Covenant With Hell (Medieval Mysteries)

by Priscilla Royal

  “I deny these accusations, my lady. I am innocent. If the dead nun burns, she does so for reasons I know nothing about.” A brief smile teased at his lips. “I have naught to confess to Father Vincent that he does not already know.”

  She slammed her staff on the floor. “I must know how you got into the tower!”

  He glared at her for a moment, then pointed to the badge she had dropped on the table while she raged at him. “That badge I now give to you as a gift, my lady. Such generosity should prove my innocence. I have been maligned by some enemy. I asked for a witness, you did not reply, and you refuse to name the person. I can only imagine the reason and none speak well for the truth of your accusation.”

  She stepped back and stumbled against the table edge.

  He grew confident and smiled. “Perhaps you wish to find another craftsman to make your badges, although no one else in Walsingham has the skills to provide the volume at the speed you require.” He waved his hand at the door. “I shall leave you now to consider the implications of your allegations. When you realize your error, I may forgive you for your attempt to throw excrement on my character, but in the future I shall expect you to give me a far better price for my work than you have heretofore.”

  With a gesture filled with mockery and confidence, he bowed and marched out of the chamber.

  The door thudded shut.

  Prioress Ursell glanced down at the pewter badge cast aside on the table. “This gift has cost me much,” she muttered. “May it at least buy my flock peace from meddling, unwelcome eyes and speed Prioress Eleanor and her monk on their journey home.”

  Then she spun around to face the little nun near the door. “You will say nothing to anyone about this meeting, Sister. Should I hear any rumor suggesting you have ignored my command, you shall be stripped at the next Chapter and I shall personally whip you.”

  The nun nodded, bowed her head, and silently wept.

  ***

  The merchant was more angry and frightened than he dared let the prioress see. When he slammed the chamber door, he closed his eyes. Rage almost blinded him. His head spun, and he stumbled with dizziness. As if he had just eaten rotten meat, his stomach roiled.

  “I humbly beg pardon, Master Larcher!”

  With horror at the sound of the woman’s voice, he flattened himself against the wall. After the charges flung at him by Prioress Ursell over his relationship with Sister Roysia, had he now added to his crimes by bumping into a nun?

  “Are you unwell?”

  He stared at her, then sighed with relief. This was no member of Ryehill’s thin-cheeked religious flock. Although her dress was simple and gathered around her waist by a narrow rope, the merchant noted the fine quality of cloth. Not even Prioress Ursell could afford such attire. In fact, he reminded himself with contempt, the prioress wore a robe that was almost as patched as those of her nuns.

  “I suffered only a brief moment of fatigue, Mistress,” he said, his smile growing warm.

  “I am most relieved!” The woman’s hands fluttered with delight before settling into a demure rest. “I believe we are well met, Master Larcher.”

  “How so? Are we acquainted? If we are, I beg you to…”

  “We are not, but I know your craftsmanship. The fame of your work has spread far beyond Walsingham.” She lowered her head. “I am Mistress Emelyne of Norwich. My late husband was a prominent merchant of that place.” When she looked back at him, her cheeks became a delightful shade of modest pink.

  Glancing with approval at her well-rounded bosom, high forehead, and unblemished skin of fashionable pallor, Larcher found himself inclined to please this woman. And, as he admired her further, he noted that she seemed appreciative of his evident regard.

  Mistress Emelyne is a pilgrim here and will soon leave, he thought. His leman need never know if he spent a few hours in bed sport with this woman. That the widow was equally inclined to find pleasure with him was unquestioned. Her fluttering eyelashes gave him all the permission he needed.

  “Your praise honors me.” He bowed.

  “I have seen so many examples of your work in pilgrimage badges,” she said softly. “Have you not also crafted a fine pewter badge for the prioress of Tyndal?”

  His eyebrows arched in surprise. “But you could not have seen it. I just now brought it to Prioress Ursell.”

