“Please continue. I should not have interrupted.”
“Not far from here, in a part of the road overhung with trees, that traveling party was attacked by men on horseback. Outlaws, the poor pilgrims believed, and feared for their lives as well as their purses. Yet the men robbed only one of the more affluent and then cut the throat of our assassin. Suddenly, with no warning, they vanished back into the forest. By the time the pilgrims found help, the outlaws were long gone and Mistress Emelyne quite dead.”
Thomas looked at him for a long time. “Not outlaws, if I were to guess. King’s men?”
“Would the king not want her alive to reveal the names of those who sent her?”
“Unless her master was known already, and her silence was of greater value than her voice.”
Durant laughed. “Clever, Brother!” He bent forward. “Shall you believe me if I say that I know nothing more about her or her master?”
“You did not say ‘I swear,’” the monk replied. “It matters not if I do or do not. I doubt I will learn more than you have told me.”
“The king has many enemies, and some have coin enough to pay for a cunningly hidden assassin.”
Thomas raised one finger. “With this war I suspect the Welsh have little coin to spare, but they are a clever people.” He raised another. “The Muslims proved their talents with the man who stabbed King Edward in Acre, a servant the king had learned to trust, but I question whether they would send another so deep into the lands of Christians.” He studied his hand for a moment and then raised a third finger. “The estranged and disinherited from the last rebellion, a few of whom are in the courts of unfriendly kings…”
Durant cleared his throat.
The monk looked up from his hand.
“Do not try to discover the truth,” the merchant said. “It does not matter. The woman is dead and has been buried without a name in a grave no one shall find.”
Sighing, Thomas swallowed the last of his wine and refused more.
Durant looked at him with sadness darkening his face. “I thank you for not mentioning my name to Prioress Ursell. If you have told your own prioress, she will know it is best if she does not tell anyone else of my involvement in this matter.”
“Surely the king would like to use you again in his particular service.”
Durant did not reply. Instead, he said, “The king shall be told how loyally you both served him in this matter.”
“My name need not be mentioned. Instead, I would ask a boon on behalf of my prioress.”
“What favor does she wish?”
“Be kind in your report on Ryehill Priory. Father Vincent is a man with a shriveled soul but is not a traitor, and Prioress Ursell was distraught to discover she had unwittingly harbored the woman. It was a Ryehill nun who gave her life for King Edward. A gift to feed and clothe the nuns would be welcomed.”
Durant stood. “As Prioress Eleanor wishes, I shall make sure they suffer no more than they have through their own bad judgment and will suggest that the priory ought not to starve after the loyalty they have shown.”
“I am thankful for your hospitality, Master Durant.” Thomas rose from the table. “Tyndal may be grateful as well when they discover I have eaten too much here to eat there for many days.”
Durant walked to his window and stared down at the road. “I shall leave here soon. In truth, I did intend to make a pilgrimage part of my purpose here. That duty I have done as well as my work for the king.” He turned to face the monk. “I wish we could join forces again, Brother.”
For a moment, Thomas hesitated, and then said what he thought. “If God’s will unites with that of King Edward…”
“And your prioress…”
“If God demands a justice that the king does as well, I know she would be willing to lend my poor efforts.”
“We think too much alike, Brother.” Durant smiled and then strode toward the monk and knelt. “Will you give me a final blessing that I may share with my wife?”
When Thomas had done so, Durant rose and suddenly pulled him close, kissing him gently on each cheek.
It was an instant only, but Thomas felt an emotion he had not felt in years. It was the hint of joy, a feeling so unfamiliar he almost did not recognize it.
Durant stepped back and murmured, “After all we have done together here, are we not like brothers? I have none from my mother’s womb who remain in this world.”
“Nor have I any kin who would call me such,” Thomas replied, his voice hoarse.
“Then shall we exchange a kiss as brothers might who long to share the joy of each other’s accomplishment in a worthy endeavor?”
Thomas shut his eyes, his heart pounding so he could hear little else, but then he looked at Durant. “Yes,” he said.
The merchant took the monk into his arms and kissed him softly on the lips. “Thus we have honored our efforts as brothers of choice with a common goal,” he whispered in Thomas’ ear.
The monk knew he must have uttered a reply, but all he cared about was the brush of Durant’s breath against his cheek.
The merchant stepped away. “I must beg this of you. Return to your prioress as I shall to my wife. Take Prioress Eleanor my good will and that of the king, who will surely honor her as he does her brother, Sir Hugh. And I shall share the blessing you have given me with my wife in Norwich.”
Thomas stared at him, noticing that the merchant’s face was pink. But from the heat he felt in his own cheeks, he feared his own were of like hue.
Durant spun around and strode back to his window. “Now go, Brother,” he murmured. “As you are bound to serve God, please go.”
Chapter Thirty-four
Prioress Eleanor sat in the high-backed chair of Prioress Ursell’s audience chamber and listened to Brother Thomas convey the latest news.
Prioress Ursell had insisted that she take these quarters. Her immediate reaction had been a kind refusal, but Brother Thomas called on the infirmarian to provide the obligatory stern-faced authority. Together they argued that Eleanor must accept if she wished to speed her healing and return to her own priory sooner.
