Free A Killing Season by Priscilla Royal Page A

her face and not reprehensible desire.
    “Before I leave,” he said, “I have a message from Lady Margaret who grieves that so little courtesy has been shown to you and all who journeyed here with your brother. She begs that you and your company join her for a light supper tomorrow before Compline.”
    “She has suffered the death of a son and yet provided for our comfort most generously. We shall be pleased to accept her invitation.”
    He murmured pleasure on his aunt’s behalf, then walked away.
    Anne leaned close to the prioress’ ear and whispered, “That man’s smile was warm enough to heat mulled wine, was it not?”
    Fearing that her friend had discovered her weakness for the man, Eleanor stiffened.
    But Anne had not noticed her reaction. A puzzled expression on her face, she was watching Sir Leonel depart.

Chapter Eleven
    The morning winter light was weak as if the sun cared little about rising that day, even to cast warmth on the entombment of a baron’s son.
    Thomas walked back from the grave, head bowed and eyes moist. The burial had been ill-attended. Since there was no other priest here, Thomas had offered to perform the rites. He may never have met the young man, but he grieved that so few cared about his death. Even the father had not come to see his son returned to the earth.
    “Brother Thomas!”
    The monk stopped and looked over his shoulder.
    The physician hurried toward him, cheeks bright with exertion and breath white in the frosty air.
    Thomas raised a hand in perfunctory greeting. In his present mood, he did not wish the company but smiled as if he welcomed it. At least Master Gamel had been at the graveside, although there was no reason for him to come. The monk appreciated the kindness, a quality he increasingly suspected was part of the man’s nature.
    “It was a sad event, Brother.” Gamel was puffing when he reached the monk’s side. “His mother was dry-eyed and fled early. Neither his father nor his younger brother, Umfrey, appeared. Only Raoul and Sir Leonel remained to join you in prayer for the man’s soul. The latter at least shed a tear.” He shook his head. “When my beloved wife died, some said I could not possibly weep more than I did at her death bed, yet I lamented over her grave so long that my son had to drag me from it.” He looked up at Thomas, his eyes suggesting embarrassment over revealing such emotion. “A father would surely feel no less grief at a son’s death.”
    “Sorrow wears many disguises. The Lady Margaret may have wept herself dry of tears. As for Umfrey, he hides in the family chapel to escape demons and fears for his own life.”
    “And what news of the father?” The question was brusque.
    “Sir Hugh met with him last night, and Baron Herbert sent word that he wished to have this son buried before he met with us. Prioress Eleanor conveyed the news to me after prayer today and confirmed that was his only message.”
    Gamel looked confused. “A reasonable request from a grieving father, yet he was not here to say a farewell to his boy this morning?”
    “I must assume good cause.”
    “I cannot be as charitable, Brother.” These words were sharply spoken. “I would feel differently had the baron come to watch his son’s corpse laid in the ground. His actions suggest no grief at all, and now I begin to suspect little need for our presence. A patient does not urgently call a physician to his side, only to leave him waiting outside the chamber door.”
    The monk agreed but said nothing. Adding fuel to Gamel’s vexation would serve no purpose, and, until they learned what troubled the baron so profoundly, tolerance was better advised. He nodded with appropriate solemnity, hoping his silence suggested the need for forbearance.
    In the distance, a sea bird shrieked, the cry only adding to the present gloom.
    Thomas did not dare speak of what he had heard. Whatever the baron’s specific reasons for summoning them, there was cause enough for