  “In the local shops, I heard much talk of your unique skill. All say that any discerning customer would find your personal crafting of fine objects remarkable.” Again her cheeks flushed an alluring shade as she dared to glance briefly into his eyes. “Rumors abound that you have recently favored Prioress Eleanor.”

  He puffed out his chest. “I confess the tales are true.”

  “Then I would like to order something to remember my visit here as well. In your finest pewter, of course, and I am well able to pay the price for such a fine object.”

  “A special order would require consultation.” He lowered his voice and stepped slightly closer to her.

  “I would expect no less,” she murmured.

  “Will you come to my shop,” he asked, “and grace my house by dining with me? My cook is well regarded, and I offer good wine.” He mentioned an hour when the apprentices were not in the shop and nothing could interrupt an enjoyable courting. “Discussions of this nature are best done in comfort. Do you not agree?”

  “Of course, Master Larcher. We must speak at some length about the order. You are most kind to offer refreshment and hospitality.”

  After he gave her directions to his shop and home, he left the priory well satisfied with himself.

  For the moment, he set aside his worry over Sister Roysia’s unfortunate death, his need to hide where he had been that night, and the displeasure of Master Durant. As for Prioress Ursell’s curses on him, he was now free of the priest’s threats. Someone had told her about his visits with the nun. Had it been Father Vincent despite their agreement?

  In any case, he was now convinced that God did not condemn him for the sins he committed by meeting the nun in the bell tower, no matter what their purpose in doing so. After all, why else would his wife have chosen this time to spend a few days with her sister outside Walsingham, a visit that allowed him to share his own comfortable bed with Mistress Emelyne?

  Hurrying along the road back to his shop, he chuckled. His servants were paid well enough for discretion, and he was quite pleased by the prospect of such a lush woman to delight his manhood.

  He rubbed his hands. He would also make a nice profit on the badge for the widow, enough to make up for the one he had gifted that avaricious prioress.

  Without question, God was smiling on him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Prioress Eleanor had experienced such joy in the chapel, when her voice became one with the communal prayers of all the priory nuns, that she was reluctant to return to the strident world of mortal concerns. Even a visit to the shrines with other pilgrims would shatter this mood. Instead, she sought the quiet garden of Ryehill’s small cloister and avoided all company except that of God.

  On occasion, Eleanor longed for hours when she heard no conversation, saw no people, and could kneel at her prie-dieu in the silence of her chambers, waiting for God’s peace to fill her and His wisdom to instruct her. In those moments, she envied her anchoress who had chosen to entomb herself.

  But, she reminded herself, even the Anchoress Juliana had an obligation to the world of men and those who knelt outside her window, begging advice. Perhaps she should not complain that God had inspired King Henry III to appoint her the prioress of Tyndal instead of allowing her to remain a simple nun at Amesbury. What was inspired by God was still a service to Him. That she had done this assigned duty well, bringing her religious house to a more affluent and respected state, was deemed a pious act. Nor was the success an opinion formed by her own pride. It was the conclusion of others, some of whom had no cause to love her.

  Sitting on a stone bench, she sighed and looked down a
t the funnel-shaped yellow Lent Lily near her feet. She gently touched the plant. The bright yellow petals felt so fragile, yet the plant was one of the first to bloom while spring was still an infant. How deceptive appearance can be, she thought.

  Because she was a tiny woman of delicate form, many assumed that she was a weak creature. But her aunt, who had reared her at Amesbury, understood her strength of will and passion for justice in all things. As a loving jest, Sister Beatrice often said her young niece was God’s pillar of iron.

  When Eleanor was old enough to comprehend, her aunt told her to be prepared lest God choose her to bear the burden of dealing with the world so that other nuns would have all they needed to remain strong and pray for souls in Purgatory. Now that Eleanor was even older, she had learned a truth her aunt felt no need to explain: it was the obligation of a baron’s daughter to govern priories, not to be ruled within them.

