Page 12 of Laird of Flint
She nodded and managed to squeak out, “And the cullin’?”
“Sometime betwixt Samhain and Martinmas.”
She gulped. Young John brought the next course, barley pottage in a rye trencher. But she’d suddenly lost her appetite. She ended up sneaking bites to her favorite hound, Troye, under the table.
There was no time to waste. She couldn’t wait until Cainnech drove the cattle to the close. It was too risky. She had to do her work before they were rounded up.
As Hew expected, his gift of ham for the monastery instantly endeared him to the monks. The next day, as the cook sliced it up for their Sabbath supper, only the prior frowned in disapproval at such excess. The abbot, however, allowed it. He was wise enough to realize Hew’s strategy. After all, a man who filled a monk’s belly might gain his confidence.
Indeed, after supper, Hew engaged several of the monks who were clearing tables in the refectory in what appeared to be casual conversation.
From one, he learned that the silver cross had disappeared sometime in the middle of the night, between vespers and compline.
Another told him the gold chalice had gone missing once before from the sacristy, but had been found in the library and returned. The following week, it was gone, this time for good.
A third volunteered his theory that the chalice was in truth the Holy Grail and that a Templar had come secretly to claim it.
The prior, a particularly ascetic fellow, believed the thefts were a sign from God. A lesson to them all to reject the earthly trappings of wealth. He didn’t offer any ideas, however, about who he thought had done God’s work.
More than one said they’d seen the abbot’s key to the coffer of jewels left in the lock, though none of the jewels had gone missing at those times. The key had been immediately returned to the abbot, who hadn’t realized he’d accidentally left it in the coffer lock.
Most knew nothing about the thefts. But after a succulent supper, thanks to Hew, they were willing to offer what help they could.
At Hew’s request, the prior made a detailed list of all deliveries made to the monastery, along with the names of those who delivered them. Hew meant to question each one.
But the more he heard, the more he was convinced the thief was someone close to the monastery. Someone who had both knowledge and access. Perhaps one of the novices who hadn’t yet embraced the Commandment about stealing.
Despite a full day and a full belly, when Hew settled onto his pallet, he couldn’t sleep. After an hour of shivering in the cold, tossing, turning, and staring at the plaster ceiling, he decided to do some investigating around the monastery.
Armed with his axe, he circled the inside of the perimeter wall. There didn’t seem to be any gaps in the stone. Or loose panels of stained glass in the windows of the church. Or gates in disrepair. No secret passageways were in evidence.
He walked through the moonlit cloister with its central well. The square yard was bordered on the west by the monks’ cells and on the east by the prior’s and abbot’s quarters. To the north was the church. To the south was the refectory.
It was possible that a catapult fired from outside the monastery might launch a thief into the midst of the cloister. Otherwise, it was inaccessible to anyone not living within the walls.
He searched the library, where the missing gold chalice had once been seen. But, located in the heart of the monastery, it was the most secure chamber. And none of its small treasury of books, chained to the walls for safekeeping, had been taken.
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.
