As Thomas walked through the busy courtyard, melancholy fell on his spirit with the weight of a pall over a corpse. He tossed his head like a horse bitten by a fly, as if that would free him of the malignant gloom, but the darkness only dug its claws more firmly into his soul.
“A lover could not be more faithful in attendance upon me,” he groaned, “or show greater jealousy over my joy in another.”
That other was the rare happiness he had experienced on this journey from Tyndal.
Melancholia had been the usual disorder in his humors since his imprisonment. It was briefly banished after some months at Tyndal, only to return during his journey to Amesbury Priory. The agonies he had then suffered grew so unbearable that he begged Prioress Eleanor to grant him permission to become a hermit, at least for a time, after the poisoning of Martin the Cooper last summer. She refused, ordering him instead to accompany her on this matter of priory land boundary disputes.
The journey was ill-advised due both to the pestilent season and harsh weather, but his prioress rejected all argument. Rarely had he seen her more adamant and never as unreasonable. When the company set out on a blustery day, the chill wind was only a foretaste of trouble to come. Oddly enough, an increase in his anguish had not been part of it.
He had found pleasure in unknotting legal issues and providing his prioress with options for equitable solutions. Her approval of his work had been most evident, and he had enjoyed the times when they took opposite sides of each argument to establish which solution might be best. Once the issues were resolved, and the party had begun their ride back to the priory, Thomas was shocked to find he had discovered contentment.
Then Mariota fell ill, and the storm had forced them all to seek shelter at this manor. Bedded down in the kitchen, Thomas easily fell back into a pattern of life he had lived as a child. His mother dead before he could even remember her, a cook had taken him on and raised him until she also died, just before his voice broke. Kitchens had always meant love and security. Hilda, the cook, reminded him much of the woman who reared him.
And now she was dying.
He cursed. She did not deserve this. Why did some grow corpulent in the service of corrupt men while those like Hilda suffered under the heavy boot of injustice? Why did God allow it? As bitterness soured his heart, he curled his hand into a fist and raised it to shake at the sky.
Something nudged his leg.
He looked down, his thoughts instantly pulled back from that chasm of irrevocable misery where Satan delighted in pushing him.
A brown dog of mixed breed was sitting in front of him, its expression expectant as if the creature had just asked a question.
“Where is your master?”
Seeing that it had gained the monk’s attention, the dog dropped the stick it held in his mouth at Thomas’ feet.
“Here, Brother.”
Thomas looked around and saw the speaker, a lad no older than nine summers, gaunt, with scabs and scars covering his face, neck, and hands. The boy was still recovering from a pox.
“How long have you had this fine creature?”
The boy grinned. “He was the gift promised if I lived, Brother.”
The monk nodded and his heart grieved at the roughness still evident in the boy’s voice.
“We came for your blessing, if you would be so kind.” The boy knelt and steepled his hands.
The dog looked hopeful.
If God has let this child live, Thomas thought, surely the boy was already under His safeguard. As for the dog, the monk suspected he had the same protection as any sparrow in God’s kingdom. He gave them both the peace of a blessing nonetheless.
“Are you training him?” the monk asked after the boy had risen from his knees.
“Only to fetch sticks,” was the wary reply. “My father says our master would not approve if he learned to hunt.”
A father who will nevertheless teach the beast to track down conies when the steward is abroad, the monk concluded. He picked up the proffered stick and threw it.
The dog spun around, scattering clumps of mud as he did, and raced after it, albeit with a limp and a hop. Now Thomas understood why this boy had been allowed to keep him. The beast was too lame to hunt.
“A clever creature?”
“He’s a good watchdog.”
“Barks, does he, when a stranger comes nigh?”
“Barks at Satan himself, Brother!”
Thomas raised his eyebrows in wide-eyed approval at such valor.
The boy misinterpreted the look. “Ask my father if you do not believe me.” His jaw set with resolute certainty.
“I did not doubt your word, lad, but now I must ask when this fine hound chased the Prince of Darkness away. I do love a good tale!” Thomas crouched on his heels so his eyes were on the same level as the boy’s.
“Last night!” The boy puffed his chest out on his dog’s behalf.
“Verily?”
“See that hut over there?”
Thomas looked in the direction the lad was pointing. It was a crudely built hut near the storage shed where Hilda had been held. “Oh, yes,” he whispered.
“My scabs were itching too much to sleep, and I tried not to wake my parents while I scratched. I could hear the rain had stopped and, through that window, I saw the clouds had broken. The crescent moon was just there.” He pointed to a place in the sky that suggested a time perhaps an hour before dawn.
“Aye? Aye?” As his hopes increased that this demon might turn out to be a mortal killer, Thomas lost any need to feign interest in this story.
The boy reached down and stroked his dog, now resting his head against the lad’s leg and panting with the effort of retrieving the stick. “Suddenly, Rabbit began to howl in such a way that my parents awoke. My mother began to whimper and even my father moaned. A lost soul was passing, they said.”
Thomas had fallen into thought, calculating how long before the sheriff arrived that this had happened. If the boy was right about the position of the moon, there would have been time enough to attack the cook and escape before most were awake, but not so long that Hilda would have died from her wounds.
All of a sudden he realized the boy had grown silent and was looking at him as if expecting some reaction. “But it was not a soul, was it?” He rested his chin in his hand and concentrated on what might be said next.
“Nay, Brother. My father gestured for me to be quiet, which I obeyed, but I did roll toward the window and look out with due caution. The Devil was outside!”
“You were a brave lad. How did you recognize the Fiend?”
The boy cocked his head and took a man’s stance with legs apart and fists on his waist. That the limbs were like twigs and the fists no bigger than apples made the gesture even more poignant. “Wasn’t our master’s cook slain by Satan himself? That’s what I heard this morning, and I did see the Devil unbar the door to the shed where she was and disappear inside. My parents told me to say nothing lest the Evil One seek revenge on anyone who saw him.” The boy glanced up at the monk with a troubling look. “But it is safe to tell a monk, isn’t it?”
Thomas rose and reached over to grasp the boy by the shoulder. “Nothing sends the Devil dancing away faster than the protection of someone in God’s service.” He painted a cross on the lad’s forehead. “You are wise to listen to your parents and should not tell anyone else of what you saw, but this mark will keep Satan’s hand from harming you for what you have told me.”
The boy grinned.
“Did you note any details about this Evil One? He takes on various shapes, you know, and sometimes the likeness of someone we have met.” The question was worth asking, even if the boy had seen nothing more.
Shaking his head, the lad first denied seeing anything unusual, then frowned. His face suddenly brightened with one thought: “He was the darkest shadow I have ever seen, Brother! But the Devil would be, wouldn’t he?”
Thomas ruffled the boy’s hair and sent him back to the game with his dog. As he watched the pair walk away, Thomas almost danced for joy.
Although his discovery of the knife in the stable had proven of little value, he now had a sighting of the killer and a time when the deed was done. All he had to do was learn the names of the few who were abroad at that bleak hour, winnow out those with legitimate cause to be so, and question the chaff.