“How could Prioress Ursell knowingly tolerate a nun in her flock to remain unchaste and unrepentant?” Eleanor returned the steady gaze.
“As I heard the story, she could do little about it.”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow. This conversation was proving to be very interesting.
“The nun’s lover may be Master Larcher, a man who contributes to the priory income by making pilgrimage badges sold by Ryehill. Without the income from his work, the priory would become impoverished beyond any hope of recovery.” With a troubled expression, she lowered her voice and confessed, “I did buy one.”
“May be is not proof of anything.” Eleanor scowled. Prioress Ursell had the right to punish Sister Roysia’s unchaste behavior, and the craftsman should fear Hell for coupling with a nun. If anything, Master Larcher ought to donate badges to the priory as penance for his terrible wickedness.
“Or,” the widow continued as if the prioress had said nothing, “her lover is the priest, Father Vincent.” She bowed her head. “The priest’s name was spoken in a whisper, my lady, but both men were mentioned with equal certainty.”
Eleanor stiffened, then calmed herself. When two rumors are of equal weight, the likelihood is that neither is accurate, she thought. Yet these stories proved that Prioress Ursell’s fear of scandal had greater cause than she and Brother Thomas first thought. If there was a lover, this detail would also add strength to Brother Thomas’ suspicion that Sister Roysia’s death was not accidental and that someone was with the nun in the tower.
“You seem perplexed, my lady. Had you heard none of this, apart from the death?”
“I would not have heard that much if Brother Thomas had not found the nun’s corpse under the bell tower. It was he who alerted Father Vincent, and the priest took the news to Prioress Ursell.”
Mistress Emelyne’s face glowed with delight.
Presumably he was happy at the prospect of being able to add a detail to the gossip already spreading, Eleanor thought. She regretted abetting the widow like this, but the information given would soon be learned by others anyway. Surely Prioress Ursell would have no justification for outrage at this confirmation of a harmless fact.
The widow’s expression became solemn, and her lips lost all suggestion of worldly merriment. “But we are here for a higher purpose, are we not? And I should refrain from prattling on about mortal frailties.”
Eleanor was surprised by the sudden change. Trying not to betray this, she nodded gravely. “We should.”
The widow sighed and put a hand to her heart as if suffering profound remorse. “Will you join me in a walk to the healing wells on the great priory’s grounds? Have you visited them already? If so, perhaps you would like to visit the chapel containing the knuckle bone of St. Peter?”
Eleanor admitted she had not seen either.
“If I could see the miraculous wells at your side, I would be honored.” Mistress Emelyne motioned hopefully toward the door leading into the priory. “According to what I have heard from other pilgrims, the wells are noted for curing stomach ailments, an affliction from which I suffer, but drinking the chill water helps those suffering headaches as well. I wanted to buy a small container of the water to take back to Norwich.”
Finding no good excuse to avoid this woman’s company, Eleanor agreed. Perhaps a sip of the blessed water would cure her headaches. Sister Anne’s feverfew remedy had helped for a long time, but the headaches were growing more virulent. Last summer they had caused her to see something that many called a vision. For her, the story had become a curse, not a blessing, and had been one reason for traveling here to the shrines of Our Lady of Walsingham.
“I’ve been told that the wells are perfectly round and always filled with pure water, even when the earth becomes dry,” the widow said, her voice rising with fervor. “It was Our Lady of Walsingham who struck the ground and brought the water forth! Of course, nothing earthly could…”
But Eleanor had ceased listening. Following Mistress Emelyne out of the gardens, she prepared herself for the holy sites by reflecting on the goodness of the Queen of Heaven. Before all thoughts moved heavenward, however, Eleanor concluded she had been wise to suffer one more tale from the irritating widow. The information was important and must be passed on to Brother Thomas.
Chapter Ten
A light mist fell as Thomas trudged back to the chapel. After he had accompanied his prioress to the shrine containing the Virgin’s milk and back to Ryehill, he sought Gracia but failed to find her. Hoping she had found shelter from this weather, he pulled the hood over his head and buried his hands in his sleeves for warmth. The rain itself was soft and sweet, but the chill air stung his flesh.
