Wild Justice

by Priscilla Royal

  Instead, Emelyne walked over to the window, briefly gazed down at the view of the busy courtyard, and then turned back to her guest. “Did you learn from our former prioress why your most generous brother insisted you give the charter only to her? I confess curiosity. Elder brothers are, as you noted, disinclined to explanations.” She laughed.

  Her laughter is believable, but her smile was patently not, Eleanor thought as she nodded in sympathetic response. “It is so often hard not to question the brother who heads the family, being the curious creatures we are.” Not that she hadn’t quarreled with Hugh, and even found ways to circumvent her father’s edicts when he was alive, but a wise woman did not confide such things in casual conversation.

  “Do you not find this room has a chill?” Emelyne gestured to the nun, and the woman went immediately to the ewer of wine.

  An interesting and very swift change of subject, Eleanor thought. “This warm coverlet you had placed on my bed chases away all coldness,” Eleanor replied and refused the offer of wine.

  Emelyne sipped her mazer, her eyes watching her guest over the rim of the cup.

  A heavy silence fell in the chamber.

  A good stratagem to make me say more about my conversation with the former prioress while appearing to be interested only in my brother’s bequest, Eleanor concluded. In silence, she acknowledged with appreciation the skill of her fellow prioress. In this instance, she would yield, taking to heart the maxim about minor concessions and losses lulling an adversary into complaisance. It was her brother’s maxim about war, but Eleanor found it was equally true in the battles of wits.

  “My brother knew your former prioress in the days before she took vows,” she said to Emelyne. “Or at least he knew her husband. The two men went to Outremer to fight for Jerusalem, although they did not do so together. That is a kinship that breeds strong loyalties. Perhaps it is the reason he wished the widow to receive the gift.”

  Emelyne betrayed relief. “Then the baron might also have known of our hospital work.”

  “I discovered after his return that he had been wounded. He may well have benefited from your Order’s healing talents in Acre.”

  Once again, the Prioress of Mynchen Buckland turned her attention to the window and stared silently down at the courtyard.

  “Sister Amicia was well pleased when I told her of the gift,” Eleanor said and now wondered if the woman was staring out the window to make sure exactly what could and could not be seen from it.

  “How did she seem to you?” Emelyne kept her back turned so her expression remained hidden.

  But Eleanor noticed a slight tremor in her voice. She chose to reply truthfully. “She is gaunt, spends her hours in prayer, and appears to suffer profound sorrow.”

  When Emelyne did face her guest, Eleanor was surprised to see a slight glistening on her cheeks.

  “Did she tell you that she is dying?”

  Eleanor gasped. This was not what she had expected to hear. “She said nothing of that. From what does she suffer?”

  “Long before this tragic murder, I had observed that she was in increasing ill health. Yet, despite the signs, she had not sought treatment. One day, she collapsed, weeping in terrible pain. It must have become unbearable or she would not have betrayed such weakness. Sister Richolda, our infirmarian, was allowed to examine her and found a large tumor in her breast. In her experience, such a growth has no cure. Now she visits our former prioress weekly and supplies a drink infused with the poppies of Lethe to ease our prisoner’s mortal suffering until death takes her soul.”

  “And so, mortally ill, she may soon be cast forth naked into the world for her crime?” Eleanor kept her tone blandly factual.

  “After we had judged her guilty of the murder, and I was elected prioress, I sent the trial report to the Prior of England and included the news of her imminent death. I begged him to allow her to remain here, in her current cell, where she may be treated with compassion and die in peace. Before she committed this crime, she had served our Order well and was known for piety. I believe the Prior will find that mercy is warranted. It has long been our practice to treat the mortal ills of all with compassion. God demands it.”

  For the first time, Eleanor felt a twinge of guilt. Prioress Emelyne was showing admirable mercy. The Hospitallers had long been known for treating everyone equally who sought their healing, not caring about the faith of the sufferer or their status in the world. But to do so for a convicted murderer?

  Once again, she wondered if Amicia had tricked her with a clever story because of her dead husband’s friendship with Hugh. Yet Eleanor remained convinced by her tale. Statements were made at the trial but never properly challenged. Many questions should have been pursued but were not. After many years reading the souls of men and women alike, she was not prone to falling for deceptions.

  No, she thought, I remain determined to do what I am able to discover the truth. Then she asked, “Does your former prioress know that you have begged this mercy on her behalf?”

  “I told her. She knows the high regard with which we all previously held her. She thanked me for the clemency, then begged me to let her stay in solitude with God, as penance for her many sins. I told her I would honor that and visit only when she requested it. She sees Father Pasche, but I fear I will see her again only on her deathbed.”

  “I wonder that a woman so ill would have the strength to kill another?”

  Emelyne stiffened, her eyes glittering with an odd light.

  Eleanor knew she had erred and quickly added, “But she has confessed, and no one who is innocent would ever go to God’s judgment with a lie on her lips.”

  It took a moment, but Emelyne visibly calmed. She sipped the wine again and looked away.

  Yet Eleanor noted she did not say that Amicia had never actually confessed to the crime.

