Chapter 3 #2
The only other building was the infirmary, which was at some distance from the other structures, adjoined by its own tiny chapel and kitchen.
Mainly for monks who fell ill, it was also open to a few devout outsiders who were at death’s door.
But most hadn’t the strength to walk. Much less steal anything.
Hew’s exploration reinforced his view. The thefts had been accomplished, not by a stranger, but by someone with easy access to the monastery.
Stealing back to his cell across the grass of the cloister, he heard a scuffle along the wall. In one smooth motion, he shrugged the axe off his shoulder and gripped it in both hands before him.
It was probably just a monk on his way to matins. But Hew was not a man who liked to be caught unawares.
Narrowing his eyes in the faint moonlight, he saw a low shadow hobbling awkwardly beside the stone wall. Not a monk. An animal.
He lowered his axe and smiled in self-mockery.
A waddling hedgepig snuffled through the leaves.
“You’re not the thief, are you?” he whispered. The wind rose, making him shiver. “Let me know if you find a warm place to bed down. I may join you.”
The hedgepig never obliged him. So Hew endured another chill and restless night. Nonetheless, he set out for the village early the next morn. Armed with his axe and the list the prior had given him, he trudged down the frosty road.
More than sleep, he could use a decent fire to warm his bones. And the apple-cheeked alewife’s establishment had a cheery enough hearth. For a few pennies, he could break his fast.
By a stroke of luck, when he peered above the doorway of the alehouse, he saw the sign matched a name on his list. The Bell. This was the alewife who supplied the monastery. According to the prior’s list, her son Peter visited twice a week to deliver the ale.
He didn’t have to request an interview with Peter. As soon as he walked in with his axe across his shoulder, the lad, perhaps twelve years old and as apple-cheeked as his mother, rushed up in wide-eyed wonder.
“Can I look at that, sir?” he asked. “Your axe?”
“Peter,” his mother chided, “leave the patrons alone.”
“Is this your lad?” Hew asked.
She nodded.
“I’m happy to show him my axe.” He whispered to Peter, “Let’s sit by the fire where the light is better.”
“I’ve just made oatcakes,” the alewife offered.
“I’ll take a pair then,” he said.
She brought him the oatcakes and an ale while he showed his axe to Peter.
“I like the designs,” Peter said, tracing the carvings along the handle with a finger.
“They’re Viking runes.”
Peter’s eyes widened. “Are ye a Vikin’?”
“My ancestors were,” he said. “What about you? Do you have warrior kin?”
“Nay,” he said. “My da died when I was three.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Peter shrugged. “I don’t remember him. But we do just fine, my ma and me.”
“You help her with the alehouse?”
He straightened with pride. “I do the deliveries.”
“Deliveries,” Hew said, pretending to be surprised. “Where do you deliver?”
“All over. To the hermit at village end. To the monastery. Even,” he confided in a dreamy whisper, “to Lady Carenza herself.”
There was that name again. Carenza.
“Sometimes she gives me a penny,” Peter told him. Then he leaned closer to murmur, “Sometimes she kisses my brow.”
“Peter,” his keen-eared mother scolded. “I’m sure she kisses all the wee lads’ brows. She’s the laird’s daughter. ’Tis her duty.”
For an instant, Hew wished the dutiful Lady Carenza would kiss his brow. Then, deciding that would be a mistake, he cleared his throat.
“You deliver to the monastery, you said?” he said. “That’s where I’m staying.”
“Ye are? Aye. I go every Monday and Thursday.”
“You go into the monastery proper?”
“Nay, the cellarer meets me at the gate after midday Mass.”
The alewife called out to him. “Ale’s ready for Dunlop, Peter.”
“I have to go,” Peter said, scrambling up from the table. “Don’t like to keep Lady Carenza waiting. Maybe I’ll see ye at the monastery?”
Hew nodded. But he’d already ruled out Peter as a suspect. The lad was enterprising, but he didn’t seem like the sort to steal from a monastery.