A man passed him in the road, then suddenly spun around to face him, a surprised but delighted expression on his face.
Perplexed, the monk stopped and waited for the stranger to speak.
“Are you Brother Thomas of Tyndal Priory?”
The monk did not remember having met him, although he felt he should. A boyish charm belied the gray dusting in the stranger’s brown wavy locks. His hazel eyes glowed with comforting warmth on this cold day. But the man’s features overall were not memorable. Were he to walk by him later in the day, Thomas wondered if he would recognize the man again, unless he saw his eyes. Concluding he had forgotten a prior meeting, something for which no blame was due, he opted for honesty. “Do we know each other?”
“Nay, we do not,” the man replied with a pleasant smile, “but I know your reputation. I visited the hospital at Tyndal Priory and stayed in the guest quarters there while my sick wife sought treatment. Men know me as Durant of Norwich, a wine merchant in that town.” The crisp air was turning his smooth cheeks a bright pink.
Despite the smile, Thomas thought he saw a hint of sadness in the man’s eyes. “I grieve if we were unsuccessful in curing her,” he said gently.
Master Durant blinked, then instantly brightened. “On the contrary! She returned home with renewed health and remains vigorous. Her cure is the reason for my current pilgrimage here. She wanted to accompany me, but when I am absent, our business only flourishes if she remains to tend it.” He laughed with evident fondness. “I told her I would bring her a badge. Even if she is not by my side, her heart most assuredly journeyed with me.”
“I am grateful that God was kind to you both. He has blessed Sister Anne, and those she has trained, with skill and knowledge. Being mortal, however, we cannot always prevail if God wishes a soul to come to judgment.”
“God allows more to live within the walls of your hospital, Brother. Tyndal’s reputation for healing has spread throughout the kingdom.” Durant smiled. “But your deeds are legendary as well. A man from Amesbury, who sought a cure for the stone, stayed with us in those guest quarters and pointed you out. With awe, he told us how you had chased a foul murderer up a steep roof at the priory there so God might more easily strike him down.” His face glowed with enthusiasm.
Thomas gritted his teeth. Would that tale never die? “As you see, my function was minor. It was God who rendered justice.”
The merchant protested that the monk was too modest and then gestured toward the inn. “Will you join me for a jack of ale? The inn is respectable, and pilgrims of all vocations, including clerks with tonsures, find lodging there.”
Thomas began to refuse.
“Please, Brother. I would take little of your time and would profit from speaking with you.” He pulled a battered pilgrimage badge of older design from his pouch. “As you see, I come here from time to time to worship Our Lady of Walsingham and donate coin to the Holy House of her Annunciation. When I do, I seek edifying conversation with men vowed to God’s service. Will you not aid me in this endeavor to grow wiser?”
Thomas’ mouth was dry. He longed for good ale after the unfortunate meeting with Prioress Ursell and Father Vincent, followed by prayers and conference with his prioress at the Shrine of the Virgin’s Lock.
Although he felt il
l-qualified to offer the wisdom requested by this merchant, he did not want to suggest the man speak with Father Vincent. His own dislike of the priest aside, Thomas assumed Durant must have met him before and would have gone to him if he had wished to do so. Perhaps Master Durant did not consider Father Vincent any better qualified to offer godly advice than Thomas judged himself.
Surrendering to his need for ale and not wishing to be discourteous, Thomas nodded consent and followed the wine merchant into the nearby inn.
The rushes on the floor were freshly laid, and the smell of roasting fish for the Lenten meal filled the air with the pleasing aroma of warmed spices. The scent made Thomas long for Tyndal. Sister Matilda’s simple Lenten meals were worthy of Eden and brought all who ate them closer to an appreciation of God’s generosity to mortals. He wondered what she was planning for the monks and nuns today, then suddenly realized he was getting hungry.
