“I, too, have witnessed that failing in her, yet I must convey a rumor I heard from a pilgrim who resides just west of Norwich. As he told the story, some in the village near her priory claim she was granted a vision of the Virgin last summer. Prioress Eleanor has replied that she is too unworthy for such a gift. Since only Walsingham has been blessed by a visit from Our Lord’s mother in our realm, this prioress seems to have come here to humbly beg forgiveness—”
“She doubts visions?”
“It is not lack of faith in visions but rather the location and recipient in this instance. Our site was uniquely favored when the Virgin not only told Richelde of Fervaques that she should build an exact copy of the house where the Annunciation occurred, but even moved the building when it was not put in the proper place. I share Prioress Eleanor’s doubt the Queen of Heaven would appear to her as well and that the Virgin would do so in such a remote place as Tyndal village. That worry suggests humility resides in her soul.”
Prioress Ursell frowned as she considered this.
“I have seen her praying before the Shrine of the Virgin’s Lock more than most pilgrims. Her sorrow is profound, and she has not only donated a candle to our shrine, but coin.” He looked very pleased.
“Even if her motive for pilgrimage is worthy, and I do not doubt your conclusions, it is still best that she and Brother Thomas leave us.”
Father Vincent twitched with evident discomfort.
“Surely you do not disagree, Father! You know their reputation. If a suspicious death occurs near them, whether or not there is any true wrongdoing, they grow inquisitive. Like dogs, they eagerly sniff about.” She curled her hand and bounced it around to suggest a leaping hound. “And like those beasts, they show little concern over the consequences of their unwelcome interest. Sister Roysia’s fall from our bell tower is just such a death.”
The priest nodded in agreement.
“You do not want them jabbing sticks of idle curiosity into this matter anymore than I.” She clenched her fist, winced, and rubbed at a swollen knuckle with her finger. “It took me far too long to reclaim our reputation after the last prioress allowed a nun to flee Ryehill with a chapman.” She glared at him. “I have trusted your judgment in these matters, but you know as well as I that we cannot afford any more hint of scandal. Surely it must be simple enough to find a way to make them leave.”
Father Vincent licked his lips. “At least Sister Roysia is dead, my lady.”
“And yet we must still consider what to do with Master Larcher.” Ursell twisted her staff back and forth. The gray light in the room caused the curve of the silver crosier to flicker with dulled radiance.
Shivering, Father Vincent went to the window. Outside, a light rain was falling. The scent of dampened dust in the road, mixed with the smell of wet animals, drifted upward and into the chamber. He grimaced at the odor, closed the shutter, and walked back to face the prioress with his hands in his sleeves.
“Sister Roysia has been duly punished for her sins,” he said. “I agree that the craftsman has not, but we would be wise to set the problem of Master Larcher aside until after the departure of this troublesome pair.”
Her scowl might have frozen Hell. “Must we wait so long? They have no reason to link the craftsman with Sister Roysia.”
“If they should hear or see anything else untoward after Sister Roysia’s death, they will certainly remain to pursue their curiosity as you have so well described it.”
“Do you think Brother Thomas saw what she had in her hand?” She shifted in her chair, but her look of displeasure did not change.
“He should not have seen it. A tonsured man must never touch any woman, but especially not one who had given herself to God.” Father Vincent shook his head with disapproval.
“He must have touched her neck because he concluded it was broken.”
“But he did not mention the cloth. That was hidden in her hand which lay under her body. Although his examination may have been inappropriate, he seems not to have done more than he claimed when we questioned him.”
“You heard them talking in the chapel. What did they reveal?”
“I could not understand all they said.” His voice rose as if he had been accused unjustly of negligence.
“Surely you overheard something! Were they talking about the corpse?”
“I did not hear any allusion to it, but even if they had discussed the death, my lady, they have little cause to pry into our affairs for that alone. Assuming the worst and Brother Thomas did see the torn cloth but failed to mention it to us, he would not have known its origin. The cloth could have come from anything.”
