Satan's Lullaby Read online

  Satan’s Lullaby

  A Medieval Mystery

  Priscilla Royal

  www.PriscillaRoyal.com

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2015 by Priscilla Royal

  First E-book Edition 2015

  ISBN: 9781464203572 ebook

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.

  Poisoned Pen Press

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  Scottsdale, AZ 85251

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  Contents

  Satan’s Lullaby

  Copyright

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Author’s Notes

  Bibliography

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Dedication

  To MaryAnne and Clarke Johnson

  For the pleasure of your friendship

  Acknowledgments

  Paula Davidon, Christine and Peter Goodhugh, MaryAnne and Clarke Johnson, Henie Lentz, Dianne Levy, Sharon Kay Penman, Barbara Peters (Poisoned Pen Bookstore in Scottsdale, Arizona), Robert Rosenwald and all the staff of Poisoned Pen Press, Marianne and Sharon Silva, Lyn and Michael Speakman, the staff of the University Press Bookstore (Berkeley, California)

  Epigraph

  It is difficult to fight against anger,

  for a man will buy revenge with his soul.

  —Heraclitus, quoted in Aristotle’s Politics

  (Trans. Benjamin Jowett)

  Chapter One

  The north wind bit with the sharpness of an angry dog’s teeth. The afternoon sun, weary of its summer reign, had grown pale. Although winter would soon besiege this East Anglian coast with glittering ice and deceptively soft snow, all knew that the Prince of Darkness could chill hearts in ways deadlier than a bitter hoarfrost.

  ***

  Gracia, Prioress Eleanor’s young maid, hurried down the path toward the courtyard near the open gate to Tyndal Priory.

  The entire religious community, both men and women in this daughter house of the Order of Fontevraud, had assembled there in separate groups. A sea of tan in their clean robes of unbleached cloth, their silence was unsettling.

  On the south side near the hospital, Prior Andrew stood in front of his small assembly of monks, their tonsures freshly shaven. Behind them gathered the many lay brothers who did the physical work, freeing the monks to pray.

  Opposite the prior, in the northern part of the courtyard, Prioress Eleanor, leader of this double house, held her crosier. The sunbeams struck the silver of the crook and made the color dance with demure grace. Her veiled nuns, no longer accustomed to the world beyond their cloister, lowered their eyes as if confused by the sharp brightness outside a chapel. Clustered at the back, the lay sisters modestly bowed their heads and thought of the tasks they had left unfinished.

  Only a few had been excused from this event. Anchoress Juliana and her servant were not expected to leave the enclosure of their anchorage. The sick were allowed to remain in their beds. Gracia, a child who had taken no vows, was exempt as well.

  But she was curious.

  At a turn in the path, Gracia got down on her knees and wiggled through a small opening she had made in the shrubbery some months ago. This was the place she came when life within the priory overwhelmed her with new experiences and she needed to hide until the fog of her bewilderment lifted. Only Brother Thomas knew of this secret spot. Although she loved her mistress, Prioress Eleanor, she adored this gentle monk who had taught her that not all men were like the one who had raped her.

  Settling down on the soft mat of leaves, she reached into her robe and retrieved the portion of mushroom tart that Sister Matilda, the nun who ruled the kitchen, had insisted she take. Most girls her age looked to be on the cusp of womanhood. She still resembled a child, despite eyes that shone with an understanding far exceeding her years. An orphan who had survived on the streets of Walsingham, Gracia might not have yet learned her letters, but she had become skilled in reading the character of most mortals.

  Many thought she was so young because of her extreme thinness. When she had first arrived, Sister Matilda cried out in horror. Ever since, the nun had been pressing extra food into the girl’s hands, a gesture that Gracia argued against, protesting that she was taking food away from those who prayed for the souls in Purgatory.

  Pushing the food back into the girl’s hands, Sister Matilda told her that all got pittances in addition to the meals, and Gracia would get neither more nor less than anyone else. The girl suspected otherwise, but even Brother Thomas took Sister Matilda’s side and said she would hurt the nun’s feelings if she didn’t eat the food. “Very well,” Gracia had replied. “I shall get fat.”

  She did not, but her teeth no longer hurt as they had in Walsingham when she ate. She now bit into her tart with undiluted pleasure.

  Like the monastics, Gracia had been given a woolen robe to protect her against the coming winter. With the wind blowing today, she was especially grateful for the gift and fell to musing over what she had learned about this unusual gathering of the entire priory. An especially buttery mushroom momentarily distracted her from her thoughts.

  It was then she heard shouting and bent forward to peer through the branches. Just outside the gate, a band of armed riders had gathered. Instead of entering the priory, they parted and let a black-clad man ride through. Two wagons filled with more men followed.

