A man flew backward through the inn door, hitting Thomas with such force that he landed on his back in the dust of the road.
“Satan’s black balls!” the stranger roared. Struggling to his knees, he gagged and spat out teeth.
Thomas grabbed at the man’s arm. “Are you not injured enough? Go home,” he urged.
“Nay, monk, he must stay. He is still alive,” a familiar voice scoffed.
Thomas looked up at Sayer. From the high color of the roofer’s face, he guessed the fellow was drunk.
With another oath, the unknown man rose and took to his heels down the street. When he was a safe distance away, he stopped to yell further abuse before quickly disappearing around a cart.
The roofer helped the monk up. “Are you hurt, Brother?”
As he grasped Sayer’s proffered hand, Thomas felt a dampness and saw a rivulet of blood trickling over the man’s fingers. “You are bleeding,” he said. “Was the fight worth that?”
“Spoken like a monk,” the man replied, but his tone was gentle.
“I will buy you a drink. There are some questions I have for you.”
Sayer stiffened and dropped Thomas’ hand. “Like a dog you are, sniffing about so eagerly.” Then his mouth twitched into a lopsided grin. “But I would be foolish to turn down the offer of ale from a monk with coin to buy it. That is such a rare wonder I will save the story to amaze my grandchildren when I am too old to keep their respect otherwise!”
Directing Sayer to a quiet table, Thomas gently shoved the roofer onto the bench and slid in so close to him that the man was pushed against the wall where he could not escape. The monk gestured for a serving wench to bring ale.
“Why did you and your father quarrel?” he asked when it arrived.
“That was between my father and me.”
“There are those who say you, not some ghost, killed your father.”
Sayer pointed to the inn door. “You saw the last man who suggested that to me, but I would not strike a monk. I earn bread for my mother and kin from the priory.”
“I did not say you had done the deed, only that others have claimed it. My curiosity is not idle, nor do I accuse. I ask only for the truth. Do you not think the priory that gives you work has the right to know? If you do not answer me, another may well demand it and with less kindness.”
“Two pitchers are on your bill.” The young man tossed back his ale and poured again. For a moment, he said nothing, then looked at Thomas with unfocused eyes. “My father did not approve of some of my ways,” he slurred. “Is that enough for you?”
“Was that disapproval reason enough for you to threaten murder?”
“Ask yourself why I would kill him. Might I not prefer to find a wife and start my own family rather than support my mother and my siblings?”
“Yet you were heard to say…”
Sayer shrugged with evident annoyance. “I no longer recall the exact cause of our fight. He was drunk as was I, a condition that offers sweet forgetfulness after days filled with the questionable joys of unrelenting soberness.”
“Had he enemies?”
“All men do.”
“I grow impatient with evasion. You know well enough what I mean, and, if you are innocent, you would serve your cause better by speaking the truth.”
Sayer rubbed at his eyes. “Although I accused the ghost after seeing my father’s corpse, no such creature had any cause to harm him. Queen Elfrida would not have cared what my father did as long as his labor provided her monks with enough food to sustain their prayers on her behalf. At that he worked hard, although he sometimes spoke ill of the priory’s religious when his back ached.”
Thomas nodded.
“As for Mistress Eda’s spirit, my father agreed with my mother that she was wrongly accused, thus her phantom had no reason to harm him. The vintner’s wife was honest and caring in life. Even after suffering the agonies of the damned, her soul would be incapable of murdering anyone so foully.”
“You loved her?”
“Even rogues may honor goodness.”
“There are tales abroad that you bedded her.”
“You say such a story is about?” Sayer’s face darkened with anger. “A fool told that lie, Brother, and a greater one believes it.”
“Then I must ask again about old enemies. Did your father have them, perhaps from the days when he performed service to men who broke the king’s law?”
Sayer gave the monk a meaningful look as he poured the remaining ale into his mug.
Thomas waved for more drink.
With a thud, the serving wench set another jug down on the table.
“There is no truth…”
Thomas growled a warning.
Sayer drank deeply, poured, and drank again. “I knew the stories well enough from others, but my father never spoke of those times. Most of the men either died long ago or else returned to more lawful pursuits, as did he.” The roofer fell silent.
Compassion battled against suspicion inside Thomas’ heart as he watched Sayer clutching his cup like a shipwrecked sailor holding onto a floating spar. “Why did you two fight?” he asked at last, his voice soft. “You remember well enough. Do not feign addled wits with me and claim your reason has grown rotten with ale. Your words have been too quick.”
Sayer looked up at the ceiling, his mouth quivering with barely controlled grief. “Brother, ask not why we fought.” His voice hoarsened with tears. “This I do swear to you on any holy relic: I did not kill my father. My soul may be so black that even God in His mercy would turn His countenance away, but I loved the man who sired me!” With that, Sayer began to weep.
Thomas reached out to touch the man with a gesture of sympathy but his hand froze. Instead, he quickly slid from the bench and found a serving wench. “Here is coin,” he said, gesturing back at the roofer. “Make sure he has what he wants to drink, plus food and a bed for the night, should he need either.”
The agony he had seen in Sayer’s eyes was an emotion he himself had hoped to set aside one day. Now he doubted he ever could. Filled with his own confused fears and sorrows, Thomas hurried from the inn.