A Killing Season by Priscilla Royal Page B

that another son died not long ago. Drowned, was it?”
    “Or so some say.” He lowered his head. “And then our old priest. After that, we’d none of God’s servants until your party arrived. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
    Caught by the implications in this news, Thomas slowed his pace.
    “A little faster, Brother?” The soldier rubbed his hands and broke into a jog.
    Obliging, Thomas hurried after him.
    When he reached the entrance to the high watchtower, the soldier pointed at the top of the structure. “We could both find shelter from the wind, Brother. I’ve done my round of the wall for now. It’s time for a stint up there with the falcons, although they’re wise enough to find refuge inland for the winter. Fortunately, the good baron built some protection there for us sentries.” He pulled opened the entry door and gestured for Thomas to go inside. “Up the stairs. Should be ale. Warm us both.”
    The wind whipped sea-salted air against his face. It stung. Needing no further urging, the monk hurried through the door and raced up the narrow steps.
    The round space on the top of the tower was chill enough, but the walls and a short overhang of wood held the wind at bay. Near the staircase, a poorly crafted table had been pushed against the wall. A jug rested precariously on top of the unevenly hewn wood.
    Grabbing two ill-shaped pottery cups from the floor, the soldier poured.
    Thomas drank. The ale was rough but served its purpose of sending warmth through to his bones. “You think the priest’s death was not a natural one?” Although he was interested in what this man might say about the deaths of both sons, he was more intrigued by the soldier’s apparent belief that the Devil had killed a priest.
    “If Satan kills a man, is that not unnatural?”
    The monk agreed. “How did you learn the Devil did it?”
    “I found the corpse.” He shuddered and downed the contents of his cup in one draught, then poured another. “More for yourself?”
    Thomas placed his cup close to the pitcher.
    “It was morning. A couple of months after the drowning.” The sentry took a deep breath and leaned against the tower wall.
    Glancing into his cup, Thomas hesitated, then gulped the drink down and reached for the jug. The man’s beginning did not bode well for a story much shorter than some ecclesiastical history. If he were fortunate, the tale might prove as entertaining as anything by the Venerable Bede. He doubted he would be so lucky.
    “Lady Margaret and the sons had waited a long time for the priest to come to the family chapel for Mass. He was an old man, she finally said, and perhaps he had fallen ill. Never considered whether he might have drunk too much wine the night before.” Raising his own cup, he gave it a significant glance, then chortled. “She commanded me to seek him out.”
    Thomas was struck by two things. The soldier had not mentioned that the baron was with his family, and the priest’s immoderate drinking seemed to be common knowledge if this sentry knew about it. If the latter were true, it was odd that the Lady Margaret would be ignorant of the priest’s vice, unless she was being charitable. These details had implications, but he held back on questions, choosing only the one that would hurry the tale along: “What did you find?”
    “A dead man. He was lying in bed, hands modestly folded as if he had been praying when Death came for his soul.”
    “Your description suggests he died at peace. Why conclude he had been staring into the Devil’s face?”
    “His eyes belied any calm, Brother. They were wide open and streaked with red. They looked like the Devil had sucked blood through the man’s eyes. The last thing the poor priest must have seen was the fires of Hell in the maw of the Evil One.”
    The monk swallowed more ale and nodded as foreboding increased.
    The soldier leaned closer. “I’ve seen men killed in many ways, Brother. Never have I seen a corpse with eyes