, he had recently discovered that he was better able to perform with his favored leman if he swyved her less frequently. His wife did not seem to mind that he practiced abstinence with her.

He set the cup down and shifted his thoughts to another matter.

Sister Roysia’s death was lamentable.

The day Prioress Ursell so outrageously cheated him on the new order, he had been quite ill with fear. The slayer was nigh, but he had no name, and his master would soon demand it. Then the nun had given him a sign that she had a message. He uttered the phrases agreed upon at their last meeting, and her reply told him to meet her that night.

Such urgency was unusual, and the meeting was ill-fated from the start. His leman had kept him too long in bed. For once, he had been thankful when his manhood failed to stiffen again at her bidding. He had rushed away but was late for the meeting with the nun. Now he was grateful.

Had he met her when expected, he might have been caught in the tower, after she slipped to her death, and been accused of heinous crimes. Instead, he was still in the road when he heard the scream, saw a man racing toward the bell tower, and wisely chose to flee back to his house.

Unfortunately, he believed she had discovered the name of the one coming to Walsingham to murder King Edward. Her urgency about meeting suggested that, and he had no way of learning it by himself. Although he was never sure how the nun got her information, she was reliable, which was why he suffered Father Vincent’s bribery and the trials of meeting in that ridiculous place.

Looking down at his hands, he noted they still had burn marks from the rope used to climb the tower. At least he need no longer bribe the priest to remain silent. The man could say what he liked about lusty nuns coupling with men. Larcher’s true purpose for the meetings was safe from discovery. Now that Sister Roysia was dead, no one cared about old sins when there were new ones to talk about.

But who was this assassin? It could be any man, even the wine merchant, although Master Durant had approached him in the proper manner and uttered the expected phrases to prove his authenticity. Yet there was something about the man the craftsman did not trust. Larcher felt uneasy, but there was no time to get any message through to his master and receive a reply. Durant was here and demanded answers soon.

Larcher’s master did not like to be contacted, and his own messages to the craftsman were terse. His last one, slipped into a pouch and delivered by a filthy youth, had been: “A man will meet you.” A few phrases were given to identify the agent, and that was all. But the enemies of the king had spies as well. The phrases might have been learned by one of them.

He shivered, and his stomach churned again. He must end his involvement in this nefarious trade. Despite the greedy prioress, he still gained enough from the pilgrimage badges that his apprentices made from a cheap tin and lead alloy. But the extra work paid him what he needed to keep his mistress in comfort and eager to welcome him to her bed.

It also paid for a man to watch her to make sure she remained faithful. A few lemans were stupid enough to seek the occasional young stallion to supplement their pleasure, but his seemed wiser than that. Give a woman enough baubles, he had decided long ago, and she would stay with the source. Although he suspected she filched from him, claiming a clasp or ring had been stolen and begging a replacement, he was tolerant. Women always seemed uneasy about their futures, but she had little cause. She was still young. He planned to keep her for a while.

Larcher sighed. So was the wine merchant his contact? He had no choice but to think so, yet he did not like it. Durant was like a ghost, insubstantial in a way no mortal ought to be.

But if he was the man to whom he was to pass on information, how could he bring him the name of the killer he was supposed to provide? The nun was dead. And if he did not succeed in his mission, he knew he might well suffer for his failure and just how painfully. He had heard of men beaten beyond all healing, bar a miracle.

Cursing, he walked back to the jug of wine and poured another cup. Somehow he must find a way to satisfy his obligation. Durant had shown profound displeasure with him, but what could he do? The number of pilgrims, amongst whom a traitorous murderer could hide, was small at the moment. When Easter week arrived, and most labor slowed to honor the death and resurrection, penitents came in swarms. If discovering a killer amongst the other sinners was beyond him now, how could he hope to do so beginning Easter week?

He cursed Sister Roysia for being so careless as to die like she did and leave him such a dilemma. She should have been more careful on the slippery floor of that damned bell tower.

His head swam. His eyes teared. Staring heavenward, he begged God not to let him suffer for his unavoidable failure at this ill-conceived task. Even the promise of Mistress Emelyne’s plump breasts did not brighten his spirits.

A knock on the chamber door disrupted his grave musings.

He roared permission to enter.

A man servant nervously looked around the open door. “Master, you have a visitor who begs to see you.”

Larcher growled his displeasure and looked at the light outside his window. It was too early for his tryst with Mistress Emelyne. On the other hand, perhaps the guest was a customer wanting to order an expensive piece of pewter.

“Someone I might want to see?”

“A business offer, I was told.” The man looked relieved that his master had not thrown something at him.

“Bring the man up.”

Master Larcher swallowed the rest of his wine, and then hid the jug. If the client needed refreshment, he would offer him a cheaper but still acceptable vintage.

