Wine of Violence

by Priscilla Royal

  She walked to the door of her chamber, carefully letting the cat go first, then firmly shut the door behind them.

  ***

  Tyndal’s hospital could house thirty patients, somewhat evenly divided between the sexes, and treat many more. Not all Fontevraud houses were linked to hospitals, but Tyndal had once been a Benedictine house dedicated to the care of the sick, a much needed service in this lonely part of England. When that old priory had fallen into disrepair and eventual abandonment due to inadequate revenues, one affluent nobleman, deeply penitent in his old age for some regretted but undefined sins, had begged Fontevraud to resurrect Tyndal for the good of his soul.

  The Abbess of Fontevraud had agreed, with the understanding that he grant the priory some very profitable lands to keep the establishment solvent. Shortly thereafter, the noble’s wife, with his concurrence, begged admission to the Order and became the first prioress of Tyndal. It was she who had the hospital building repaired, thus allowing Tyndal to continue to care for the sick and dying.

  The priory began to acquire some reputation for successful treatments, especially in more recent years. Two special areas of accomplishment were the easing of joint pain and the surprising absence, even cures, of often terminal infections. Although the local villagers, the fishermen, and their families were the primary recipients of monastic care, wealthier patients sometimes came for ease of their mortal aches and donated quite generously when the treatment proved favorable.

  Thus the hospital not only provided a service to the sick but also helped Tyndal remain reasonably solvent, a condition the current prioress wished to maintain in view of the diminishment of other revenues. Eleanor wanted it run efficiently.

  ***

  “My lady!” Sister Christina bobbed awkwardly.

  What age was this young nun, Eleanor wondered, as she reached out and gently touched Sister Christina’s shoulder. Life seemed not to have placed the slightest mark of passage on the infirmarian’s face. Even the skin on her plump hands was as smooth as a babe’s. How could such an innocent be in charge of the sick and dying?

  Eleanor looked around at the clusters of suffering people waiting near the door to the hospital. Some were mobile. Some had been carried. Eleanor passed one family who had brought a young woman on a litter. Glancing down, Eleanor had shuddered. The woman’s mouth was frozen open in the silent scream of death. The body was beginning to reek. When she looked at the faces of the two older women, two young men, and three children who had brought the body here, however, she saw blind hope as they patiently waited their turn to be seen.

  Eleanor gestured in their direction to Sister Christina. “I think Brother Thomas should attend that family. His services would be of great use.”

  “We have not seen the good brother this morning.”

  “How odd. Surely he neither forgot nor got lost.”

  “Perhaps Prior Theobald had need of him?”

  Eleanor bit her tongue and nodded. She would have to change the prior’s, nay, Simeon’s assumption that his needs took precedence, at least without first requesting her approval or sending an immediate explanation.

  “My lady?”

  “Sister.”

  “If I may, I would tend that family myself since the good brother isn’t here. Indeed, I have seen such grief before and believe I can give them some ease of spirit.”

  “You needn’t ask my permission. We are here to give succor. By all means, go. I will wait.”

  As Eleanor watched the round, ageless nun walk hurriedly over to the huddled group, she saw the normally awkward, dithering woman change into a gentle, calm, and confident figure. Sister Christina lightly touched each person’s hand before she gathered them around, then gestured for each to kneel with her next to the corpse of…of whom? Their mother? Their sister? Daughter? Someone’s wife?

  Soon their eyes were closed and they seemed to be praying with her. As they did, tears began to flow from the eyes of the two women closest to the nun. Without stopping her prayers, Christina reached out and pulled each of them closer to her in a motherly embrace.

  Eleanor continued to watch as the nun wept with them all until the wails of anguish reached a crescendo, then fell to moans of more bearable grief. Soon Christina rose, spoke quietly with each, and comforted the children with hugs and soothing caresses until two lay sisters came for the body. Although sorrow followed the family like a shadow as they trailed in mourning after the corpse, Christina had been able to give them the courage to face what they had been unable to see.

