Chambers of Death mm-6

by Priscilla Royal

  “You fell in love with a man, did you not?” Fearing the girl would interpret any smile as mockery, she forced her expression to remain politely reserved.

  “Who told you of this?”

  “No one did, but as women we are fellow creatures and understand such things. Adam was one of God’s most delightful creations, and we often find his sons irresistible.” This time she risked a sympathetic upturn of the corners of her lips.

  “Were you ever in love, my lady?” Her eyes then widened in horror. “Forgive me! I meant no insult! Love of God is the greatest…”

  “Few escape mortal passions, but we enter the religious life because heavenly joys are greater than earthly ones,” the prioress replied with deliberate ambiguity.

  “I lied to you and my mother.”

  Eleanor nodded encouragement.

  “I said I had a vocation.”

  “And now you doubt that?”

  “I don’t know what I believe.”

  “You are not the first to ask for time to discover if the contemplative life is suitable. Sometimes we believe it is, only to discover that we are more able to do good in the world. There is no sin in changing your mind.”

  “When my father lay dying, I promised God I would dedicate my life to His service.”

  “Did your father know of this vow?”

  Mariota nodded. “He heard me and, concluding this was my intent, said he had always hoped I would become a nun.”

  “Did you mean to take vows?”

  The young woman closed her eyes. “I was begging God to heal my father and promised to become a better person if He did. I thought to give more alms to the poor.”

  “Were there other witnesses to your words and your father’s response?”

  “My mother and brother.”

  “Did you explain your true intention to them?”

  With a sob, the young woman nodded again. “They said I must do as my father had prayed and wished.”

  Eleanor squeezed the hand she tenderly held and tried to find words that would both comfort and wisely direct. “Is your mother truly convinced you have a vocation?”

  “She now turns to my elder brother for advice.”

  This young man had accompanied their mother and Mariota to Tyndal. Perhaps two years older than his sister, he was a somberly dressed lad and displayed more gravitas than anyone of his few years or experience should reasonably possess.

  “And what is his opinion?”

  “I must honor my promise.”

  This was not a happy situation. Strict obedience to a perceived deathbed promise would be hard to set aside, yet an unwilling vocation was an open wound that often festered. Of course there were many upon whom vows had been forced, religious who possessed common faith but no zeal. Sometimes the lack was benign and a more ardent faith was even born in time. In other instances, however, corruption and sin resulted.

  If Eleanor could come up with a reasonable alternative, both Mariota and Tyndal might be better served. Should she do so, she hoped the girl’s brother was still enough of a boy to prove malleable in the face of an elder’s advice. And Prior Andrew would be the one to counsel him in this different but still virtuous path.

  “Who is the man you love?” Eleanor trusted her question was asked kindly enough to encourage more confidence from the girl.

  Mariota flushed.

  At least the cause is not fever, Eleanor concluded with relief. “A friend of your family?”

  “And one who has grown up with my brother.”

  “Did your brother know of your attachment?”

  “Nay, my lady, and I had no right to add another burden on him so soon after our father’s death.”

  “Burden? I fail to understand that, unless this man did not return your affections or had insufficient means to support a wife, or was even, perhaps, vowed to another?”

  “My lady, there was no impediment to our marriage. We loved each other, but my father fell ill before we could ask his permission to wed. Then my father read my words as a holy vow, and my beloved wept at the news but swore he would do nothing to offend my brother’s wish to honor our father.”

  Eleanor heard the bitterness in Mariota’s voice and wondered if she had hoped the young man would confront her family on her behalf. If so, disappointment at his refusal might explain the brief flash of anger she also saw in the woman’s eyes.

  There was yet one more detail, even two, that might preclude entry to the priory. “When you two talked of love, did you perchance vow marriage to each other in the present tense? Or did he bed you?” If they had taken such a vow, they were wed in God’s eyes as well as in the laws of the secular world. If the girl was not a virgin, she could still become a nun, yet Eleanor might be able to argue…

  “Neither, my lady.”

  And thus you must take on a vocation you do not wish because you were an obedient daughter and a virtuous woman, Eleanor concluded. All arguments I might have made on your behalf have been crushed.

  She turned her face away so Mariota could not read her surrender.

  The young woman sighed and closed her eyes as if understanding the futility of her situation whether or not it was voiced.

  You may still find joy in the cloister, the prioress said to herself, and decide that love of God was ardent yet soothing to the spirit like water on a fever. Yet how could she serve as mentor when she had failed to banish her own longing for Brother Thomas?

  “We shall speak more of this later, my child,” Eleanor said, then realized Mariota had fallen back into a deep sleep. Eleanor stroked the girl’s thin hand. If God denied Death’s wish to take the young woman as his own bride, there would be time enough to discuss the future.

  For several moments, Eleanor remained by the girl’s side, praying that God grant Mariota peace whatever the days ahead brought. Then she summoned a nearby servant to keep watch and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

  Her devoted guard stood just outside the chambers. He turned and bowed.

  Wordlessly acknowledging that courtesy, the prioress modestly tucked her hands into her sleeves.