He’d only polished off one of the warm, chewy oatcakes when patrons began wandering in. The Bell was surprisingly popular for this early in the day. But considering the quality ale and decent fare, it was probably a good way to prepare for a long, hard day of work.
He checked the prior’s list. When the alewife refilled his cup, he asked her about the man who visited the monastery once each season to deliver spices. “Do you know where I could find Absalom the spice merchant?”
“Absalom? When he’s in town, he comes most every day. He should be along any time.”
No sooner did she say the words than a dusky-skinned, black-haired man came through the door in a cloak thickly embroidered at the edges with bright thread.
“That’s him,” she murmured.
Absalom seemed rather richly dressed. Was that thanks to his talent as a spice merchant? Or his dexterity as a thief of religious artifacts? Hew wasn’t sure.
He stood and greeted the man. “Absalom?” he asked.
“Aye.”
“I’m told you deliver spices to the monastery not far from here?”
“That’s right. Kildunan. Four times a year.” He paused to call out to the alewife. “Ale and an oatcake.”
“On its way,” she called back.
“Can you tell me,” Hew asked, “who takes the order?”
“The kitchener comes to the gate.” Then he frowned, eyeing Hew’s axe. “Why? Is there a problem?”
“Nay. ’Tis only…” He drew closer, confiding, “I’m staying there, and the food…” He wrinkled his nose.
Absalom nodded. “All the spices in the world won’t help a bad cook.”
“I was afraid of that,” Hew said, saluting him with an oatcake.
Absalom gave him a nod of farewell, then called out to a man at another table before joining him. “Bernard.”
Bernard. Hew glanced at his list. There was a Bernard who sold parchment to the monastery. Could it be the same man?
He didn’t dare confront Bernard while he was sitting with Absalom. That would be too suspicious. No doubt the alewife was already wondering why this stranger with an axe was asking so many questions.
As he leaned back against the alehouse wall, he closed his eyes briefly, waiting for Bernard to leave. By the time he started awake, the man was gone.
“Did ye have a nice wee nap?” the alewife teased.
Shite. How had he drifted off? And how long had he been asleep?
“Can ye tell me where the parchment shop is?” he asked.
“At the far end o’ the village,” she said, adding pointedly, “downwind.”
He thanked her, snatched his plaid, and hurried out the door.
He understood what she meant when he reached the end of the lane and entered Bernard’s shop. The air was heavy with the stench of greasy sheepskin.
The proprietor furrowed his bushy brown brows at him. “Aren’t ye the fellow who was snorin’ at The Bell?”
Snoring? Hew didn’t snore. At least he didn’t think he snored. It was hard to know, since he was asleep.
“I was at The Bell, aye.”
“Huh.” He waved his arm at the goods stacked on shelves. “Ye need parchment?”
“Nay.”
Bernard licked his lips and eyed his axe. “Then what are ye here for?”
“A few questions.”
Bernard’s gaze flitted nervously to the door. “Is this about the laird’s daughter?” he blurted. “I only sold her parchment. I swear. If anyone said ’twas anythin’ else…”
Hew lifted his brows. Was everyone entangled with Lady Carenza? “Nay.”
“Oh.” Bernard’s shoulders dropped in relief. “What is it then?”
“The local prior told me you provide parchment to the monastery.”
“Aye.”
“You take it there yourself?”
“I do the delivery, aye.”
“Directly to the prior?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes the prior. Sometimes a monk.”
“You go to the scriptorium?”
He shook his head. “They meet me at the gate. But why do ye want to know all this?”
“I’m staying at the monastery, trying to make myself useful,” he invented. “If I can save you the trouble of carting your wares to the monastery…”
“’Tis no trouble,” Bernard assured him, adding quietly in confidence, “and just so ye know, the cost is the same, whether I deliver it or not. I’m already givin’ the abbot a good price.” He glanced at Hew’s weapon again. “Ask anyone.”
“Of course.” Hew nodded. “Thank you for your time.”
Bernard seemed like an untrustworthy sort. But it was probably true he’d given the abbot a good price. A man as paranoid as Bernard would likely try to buy his way into heaven.