Chapter Twenty-three

Thomas might not like the local prioress or her priest, but Ryehill Priory was a far safer place than the narrow, dark streets of Walsingham. He was grateful that Prioress Eleanor was now within its walls.

Before he left her, he said he would seek out Master Larcher. After hesitating a moment, she agreed. Gracia’s story seemed reliable, but she was still a child. For now, all they had was her testimony, conclusions based on partial information, and gossip from a fellow pilgrim.

The merchant could clarify, confirm, or deny details—if he was willing to do so. Both Eleanor and Thomas feared he would not cooperate. The man may or may not have been a nun’s lover, and he was either working to save a king or planning to kill him. He had no reason to answer any question they posed. If Thomas revealed his own knowledge of clandestine matters when he was alone with Master Larcher, the prioress had said, she feared for his safety. The craftsman was a very treacherous man.

Her deep concern pleased him. It was clear she valued his services, and he could not have felt more honored if she had been the king himself. Had she been the king, he thought with amusement, he might have earned a knighthood by now and made his dead father proud of his bastard son. Yet Thomas was content. The respect given by one whom he revered ranked far higher than the rewards granted by mortals in less favor with God than Tyndal’s leader.

His prioress also expressed concern for the wellbeing of Gracia. “Larcher knew she had overheard them discussing treason,” she had said. “Might he not kill her for the knowledge even if he is King Edward’s man and innocent of Sister Roysia’s death? Dare he let any untrustworthy witness to his secrets survive?”

“It is unlikely Larcher would kill a child,” he replied, but knew the argument was weak. He was unacquainted with the man. As additional reassurance to his prioress and himself, he pointed out that Gracia had long survived due to the swiftness of her wit and feet.

“Yet the girl was afraid of some threat and fled from us,” Eleanor said, “despite the protection offered by two adults and before we had finished talking. Although she fears her rapist, I doubt that man would dare approach when we were with her.”

His prioress was right, he decided, and Gracia’s safety was one more reason he wanted to interrogate the badge craftsman now. Even if he discovered nothing about the nun’s death, he needed to learn what kind of person the merchant was.

Larcher might not be the king’s man. He could be the assassin himself and have killed the nun because she had learned more about him than he deemed wise. If this were true, Gracia’s life was in danger.

Having worked as a spy himself, albeit for the Church, the monk knew that men often lied about their loyalties to obtain information for their true masters. Even if Larcher were loyal to the king, the monk was quite aware that those who did this work did not always obey God’s law. Despite his assurances to his prioress, Thomas was uncertain whether the craftsman would or would not kill the child to silence her.

Swearing to observe caution, he and Prioress Eleanor had separated, she to the protection of priory walls and he to the unknown dangers of Master Larcher’s house. Before they did, he had begged a blessing from his lady and she had given it, adding a prayer to God for His special protection.

***

As he walked down the road toward the shrines, he stopped a carpenter and asked the way to the craftsman’s house. This man had been one the monk questioned outside the inn when he and his prioress sought information on Gracia. Proud that the monk wished further information from him, the man’s chest swelled with pride and he grew talkative.

As the carpenter described, with impressive detail, each landmark on the way, Thomas’ patience was sorely tried. Every turn in the road was matched by the man’s torturous twists of body and hand. The monk’s mouth ached with the effort to keep his lips smiling with appreciation.

Finally, the tradesman paused to catch his breath. The monk thanked him, and then raced down the road, looking back briefly to wave in gratitude. That thankfulness extended to escaping the man himself.

Master Larcher’s house lay closer to the holy shrines, along a street that was wider than the ones he and his prioress had visited with Gracia. A raker was pulling refuse away from doors and dragging it into piles. A short distance away, a cart waited to haul the garbage away. With delight, Thomas noted that the cart horse appeared to be taking a nap.

Suddenly, he became aware that someone was walking close behind him. Veering toward the middle of the road, Thomas spun around and faced the man following him.

Durant stopped, raised his open hands to prove good will and that he held no weapon. “I did not mean to startle you, Brother. I was about to call your name.”

You were too close, the monk thought. If you had intended as you claim and meant no ill, you would have called to me from a greater distance. “Master Durant.” He did his best hide his nervousness and smiled ingenuously.

“I am honored that you remembered my name.” The wine merchant’s smile could have meant anything.

“I recall our conversation in the inn. You promised to stop any further rumors about the Devil being involved in Sister Roysia’s death. Thus you helped preserve Ryehill Priory’s reputation. That was a kind gesture.”

The wine merchant bowed, but his gaze only briefly left the monk.

Thomas felt a growing apprehension. This was a puzzling man, one who probably had many secrets buried inside him, but the monk did not know if they were benign or malevolent things. He had seen the prioress’ cat kill a mouse with more directness than this wine merchant played with his fellow men. And those mortals, the monk suspected, might well include himself.

“I see we are walking in the same direction. May I join you?”