  A rustling nearby interrupted her thoughts, and she gasped in surprise.

  “Forgive me, my lady! I did not intend to intrude.”

  Eleanor instantly regretted her expression of displeasure. The young nun who stood in front of her was gaunt, and her eyes were red from weeping.

  “My child, what troubles you?” Eleanor put out her hand. “Sit next to me and, if I am able, let me ease your sorrow.” And she is almost a child, the prioress thought. Although older than Gracia, she looked younger than her former maid at Tyndal, Gytha, who had just married.

  Collapsing on the bench beside the prioress, the nun buried her face in her hands and began to sob.

  Eleanor slid closer and held her until the weeping slowed.

  The nun sat up and rubbed angrily at her eyes as if they had cruelly offended her.

  “Do not treat them so,” the prioress said. “They have done you no ill.”

  “I did not mean to disturb you, my lady.” The words came between gulps for air.

  “Grief demands comfort, and the need for consolation is never a disruption.”

  The nun stared at her. “But Prioress Ursell says…” She put a hand to her mouth, realizing she should not finish that sentence.

  Words you need not utter, Eleanor thought. From what she had observed, she suspected Prioress Ursell would have no patience with the weakness of sorrow. Looking more closely at the young woman’s face, she recognized her. “Are you not the one who summoned me to meet with your prioress after the death of Sister Roysia?”

  The woman nodded and turned pale. “I came here thinking I would be alone, my lady. Please do not tell Prioress Ursell we met or that I burdened you with my woes. She would rightly say that my faith in God’s power to heal is lacking, and I confess my failure, but I do beg this singular charity of you.”

  Eleanor patted her hand. “Without asking, you would have that, but tell me your grief. God often heals our hearts faster when heartache is given tongue.”

  “In truth?”

  “I have found it to be so.”

  The nun quickly looked around before bending closer to the prioress. “I miss Sister Roysia so much!” she murmured. “We loved each other as if we had been born from the same womb. When she died, she took my heart with her to the grave.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  A trace of happiness flickered in the young woman’s eyes. “She brightened all our lives when she first came here, my lady. She was gentle to everyone, even though she often favored me with her company.” She blushed and waved the last words aside as if they were of little importance. “Prioress Ursell soon noticed her sweet modesty and quiet manner and honored Sister Roysia by choosing her as her attendant when our prioress met those from the secular world in her chambers.”

  “A privilege indeed.” Eleanor understood how valuable such a trusted companion was. Now that Gytha was married to the Crowner, she missed her deeply. “It was a considerable responsibility for one so young.”

  “Not once did Sister Roysia speak of anything she learned during those meetings. She treated what she heard like a priest does a man’s confession.”

  How interesting, the prioress thought. Here was a nun chosen by her prioress for goodness and discretion, but, after her tragic death, was discussed as if her only virtue was caring about the timely arrival of a bell ringer. And, as Eleanor had since learned, there were rumors that Sister Roysia had a lover, maybe two. The street child, on the other hand, had said…

  “She has been much maligned, my lady!” The nun bent close to the prioress’ ear. “I weep not only for her death but for the unjust accusations against her.”

  “Surely Prioress Ursell will put a stop to those.”

  “Our prioress and Father Vincent believe the lies and do not argue for her honor. Instead, they try to cover up a sin that never occurred.”

  This was a different perspective. The ragamuffin had also claimed that nothing lewd occurred between nun and man, but surely Gracia would not have been in the bell tower every time they met. “You believe they are in error?”

  Again, the nun put a hand to her mouth, but loyalty to her friend would not be silenced. Her words flowed out in a rush. “In this one matter Prioress Ursell is wrong. Please do not misunderstand me! I have no wish to speak ill of our lady. We respect and obey her. She is consistent in her punishments, has no favorites amongst us, and, despite our poverty, has always provided for our needs above her own.”

