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Plagues and Princes: The One True Prince
Azioni libro
Inizia a leggereLunghezza: 294 pagine4 ore
- Editore:
- BookBaby
- Pubblicato:
- Mar 15, 2019
- ISBN:
- 9781543964141
- Formato:
- Libro
Descrizione
Having survived the Great Mortality, Thomas de Parr hopes the communal solitude sought by the monks of Tintern Abbey will help cure his troubled soul. Yet finding that elusive state of being proves more challenging than Thomas could ever imagine. Lured into the company of an evil man, Thomas soon finds himself a pawn in other men's lust for revenge, power, and money. His only salvation is to follow an unfolding destiny that will change the lives of countless thousands.
Informazioni sul libro
Plagues and Princes: The One True Prince
Lunghezza: 294 pagine4 ore
Descrizione
Having survived the Great Mortality, Thomas de Parr hopes the communal solitude sought by the monks of Tintern Abbey will help cure his troubled soul. Yet finding that elusive state of being proves more challenging than Thomas could ever imagine. Lured into the company of an evil man, Thomas soon finds himself a pawn in other men's lust for revenge, power, and money. His only salvation is to follow an unfolding destiny that will change the lives of countless thousands.
- Editore:
- BookBaby
- Pubblicato:
- Mar 15, 2019
- ISBN:
- 9781543964141
- Formato:
- Libro
Informazioni sull'autore
Correlati a Plagues and Princes
Anteprima del libro
Plagues and Princes - Thomas Schultz
Author
Chapter
ONE
Tintern Abbey, Wales, December 8, 1348
The rasp of iron hinges shattered the early morning quiet of the abbey’s infirmary hall. A cold draft rippled the woolen drape drawn across Thomas’s cubicle. He raised his head to look for his friend, Andrew; the bed was empty.
Thomas, your brother’s here.
Any voice but Andrew’s would have made him plead for solitude, no matter the command. Instead, Andrew’s voice calmed the edginess of lost sleep. Thomas felt his neck. The marks of the pestilence had healed, but inside, grief remained for the deaths that haunted his dreams.
Trails of smoke danced above worn-out coals as heat from the brazier at the foot of Thomas’s bed faded. The harsh odor of burnt wood irritated his nose. Through an arched window, shafts of light crept unwanted into the cubicle like the tireless advance of the pestilence as it trampled across England.
He’s with Abbot Samuel now,
Andrew called out. Then he’s coming to see you.
Andrew drew aside the drape and stood beside Thomas’s bed. His dark-green cape smelled of horse. Get up.
He tugged on the heavy wool blanket. I must get back and help Brother Gilbert.
Thomas rolled onto his back and clutched his covers. He strained to protect his woolen cocoon. His strength, sapped by the pestilence, was no match against Andrew’s pull.
That innocent, blue-eyed look may work on Abbot Samuel, but I’m not leaving.
Andrew tugged harder. You had another dream last night.
How’d you know?
You shouted for Isabel again.
I miss them, Andrew.
Thomas let go of the blanket. The rush of cold air made him shudder.
Andrew’s voice calmed to gentle encouragement. I know. Try to think of something else. I’ll tell your brother you’ll meet him in the chapel.
He helped Thomas to his feet and, with a cheerful smile and a nod, hurried on his way.
After Andrew left, Thomas sat back on his bed and stared, unfocused, at the grain in the oak-paneled walls, shapes that resembled squashed faces staring back. His thoughts wandered. Six weeks had passed since he and Andrew made their way home from Sarah’s hut in the quiet woods near Berkeley Castle. It was Sarah’s knowledge of herbal remedies and Andrew’s unwavering friendship that helped save Thomas from the greedy pestilence, but his soul remained scarred. The evil disease had taken his father, his brother, Abbot Michael, and worst of all, his secret wife, Isabel.
Short days and long nights now shrouded the tranquil Cistercian monastery sheltered among forested hills along the River Wye. Thomas looked forward to Christmas and the celebratory feast of thanksgiving, but the monks’ worried looks and mumblings about where next the foul sickness might appear tempered his enthusiasm. The joy for song and chant had all but disappeared among the devout brethren. God’s wrath seemed insatiable, and prayer and penance did little to stem the tide of disease washing over the land.