Thomas was about to reply when the merchant stepped so close to him that he could feel the heat of the man’s body. Durant grasped his arm and very firmly pushed the monk to move on.

Glaring, Thomas resisted, forcing the wine merchant to stop. There was no doubt that Master Durant wished to control this chance meeting. The monk was not about to become a willing follower.

Durant dropped his hand, stepped back, and laughed.

This was not the reaction Thomas had expected. Perhaps he had misjudged the merchant, or else the man was cleverer than he had assumed.

“Forgive me, Brother. I am accustomed to the world of commerce. We rarely stand still to discuss anything.”

Clever, Thomas decided, but even more certainly a lie.

“I am going to visit Master Larcher and noted that you are walking that way as well. If I have not offended you, I would share that part of my journey in your company.” He waved in the direction of the shrines. “I would appreciate hearing about your experiences at the holy sites.”

Silently, Thomas uttered an unholy oath. Although he had also planned to meet with the craftsman, he did not want Master Durant to know that. A satisfactory explanation of why he happened to be walking this street did not come swiftly to mind, so he took the offensive before the question was asked of him. “You have business with him?” He hoped his question did not suggest he was deliberately prying.

“I learned that he is the craftsman who makes the pilgrimage badges for the shrines here.” He clapped his hands together in pleasure. “God chose to smile on me, and I met him at the inn where I am staying. In the course of sharing a very pleasant wine, I suggested we might become partners in a business venture.”

Thomas looked at him with amusement. “I see that miracles do not always take place in shrines but in the world of commerce as well. That a wine merchant from Norwich sees a reason to join with a craftsman of Walsingham pilgrimage badges amazes me.”

A twinkle of what might have been appreciation shone from the man’s eyes. “Men who love coin are ever alert to the ways of acquiring more. I see no reason not to tell you that we thought we might extend his sales to Norwich for those planning a pilgrimage here. If a penitent owns the badge before departing, he may be more likely to fulfill his vow.”

Thomas uttered a sound that could be interpreted as disbelief or delighted surprise.

“The idea may come to nothing, but the offer of compensation was a fair one to us both. I hoped to meet with him and discuss it further.”

The two continued on in silence, each man lost in his own musing.

“What brings you to this part of Walsingham, Brother? It is far from any shrine.” Durant’s voice bit into the monk’s thoughts.

Glancing at his face, Thomas knew the merchant had finished playing games with him. He should not have shown such evident doubt over Durant’s explanations. If he wanted to avoid equally overt misgivings from this troubling man about his own purpose here, he would have been wiser to play the innocent.

“I have not been in Walsingham before and thought to spend a little time walking about the town. Monks do not often see the outside of our priory walls.” He shrugged. “Improper or not, we always enjoy news of the outside world. I readily confess that I share this weakness, but seeing what some believe are the joys of the secular world only makes me stronger in my vocation.” There is enough truth in that, Thomas thought. He and Prioress Eleanor often found too much violence beyond the walls of Tyndal.

“Then we soon part,” Durant replied, “and I may not have the pleasure of your company again.” He pointed to a house some doors ahead which Thomas knew, from the painfully explicit details he had been given, belonged to Master Larcher.

“It shall be as God wills it,” the monk replied.

Thomas would give the wine merchant time to complete his business with the craftsman and hope Durant left soon. It would require stealth, but he might hide nearby and watch for the merchant to leave. Then it would be safe for him to visit Master Larcher.

He looked around. Unfortunately, there was nothing here to give him cause to tarry. Were he to try to hide somewhere, he might be reported. Despite his tonsure, householders did not trust strangers who lingered with no obvious purpose, and thieves never hesitated to disguise themselves. Pretending to be an innocent religious might add to their many sins, but robbers were not usually as rigorous in their faith as they were in their devotion to their trade.

Durant stopped close by the craftsman’s house. “Will you give me a blessing, Brother? I am a sinful man but wish I were a more virtuous one.” He knelt.

Thomas obliged him but did not add any prayer that God look with favor on this strange enterprise mentioned by the wine merchant. He doubted God would believe he meant such a thing and refused to insult Him by pretending he did.

Rising, Durant smiled at the monk. The warmth of the look seemed genuine and Thomas felt a twinge of guilt. The man still might not deserve his suspicion.

The two parted, the merchant to the door of Master Larcher and the monk to his aimless journey down the street as he tried to decide what he ought to do next.

But Thomas had not walked far before he heard running footsteps behind him.

“Brother Thomas! In God’s name, please stop!”

The monk spun around, shocked by the urgency in the man’s voice.

It was the wine merchant. Durant’s face was ashen. “I beg you to come quickly. I need your help.” His voice trembled with emotion.

Thomas nodded. This was unfeigned. Something had happened to toss aside all pretence.

Together the men rushed back toward Master Larcher’s house.