  Eleanor nodded. Remembering the poor quality of the prioress’ attire, she believed this much was true. Prioress Ursell might be disagreeable, inflexible, and even cruel, but she did not enjoy luxury at the expense of her priory. “You know that Sister Roysia was accused of meeting a man in the bell tower?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Are you claiming nothing untoward happened between them? Or are you saying such meetings never occurred?” She still found it unreasonable to assume the meetings were innocent and felt a flash of outrage. Had Sister Roysia been one of her nuns, she would have punished her severely, either for mocking her vows, if the meetings were chaste, or for the actual betrayal of them.

  She frowned, but her face quickly grew hot with embarrassment as she remembered her decision involving Sister Anne and Brother John. She had no right to be so self-righteous about this equally questionable situation. Appearance, she reminded herself, is not always the same as truth.

  “Sister Roysia was never unchaste. She never broke her vows!”

  “It is true that they actually met?”

  The nun nodded and looked away.

  Gracia had shown Eleanor how the craftsman had entered the tower, not by the front door but by climbing a rope. Although the prioress believed her, she preferred confirmation of the tale. She also wanted to establish whether this nun had cause for her assertion of virtue or was imagining Sister Roysia’s remarkable chastity out of the blind loyalty of friendship.

  The prioress gestured toward the cloister walls. “Are these not high? How could any man climb the walls of Ryehill Priory?”

  “We have had our scandals, my lady. A nun did slip away many years ago and later returned heavy with child, but Prioress Ursell has done much to reclaim our honor and reputation since she came to lead us. Although our entrance door is not always watched as it should be, we are still vigilant despite being few in number. Never once has a man slipped into our halls unaccompanied. Although Sister Roysia did meet a man in the bell tower, she swore she did not let him in the front door, lest he be observed. She did not want to endanger the reputation of our sisters, but she never told me how he got into the tower.”

  Gracia had come in through the door unseen, the prioress thought, but a child is swifter and probably less visible than a man. A girl would also climb those stairs to the tower with ease. A man could not.

  “What reason did she have for this strange meeting?”

  “She did not lie with him. She swore it!”

  Eleanor nodded. “Very well, but why do this? It is against the spirit of her vows even if she did not break them in fact.”

/>   “She told me that she met with this man for a purpose God would approve.”

  “How could God bless such a deed, one that any reasonable person would say cast her chastity into question.”

  The nun shook her head with evident despair. “When I asked, she said she had already told me too much. But, lest she ever be condemned as a whore, she wanted me to know she had honored her vows and served God well.”

  What a strange thing to say. Did she expect to be caught? Perhaps she believed she would die. Or was Sister Roysia simply mad?

  “But she was still alone with him, was she not?” Eleanor tried to think how she could question the nun further but knew it would probably be fruitless. The young woman had already said Sister Roysia refused to say more.

  “She claimed she had a witness, someone to provide proper attendance.”

  Eleanor stared at her. “Who was this witness?”

  The nun shook her head.

  Was it the vagrant child? If so, how did she arrange for this? Sister Roysia must have involved another nun in this strange activity. It was not this one, in whom the dead nun had confided. Did she have another friend? Might this witness even be the killer?

  Eleanor’s head was spinning. There were far too many questions. Although she posed a few more questions, she was quickly convinced that the young nun had no more information.

  So she ceased the interrogation and turned to consoling the grieving religious for the loss of her friend. When the nun left, she seemed calmer, although sorrow would linger as a raw wound for some time.

  Eleanor remained on the bench, no longer in a contemplative mood, her peace destroyed.

  She now had confirmation from two sources that Sister Roysia was meeting a man in the tower. Gracia said he was Master Larcher, that Father Vincent knew of the encounters, and that the priest assisted the pair in this dubious endeavor for an unknown reason. Prioress Ursell had learned of this and, fearing scandal, believed Sister Roysia and Master Larcher were lovers. Yet she had not stopped it.