  From the courtyard, a piercing shriek shattered the silence.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The cook groveled in the rank mud, then clambered to her knees and seized the sheriff’s wrist.

  “I am innocent!”

  “Take the vile creature away,” Sir Reimund shouted. He stared down at Hilda with loathing and tore his hand from her tremulous grasp.

  Two men rushed to obey.

  “She offends all honest souls.”

  A man gave the sheriff a cloth.

  Snatching it, he rubbed at the muck soiling his hand as if he were scouring a pot.

  Stunned by the scene before them, Eleanor and her guard halted just outside the manor house entrance. The prioress gazed at the muttering, pushing crowd and wondered what she should do next. Had every servant gathered to watch the spectacle?

  Somewhere dogs barked, and several chickens burst from the crowd, clucking with avian displeasure. Two men stood at the edge of the group, heads together, as if conferring over some significant thing. One straightened and roared with laughter. Nearby, a woman heavy with child cried out, a stain darkening her skirt. An older companion took her by the arm and eased her away.

  From the vicinity of the stable, Master Stevyn shouted something incomprehensible. Eleanor could see his head as he began to shove his way to the center. Mistress Maud followed close behind him, effectively using sharp elbows to keep the path open even after they had passed through.

  Seeing the pair, Eleanor assumed Mistress Luce was also here but could not identify the wife anywhere in the throng.

  “What are you doing with my cook, Sheriff?” the steward roared.

  “She killed your groom. I’m taking her to the castle jail until her trial and hanging.”

  The cook screamed once, began beating her breast, and then raised her eyes to the sky and howled like a terrified do
g.

  “Hilda?” The steward stared in amazement at the mud-stained servant. “You think she killed Tobye?”

  Mistress Maud put her hands on her hips as fury stiffened her square body. “She’s shown violence only to chickens and pigs, my lord. What proof have you to find her guilty of a more heinous act?”

  Eleanor decided to push her way through the crowd, but so enthralled were they by the spectacle, they refused to budge.

  “If I may, my lady?” her guard whispered, then stepped in front of her. “Stand aside for the Prioress of Tyndal,” he snarled as he thrust people out of the way. Like awkward statues, they tilted this way and that but did shift position enough to allow her space to walk.

  The sheriff strode over to meet the steward. “She’s guilty enough,” he said, replying to Stevyn rather than the widow who had asked the specific question. “A woman past child-bearing who lusted after a young man and was mocked by him, probably rejected for one better suited to his taste in bed. She cut his throat in revenge, an act not unusual for women like that.”

  “Even if she did want to lie in his arms,” Maud shouted, “there was nothing more between them than her dreams.”

  The cook was still on her knees, her body steaming from the reeking mud and animal dung that stained her clothes. “I give you my word that I did not kill him, Master Stevyn,” she whimpered. “On God’s mercy and my soul’s hope of heaven…”

  “Don’t blaspheme!” a man yelled, and Ranulf shoved two people out of his way to rush to his father’s side.

  “God knows I bear no blame in this murder,” Hilda wailed. “When I swear my innocence on His name, I commit no sin.”

  “Sir Reimund,” Eleanor called out in a tone that carried with authority over the heads of the crowd, “you have been asked a reasonable question. Since you have yet to respond, I must conclude that you did not hear it. Thus I shall repeat the query.”

  The crowd hushed and turned to hear what the Prioress of Tyndal had to say.

  “What evidence do you have of this woman’s guilt?” Eleanor asked. “Does she not deserve to hear the accusations in order to better answer them? Gentle King Henry was known for his mercy to sinners. Surely you do not dare to believe that his son, now our noble lord, would demand a less perfect justice?”

  The sheriff’ brow furrowed with dark fury and the assault on his authority. “With all due respect, my lady, I do not think this matter is any of your concern.”

  A loud voice from behind Eleanor replied: “God demands justice, Sir Sheriff, and no earthly king’s man could ever speak for Him as truly as the Prioress of Tyndal. I, on the other hand, have more worldly cares. We shall be without dinner if you arrest our cook. Has the Earl of Lincoln or his steward so offended you that you wish to get revenge by making us suffer so?”

  When Eleanor turned around, she saw Huet close by. His tone may have been tinged with merriment, but his demeanor was devoid of it.

  “Our honored guest has requested no more than fairness demands,” the steward replied. “In that, my younger son has argued well. What is your proof of guilt?”

  Realizing he was outnumbered by those he dare not offend, the sheriff shrugged but his face paled with the effort of concession. “Her lust for the man and her outrage, when she believed he was swyving another woman, were observed by an impeccable witness. This same person saw her near the stable the night the groom was murdered, a time when the virtuous are in their beds or on their knees in prayer.”

  “By your own words, Sir Reimund, you have also damned this witness as a vile sinner if he saw our cook wandering about at the Devil’s hour,” Huet replied. “Do you think any honorable man could hear the testimony of such a wicked soul and conclude it was honest?”

  “How dare you!” Ranulf bellowed.

  Huet grinned. “The witness must have been you, sweet brother. What were you doing, wandering around at such an hour? Looking for a horse to ride, or perhaps you sought help to raise your lance against the Prince of Darkness?”