She conceded. Now she was glad, even though Prioress Ursell was obliged to retreat to a harder bed in the company of her nuns.
Today was her first extended time out of bed. Most of her injuries were minor annoyances, but her wounded arm throbbed and she lacked her usual vigor. As she looked at her monk, she saw his concern, smiled to reassure him, and then discreetly tried to find a more comfortable position to ease the broken arm before she commented on what he had just said.
“I do not believe the story of the accidental brigands, Brother. The attack was too convenient, and their unwillingness to injure or steal from others is unnatural for those who live on havoc and theft.”
“If the band had meant only to silence her, they accomplished that effectively, my lady. We should be grateful that the innocents in the traveling party did not suffer because a traitor chose to hide amongst them.”
“One merchant might disagree, but otherwise the outlaws showed uncommon charity, a kindness that speaks well for those who sent them.” Once again, she shifted her arm into a different position. Using that as an excuse, she looked around.
Prioress Ursell’s current attendant, a young nun with solemn manner, stood by the door with head bowed, but Eleanor was certain that her ears were alert to anything of interest that might be said. “I wonder whom Mistress Emelyne served.” She smiled at her monk and tilted her head toward the nun. “I assume that no one knows.”
“I have heard no rumors,” he replied, cautiously signaling that he understood her meaning. “Are you healing well?”
“Quite so, with the help of a little comfrey and then yarrow for the bruises and cuts. To ease the pain of my arm, the infirmarian adds a few drops of poppy juice to that fine wine sent by a generous wine merchant from Norwich.”
Thomas blinked, his cheeks turning a light pink. “Kind, indeed.”
&n
bsp; “Prioress Ursell has a fine healer amongst her nuns, one who is eager to improve her skills and has asked many questions about our hospital. I promised to pose them to Sister Anne on our return. Perhaps we can copy one of our herbals and send it back, in gratitude for the care here.”
Thomas looked away.
Eleanor knew his thoughts. In his opinion, Ryehill had no right to a gift after the evil it had fostered and the arrogance with which it had treated her. But we must agree, she thought, that the infirmarian has shown competence and much kindness to me.
“Gratitude for simple things as well as the great ones is a lesson I may take from this pilgrimage, Brother,” she said, in reply to his unspoken concern. “The journey here, despite the interruptions, has been a good one.”
“You have found the peace you sought?”
“I had at the Holy House, but before I lost consciousness in the bell tower, I felt something indefinable.” She grew pensive. “I saw nothing, nor heard a voice, but I was filled with tranquility. Had I died in that fall, I believe I might have faced God, content that I no longer carried one sin with which I have been burdened. Whatever some may claim about the events of last summer, Our Lady of Walsingham has let me know that I am not to blame for those conclusions.”
“We saw great wickedness that summer.”
“Perhaps some in the village learned compassion.”
“We may pray that is so, but never again do I want to be surrounded by so much hate as I was the day I stood in the midst of the mob screaming for a family’s blood.”
Lost in their own memories of that time, they fell into a long silence.
Outside, birds sang of hope and joy. In the near future, they would be building nests for their eggs and seeking food for the chicks born. The air gave hints that flowers and leaves would soon burst out to chase the color of death from the earth. Spring, it seemed, had arrived in time for Easter week and the large number of penitents who would travel here, including King Edward.
“I shall not stay for his arrival.” Eleanor looked at her monk, knowing he would understand her reference.
“And if you are not sufficiently healed by then?”
“We must arrange something so I can return to our priory. I’ll not remain in Walsingham, even if the journey back is slowed by my injuries.” She glanced at the nun by the door. “My presence would be a distraction. Courtiers, inclined to generosity, might give to Tyndal because of their respect for my brother. Ryehill, in this instance, needs the gifts to survive, far more than we, especially from the king.”
He studied her for a moment, then his expression grew gentle.
How well he knows me, she thought, and understands that I also yearn to go home where I feel safe. The prioress did not need a painful arm to remind her that her pilgrimage had almost proved fatal.
Glancing at Prioress Ursell’s attendant by the door, Thomas said: “I have sent the requested message to our king, including your prayers that he will be generous to this place.”
“But we have one other important matter to resolve, Brother.”
“I had hoped we were in concurrence on that issue, my lady.”
She smiled at his eagerness. “Does she wait to be called?”
“She stands outside the door.”
“Then bring her in.”
Thomas asked that the door be opened, and the nun who had been Sister Roysia’s friend entered, holding Gracia by the hand.
The child knelt and folded her hands. She was now dressed in a simple robe and did not reek of the streets.
“I bathed her, my lady, and have untangled her hair.” The nun looked down at her thin charge. “Sister Roysia said she was a good child, although grown too feral.” Her brow furrowed with worry. “I have made sure she has been fed, as Brother Thomas required, but she does not eat much.”
With thanks for her gentle care, Eleanor dismissed the nun and told the child to rise and sit by the chair. “Tell me of your kin, child.”
Gracia hesitated, glancing at Thomas.
