Read Chapter 6: The Abbot's Edict

The infirmarian's door was thick oak banded with iron, but Thomas had learned the trick of its latch. He pushed it open and found Brother Paulus bent over his mortar, grinding something dark and bitter that made the air taste of soil and rot.

"You look like a man who has seen ghosts," Paulus said without looking up.

"Two men are dead," Thomas said, closing the door behind him. "And I believe I know how."

Paulus set down his pestle and turned. His face was creased with the particular weariness of a man who had tended too many dying monks and had learned to recognize the smell of death before it arrived. "Sit. Tell me."

Thomas recounted the novice Andrew's words—Anselm's argument with Mark, the copper-stinking parchment, the herbalist's plan to speak with the abbot the very day he vanished. He spoke quickly, the words tumbling out like stones from a loose wall.

When he finished, Paulus was silent for a long moment. He wiped his hands on his apron and walked to the window that looked out over the herb garden. The foxgloves swayed in the evening breeze, purple bells nodding as if in agreement.

"Anselm knew plants," Paulus said quietly. "He knew which ones heal and which ones kill. And he knew that copper sulfate, when mixed with certain gums, will eat through the skin of a man who handles it too long. But he would never have used that knowledge to harm a brother."

"Then he is dead," Thomas said. "Or Mark silenced him before he could speak."

"Or Mark silenced him *because* he spoke." Paulus turned from the window. "I will help you, Thomas. But I cannot be seen to defy the abbot. Whatever we do, we do quietly."

They both heard the footsteps in the corridor at the same moment. Paulus held up a hand, and Thomas pressed himself against the wall beside the door. The footsteps stopped outside, and then a young voice said, "Brother Paulus? The abbot has called a chapter meeting. All brothers are to attend."

"Tell His Grace I am coming," Paulus called.

The footsteps retreated. Thomas let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"The abbot moves quickly," Paulus said. "The body was only found this morning."

---

The chapter house was cold despite the press of bodies. All forty brothers of Saint Vitus stood in their assigned places, cowls up, faces hollowed by candlelight. The abbot's chair was elevated on a dais, and Laurence sat in it like a judge awaiting a condemned man.

Brother James's body had been removed to the charnel house, but his memory hung over the room like a shroud. Thomas could feel the weight of it, the unspoken question in every eye: *Which of us is next?*

Abbot Laurence rose. He was a tall man, gaunt, with hands that seemed too large for his wrists. When he spoke, his voice filled the vaulted ceiling without effort.

"Brothers, we have suffered a great trial. First our beloved Brother William, and now Brother James—both taken by God's hand in ways we cannot understand. The devil has walked among us, and we have seen his work."

Thomas felt his jaw tighten. The devil. Not poison. Not murder. The devil made a convenient excuse for a man who did not wish to look too closely at his own flock.

"I have prayed on this matter," Laurence continued, "and it has been revealed to me that these deaths are a divine punishment for our sins—sins of pride, of curiosity, of worldly learning. The Lord has sent His fire to purify us."

A murmur ran through the brothers. Thomas saw Brother Cuthbert's eyes flick toward him, sharp as a blade.

"Therefore," Laurence said, "I decree that no brother shall investigate these deaths. No brother shall speak of what he has seen. No brother shall examine the bodies, the cell of the dead, or any object they have touched. We will accept God's judgment with humility and pray for His mercy to spare us further chastisement."

He paused, and his eyes found Thomas across the room. The gaze was cold, deliberate, and it stayed on Thomas for a long moment before moving on.

"Any brother who disobeys this edict will be confined to his cell for forty days on bread and water. And if he persists, he will be expelled from this abbey and cast out into the world, where his soul will be lost forever."

The words fell like stones into still water. Thomas felt the weight of them, the threat coiled beneath the scripture. Laurence was not protecting the flock. He was protecting something else—something he did not want dragged into the light.

The chapter meeting ended with prayers and the shuffle of sandals on stone. Thomas lingered, pretending to adjust his sandal, until the room was empty save for the abbot and Brother Mark, who had moved to stand at Laurence's side like a shadow.

"I will need the scriptorium to continue the transcription of the Gospels," Laurence was saying. "Make arrangements for the brothers' shifts."

"Yes, Your Grace." Mark nodded. "And the parchment? We're nearly out of the good stock. The new batch—"

"Use it," Laurence said, cutting him off. "The Lord will protect His faithful."

Mark's mouth opened, then closed. He bowed and left the room, passing within arm's reach of Thomas without acknowledging him. Thomas watched him go, noting the tightness in his shoulders, the way his hands were white-knuckled at his sides.

The abbot remained, staring at the empty altar at the head of the chapter house. Thomas waited until Laurence's shoulders sagged, just slightly—a man alone with his thoughts. Then he slipped out the side door.

---

The scriptorium was empty when Thomas entered. The candles had been snuffed, but the last light of the setting sun filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows across the slanted desks. Brother James's desk was still as it had been—a pool of ink dried in the shallow well, a knife left beside a half-cut parchment.

Thomas had planned to retrieve the inkpot again, to examine it under the better light of the infirmary. But as he reached for it, his eye caught something he had missed before. The other brothers' inkpots were still, their surfaces dull with dried ink. James's pot, however, had a crust around the rim—a crust that shimmered faintly, catching the light in a way that ordinary iron gall ink never would.

He lifted the pot and tilted it toward the window. The crust was green, not black, and it sparkled like crushed glass. He scraped a small flake onto his fingertip and brought it to his nose.

Copper—but not the sharp, acidic smell of the parchment batch Anselm had questioned. This was a duller, earthier scent, mixed with something sweet, almost floral.

Thomas frowned. He had examined this pot before and found nothing. But he had examined the ink, not the pot itself. Whoever had poisoned the parchment had needed a way to test the strength of the mixture, to adjust it. A man would not risk his own death to test poison on parchment.

He touched another flake and tasted it cautiously, letting it dissolve on his tongue for just a moment before spitting it out. The taste was metallic, then bitter, then strangely sweet, like honey that had gone wrong.

He knew of no ink that tasted like that. But he knew of a man who had created his own recipes—an herbalist who kept a private garden and cooked strange mixtures in copper pots. Brother Anselm.

Thomas slid the inkpot into his habit, next to the poisoned parchment and the land charter. They pressed against his ribs like secrets waiting to be confessed.

As he left the scriptorium, he heard voices in the cloister—Laurence's voice, low and stern, and another voice he did not recognize. He pressed himself into the shadow of the archway and listened.

"The terms have not changed," the stranger was saying. "The baron is patient, but his patience has limits."

"Tell the baron," Laurence replied, "that the matter is being handled. The inheritance will go forward as he wishes."

"You have made promises before, Abbot. The Lord of Ashwick grows tired of waiting for what is rightfully his."

A pause. Then Laurence's voice came again, softer, almost desperate: "There were complications. People who asked too many questions. But those complications are being removed. Soon there will be no obstacles left."

Thomas felt the cold run through him like the water of a winter stream. *Complications being removed.* He thought of William's frozen scream and James's murdered parchment. He thought of Anselm, who had disappeared a month ago after asking too many questions.

And he thought of the land charter hidden in his habit—the charter that tied the abbey's holdings to the house of Ashwick.

He waited until the voices moved away, then slipped into the darkness of the cloister. His hand went to the parchment at his chest, and he made a decision he knew would damn him if he were caught.

He would not stop. He would find the truth even if it cost him his vows, his cell, and his very soul.

The Lord had abandoned this abbey. But Thomas would not.