Thomas waited for Robert in the small, lime-washed chapel at the eastern end of the infirmary hall. The chapel was lit by a two story, three-light window. Sunlight, filtered through stained glass, drew a warm mix of red and yellow on the cold flagstone floor. He sat on a hard oak bench, its edges worn smooth, and tried to remember his brother’s face. Thomas was eight and Robert twenty-four the last time they saw each other. Now, at thirty-three, would Robert be recognizable? Or would Robert look like a stranger, the lord of a far-off manor who happened to share the same father.
As the lord of Kendalwood, Robert’s status demanded respect. But as a brother, what did that mean? Why was he coming after all these years? Thomas fidgeted as the moments dragged. Visions of playing with his brother, William, stirred happy thoughts. Four years older than Thomas, William never seemed to tire of playing with his younger sibling. As quickly as a smile crossed Thomas’s face, the joy was struck down by sadness when he recalled Abbot Michael telling him William was dead. It was Williams’s death that sent Thomas, angry and rebellious, on his ill-fated journey from Bristow. A flood of memories invaded his thoughts: meeting Isabel and falling in love, holding Isabel’s cold and lifeless body, fighting for his life against the fever and pain of the pestilence. What now did God have in store?
He took a deep breath, folded his hands, and quietly recited Chapter One: On the Kinds of Monks from the Rule of St. Benedict. The passage reminded him that he had committed his life to the clergy; to become a Cenobite monk, one who lived in a monastery and lived under a rule and an abbot. The lay world beyond the stone walls of the abbey did not exist. A monk’s duty was to pray. He had much to learn if he wanted to follow in the footsteps of Abbot Michael, an obedient servant of God and a selfless caretaker of lost souls.
Last summer, before the pestilence, Abbot Samuel had encouraged Thomas to believe he could someday become the abbot. But he had doubted that destiny. His life was too comfortable to truly understand adversity. The plague forced him to face his mortality. Having survived the chaos and suffering, he felt closer to God and closer to accepting a life of service, but he struggled to let go of the painful memories. The past, however terrible, seemed safe, a familiar friend. The future was hard and unpredictable. Once he became a monk, he hoped the power of prayer and the communal solitude of the cloister would settle his troubled spirit.
Deliberate footsteps echoed over the ten foot high stone wall that separated the chapel from the rest of the infirmary. Thomas turned to face the aged wooden door decorated with iron scroll work. He held his breath, anticipating the flip of the latch.
God’s blessings, Thomas. It is good to see you,
Robert said. His broad smile and open arms welcomed Thomas. He embraced his younger half-brother, his blue cape engulfing them with a flutter of rich fabric and the scent of cool, fresh air. Abbot Samuel says you are feeling better.
Robert stood half a head taller than Thomas, a full head if one considered the swirl of material that made up the fashionable hat dyed to match his cape.
Thomas stuttered. His practiced greeting flittered away like a startled sparrow as the reality of seeing his brother sunk in. I feel fine most days,
he said at last. He wanted to say that he missed Robert. That’s what he thought he should say, but hesitation lapsed into an awkward silence. Robert looked nothing like he remembered. Wrinkles added a paternal look to Robert’s once-youthful face, and his broad shoulders, rugged build, and full beard reminded Thomas of their father. How unlike either of them he must seem to others. He wondered if he might look, and perhaps be, more like his mother.
Robert straightened Thomas’s tunic. I brought warm clothes for you. Since you have not yet taken your vows, Abbot Samuel said it would be all right for you to have them.
Thomas relaxed as he sensed the care in his brother’s voice and the gentle touch of his hands. Thank you, Robert.
I wish I had more time to spend with you, but the oarsmen are waiting at the abbot’s pier. As I went through Father’s things, I found this.
Robert handed Thomas a folded piece of parchment. Read it.