  The color of Ranulf’s face burst into apoplectic purple.

  The sheriff said nothing and had apparently decided he would be well-advised to make sure his fingernails were perfectly clean.

  “What have you to say for yourself?” Master Stevyn turned to Hilda, his customary roughness curiously softened.

  The cook looked down at her filthy dress, then raised her reddened eyes to meet the gaze of every one in that crowd, people who would never forget this day of her humiliation. “Tobye did give me a kiss or two in payment for a few small sweets I baked,” she said, “things too imperfect and unworthy of your table. Aye, I felt a sinful pleasure in those kisses, but he was far younger than I.” Meandering tears whitened paths down her muddy cheeks as she wept anew. “Why should I feel jealousy when I always knew he would never love a woman like me with such a belly and hanging breasts?” Her speech dropped back to a whimper.

  “Did you rage at him as you have been accused?” Stevyn’s face grew pale. “Did you go to him the night he was murdered?”

  As if she had just been stripped naked, she wrapped her arms around her breasts and bent her head with shame. “Aye, I did roar at him once because of the woman-women he thoughtlessly swyved. As for being out the night Tobye was murdered, I went to the privy once, perhaps twice.”

  “You were resentful because you are a woman, and lust banishes the little reason you possess,” Ranulf snarled. “Your defense is guided by Satan and it is his honeyed voice, spoken with your tongue that makes your wickedness sound almost innocent.”

  Eleanor bit her lip. Hilda had slipped when she said she had berated Tobye for coupling with one woman, then tried to correct the error by making the number greater. Hilda was a loyal servant and would not give more information out of fear that she would lose Master Stevyn’s apparent sympathy. And she probably had the right of that. She might well be called a liar or traitorously ungrateful were she to name Luce. As matters now stood, however, her heated argument with Tobye sounded like the rant of a jealous woman, not a concerned condemnation of the affair between Tobye and the steward’s wife.

  But was Hilda jealous? Could the cook be Tobye’s killer? Eleanor rather doubted the woman’s guilt. Unless Hilda was possessed of greater cunning than her demeanor would suggest, the prioress believed her innocent of this particular crime. But she was not so convinced that the woman had not been near the stable that night for some reason other than a mere trip to the privy. Her mention of that sounded hesitant as if she were desperate to find an excuse. Was there a way to question the terrified woman in private?

  Huet’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Come, come, elder brother,” he was saying. “Surely you know that some women don’t suffer from lust at all. Is not your own wife an example of such perfect virtue?”

  Ranulf’s glared, his face changing hue from red to white and back again.

  Eleanor concluded that Mistress Constance must be notoriously in arrears on the marriage debt.

  The sheriff was losing patience and finally interjected: “All that may be argued with differing opinions amongst honorable men, but the fact remains, an unarguable fact, that this woman, who has confessed to lust before you all, was seen near the stable the night the groom was foully sent to God with all his sins riding on the back of his crooked soul. On that alone, I must arrest her.”

  “If you will give me leave, Master Stevyn, I must speak.”

  Eleanor looked up in surprise to see her monk maneuvering through the crowd toward the sheriff.

  Sir Reimund opened his mouth to protest.

  “Let us hear what you have to say, Brother.” The steward seized the sheriff’s arm with such strength that the man winced.

  Thomas nodded gratitude for the permission. “The night the groom was killed, Master Huet and I shared a straw mat in the kitchen near the hearth. Since we had huddled closer to retain warmth from the dying ashes as the night went on, I awoke when Master Huet rose to attend a call of nature. I sa
w the cook in the kitchen, fast asleep on the nearby bench. That was the same place I had seen her lie down before I, too, fell sleep.”

  Eleanor overheard an abrupt intake of breath behind her but instinctively pretended she had not heard Huet’s reaction.

  “She could have left the kitchen and returned either before you awoke or after you had fallen back to sleep, Brother,” the sheriff replied, his voice tense.

  “Since I am accustomed to rising for the early Office, I stayed awake and prayed until just before dawn broke. Only then did the cook leave the kitchen but for no longer than it might take anyone to visit the latrine or do a quick morning wash before returning. By then others were about. I could hear them.”

  Master Stevyn raised a questioning eyebrow at the sheriff.

  “That does not give her an excuse for much earlier in the night, Brother.” Sir Reimund’s voice shook.

  Was his visible dismay caused by anger or doubt? Eleanor wondered.

  “Since you surely examined the corpse and noted the extent of its stiffness, you must know that he could not have been killed too close to the time the sun set.”

  Instead of replying, the sheriff glowered at the guard he had assigned to the prioress, as if he had expected him to prevent interference from all others as well.

  Fortunately, the man failed to see his lord’s displeasure since he was bent in close conversation with a young woman.

  Eleanor lowered her eyes and prayed that Thomas would rein in his tongue. She may have decided to get involved in this crime for reasons she deemed proper, but she also knew they had no explicit right to do so. Giving testimony in private was one thing, but they must tread lightly and most certainly must not reveal so publicly that they knew details they should not. Justice might be cruelly thwarted if a protest was raised because of Church interference in matters rightfully under the king’s authority.