  Eleanor shook her head in amazement. Sister Anne was indeed right. The plump little nun had a gift. She could soothe the souls of the grieving. It was a skill she herself did not have. However deep her faith, it would always be a very pragmatic one. Eleanor had long accepted that she would never be a saint. Sister Christina, on the other hand, just might.

  As the nun walked back towards her prioress, her gait once again became awkward and her head bobbed nervously. Eleanor reached out and took the young woman’s hands. Christina’s bright blue eyes widened in confusion.

  “You have the gift of comfort, sister. I can see why Prioress Felicia made you infirmarian. She was wise in her choice, and I am pleased as well.”

  The nun blushed, but it was the first time Eleanor had seen her smile at another mortal.

  ***

  The prioress gestured to Christina to precede her and they began their tour of the hospital.

  Near the entrance to the building itself stood a hut. Lay brothers and older lay sisters or nuns with some medical knowledge screened the patients for type and seriousness of ailment. Those most likely to die were often admitted for the good of their souls; home treatment was ordered whenever possible for all others.

  Eleanor had a basic understanding of herbs and cures herself. Every woman did, whether she was meant for the convent, a lord’s castle, a merchant’s stall, or a villein’s hut. Healing at home was woman’s work, but some were better trained than others. Tyndal was lucky to have several sisters, as well as some lay brothers, with both talent and knowledge in the healing arts. Being a small establishment, they could not always eliminate those women from care-giving who were still subject to monthly bleedings, women such as the infirmarian herself, but the patients had suffered little from their ministrations despite the common medical opinion that menstruating women were polluting, thus dangerous to the sick. The de facto leader of all caregivers was Sister Anne, whose background Eleanor continued to find intriguing.

  Eleanor had heard of women who were trained in the apothecary trade and even of some who were physicians. Hildegard of Bingen’s medical works, as well as those of Trotula of Solerno, were known to her aunt. These days, however, such women were quite rare. According to Sister Beatrice, most of the women physicians in the present day were of the Jewish faith. Although Marie of France had celebrated the medical expertise of a wealthy woman from Solerno in her lai, “Les Deus Amanz,” less than a century ago, Eleanor knew that was just a tale.

  But to be familiar with texts from the Holy Land itself? How unusual even for Anne’s physician father. She had finally pressed Sister Anne ever so slightly on this question, and the nun had explained that her father knew physicians in Paris who had shared the works with him. Eleanor wondered how he had been able to read the language in which they were written. Translations from the infidel tongue were even rarer than these texts themselves. Perhaps Sister Anne meant that her father had received training in these skills from mentors who knew the languages he did not. No matter. She was grateful to have such a knowledgeable practitioner of healing arts as Sister Anne in the priory.

  “…and we all wash our hands after attending to every patient.” Sister Christina was gesturing down the long room on the women’s side. Each patient not only had a private bed but was protected from curious eyes by wooden screens.

  “An interesting practice.”

  “Something Sister Anne insists on. Pri
oress Felicia did not approve. She said it was ungodly and unhealthy, but then Sister Anne asked Brother Rupert to bless the water every day so our hands would be cleansed with holy water.”

  “And?”

  “It did seem to help the sick, so our prioress allowed us to continue. It was clear that our hands thus washed were imbued with God’s grace. Should you…”

  “We shall continue the procedure, of course.” Eleanor glanced into one screened-off area and saw the tall figure of Sister Anne lifting a skeletal woman into a sitting position, then slowly giving her sips of some liquid. The hand washing was not only an unusual thing to do, she thought, but the good sister had also chosen an interesting way of justifying it. None had noticed that no one had replaced Brother Rupert in the blessing of the water, and Sister Anne had certainly not stopped the routine. Perhaps this was yet another practice out of her father’s texts from the Holy Land.

  “My lady!”

