Chapter Nine #2
Pearce heard a scream, realizing it was his own.
But Bric didn’t utter a sound; he simply looked down at the enormous arrow spine protruding from his body.
In tribute to Bric’s strength, he didn’t fall from his horse – the High Warrior remained mounted, his left hand going to the spine that was protruding from his body.
As Pearce gaped at him in horror, Bric looked at the shaft as if he could hardly believe what had just happened.
For a moment, neither man spoke. They simply looked on in shock.
This kind of thing wasn’t supposed to happen at the end of a battle, and it certainly wasn’t supposed to happen to a man who men had deemed immortal.
Finally, Pearce grabbed the reins of Bric’s war horse and turned the animal for the encampment to the south.
With tears in his eyes, he escorted Bric back to camp the entire way.
Bric never did fall from his horse.
Six days after the army’s departure
He called himself Manducor, but Eiselle had never met a priest like him.
Truthfully, it wasn’t as if she had spent a lot of time around priests. She really hadn’t spent time around any. Therefore, Manducor’s behavior wasn’t something that struck her as particularly strange but, from what she’d heard about priests, the man certainly didn’t follow the mold.
Mold…
He smelled like mold. And rot, and any other foul smell that Eiselle had experienced in her lifetime.
The man positively reeked. The night Bric and the army had departed, Manducor had wandered into the great hall – God only knows where the man had been – and proceeded to sit across the table from Eiselle and eat until he could eat no more.
Eiselle had never seen anyone eat so much in her entire life.
Even Keeva, who had joined her in the hall, had watched the priest slurp up his meal with disgust. No one seemed to know why he was still at Narborough, and why he hadn’t returned to his parish in King’s Lynn.
He seemed quite intent on remaining and even when Keeva told him she would arrange for an escort to return him home, he disappeared and didn’t return until the evening meal the next day.
He was a strange, strange man.
But he seemed harmless enough, simply reluctant to return to his church, and when Keeva finally demanded to know why he wouldn’t leave Narborough, he proceeded to tell her that his church, St. Margaret’s Priory, had suffered through a glut of starving peasants from the countryside due to the unseasonable rains in the spring.
The month-long deluge had killed crops as well as people, and Norfolk was a land of swamps and marshes as it was.
People were starving, which meant the meager food for the priests had gone to feed the needy.
With that story, the man’s ravenous appetite started to make some sense.
Keeva talked the man into giving her his robes so they could at least be washed, and taking a bath himself, which he balked at because he couldn’t remember the last bath he’d had.
It wasn’t good for man’s soul, he told her, but Keeva was insistent.
She wasn’t going to have a man who smelled of compost in her hall, so Manducor had no choice but to turn over his robes and wash his dirty body down in the kitchen yard.
Keeva gave him a long tunic and an old robe that belonged to Daveigh to wear while his clothing was being washed, but he seemed to like the new clothing so much that he kept it on even when his robes were returned to him.
Eiselle could count on seeing the priest every morning in the hall, breaking his fast, and then every night when the evening meal was produced.
Often times, there would be no one else in the hall but them, and the first four days after the army’s departure, Manducor sat far away from Eiselle as he ate his meals.
But the past two days, he’d wandered over and sat across the table from her, and their conversation had been awkward and short at times.
In fact, their very first real conversation had been about the talisman around Eiselle’s neck, something she hadn’t removed since Bric had given it to her for safe keeping.
The priest seemed fascinated by a charm that had been blessed by St. Patrick himself.
But on this sixth night since the departure of the de Winter army, Manducor was more talkative than usual.
The cook had slaughtered a flock of older chickens and had made the most delightful dish of chicken with dumplings and chicken gravy.
The smell permeated the far reaches of Narborough, drawing the hungry soldiers who weren’t currently on duty as well as Keeva, Zara, Angela, and Eiselle.
The great hall had more people in it than usual as a result, and as a storm thundered overhead in a midsummer’s shower, a hot and flavorful meal took place in the hall.
Manducor, of course, joined them. He sat at the end of the table, across from Eiselle and Keeva, and slurped, burped, and farted his way through the meal.
Zara hadn’t been around the man at all, and she’d been happily into her second cup of sweet wine when she noticed his terrible manners.