  And this detail was important. It was one reason Eleanor believed that Amicia was speaking the truth about her innocence. Another reason was that she would tell the priest whether or not she bore any guilt in her final confession. The fate of her soul demanded it. So if she was as close to death as Prioress Emelyne believed, why beg someone to prove her innocent if she were not? Amicia knew that she could remain here under a gentle confinement and die in relative comfort. There was no logical reason to pursue a different verdict unless the woman was not guilty of this crime.

  As she watched Emelyne hand her empty mazer to the silent nun, she wondered if Hugh had known of Amicia’s fatal illness and that was why he had written that personal letter to her.

  “Should you wish for anything,” Prioress Emelyne said, now clearly eager to return to her duties, “please send Janeta, and I will comply.”

  “Then I would beg one small favor now,” Eleanor said. “Your Order has gained much knowledge about healing in Outremer. Sister Anne, as my sub-infirmarian, would benefit from this. Might she spend some time with Sister Richolda and follow her on her rounds with patients? Our priory would be deeply grateful for anything she might learn.”

  “A wish I am delighted to grant,” Emelyne replied. “Sister Richolda once served in Outremer, before she took vows, being one of the last women to work in the hospital. Her work was primarily with women giving birth but she has also, to our benefit, learned other skills that make her a great comfort to the sick here.”

  Eleanor bowed her head as she expressed her gratitude.

  But as Prioress Emelyne started to leave, she stopped and turned back. “Your sub-infirmarian may also go with Sister Richolda when she visits our former prioress. But you should know that Janeta always accompanies her to tend to whatever small needs her former mistress requires. With your nun and the maid gone, you should not be alone. Send Janeta with word, and I shall send a lay sister to sit by your bedside.”

  With that, she and the nun swept out the door.

  Eleanor felt certain she
had just been checkmated in this game the two women were playing, yet she was unable to define exactly how.

  “I admire Prioress Emelyne’s skill,” she murmured to the empty room, and then her grey eyes grew dark with determination. “The Hospitaller prioress may have won this match, but she will not win the next.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sister Richolda studied her visitor with a critical eye.

  Sister Anne returned the wordless greeting in like fashion, noting that the infirmarian may have been elderly but her eyes were clear. The thin face was deeply lined and her back slightly bent. What caught Anne’s attention next were her knotted fingers.

  “Which I can use easily enough,” the infirmarian announced, noting the focus of the sub-infirmarian’s gaze and raising one hand. Her eyes twinkled with humor and approval.

  “There is little you fail to observe,” Anne replied with a smile.

  “It would be wicked pride if I concurred, Sister, but you are free to hold any opinion you wish.” She first glanced at Janeta, who stood by the entry to the apothecary, then turned back to her shelves of potions and jars. With a light touch, she ran her fingers over the containers, selected a couple, and set them down on a nearby table.

  “During our short stay here, I would be grateful if I might learn a little from your experience,” Anne said. “I have been told that you gained much medical wisdom in Acre.”

  Sister Richolda continued to concentrate on her medicines. “You may be disappointed, Sister. I am only the widow of a poor English crusader who died of a rotting wound in Outremer. With no funds or family, I was forced to beg the Hospitallers for charity, and they chose to let me serve mothers who had just given birth in their hospital.”

  “Yet you learned all this.” Anne gestured around the small room.

  “God’s ways are mysterious, indeed! Soon after I arrived, a midwife, who was also skilled in herbs, came to treat one of the young mothers who suffered a fever. She watched as I spoke with the nursing women and carried their babes to them from the wee cots near their beds. That day, she asked that I be allowed to assist her in small matters when she came. Out of merciful kindness, she taught me much about the care of women.”

  Sister Anne was intrigued but remained silent, hoping Richolda would tell more of the story.

  The infirmarian looked over her shoulder. “Women cared for the men only as cooks or servants. When my service was not needed for the mothers, I made beds, emptied and cleaned chamber pots, or brought blankets, food, and water to the men who lay in the hospital. There was one doctor, a Jew, who was respected by our Christian physicians for his skill with wounds. I do not know why he did this, but, if some small task required attention, he always gestured to me to do it. Often he came with a student and, while he taught the young man, he insisted that I remain nearby to bring him things he needed. By then, I was fascinated by the healing arts, and I memorized every word he uttered.”

  Remembering how her own father had often required her help when he taught, Sister Anne smiled.

  “In time, I chose to take Hospitaller vows as a lay sister, returned to England, and then to this priory. For some years, I helped the infirmarian here and learned more from her. When she died, our prioress found me worthy enough to take her place.”

  She set another jar down on the table, folded her hands, and tilted her head. “How came you to your skills?”

  “My father was a physician and taught me what he knew. Later, I became an apothecary with my husband before he chose to serve God and I followed him into the Order of Fontevraud.”

  Sister Richolda looked at her with surprise and evident curiosity. “A father who taught his daughter the art of healing?”

  “He had no son.”

  “That doesn’t explain his decision, child. He must have loved you dearly.”

  The use of the word child amused Anne, now decades past the age when it would have applied, but she knew the word was meant gently and the nun’s age gave her the right. Anne simply bowed her head in silent humility.