“But did he see it? Did he say anything to his prioress?”
“They mumbled. Our chapel is small, and the columned walkway is short. I dared not slip closer lest I be seen.”
Ursell’s face was marred by fury. “If he did, and another overheard that detail, rumormongers will claim the cloth came from Master Larcher’s robe. It is troubling enough that some may believe our nun had a lover. We cannot afford speculation that Sister Roysia’s death was murder. I have grown impatient enough with the earlier, idle gossip, Father.”
Father Vincent looked down at his feet. “When the two from Tyndal stood in this chamber, I could not have been more persuasive than you that the only conclusion possible was that of a tragic accident.”
“If Prioress Eleanor has the distressed soul you claim, she may not shift her thoughts from penance to our sister’s death, but I worry about her monk. It shall be your duty to urge them home, but, for now, limit his ability to talk with anyone in Walsingham. Keep Brother Thomas in the chapel where he should have remained from the moment of his arrival. Accompany him to the shrines. Make sure his knees grow raw from prayer—”
The priest reached out with a pleading gesture. “I have tried and failed to keep him where he ought to be. His duty to accompany his prioress may be understandable, but he is drawn outside for other reasons, and although I have argued with him about this, he does not listen.”
“You have not told me everything then. What is the true cause of his determined waywardness?”
“He brings scraps from the priory kitchen to feed the whore who tries to defile our Shrine of the Virgin’s Lock.”
“Whore? He seeks the company of whores?”
Father Vincent waved away her obvious fear. “I have no reason to think he has broken his vows, my lady. If I did, I would have banished him from my chamber and the sacred shrine.” The dark lines in his forehead deepened. “The whore is that street creature I caught swyving a local merchant. Although the merchant has contributed to our shrine as penance, she mocked his grief and claimed she was innocent of sin. I quickly recognized her as Satan’s minion and pray that God will deliver her soul to her true master soon.”
She shuddered. “You must rebuke Brother Thomas! He is blinded by evil if he believes he is providing charity when he gives succor to the Prince of Darkness. Should he continue to disobey you, threaten him!” She pressed her fingers against her eyelids as if that would clear her foggy vision. Her expression suggested weariness. “I shall instruct the nuns in our kitchen to deny him the scraps he takes for that vile creature’s maw.”
“And the landlord of the inn? Brother Thomas has gone there to seek bits of food as well.”
“Remind the innkeeper that we recommend his inn as a proper place for pilgrims to stay. Should that hint fail to gain his cooperation, you might whisper the possibility of excommunication in his ear.”
“That is a decision I would not make without advice from a higher authority.”
“Whisper, I said. Even if you believe this instance may be outside your authority, we are obliged to alert the bishop about the wicked among us. All men know that.”
He nodded. “Although I did not hear the monk and his prioress discuss Sister Roysia’s death, Brother Thomas did tell her that I had rebuked him for aiding the imp. Not only did he object to my virtuous adv
ice, but she failed to reproach him for doing so.” Father Vincent grew thoughtful. “And yet she did remind him that they are here for penance and that he ought not involve himself in matters that were none of their concern.”
“A statement that meant either Sister Roysia’s death or feeding the evil demon of which you spoke.” Ursell looked at the priest. “I am not reassured.”
He pointed to heaven. “If God is kind, He may grant Prioress Eleanor the gift of understanding while she prays at the Shrine of the Virgin’s Lock. She may see how benighted her monk is and cast his advice aside.” But his burst of confidence lasted only a moment before his expression turned doleful.
“As you have taught us, wickedness may overcome virtue when faith is sorely tested. It is irrelevant whether the matter is the whore or our nun’s death. I fear the monk’s influence over her while she is enfeebled by guilt and sin.” She uttered a soft groan of frustration. “You must take him by the hand and direct him firmly, Father. Remind him that God is merciful to the repentant but fearsome toward those who willfully disobey Him. As for her, take the opportunity to preach humility and obedience to those men in God’s service who are holier than her monk. She is, after all, a frail woman. You say she longs for forgiveness. She must let you guide her.”