  Eleanor spun around as a breathless nun skidded to a stop in front of her.

  “Calm yourself, sister! What has happened?”

  “It’s Brother Thomas, my lady. He lies dead in the forest!”

  Eleanor could not stop the small cry of anguish that escaped her. “Tell Sister Anne to follow me immediately after this treatment,” she quickly said to Christina, then turned her head away before anyone could see the tears starting up in her eyes.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Indeed he’s lucky he is not dead.”

  Eleanor realized she had been holding her breath as Sister Anne examined the bloodied but breathing monk.

  “Fa!” Thomas spat out the liquid Sister Anne had just given him.

  “And he may be yet, if he does that to me again,” Anne said, wiping away the fluid he had just spewed all over the front of her habit.

  Thomas groaned.

  “Can you understand me?” Sister Anne asked.

  “My head hurts.” His voice was a whisper.

  “It should. Someone laid a good blow on the back of it. Cut your scalp, but you’ll live. You have a suitably thick Norman skull.”

  Thomas turned over and vomited, a little liquid but mostly air.

  “Didn’t eat much last night, did we?”

  “I don’t suppose you know who did this to you, brother?” Eleanor asked.

  Thomas sat up slowly with Sister Anne’s help and shut his eyes. “If I ever find out, the whoreson won’t live long.”

  “Not a sentiment I’d expect to hear from a priest. You’ll want to remember that for your next confession.” Eleanor kept her voice stern as she struggled not to laugh in nervous relief at his spirit.

  “At least I should get exemption from the next blood-letting.”

  “You’re feeling better.” Sister Anne smiled, then looked up at the tall, green-eyed monk standing beside her. “Would you give me that cup? I think I can try again with the medicine.”

  “You said you found him?” Eleanor watched the man pass the cup with care to Sister Anne so that their hands did not touch.

  The monk nodded and lowered his green eyes with courtesy.

  “I do not know your name.”

  “Brother John, my lady. I am in charge of both the male novices and monk’s choir at Tyndal. ”

  “And what did you see, Brother John?”

  “Not much, I fear. I came out this morning after chapter to pick lavender to strew on the floor of the novices’ quarters. They are suffering from a surfeit of fleas, you see. We grow only enough of the plant for medicinal use so I look for the wild herb. It serves the purpose just as well.”

  Eleanor nodded with some impatience.

  “And as I came to this spot, I saw the brother lying just there.” He pointed. “After what happened to Brother Rupert, I fear I didn’t check for signs of life. I thought he was dead with those eyes so staring at me. I ran to the nuns’ gate and asked Sister Ruth to summon you, then waited in the outer court until you came so I could lead you here.”

  “I see,” she replied. “But first tell me, brother, how you found your way out of the monks’ cloister without a key to the passageway?”

  John blinked. “The door was unlocked, my lady.” He hesitated. “Perhaps Brother Thomas forgot to lock it behind him when he left the cloister.”

  Eleanor looked back at Thomas, who was grimacing in the direction of the other monk. He must hurt so, she thought. “Do you find the passage door unlocked so often that you would check first before asking permission to leave?”

  “Not at all! After Prime, as I led the novices back for lessons, I saw the door open and sent the boys on their way to consider further some questions I had already set them. I wanted to take the opportunity to get my lavender while I could. You see, when Brother Rupert was alive, he allowed me to accompany him when he left to attend to the nuns if I needed to go into the woods for herbs. Both Brother Simeon and Brother Andrew are quite busy, and I had yet to speak with Brother Thomas about a similar arrangement. I’m afraid I saw my chance this morning and took it without permission.”

  “And by so doing, found our injured brother. The good of your impulse outweighs your failure to seek proper permission," Eleanor said. “You would say, however, that leaving the door unlocked was a rare occurrence?”

  “Indeed, my lady. Brother Rupert was very careful and strict about such matters. He would never lend the key out and only let another go with him if the need was reasonable.”