As the monk looked around, he concluded that the wine merchant had been correct about the nature of the inn. Those who served were modest in dress and brought food or drink promptly. Although the men sitting at the tables were jovial, no one was drunk. The tables were quickly cleared and wiped down. Unlike some at other pilgrimage sites, this innkeeper seemed to keep an honest house and gave fair value for the coin he received.
A bench in a corner was quickly found, jacks placed near to hand, and the two men drank deeply. Nodding to each other with mutual appreciation of the refreshment, they fell into that companionable silence common between friends but seldom found with strangers.
Durant of Norwich was pleasant company, Thomas decided. He rarely felt such ease with another and should have welcomed the moment, but this was a man about whom he knew nothing. Studying the merchant seated across from him, the monk chose to be cautious. Despite the merchant’s friendliness, Thomas found him puzzling. Perhaps, he thought, that ought to trouble me.
Had Master Durant not been dressed in a robe of finely woven cloth that proved affluence, Thomas would have doubted that such a man could be a successful merchant as he claimed. Perhaps his wine business was so flourishing that a bold manner was not needed, but Durant’s demeanor was quiet, almost shy. He did not advertise his wealth, and his clothes were modest in color and design. Were he to guess the man’s vocation, he would have said Durant was most likely a scholar or a pious landowner of comfortable means.
While he was regretting his lack of familiarity with the ways of commerce, Thomas realized that the man was gazing at him with a questioning look. Had he asked something for which he expected an answer, or, as the monk feared, was he perplexed at being under such close scrutiny?
Thomas felt his face grow warm with embarrassment. “I beg pardon, Master Durant. I did not hear what you said.”
The merchant bowed his head. “It is I who must beg forgiveness for indulging in idle matters. I had heard that you found the body of a Ryehill Priory nun near the bell tower. What a sad experience that must have been!”
“I did so only this morning, before dawn in fact, and already the tale has spread?” Thomas shook his head.
“This inn is close to the priory, Brother. I assume some from here may have been asked to carry the body away.”
“I alerted Father Vincent, and he took charge of finding someone from Ryehill Priory to do so.”
“Of course. Father Vincent! He must have been praying in the chapel when the nun fell to her death. Perhaps that was why he did not hear her.”
Thomas blinked. “Hear her?”
“Scream. I assume she did unless she was dead before she fell.” Durant’s look suggested he thought it obvious that she must have been alive.
“She did cry out. That is why I rushed to the bell tower.”
“And yet Father Vincent heard nothing. His piety is an example to us all. Few leave the world behind so completely when they pray. I am sure you had difficulty drawing him back from his prayers to handle the problems involved in such a tragic death.”
“I met him on my way to Ryehill.” Apparently, the wine merchant did not share his opinion of the priest, but Thomas was more concerned about something else Master Durant had said. If the priest was known for such devotion, why was he not kneeling at the altar? He was certainly not asleep in his bed. When he met Father Vincent, he assumed he was coming from the priory, but he had no proof of that. Where had the priest been?
“God must have alerted him.” Durant took a moment to drink more ale, but his eyes never left Thomas. “There are rumors about the nun’s death. Have you heard them?”
Thomas shook his head. He wanted to hear the tales but did not want to appear too eager.
“The story is that Satan pushed the nun from the tower.” The man’s hazel eyes took on a green cast as he put his jack down on the table.
The changing color of the merchant’s eyes disquieted Thomas, and he shivered. Concealing his discomfort with a shrug, he said, “I saw no evidence of the Evil One. The ground was moist, and the exposed floor of the tower must have been as well. As I was told, she was in the bell tower for a good purpose. The cause of this tragedy remains a simple thing. She fell by accident.”
“I am most grateful to you for telling me that, Brother. If I hear this slander again, I shall counter it. More ale?” He looked over his shoulder and waved to the serving girl.