“She has acted piously while here. I will try my best, but, unless I can humble him, I may not succeed with her.”
Prioress Ursell tilted her head, then flushed with the happy spark of sudden inspiration. “Mention to him that his abbess in Anjou would disapprove of his consorting with whores if word of this misconduct was spread. The Order of Fontevraud is under the authority of the Pope, and the abbess would not want Rome to believe she allowed a man of questionable morals to remain in her flock unpunished, especially one viewed with such favor by her prioress of Tyndal.”
He looked uncomfortable.
She ignored him. “This Angevin Order has always been favored by the family of our pious king, but both men and women within it are still ruled by a woman, a controversial practice and thus prone to error.” She watched him for a moment. “The abbess surely understands the precarious nature of her supreme authority and that any scandal could be fatal to its continuance. Our problem with Sister Roysia may be pardoned more quickly. We are an unimportant house, a poor one at that and filled only with women, but Fontevraud is an unnatural Order. Any impropriety may mean the end of all tolerance for it.”
He carefully duplicated her smile.
“While this worrisome monk contemplates the implications of your words, you must suggest the wisdom of ending their pilgrimage here. Outside his priory walls, Brother Thomas is too exposed to earthly temptations, and his weakness might even infect his prioress with sin. You would do well to remind him of this as well, and that obedience is a virtue.”
Father Vincent watched her eyes glitter. He had seen this before and knew he had little influence over her at such times. “How far do you wish me to go in this matter of intimidation?” He began to tremble and could not stop.
“As far as you must to protect the reputation of Ryehill Priory.” She sat back. “Now let us return to the question of what we should do with Master Larcher after the prioress and her monk have left Walsingham.”
Chapter Twelve
Prioress Eleanor knelt in the chapel, close to the exact copy of the Holy House of Nazareth where the Annunciation took place, and contemplated the meaning of what she had just seen. As she prayed, she began to weep.
After she had left the sacred site and the moment she approached this altar, she was filled with peace. It was the tranquility that caused the tears to flow. Like a woman recovering from a ravaging illness, her body was exhausted, but fresh hope lightened her spirit. The malignant guilt she had suffered since last summer was gone. So was the fear that she had somehow encouraged others to believe she had had received one of God’s singular gifts, a vision she was convinced she was unworthy to receive.
When she begged permission from her abbess to go on this pilgrimage, she had specifically intended to worship at this Holy House on the grounds of Walsingham Priory but had rejected the kind offer of Prior William to receive a private viewing. Instead, she chose to wait with other pilgrims, clustered outside the blessed shrine in the chill air, so she might share with them that trembling dread all mortals feel, standing so close to the holiest sites.
When the shrine keeper opened the door and beckoned a certain number to follow him, she was humbled by the anticipation of what she would soon see. He led them at a slow but steady pace past the small wooden statue of the crowned Virgin with a lily scepter, holding her child, and through the upper story of the simple wooden house. Even during this season, when pilgrims traveled less, there were so many longing to view the sacred place that no one was allowed to stop during the passage through.
Compared to the usual bejeweled caskets and relics encased in gold or crystal, this site was as humble as a peasant’s hut. The Holy House was meant to be a crude structure, a two-story building created by local carpenters under the direction of Richelde of Fervaques, a woman to whom the Virgin had appeared many lifetimes ago.
According to the legend, the Queen of Heaven came to the widow in a dream and took her spirit to the place in Nazareth where the Annunciation had occurred. During this vision, the Virgin made sure the widow learned the exact appearance and dimensions of the house so well that Richelde could instruct the craftsmen on how to duplicate it. And when the Walsingham carpenters failed to place the structure exactly where the Virgin wished it, they awoke one morning to discover that the completed house had been moved to a different location.
