On Sunday, Xan and Brother Andrew left for Chadwick after morning Mass. The prior had sent them on the journey, despite it being a day of rest, because they needed to resolve the issue quickly.
Xan had spent Saturday afternoon at the fountain with Lucy, Maud, and Joshua.
“What will you do if Brother Leo is telling the truth?” Lucy had asked.
He’d shrugged. “Guess we’ll need to find another suspect then.”
But in the dorm last night, John had been certain Brother Leo would be proven a liar. “None of us is safe round here ’til that monk is thrown in jail,” John had said to the younger boys, in an eerie voice. “For all we know, he might come in and kill us all tonight!”
Their journey to Chadwick was uneventful, with somber conversation about Brother Leo and the need to stay close to God to avoid the temptations of the secular world. Mother and Father had been peasants with almost no worldly possessions. They must have been very close to God.
When they finally arrived at Chadwick’s manor house in midafternoon, Sire Roger received them with very little delay. He met them in the common room, where manor servants brought them water and bread, as well as a strip of meat and a honey wafer. Because it was Sunday—a day to celebrate the Lord’s Resurrection—the rules even allowed Brother Andrew to eat some of the refreshments.
“Please come and sit,” Sire Roger invited them, twirling the edges of his slick mustache. “You have traveled a long and weary journey.”
After the customary pleasantries, Brother Andrew related the news of the attack on the abbot.
Sire Roger gaped in shock. “How can I aid your prior? My lord’s offer still stands open to protect your abbey and its manors. There is the matter of Penwood, of course, but—”
“I apologize,” the monk said, “but that is not the reason we have come. Indeed, the prior has made clear he will honor the abbot’s wishes about Penwood as long as the abbot lives.”
The problem always seemed to come back to Penwood Manor. Why couldn’t that wealthy landlord just leave the poor abbey alone and allow it to run its two manors in peace?
“I see,” said Sire Roger, his narrow eyes hidden in shadow. “Then why are you here?”
Brother Andrew looked to Xan sadly. “Tell him, my son.”
“Aye, Brother.” Xan cleared his throat and wiped his sweaty palms on his tunic. Perhaps the monk thought he was doing Xan an honor by letting him explain, or maybe Brother Andrew couldn’t bear to say the words himself.
Xan explained the evidence against Brother Leo, slowly and with a trembling voice. Sire Roger groaned at the revelation the monk may have attacked the abbot in a misguided effort to get Godfrey’s protection.
“We simply seek to verify some of Leo’s statements,” Brother Andrew added after Xan had finished. “If you do not mind.”
Sire Roger hesitated. “I would hate to bring more trouble on your poor brother. He seemed to be a wise monk when I met him at the chapter house last week.”
Of course, Sire Roger thought Brother Leo wise—he’d been the only monk to speak in favor of Godfrey taking control of Penwood. But Sire Roger might not have thought Brother Leo to be so wise if he’d taken the abbot’s side against Godfrey.
“So you have not seen him, except at that meeting?” Brother Andrew asked.
Sire Roger turned his head away. “I wish that were so, Brother. Truth be told, I saw your Leo with Lord Godfrey the other day. As you say, he fears bandits and is eager for our protection.”
“Pardon me, sire,” Xan said. “Are you saying that Brother Leo recently traveled here? To this manor? He spoke with Lord Godfrey personally?”
If that were true, then Brother Leo had told a most treacherous lie last night. That would make it all the more likely that he was the robed assassin Brother Lucius had seen.
Sire Roger cast his glance to the floor. “I fear so. But, Brother, I would never think this Leo capable of murder. He seemed such a peaceable man of polite speech—not at all the type to harm a soul.” The bailiff shook his head. “By my word, one cannot know the true evil in a man’s heart.”
Brother Andrew asked only one or two more questions. His sorrow seemed to rob him of all curiosity, like when Xan had learned from Old Tom about Mother and Father.
“Sire, thank you for your hospitality,” the monk said, his eyes darkening with despair. “You have told us all we needed. There is now only one thing that must be done. Is your lord here today?”
Sire Roger’s eyebrows raised in surprise. He shook his head. “Do you require something else? My lord has been traveling for a few days but will likely return tomorrow.”
Xan’s stomach turned. Events were speeding out of control, like the raging fire that had swallowed Hardonbury. The prior had already decreed that if Brother Leo were lying, he would be dealt with by the sheriff. That meant the King’s courts and a meeting with the hangman.
Brother Andrew hesitated a moment. “Aye, there is something. The prior seeks the help of your manor in one matter. Is not Lord Godfrey kin with Walter of Elton, the sheriff?”
“Well—I mean—aye, they are cousins.” Sire Roger twirled his mustache harder. “But surely your prior will not involve the sheriff and royal courts! With all the struggles ’twixt our King and your Pope, I assumed you would keep this case at your abbey in your own holy courts.”
“Perhaps we will invoke the clerical privilege in the end,” Brother Andrew said. “But for now, the prior wishes to pursue the idea of charges with the sheriff and the royal courts. He fears the scandal it might bring to our monks to have to sit in judgment on one of their own.”