“A kind offer, but I must refuse.” Thomas rose. “Prioress Eleanor wished me to accompany her to another of the shrines. I must not keep her waiting any longer.” A forgivable lie, he hoped, since he intended to visit the priory kitchen and beg food for the street child.
Master Durant thanked the monk for his company, then asked a blessing.
As the man slipped off the bench and knelt before him, Thomas gave him both a blessing and a prayer for the continued health of his wife. They parted after a few courteous words and just as the girl arrived with a small pitcher of ale.
Thomas had only gone a little distance from the inn when he suddenly realized that he and the merchant never once discussed God. Durant of Norwich was interested only in Sister Roysia’s death.
How strange, the monk thought, and frowned.
He walked back and looked inside the door at the bench he had shared with the merchant.
The pitcher remained.
The man had vanished.
Chapter Eleven
“They must leave Walsingham.” Prioress Ursell glowered like an avenging angel aiming a spear at a snaggletoothed demon.
Father Vincent rubbed his dripping nose. “Prioress Eleanor said she was disinclined to rush the cleansing of her soul and insisted that only Brother Thomas may decide when her penance is done.”
“That means little. Her mind can be changed.”
“My lady, he is a willful man and yet his prioress did select him to guide her. Perhaps a bishop or other cleric would have chosen more wisely for her, but the Order of Fontevraud is unique in the authority it gives women.”
She waved this aside. “Speak firmly with him. As I have heard, he owns no rank in his own priory. As a common monk, he should seek guidance and direction from a priest owning higher merit in God’s eyes.” She waited, her expression suggesting that the response should be obvious.
He blinked repeatedly.
The silence grew tedious.
“You!” She thumped her hand on the arm of her chair. “Were you not found worthy by a penitent to take possession of a holy relic? Men do not give such precious gifts without asking for a boon in return. Since the man who gave you the sacred hairs from the Virgin’s head did not even mention his name, you, with great humility, wondered if it was an angel who blessed you with the gift.” She looked up at her staff of office, shut her eyes, and mumbled a prayer.
Father Vincent flushed and bowed his head. “Brother Thomas troubles me.” The priest’s eyes narrowed with disapproval. “We are all obliged to grieve over our many sins, but I have seen little evidence that he does. The monk does not behave as a penitent ought. When I ask him to join me
in prayer, he walks away. For a tonsured man, I have observed little piety and far too much inclination to wander in the streets.”
“Stroll amongst the wicked sons of Adam? This is the man that Prioress Eleanor relies upon for guidance?” Ursell’s eyes bulged in horror. “Her reputation would suggest better judgment, and her religious rank more prudence. I have heard only high praise when her name is spoken.” She hesitated, then thumped her staff on the floor for emphasis. “Yet the high praise of mortal men often polishes the truth so well that deep flaws are hidden.” She smiled, tilted her head as if listening to the echo of her words, and then nodded, quite pleased with her phrasing.
“As for Prioress Eleanor, I do not question her piety in coming to Walsingham. To leave her priory for any pilgrimage, she had to seek permission from her abbess and convince her that the journey met a great spiritual need. Once here, she has proved her sincerity. None of her rank has ever walked a mile down the pilgrim road in bare feet as she did.” He coughed, and his cheeks became red. “Other than you, my lady! I remember well when you walked along that same path before assuming the rule of this priory. Does that not prove my point that few are so pious?” To judge her reaction, he glanced at her, and then quickly turned his gaze, replete with reverence, heavenward.
She lowered her head with suitable modesty. Neither of them mentioned that she had walked on well-shod feet and only the distance between the Walsingham Priory gate and that of Ryehill.
“As I also learned, she rode a simple donkey, not a good horse, the entire way from Tyndal Priory. All these things point to a penitential humility far exceeding that possessed by the usual pilgrim, let alone one of her noble birth.” He cleared his throat and murmured, “Of course there can be no comparison to your own exceptional piety.”
“The walk was another ill-considered decision. I have seen her hobble about in pain.” The prioress grimaced. “There is such a thing as virtue befouled by the sin of pride.”
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