After that, she didn’t try to hide her reaction to his burping and farting.
Angela sat down the table from him with her rude son, taking no notice of the equally rude priest.
It was the first time Angela had been around Eiselle since the pinching incident, and she was markedly standoffish from Lady MacRohan.
Keeva noticed it and thought the woman’s behavior was ridiculous, made worse when little Edward didn’t want to eat his meal and began to whine as Angela patiently tried to feed him.
More than once, he threw food back at his mother, mussing her surcoat.
When he threw a spoon at her, clipping her shoulder, Keeva was forced to step in.
“Angela,” she said sternly. “I do not mind if you bring Edward to eat with us provided he behaves. If he cannot behave, then he must remain in his chamber. I will not have him upsetting everyone’s meal.”
Angela looked at her, torn between defiance and feeling wounded. “If you had a child, Lady de Winter, you would understand,” she clapped back. “Sometimes children must be allowed to express themselves. If he does not want to eat, I shall not force him.”
That was a very hurtful insult as far as Keeva was concerned. Everyone at Narborough knew that in spite of being married for many years, Keeva and Daveigh remained childless even though they wanted children very badly. Upset at the dig, Keeva didn’t hold back her ire.
“If I had a child, he would behave a thousand times better than your little monster,” she said.
“I have warned you before about Edward. If he cannot behave like a polite child, then keep him shut up in his chamber. I do not want to see him, not anywhere in Narborough. Animals like that boy deserve cages.”
Angela burst into tears. “He is not a monster!”
“I will not argue with you. Get him out of my sight.”
Sobbing, Angela stood up from the table and grabbed at Edward, who didn’t want his mother to touch him. He pulled away and began to run, but he didn’t get very far. Manducor caught the child by the arm and lifted him up, practically tossing him onto the tabletop.
“Let him go!” Angela screamed.
As she rushed to remove her son from the priest’s grip, Manducor spoke. “Lady,” he said with disdain, “that child is an abomination. I have watched him show you absolutely no respect since you arrived in the hall. How old is he?”
Angela cradled Edward, who wanted to be put down. “He is a baby,” she said angrily. “He has only seen two years.”
Manducor snorted. “If you do not spank that child, and spank him frequently, you will create a man who knows no discipline,” he warned. “When he misbehaves, swat him. You must do this.”
Angela was deeply upset. “I think you are horrid,” she snapped. “A horrid, smelly man.”
Manducor turned back to his wine. “Mayhap,” he said, unconcerned. “But at least I am not raising a son who will be a terror. Men will kill him before he is fully grown if you do not do something about him.”
Weeping, Angela fled with her screaming son. Eiselle, Keeva, and Zara watched her go before Eiselle turned to Keeva.
“I should feel pity for the woman,” she said. “She has a child and no idea how to properly raise him, yet she cannot see it.”
Keeva shook her head, irritated with Angela’s terrible son. “Mylo is a decent man,” she said. “I do not understand why he allows his son to be raised by a woman with no courage.”
“She is not doing the lad any favors,” Manducor said, shoving more bread in his mouth. “I have seen enough disobedient boys to know that.”
Eiselle looked at him. “Oh?” she said. “Do you deal with children as part of your duties at the priory?”
Manducor shook his head. “Nay,” he muttered. Then, after a moment: “I had boys of my own, once.”
Eiselle sensed something sorrowful in that soft statement. “You had children?”
“Aye.”
“Then you were married?”
He nodded, but his entire manner seemed to slow. His eyes took on a faraway look, as if divining into a past with too many memories for the weary-hearted.
“Long ago,” he said after a moment. “I married young. My wife and children died young.”
There was a tragic tale in the making and Eiselle naturally felt pity for him. “I am sorry for you,” she said. “Is that why you became a priest? Because your family died?”
He looked at her. Manducor was an older man, perhaps in his fiftieth year or more, with bright blue eyes and shaggy, dark hair.
In truth, he wasn’t unhandsome, but he was so smelly and unkempt, one would have never noticed his looks.
The mention of a long-dead family seemed to bring his eating to a halt and he set his cup down, perhaps mulling over Eiselle’s question.