Sire Roger frowned. “I do hope the prior changes his mind. Yet, if you insist, I will arrange a meeting here at Chadwick ’twixt you and the sheriff.”
Brother Andrew gave a gracious bow to the bailiff. “Thank you, sire. We will await your messenger with word of this meeting. And may God guide us all during these troubled times.”
Xan also bowed before they departed down the path and into the woodland.
As they journeyed back to the abbey, Brother Andrew wiped a tear from his face. “Curses and evil days! Brother Leo lied. Did the fool not think we would investigate?”
“But could he truly be hanged by the King’s courts?” Xan said. “Even Sire Roger was unhappy about that. If there are Church courts, shouldn’t the abbey use those instead?”
Brother Leo surely was a bad monk, but killing him seemed far too harsh a penalty. Xan’s parents had died, along with so many others. Why feed to Death yet another victim?
“You are right again, son,” the monk said. “Indeed, I will ask the prior to invoke the clerical privilege, which allows the Church to stop monks and other clergy from facing justice in the royal courts. That, at least, is one holy tradition the King still respects.”
They made it back to the abbey just after sunset and reported the day’s events to the prior. The priest made a quick decision: Brother Leo must be placed in confinement that very night.
“What about the clerical privilege?” Xan asked, after the servants had left to arrest him.
Brother Andrew nodded. “Aye, Prior. The boy and I feel strongly about this. Do you really want to see Leo at the end of the hangman’s noose? And what of the authority of our Pope?”
“I understand your concern,” the prior said. “Yet a simple meeting with the sheriff will not hurt the Pope. The sheriff has great experience in violent cases such as this. We need his wisdom ere we take a road that can tear our community apart from within.”
Brother Andrew nodded. “True. The devil would applaud such a scandalous spectacle.”
The prior raised his eyes to Heaven. “Why must I make these foul choices, O Lord? When will the abbot wake from this sickly slumber?”
Xan could not fall asleep that night despite his fatigue, even while the others snored in their beds.
“Good night, my sweet boy.” Yet even Mother’s words did not bring him comfort tonight.
God supposedly had sent him to this abbey to solve the mystery of his parents’ death and to discover where he fit in this new life. Instead, he’d become the accuser of a grumpy monk who’d attacked an old abbot out of fear. Nothing seemed to be working out as he’d thought.
The monks always prayed in times of uncertainty like this one. Yet their prayers had not stopped the evil in the world around them. So what was the point of their prayers?
Xan closed his eyes and made the Sign of the Cross. Lord, please help me to understand.
Restless minutes passed in the darkness without bringing any further clarity. A sliver of moon rose and shone through the slits in the window, creating a gentle blue glow around him.
Just then, a rustling, like cloth rubbing cloth, sounded in the room somewhere. Xan turned his head in the direction of the noise.
There in the corner stood a robed and hooded figure, silent and still.
He strained his eyes to see. “Brother Andrew, is that you?”
The figure didn’t answer.
It couldn’t be the Shadow—Brother Leo was locked away in a cell. Unless Xan had been wrong, and the Shadow had been someone else instead of the monk.
“Brother Oscar?” he said, barely able to speak.
No response.
The figure began a slow march between the boys’ beds. It didn’t seem concerned with the others, just him. None of its steps made a sound, as though it were gliding over the floor.
That’s when he saw that its hands were not hands at all—they were bony, skeletal fingers.
Were the stories true, after all? Was this the angel of death coming to take his soul?
“Xan,” it whispered, with a hoarse, slithering voice.
It drew nearer, reaching out its bony hand.
He was trapped! A cry for help got stuck in his throat even as the Shadow’s hand moved toward his face. His heart raced as his doom approached.
What would Mother or Father or Brother Andrew do right now?
“When our Lord died on the cross, he conquered death,” Brother Andrew had said. The monk didn’t fear death. Neither did Mother or Father—they’d welcomed Death.
As the bony hand drew near to his face, Xan didn’t yell or pull back—he would not allow himself to retreat. He too must embrace Death, just as those he loved had done. He shut his eyes tight. His heartbeat slowed; peace flowed over him; he stopped panicking and counted the seconds until his fate was sealed. Soon it would be over.
1 . . . 2 . . . 3. Maybe having one’s soul taken wouldn’t hurt that much.
Nothing happened.
He opened his eyes. The Shadow still towered over him in silence. Could he find the courage to speak to it? “What—What do you want with me?”
The Shadow’s hand moved again; its ivory palm shimmered in the moonlight.
“What is that?” Xan peered into the dimness.
The Shadow’s palm held a ripped piece of parchment—the one Father Paul had taken, with Lord Godfrey’s seal on it.
Xan opened his eyes in a startle. He was all alone, except for the sleeping boys.
Had he just experienced a strange dream, or had that been a message from God? He’d thought the parchment had been his first clue, but then he’d decided it meant nothing.
Perhaps he’d been wrong about that.