This last detail delighted Eleanor, but it was the plainness of the copy that made the shrine so important to her. This was the home of a simple young woman, a girl chosen to give birth to one who would offer the balm of compassion and peace to a world replete with violence, greed, and hate.
Now that the brief tour was over and she knelt in this nearby chapel, she imagined the Archangel Gabriel with his fearsome expanse of wings. He must have terrified the young Mary, Eleanor thought. Perhaps he was gentler at the Annunciation, hiding his blinding glory that reflected his nearness to God, because he knew the profound grief she would face in the future.
A sharp pain stabbed her heart. Although Eleanor had never borne children, she knew women whose infants had died in their arms. It was a sorrow like no other, and one for which there was little solace. Again the prioress wept, this time for the woman who stood at the foot of the cross and helplessly watched as her son in his agony cried out to God, asking why he had been forsaken. No matter how strong her faith, Mary was still a woman, a mother, and Eleanor knew of nothing that said she had found that moment less than horrible.
Realizing that the chapel was growing crowded, Eleanor rose to her feet and surrendered her place to another pilgrim. As she looked around, she failed to see Mistress Emelyne anywhere. Perhaps the merchant’s widow had not yet gone through the shrine, or maybe she was at the springs she had wished to visit.
Walking outside toward the holy wells, Eleanor immediately saw the woman kneeling on the stones in front of the perfectly round pools of water. After her experience at the Holy House, she was disinclined to revive her aversion for this widow. The sentiment had so little cause, she decided, and she tried to understand why she had felt such a thing.
When she and Brother Thomas had joined the company of pilgrims from Norwich, she immediately noticed the widow. In a crowd of humbler penitents, no one could miss the finely dressed woman or her exceptionally well-bred palfrey. The moment the prioress set eyes on Mistress Emelyne, she wanted to avoid her. The woman herself caused no offense, but each thread she wore, every bauble she dangled, and her merry tales of men’s foibles bellowed of worldly matters.
Eleanor longed to escape from earthly concerns on this pilgrimage. Not only was she uneasy about the vision some claimed she had seen, but her successful stewardship of Tyndal Priory, deemed admirable and p
ious by bishop and abbess alike, demanded that she spend more time with accounting rolls than in prayer. This pilgrimage was her time to concentrate on matters of the spirit. The company of this merchant’s widow, with her fur-trimmed robe bedecked with a glittering jewel or two, distracted her.
None of this was the widow’s fault, and Eleanor was bound by courtesy to speak with Mistress Emelyne when the widow approached her for company. Perhaps, the prioress thought, the woman’s companionship had had been forced upon her by God to teach her patience and humility as well as to give her a message about condescending pride. If this was true, Eleanor feared she had not been the quickest of students to understand the lesson.
But soon after they arrived at Ryehill Priory, Mistress Emelyne had shed her thick cloak and fine robe, set aside all jewelry, and draped herself in a plain linen smock. The stitching might have been done with a skilled hand, a bit of embroidery around the square neck, but the garment’s cut was simple. From this deed, Eleanor should have concluded that the widow had come to Walsingham bearing a true pilgrim’s heart, but she still found the woman too verbose for her taste. Despite the often troubling passion Eleanor felt for her monk, she found greater peace in the quiet company of the gentle Brother Thomas.
For a long moment, Eleanor watched the widow kneeling by the sacred wells, hands clasped over her face and head bowed in ardent prayer. Mistress Emelyne had spoken of an ailment she hoped to heal by drinking the waters. The prioress prayed she had found the cure she sought.
Feeling more compassion, Eleanor joined the widow, lowering herself to the hard stones that were rendered smooth and shiny from the many who had knelt there for years beyond reckoning.
The keeper of the wells came up to her with a cup of the healing water. She accepted it and drank deeply, the icy water chilling her throat. Quickly, she slipped back into prayer. She might have asked that the waters cure her of the often blinding headaches she endured. Instead she begged that the child, Gracia, be granted a dwelling place where loving arms would hold her and there was enough food to sustain her in health.
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