  Was the same true of the door to the nuns’ quarters, Eleanor wondered. She would have to ask Sister Ruth. In the meantime, she had to question Thomas no matter how much pain he was in. He had no reason to be so far outside priory walls, nor should he have been so foolish as to leave the door unlocked with a murderer about.

  “And why were you out of the priory, Brother Thomas?”

  “A call of nature, my lady. Sometime after Matins.”

  “The monks do have a proper latrine for that. You needn’t have come all the way out here…”

  “Forgive me, my lady, but I am still unaccustomed to my quarters and lost my way. I did not wish to waken anyone to ask directions.”

  Eleanor felt her face flush with hurt anger. Did he really think she was that stupid? His reason for being outside the priory walls in the middle of the night was so ridiculous it was an insult to her intelligence. First of all, the latrine was just off the monks’ dormitory, as it was in almost every monastery in Christendom. Second, if the call was so urgent he didn’t have time to find such an easily located privy, did he really think she’d believe he could have waited long enough to find his way outside and wander so far away from the priory? She snorted in contempt. If he did, then he was the fool, not she.

  As she looked at his bloody head and pale complexion, however, cold logic fled and she softened. This was not the time to joust with him over inconsistencies. He had not been here long enough to have found a willing woman in the village on his own for less than priestly purposes, and a staff of monks so frail that they could not even say Mass, if Brother Simeon were to be believed, would be unlikely to have a list of local whores any younger than they.

  She would wait until he was feeling better to search out the real reason for his nocturnal meanderings, and she would do so privately. Indeed, her aunt had told her about monks who awoke at night, suffering from dreams conjured up by Satan as she had herself endured of late, and slipped away to spill their seed in the manner of Onan. Perhaps it had been thus with Thomas, and, if so, he might well be embarrassed to say so in front of three nuns and a monk.

  Sister Anne stood and looked down at the monk who was struggling to stand up. “Can you walk to the hospital, brother? I need to treat that wound further with remedies I have there.”

  “Of course.”

  “With help.” Sister Anne gestured at the tall monk. “Brother?”

  “Aye. I’ll steady you,” John said, as he reached out his hand to Thomas.

  It was with some inte
rest that Eleanor noted Brother John used his left hand, as he had when he passed the cup to Sister Anne.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You’ve got yourself quite the wound, brother.” Crowner Ralf stared fixedly at the back of Thomas’ head, then reached out his hand as if to touch it.

  “Keep your hands to yourself, Ralf! Brother Thomas is no corpse that you can prod and jab with impunity. I’ll describe anything you need to know.”

  It was the morning after the attack against him and Thomas sat on the edge of his bed in the hospital while Sister Anne removed the dressing and examined the injury. He winced slightly and she patted his shoulder once in sympathy before reaching over to a nearby basket for a fresh poultice of yarrow and bandaging. “It’s healing well, brother,” she said.

  The crowner looked at her, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Very well, Annie, then describe to me in detail the man who did this to the good brother, for I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  “A strong one,” the nun said without hesitation, “and left-handed.”

  “Ah, our sinister friend again? And how, may I ask, did you come to that conclusion?”

  “The wound slants thus.” Sister Anne drew a line in the air about an inch from Thomas’s skull from a high on his left side to a low on the right of the head. “He swung from the side. If he had hit him here…” she pointed to the top of Thomas’ head, “he’d have killed our brother.”

  “Are you saying you don’t think he meant to kill him?”

  “I don’t know, Ralf. You’ll have to ask the man who did it.”

  Ralf snorted. “If I can find him, and so far he has left few traces. We have had no recent problems with highwaymen or any other masterless men, but no one has seen or heard anything unusual around the village. I would guess that the culprit might be the same who killed Brother Rupert only because Tyndal has never suffered such a spate of crime in my long memory. Nonetheless, I have been unable to unearth a reason for either the murder or the attack you suffered, brother. Perhaps you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. What do you remember?”