"To my dearest friend and kinsman, Geoffrey de Parr, Lord of Kendalwood, Edmund, Lord of Sleaford, sends greetings and warm wishes for every good fortune. I beseech you to take well my counsel. Your sons, William and Thomas, are in grave danger. I fear the matter we discussed regarding Katherine, of blessed memory, has come to pass. Be cautious with whom you speak. I will know more by the time we next meet. Faithfully in truth, I am forever yours.
I do not understand. Who’s Edmund of Sleaford?
Thomas studied the parchment.
I was ten when Father married Katherine, your mother. I remember your mother being unhappy when Lord Sleaford refused to come to the wedding. After she died, Lord Sleaford’s name was never again mentioned.
I have no memory of my mother.
It seems Lord Sleaford did not want your mother to marry our father. But why the concern over you and William, I have no idea.
Why would he not want them to marry?
I am uncertain, Thomas. This past spring, messengers often visited the manor. I never saw Father so angry. When I asked, he said everything would be fine once he returned from Bristow.
While I was in Bristow, Searle, the countess’s steward, said Father had to meet someone. I never had the chance to ask who. Do you think there’s a connection?
Robert shrugged. Anything is possible. I will see what I can find out. Until we know more, you must be cautious if you leave the monastery.
When will I see you again?
I am unsure how long it will take in Bristow. The pestilence is still a danger, but it seems the cold winds blew away the worst of the dreadful humors. If all goes well, I will be back within the week. Then I will speak with Abbot Samuel. I am sure it will do your spirits well to pray for the souls of our father and William when they are reinterred at Kendalwood’s parish church. God be with you, Thomas.
Robert embraced his brother and nodded farewell.
The chapel door shut with a loud rattle of the iron latch. Footsteps faded. Thomas again sat alone. He stared at the silver candle holders on the simple altar. His thoughts turned sour and his stomach tightened into a knot. What did Edmund of Sleaford mean by grave danger? What part did his mother play in this strange warning? He reread Lord Sleaford’s message, which only fueled a fear prickling in his gut; the kind of fear brought on by embers of doubt that, when properly nourished, grow into a roaring fire.
Bristow, England
A soft layer of snow covered the streets of Bristow. As the approach of nightfall drove honest folk indoors, Hastings prowled the alleys like a cat on the hunt. Slop and feces caked his pointed, leather boots. His seedy brown cape of coarse and torn wool covered him in the guise of a bondsman. The hood shrouded his beard, well-groomed and as black as night. Muddy footprints marked the paths of those brave enough, or desperate enough, to venture out. Shuttered windows and closed doors signaled an end to a dismal day of commerce. Fear of the pestilence remained as an ill fog that clouded the mood of the once-thriving city.
Hastings turned onto an alley off Corn Street. The eerie gloom of the setting sun cast shapeless shadows in the cramped spaces like nameless spirits intent on mischief. He spied a man staggering and clutching his cloak, the reek of ale in his wake. Hastings pushed the inebriated man to the ground, kicked him in the stomach, snatched his purse, and darted into a narrow passage between two abandoned houses.
The sickly-sweet stench of death lingered in the back alleys. Hastings covered his nose and mouth with a kerchief. Houses boarded up during the worst days of the pestilence remained untouched. Few people ventured into such dark places where the foul humors found refuge, eager to seize sinner and repentant alike should either loiter in its domain. He walked around piles of rubbish and rotten food as he made his way toward High Street. In the fading light, he paused to check the contents of his prize: fifteen silver groats.
Under the sign of the Goat’s Head Inn, he stopped. Distant chatter caught his attention. He listened, then entered the inn. Light radiated from a common room off the receiving hall. Through the open doorway, the stink of burnt fat from clay table lamps and the crackle of wood from a fireplace greeted him. He walked toward a table in the corner where a mysterious-looking character in a gray cloak sat alone. The man held an ale mug in his hand, a pewter pitcher and another mug on the table.
By the blood of Saint Peter, I hate this weather,
Hastings said. He sat across from the man and pointed to the empty mug. A drink, Rowan.
Quit your complaining, Hastings.
That’s Lord Hastings, remember?
Yes, your lordship.
Rowan snickered as he filled the mug and topped off his own.
Tell me, what did you discover?