So far, Hew was not convinced any of the vendors were guilty of the thefts. None of them were in the habit of entering the monastery. But interviewing everyone on the prior’s list was the only way to eliminate suspects.
Mabel the cloth merchant only delivered goods to the monastery twice a year. She was a pious woman who walked with a crutch and considered the trip a pilgrimage of sorts. Hew mentally eliminated her.
The next two frequent visitors to the monastery were Brother Cathal, who collected the alms from Kildunan to distribute to the poor, and Father James, who oversaw the monastery with a monthly inspection.
They would naturally be given free access to the monastery.
Their presence in the most private chambers would never arouse suspicion.
Indeed, Hew was rather surprised the prior had put them on the list at all.
Still, logistically, they were likely suspects.
And Hew wanted no loose threads. Not only did they have access.
They might have worked as a team, which would have made the thefts easier.
And the fact that they both traveled widely, collecting alms and making inspections at various monasteries, meant they could hide their plunder almost anywhere.
They weren’t in the village at present. A servant at the church said they had gone together to see the construction of the new monastery at Kilwinning.
That aroused Hew’s suspicions even more. He began to wonder if Kildunan wasn’t the only monastery to have treasures go missing. If all the monks were as secretive about the loss of valuables as the abbot of Kildunan was, there might well be serial robberies taking place.
As he left the church, Hew spotted the butcher shop where he’d purchased the ham. The village butcher was the last entry on his list.
When he swung open the door of the shop, the butcher waved his bloody hand in greeting.
“Ye again,” he said with a wink. “Did ye finish off the ham already?”
Hew laughed. “Not quite. I’ve come to ask you a few questions.”
“Questions?”
“About your deliveries to the monastery.”
“Ah, ye mean Alan’s deliveries to the monastery.”
“Alan?”
He beamed. “My son. Ten years old, and he can already wield a butcher knife as fast as Sir Gellir o’ Rivenloch can wield a sword.”
Hew smirked. He wasn’t going to tell the man that Sir Gellir of Rivenloch was his cousin. His mother was right. Gellir was known everywhere. “Is your son here?”
“In the back.” He turned and yelled, “Alan!”
The stout lad looked like a smaller version of his father as he came out in a butcher’s blood-smeared apron. “Aye, Da?”
“This fellow wants to speak with ye.”
“Me?” he squeaked.
“You take meat to the monastery every fortnight, aye?” Hew asked.
“That’s right.” He spotted Hew’s axe. “I didn’t miss a delivery, did I?”
“Nay, nay. I’m just wondering, when you deliver that meat, do you take it into the kitchens?”
“Och nay,” he said, very gravely. “I’m not allowed inside. I give it to the monk.”
“What monk?”
He furrowed his brows in deep thought. “The one in the…brown robe?”
“I see.” Hew’s lips twitched as he repressed a smile. Any lad who took his trade so seriously was an unlikely suspect. “Well, Alan, apprentice butcher, what would you recommend I purchase for…” He peered into his purse. “Two pence?”
Alan screwed up his face, considering. “A brace o’ coneys?”
His father said, “We sold the last to Lady Carenza, remember?”
“Och aye,” Alan gushed, turning bright scarlet. “I for-, forgot.”
Hew frowned. Had the lady kissed him on the brow as well? Evidently she had the power to reduce wee lads to stammering fools.
“Go on, son,” the butcher nudged.
Recovering from his fluster, Alan suggested, “How about a leg o’ mutton?” He glanced over his shoulder to check that with his father, who nodded his approval.
“Good,” Hew said.
Carrying the wrapped meat over one shoulder and his axe over the other, Hew yawned as he strode back up the street.
He figured he’d arrive at the monastery after midday Mass and before the first meal of the day.
So he’d have to decide whether he wanted to eat or sleep.
At the moment, despite his earlier nap, sleep was winning.
He wasn’t sure the prior would approve of the sudden increase of meat in the monks’ diet. But a “rampaging Viking” like Hew had to eat well. Especially if he was required to travel from monastery to monastery to continue his investigation. Besides, he doubted the monks would complain.