  Prioress Eleanor and Prior Andrew stepped forward.

  Even though spoken words were muffled by the wind, Gracia knew that this visitor must be Father Etienne Davoir, priest and youngest brother of Abbess Isabeau Davoir of Fontevraud Abbey in Anjou. She had sent him to review all aspects of Tyndal Priory from roof maintenance to fish ponds, as well as the method of recording income and debts. Even the details of obedience to the Benedictine Rule, under which this Order lived, would be scrutinized by this man of God and his many clerks.

&n
bsp; Such visitations were common practice in other Orders, Prioress Eleanor had told Gracia, but the abbess in Anjou rarely ordered them for her far-flung daughter houses. Tyndal had not experienced one in the eight years of Eleanor’s rule, even in the early days when she was struggling to lift the priory finances out of their ruinous state.

  As far as Gracia knew, there had been little in the message sent by Abbess Isabeau to explain this sudden decision. Such reviews properly included all aspects of priory life, which her mistress knew, but the prioress had found it strange that the abbess had mentioned that her brother would look into whether any impropriety had occurred amongst the religious. According to the prioress’ aunt at Amesbury, the few reviews ordered by the abbess in England had concentrated solely on accounting rolls.

  If her mistress was concerned, Gracia thought, then she should be as well.

  Lay brothers had helped the priest dismount and were leading his horse to the stable. Two other men had ridden in after the priest. One climbed down from his horse with no assistance but some grace. The other slid off but slipped to his knees beside his mount. As that clerk brushed at the dust on his black robe, Gracia was certain that his horse stared at his former rider with an expression of equine amusement.

  Father Etienne spoke briefly with Prior Andrew.

  The prior turned away and led his charges back to their Chapter House in the monk’s side of the priory.

  The priest walked over to Prioress Eleanor.

  Was it not odd that this priest had chosen to speak first to Prior Andrew, a subordinate to Prioress Eleanor as leader here? Gracia wondered what was happening.

  Neither prioress nor priest seemed to greet each other in any expected way, whether by lowered heads or bended knee. Her mistress’ face betrayed no emotion, nor could the maid see her lips move.

  Suddenly, Prioress Eleanor spun around and led her nuns and lay sisters toward their own Chapter House on the other side of the priory. As a double house, the monks and nuns might live within the same walls, but they remained carefully separated by barriers of stone.

  Gracia swallowed the last of her tart. Having known starvation, she never wasted the smallest morsel and carefully licked each bit from her fingers. But the final crumb tasted bitter on her tongue.

  Slowly squirming through the opening and back onto the path, she leapt to her feet and ran toward the prioress’ residence. She always took pride in serving her beloved mistress well, but, when this priest came to Prioress Eleanor’s audience chamber after his formal greetings to the rest of the Tyndal community, Gracia was determined to make sure everything was perfect.

  She was convinced that this man had only come to find fault, and she swore she would not be the one to give him any cause to do so. Indeed, she saw the abbess’ brother as the snake in Eden, and she feared he would not just harm those she had come to love but also destroy the safety and peace she had found here.

  Chapter Two

  The sun’s warmth coming through the window soothed her. Drifting reluctantly into wakefulness, Gytha refused to open her eyes and did not move from her high-backed chair.

  “Just a moment more,” she murmured. “Surely the tasks will wait just a little longer.” But her weariness was stronger than her will, and she longed to doze for more than a few moments.

  Gytha, wife of Crowner Ralf, was heavily pregnant with their first child. Gently she put a hand on her immense belly and felt her babe move. “Why do you wriggle so much at night, my little one?” she whispered. “To let your mother sleep then, so she might tend to her duties when the sun is high, would be a kindness.”

  Last night in bed, she had lain on her back, the only possible position despite increasing discomfort, and thought of the coming birth. Notwithstanding the anticipated pain and even the risk of death, she knew she would welcome facing these dangers if there was hope that she might lie on her side again, sleep through the night, and see her feet.

  As she had stared in the darkness at the ceiling above and mused on the perils of being a woman, her husband emitted a loud snore, his shaggy head resting against her naked shoulder. Gytha had stifled a laugh.

  Some wives might resent the ease with which a husband slept while they reenacted the curse of Eve, but she had no quarrel with Ralf. As other wives grew miserable and heavy with child, their men found joy in new bed partners, but Ralf had never left her side.

  A few weeks ago, when her body became so unwieldy that she could only waddle with a hand pressed against her aching back, he had brought another woman from the village to take on tasks he felt she should not do. Accustomed to working hard, Gytha had protested but relented when she decided that the help would ease some of his worry about her. In truth, she was grateful for the assistance.