Hastings pushed off his hood. The few strands of gray at his temples revealed the approach of middle age.
Geoffrey de Parr and his son, William, are dead.
Hastings pounded the table. I knew it. Too much time passed without word. I should have insisted on immediate payment.
His gaze wandered to the three-inch gash that deformed Rowan’s right cheek. Before Rowan took notice, Hastings looked into Rowan’s cold, dark eyes.
They died of the pestilence,
Rowan said. They’re buried in the cemetery at St. Augustine’s Abbey.
A moment of satisfaction for the horrible deaths he imagined they suffered countered his frustration at the loss of the anticipated gold. What of the other son, Thomas? Is he still alive?
The sheriff doesn’t know. But the boy’s not in Bristow. That much I can say.
Rowan gulped his ale and poured himself another mugful.
God’s teeth. I hate this pestilence.
If Rowan said Thomas de Parr was not in Bristow, there was little time to waste. I’ll not give up on that reward. Too many questions have been asked and too many bribes have been paid. The chancellor will want answers. The boy must be delivered to the king—alive.
The innkeeper poked his head into the room. Excuse me, Lord Hastings. Your room is ready. Thank you for being accommodating.
I need food,
Hastings said between swigs of ale. He glared at his host. Now! You idiot.
Yes, m’lord.
Hastings waited for the innkeeper to leave and pulled his chair closer to the table. What else?
Rowan brushed his slick, brown hair out of his eyes. The boy came to Bristow with the abbot of Tintern Abbey, but the abbot died of the pestilence. There’s an older brother, Robert. He’s now Lord of Kendalwood.
Hastings rubbed his hands together and quaffed his ale. I’ll see what I can discover about this new lord. Find some fancy clothes for me.
Tintern Abbey, Wales
After vespers, Thomas hurried to the warming house, his feet numb from standing on the cold tiles of the abbey church’s cavernous nave. Despite the sting of smoke, he stood close to the open fireplace centered near the back of the low, vaulted room. Heat slowly penetrated the multiple layers of his clothes, warming his skin and bringing life back to his toes. He took out the parchment, the words now fixed in his memory.
Andrew arrived carrying several hefty logs, his hair golden in the light of the fire. I see you wasted no time getting here,
he said. Are you going to the collation reading?
No. My teeth chattered so much last night, Abbot Samuel thought it best for me to skip the readings for a while. And he told me today he wants me to take my vows right after the Christmas feast.
The way you say that, it sounds like you no longer want to take your vows. I thought you were set on starting your novitiate as soon as you could.
I am, but—
Thomas held his hands toward the fire. When you finish bringing in wood, I have something to tell you.
Thomas watched Andrew walk back and forth carrying logs with fascinating ease. Andrew was two years older and his assigned tasks never tired him. Even if Thomas wanted to work hard, his long recovery from the effects of the pestilence sapped his motivation as well as his strength.
Six trips later, Andrew stood by the stack of logs he’d created. He brushed the dust and wood scraps from his tan tunic and breeches colored like a red deer’s summer coat. His clothes showed no sign of sweat for his labor. That’s enough until morning. What was it you wanted to tell me?
Thomas read the parchment aloud and related his conversation with Robert. What do you think?
Without hesitation, Andrew said, Seems simple enough. Go see Lord Sleaford. Find out what he and your father discussed.
I suppose that would be best, but Sleaford’s in Lincolnshire. What about my vows?
There’s time enough to travel.
Thomas’s shoulders slouched. Sleaford’s too far.
We can make it.
We?
"After all we’ve been through these past months, do you think I’d let you go off on your own?
Thomas shrugged.
And besides, Brother Elias said colder weather has quelled the spread of the pestilence. Travel will be safer. And the walk will be good for you.
What’ll Brother Gilbert say?
Preparations for spring start next month.
Thomas scratched his head, further messing the usual unkempt state of his light brown hair. He envisioned them walking along desolate, snow covered roads and sleeping huddled next to inadequate fires. A loud crack and a shooting spark brought him out of his reverie. Abbot Samuel’s far too cautious. I think he’d prefer I stay behind these walls.