  “I know your reputation, Sister. He taught you well. Tyndal Priory’s hospital is known across the land for healing skill.”

  “Sister Christina is the infirmarian there. I only assist her.”

  “Many speak of her saintliness, a woman whose prayers soothe the suffering and often heal, but it is your name that is spoken with awe.”

  Blushing, Anne replied, “I have much to learn, Sister.”

  “I doubt my small skills will teach you anything you do not know, but I have a patient you may wish to see while I treat her. She suffers from festering teeth. I have removed them and packed her mouth with linen wads infused with a little milky sap from wild lettuce. While she heals, she has slept a great deal but feels little pain.”

  Anne’s face brightened with interest.

  Sister Richolda beckoned her to follow, and the two nuns walked into the small room adjacent to the apothecary where two patients lay in narrow cots.

  The forgotten Janeta doggedly followed.

  With mild interest, Sister Richolda noted this but quickly turned her attention to the nuns awaiting her care.

  The first patient was a younger nun. Sister Richolda introduced her companion, explaining that she was the healer from another Order, and told Sister Anne that this was the nun whose teeth had been extracted.

  Her cheeks bulging with linen wads, the patient could only nod at the tall visitor.

  Opening the woman’s mouth and sitting down to examine it, Richolda looked pleased. “You are almost well,” she said, “and may be released to your duties tomorrow.” She extracted a few wads.

  “God has blessed me with little pain,” the woman mumbled. “I must offer Him my gratitude.”

  Sister Richolda heartily agreed and then rose. As they walked away, she bent close to Anne’s ear. “I find that the sick heal faster if not in pain,” she whispered. “I overheard that from a Hospitaller doctor in Acre. He told his student that he had learned it from a Muslim physician, but that God had never punished him for following the advice.”

  Anne whispered back, “Nor has He struck me down for washing my hands after each patient as my father taught me.”

  Raising an eyebrow, Richolda replied, “Your father either went on pilgrimage to Outremer or he was an unusual physician.”

  “He was well-read,” Anne replied and fell silent.

  As they approached a nun of later years, Anne noticed that she lay stiffly on her bed, her eyes narrowed and her lips pinched.

  Sister Richolda gently raised the nun into a sitting position, and then checked her back and sides.

  Anne thought she saw something bulky under the nun’s habit.

  “Have you gotten any relief?” The infirmarian raised the woman’s face and studied her eyes.

  “I came to you screaming in agony, Sister. Now I only ache, but the current pain is one I can endure with the aid of fervent prayer.”

  “Perhaps an adjustment in the infusion I have ordered…”

  “It makes me nauseous. I do not like it. It is a devilish thing, and I refuse more.” Carefully twisting from side to side, she winced, then she bent forward and smiled. “As you see, I am able to bow to God and need not see what happens to my left or right as long as I can keep the cross in view.”

  “Then return to your prayers,” Richolda replied, “although I shall send word to Prioress Emelyne that you must be excused from any duty requiring the lifting of heavy weights. Perhaps you could sit and polish some of the items that rest on the altar and have been given to us for the glory of God.”

  As the woman rose with a little assistance and trod carefully on her way out the door, Sister Anne bent toward the infirmarian’s ear. “What was your treatment?”

  “A brace for her back. One of the doctors used such a thing in Acre for a man with a spinal in
jury. Sadly, I was unable to see exactly how it was constructed, but it seemed to bring relief. When this nun came to me, I had no ease for her except poppy juice, which, as you heard, she abhorred. My awkward effort with splints and bands has not healed her, but she is, for the moment, content.”

  “Theodoric of Bologna,” Sister Anne said. “He wrote of using splints and plaster to support necks and spines.”

  Sister Richolda straightened with excitement. “You have tried this method?”

  “Never, nor have I seen it used before. Your patient looks remarkably free of pain. I am eager to learn more about your brace.”

  “Then we shall talk about the treatment after I see what supplies I might need to replenish.” The infirmarian went to the shelf in the infirmary, where she kept already-prepared infusions and pastes, and peered into jars and boxes.

  Anne glanced at Janeta and noted the maid’s face had turned a sickly green. Concerned, she asked if she were well.

  “Forgive me,” the maid replied. “I must visit the garderobe!”

  “Shall I accompany you?”

  Janeta shook her head and fled.

  Noting the departing maid, Sister Richolda finished her inventory, took her guest by the arm, and guided her back to the apothecary. “I know you have questions for me,” she said, “and not all of them are about Outremer and braces.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sister Richolda held up a cautioning hand as she went back to the door and looked down the hall.

  Sister Anne used the opportunity to praise her. “Your ability to learn so much with little instruction continues to astonish me.”

  Richolda turned around and smiled. “Apart from the extended kindness of the midwife in Acre and the infirmarian here, I often listened in silence to the conversations of men because I suffer that woman’s vice of curiosity. God also gave me the gift of remembering everything I see and hear. When an emergency occurred in the maternity ward, and no one of acknowledged skill was there, I sometimes treated the suffering one. Yet I never spoke of my effort if the woman lived. It was God’s will if she did, and equally His if she did not.”