  Despite his roughness with others, Ralf was a kind husband. She already knew he was a good father to his child by his first wife, a woman he might not have loved but did honor. He still grieved that the joining of their seed had caused his first wife’s death.

  “Are you well?”

  Jolted out of her current musing, Gytha opened her eyes and reached for her husband’s hand. “As well as a woman resembling Jonah’s whale can be,” she replied with a smile that betrayed the love she felt for this often querulous man.

  He knelt and put his hand on her belly, waited, and suddenly grinned. “I feel Jonah himself, eager to escape!”

  She laughed. “I shall be more content when he chooses to stretch outside my womb.”

  A cloud drifted over his face. “What did Annie say yesterday? I came home too late to ask. For once, you were asleep when I came to bed.”

  And a brief sleep it was, she thought, for she had awakened when he placed a soft kiss on her forehead. An instant later, he fell into a deep sleep. She had struggled to her feet with a desperately urgent need to pass water.

  He remained on his knees but began to twitch with restless concern.

  “All is well, Ralf! The babe is healthy, as am I. And Sister Anne shall attend the birth. You know her skills. We have nothing to fear.”

  What neither chose to mention, lest the Devil be tempted to repeat the episode, was the torturous birth Sister Anne had attended when the Jewish family was trapped in the village two years ago. With God’s grace and the sub-infirmarian’s skill, both woman and child survived, but the young mother was rendered barren.

  Ralf never mentioned the need for sons, but Gytha knew her duty was to bear many. Although her husband was the third son of a local lord, Ralf’s eldest brother had no heirs and the second had taken vows. So Gytha and Ralf must provide the heirs to title and lands. One living son might be cause for celebration, but in a world where children died too young, more boys were needed.

  “I think we should name him Jonah,” her husband jested tenderly as he kissed the top of her belly.

  “An apt one, my lord husband, but it shall be Fulke after your father and brother,” Gytha said.

  “And if our child is a girl? You must choose that name but have not told me your preference.”

  “Then it will be Anne.” She knew that her husband had loved Sister Anne since childhood. When the woman had married another, then followed her husband into holy vows, Ralf fled England to sell his sword in hopes he would die in battle. Instead, he had come home with wealth but with the wound in his heart unhealed.

  But the choice of name was an easy decision, for Gytha felt no jealousy over a woman whom she honored herself. Few were allowed to marry as they willed, and Ralf had married another woman solely on the basis of the land she brought to the family. After she died, he gave his heart wholly to Gytha, defied his brother who had other profitable marital plans for him, and married her. She thanked God for the blessing.

  “You are a good woman, Mistress Gytha,” he whispered into her ear.

  “And you a good man, my lord.” She ran her hand over his bristling cheek. “It is
also time for your weekly shave.”

  He grinned. “Ah, but first I must tell you that I have just come from the inn, and Signy has sent a present for your birthing. A cup made of jet from which you may drink to chase away fear and lessen pain when labor begins.”

  “What a generous gift! Sister Anne will be as delighted with this as I. Jet brings a woman in labor good fortune.”

  “I was unable to tell our good nun the news. She was busy tending to Sub-Prioress Ruth.”

  Gytha frowned. “Surely she cannot be ill. The Devil would not allow it.”

  “But God rules in Tyndal Priory, beloved.” He laughed. “She suffers from gout.”

  “Gout? I may not admire the woman, but she does hold fast to the Rule. After our prioress required all in the priory to adhere to the Benedictine diet, no one has eaten red meat or drunk wine unless ill. For all her flaws, Sub-Prioress Ruth does not indulge in secret, luxurious viands. This ailment must be for some other failing.”

  “Were it for one of her greater sins like unkindness, she would suffer from head to the bottom of her foot. Sadly, it is only her right toe that is inflamed so her affliction must be for a little wickedness. You know her best. What might that be?”

  During her years as Prioress Eleanor’s maid, Gytha had had many unpleasant dealings with the rancorous older nun. She raised an eyebrow. “Shooing away our prioress’ cat, Arthur. She has never approved of him.” She pulled at her husband until he rested his head on her swollen breasts. “I commit the sin of uncharitable thoughts,” she murmured, feeling comfort in his closeness.

  This noble progeny of Norman conquerors, third in line to a title he disdained and confounder of criminals throughout the land around Tyndal, snuggled like a contented pup.

  His Saxon wife, sister to a man who brewed ale and bred donkeys, once again thanked God for this husband whom she loved. A woman of lower status, she was deemed worthy only for his bed, but Ralf had wed her in public, before the church door, and granted her the ownership of lands without limitations. Indeed, he had honored her more than most men of his rank did their wives of equal birth. She might have purred in happiness had their child not kicked again. She winced.