Your brother wouldn’t have made a special visit to give you that message unless he thought the danger was real.
Let’s wait. Robert may find answers in Bristow.
As you wish.
Chapter
TWO
Tintern Abbey, Wales, December 9, 1348
Thomas hurried along the covered walkway to the main cloister as monks gathered outside the refectory, their black scapulars drawn up to protect their tonsured heads. Hidden faces shot blasts of fog into the frosty air in a display that reminded Thomas of dancing minstrels. Abbot Samuel insisted Thomas join the brothers for their daily meal and scripture readings during the forty days of St. Martin. You must consider carefully God’s holy word in order to cure your troubled mind,
Abbot Samuel had said.
After the last monk passed through the arched doors, Thomas entered the hall. Two rows of trestle tables with benches on the side facing the long walls lined the length of the room. Abbot Samuel sat with other senior monks on a raised dais at the far end, framed by a backdrop of decorative columns. A fresh layer of rushes provided a measure of insulation from the chill of the stone floor. The dusty smell mingled with the pleasant aroma of fresh, dark bread and cooked vegetables.
Serving tables to his left held the meal selections. Thomas scooped a ladleful of steaming vegetable soup into a wooden bowl and balanced a biscuit on the rim. At the next table, he filled another bowl with a portion of thick, cream-colored pottage mixed with chunks of carrots, turnips and parsnips. His mug and spoon were already placed at his usual spot near the pantry door. While he waited for the reading to begin, he filled his mug with ale and snuck a sip of soup. Abbot Michael had said to savor the words and not the food. When Abbot Samuel became abbot and ended his service in the kitchen, savoring the words spoken rather than the food eaten proved to be an easy task.
Today, Brother Jeremiah climbed the stairs inside the west wall to read from the balcony overlooking the gathered monks. After everyone recited the Lord’s Prayer, Brother Jeremiah said, Let us continue with the eighth chapter of the Book of Tobit.
Thomas cringed and shut his ears to Brother Jeremiah’s squeaky voice as the words in Lord Sleaford’s message echoed in his mind. Your sons, William and Thomas, are in grave danger.
He shuddered at the mysterious meaning.
After the meal, Thomas helped in the kitchen where he could stay warm. This week, Brother Aldwin was responsible for supervising the kitchen. Thomas spent much of the previous spring and early summer at odds with Brother Aldwin over the art of gardening. After the disastrous murder of innocent carrots, Thomas thought Brother Aldwin would never again want to work with him.
I need for you to clean and cut these vegetables,
Brother Aldwin said.
Thomas dumped the carrots and turnips into a rundlet filled with water and stirred them with an iron poker to loosen the dirt and sand. He piled the cleaned root vegetables on the old table that stood in the center of the high, vaulted room, carefully cut off the ends, scraped or cut away any bits that looked irregular, and chopped what was left into smaller pieces. He piled the good parts into serving bowls. Abbot Samuel would have never cooked vegetables the day before a meal. Now it made sense to him why everything tasted like mushy peas when Brother Aldwin took charge.
Thomas, you cannot put those scraps in the drain. Do I have to watch you all the time?
No, Brother Aldwin.
I hope you prepared those vegetables better than you cared for them while they were in the ground.
One of the lay brothers ran into the kitchen, looked around, then dashed away. A short while later, he returned. Excuse me, Brother Aldwin. There’s a man at the porch who says he has turnips to sell. Would you speak with him? Brother Peter’s nowhere to be found.
I am not the cellarer. Did you look for him in the warming house?
Yes. Brother Peter’s not there.
Very well. Thomas, keep watch over this soup and do not let it boil over. Swing the pot away from the fire if it gets too hot.
Thomas thought about adding another log, but then realized his own future meal would be in peril if he scorched the vegetables. He took a deep breath and slowly stirred the soup with an over-sized wooden spoon, thankful to be standing near a fire.
He expected to be scolded for something when Brother Aldwin returned. The hanging cauldron, supported by an iron arm longer than his and blackened by constant exposure to smoke and flame, creaked on its hook as he stirred the broth. The massive
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