He nodded.
“They are dead, my lady. I have no family on Earth.”
“And who were they while they lived?”
“Honest but poor. I have no siblings left. All died with the last fever.”
Eleanor reached out her good hand. “You lived. God has a purpose for you.”
With some hesitation, Gracia took it. “If so, He has a strange way of showing it.”
To the girl’s surprise, Eleanor laughed. “He often does. I wish you had not suffered as you have, but I believe that torment may have ended.”
Thomas grinned.
Gracia looked wary as only a child can who has forgotten the experience of kept promises.
“Would you like to return with us to Tyndal? I do not inquire whether you have a calling for the religious life, nor do I require it.”
Gracia started but, instead of drawing back, grasped the prioress’ hand more firmly.
“You are young and need the care of good women.”
“I must serve, my lady. I shall not live on charity.”
“I did not ask you to come to our priory to labor in the fields.”
“I must do something to earn my bread. I have begged in the streets long enough.”
This might be pride, Eleanor thought, but the form was an honorable one, not a sin. “First, you must gain strength, and then I insist you suffer the trials of education.”
Gracia nodded with eagerness.
“When you have lived with us awhile, you may decide whether to continue within the walls or find a life without, but you shall not go forth without skills and the good health to survive.”
“My lady, I have no love for the world. There is too much violence, and I fear it. May I remain as a servant to your nuns?”
“You are too young to decide, my child.”
“But you shall not force me to leave if I do not wish it?”
“I give you my word. When hunger becomes a vague memory and you have gained all that is needed to live in the world, then you, and only you, may decide whether to go or stay.”
“And I shall never again have to see that merchant who raped me?” She began to weep. “My lady, he threatened to strangle me if he ever came upon me while I was sleeping. He believed I would spread the story of what he had done and vowed that I would not live to do so. I could run from Father Vincent’s rocks, but I could not stay awake forever!”
With profound unhappiness, Eleanor watched the girl tremble and cursed those who would cause any child such terror. She squeezed Gracia’s hand and longed for two good arms to hug her. “I swear it. You need not be afraid of him any longer and shall sleep without fear.” In silence, she promised God that she would protect this girl if she had to give up her own life to do so.
“May I ask two last questions, my lady? I do not want to try your patience.”
“I like questions. If I cannot answer them, I shall say so honestly.”
“May I change my name from Gracia to Felicia?” She looked over her shoulder at the door. “Sister Roysia’s friend told me that I was most fortunate when Brother Thomas took responsibility for my care. She said the word in Latin was Felicia.”
“I agree to that, but only if you choose, in time, to take vows. Grace is an attribute of God, and thus Gracia is a sacred name.”
“May I begin my service to those within the walls of the priory very soon?”
“When you are strong enough, you may.” Eleanor’s eyes twinkled. “Do you have some work in mind?”
“Whatever is most needed, my lady.” She straightened her back. “I can run quickly and remember exactly what I am told…”
“Do you like cats, my child?”
The girl looked perplexed. “They taught me much when I watched them in the streets. God made a clever beast when He formed the cat.”
“If you are to serve me, you must be gentle with the great orange creature who shares my quarters. I have named him Arthur, but he is no pam
pered thing. He keeps the kitchen free of vermin.”
Gracia gasped. “You wish me to serve you, my lady?”
“My maid has just married, and I need a young woman who is discreet, clever, and observant. You own those qualities, and the duties are not hard. Would you mind the task?” In fact, Eleanor thought, this child was only slightly younger than Gytha was at the time she became her maid.
When the girl began to weep, these tears were joyful. Prioress Eleanor slipped from the chair, knelt next to her, and, with one arm, held her fast.
Chapter Thirty-five
The crowd of happy pilgrims traveling back to Norwich was a noisy one. Some sang; others prayed aloud. The day promised to be warm, and a sweet-smelling breeze brought gladness to those souls, recently cleansed at the holy shrines.
Master Durant’s palfrey shared the general eagerness to return home, but its rider was more reluctant. The merchant slowed the pace until he and his mount dropped to the rear of the traveling band. Finally, he turned his horse around to look back at the town of Walsingham.
With an equine snort and shake of the head, his palfrey protested the delay but complied. After all, this master had always been kind.
The outline of the town was softened with a morning mist. Bells from the priories and churches rang the hour of the Office. The sound was haunting. To Durant, it was also bitter. He bowed his head and prayed, once more admitting to God that he did not yet regret all his sins and most especially those committed after his duty to King Edward was done.
The previous night, his last in Walsingham, he had slipped from the inn in the darkest hours to an alley off a narrow street and sought that place he knew well. There he and another man found each other. Each avoided the gaze of the other as they drew close. To see was to remember. To remember might bring madness—or perhaps the contemplation of questions displeasing to kings and bishops.
Their kisses had been hard and brief, the fondling desperate, but for an instant afterward they held each other as mortals do when both wish their act meant love. Then the man had fled, and Durant walked back to the inn, stifled moans from other dark corners echoing in his ears.
Covenant With Hell (Medieval Mysteries) Page 20
