The Proud Sinner

by Priscilla Royal

  “With your permission,” Thomas said, “I would like to accompany our sub-infirmarian and examine Abbot Ilbert’s corpse to discover what it might teach us.”

  The prioress hesitated. If this were a new and virulent plague, she did not want her beloved nun and monk to breathe any more contaminated air from the stench of the corpse and become the next victims. Yet she must give approval. It was their duty to the village and priory to learn what had killed the abbot and decide if others were in danger of contagion.

  “You have it, but please exercise caution,” she said. “God may wish more angels, but I would prefer that He not take the two I have on Earth with me.”

  Blushing from her compliment, the two religious bowed their thanks and left to seek any knowledge that might be gained from the corpse.

  Crowner Ralf put down his mazer and refused the offer from Gracia of more cider. “Fear not,” he said to the prioress, “the death of one abbot and the illness of the other are hardly surprising in winter. Does Death not take more souls in the darker seasons?”

  Eleanor dutifully concurred.

  “Annie is a skilled healer, and Brother Thomas is an observant man. If this quandary is solvable, they will discover the secret and do so quickly. But I doubt you have any reason to fear that a new pestilence has come to England. We are no more sinful a race than any other. Why should God send a new and potent scourge solely to us?”

  Eleanor nodded as if convinced by his argument. Although appreciative of Ralf’s attempt to calm her fears, she trusted the instincts of her two religious more, and knew they believed something more dangerous than common winter ills might be involved here. “You are kind, Ralf, and I shall take your words to heart.” Smiling, she moved on to a happier topic. “How are your three children?”

  “Rosy-cheeked and happy,” he replied with evident pride. “Our second son is a sweet-natured lad like his mother, while our eldest is very adventurous. He’s a good boy, overall, but he must be watched lest he unwittingly find himself in trouble!”

  Eleanor laughed. “He sounds very much like his father must have been at the same age.”

  “I was a boisterous one,” he admitted.

  “And Sibley?” This daughter was the child of a prior marriage, but Ralf’s current wife adored her. The crowner often joked that Gytha had only wed him because of the little girl.

  He grinned. “She rules the boys like a second mother.”

  “My blessing upon your family, Ralf. Please tell Gytha that I long for a visit when the weather and her duties permit.”

  He stood and bowed. “I will go to them now, my lady, but please be at peace. There is nothing of concern in this matter of one death and another illness. Annie may not know the causes at this moment, but she will.”

  “You read my apprehension well, dear friend, and I take comfort in your assurances.”

  As he left her audience chamber, Prioress Eleanor’s expression of false confidence faded. Despite her words to the contrary, Prioress Eleanor was gravely worried.

  Chapter Six

  To distract herself until Sister Anne and Brother Thomas came back, Prioress Eleanor had chosen to study her accounting rolls.

  At least, she thought as she pressed her hands against her aching eyes, the work of reviewing the economic health of her priory was done for a while. Many found such work tedious. She often found it refreshing.

  Had she been possessed of a more arrogant nature, she might have been proud of her accomplishments in the twelve years of her stewardship. When she first arrived, the coffers were empty, the few priory assets suffering from incompetent management and embezzlement. After the election of a new prior, a man skilled in land management and the one whom she had prayed would be chosen, she slowly made her priory self-sustaining. Truth be told, she admitted in silence, Tyndal Priory had become prosperous.

  Not wealthy like the abbeys of her visitors but affluent enough to provide her high-ranking guests with fresh linen and comfortable bedding devoid of fleas, wines purchased from the king’s vintner, the occasional wheaten loaf of bread, earthenware serving bowls, pewter cups, and sturdy wooden trenchers.

  She and her religious still used bread trenchers so the poor might receive the greater nourishment they provided, but her desire to adhere to a more austere life, as one appropriate to God’s servants, did not mean deliberately unpalatable food. The skills of Sister Matilda, ruler of pots, baking oven, and kitchen hearth, made even Lenten meals pleasurable—Abbot Odo’s dismissal of Tyndal’s simpler fare aside.

  Thus she dragged her mind reluctantly back to the troubling problems at hand.

  Sister Matilda’s cooking talent was why she doubted Abbot Tristram had fallen ill from tainted food last night. But she knew the addition of the second kitchen to serve guests in the newly finished quarters needed oversight. This was a duty an ordinary nun could not perform on the monk’s side of the priory, but the choice of a talented lay brother could have fallen to a sub-prioress, if Eleanor had had one. Although she respected Sister Ruth’s decision to remove herself from the position, and did not miss the frequent quarrels with a woman who had never ceased to resent her, Eleanor also regretted the loss of the woman’s administrative skills and ardent attention to detail.

  “Would you like more wood in the fire, my lady?”

  Eleanor looked up in surprise to see Gracia, broom in hand, looking worried. “No, my child, I am content. You were thoughtful to ask.”

  Gracia murmured a reply and went back to sweeping, stopping only to pet Arthur, the prioress’ cat, who was curled into a round ball of orange fur near the fire.

  After rolling up the accounts, Eleanor walked over to the window and opened the shutter just enough to peer out at the priory land.

  Few were on the paths leading to the mill on one side and the hospital on the other. The great thick walls that kept the world back from those who had rejected it rose high above the snow-softened landscape. Although made of grey stone, they were black with damp and might have looked menacing to anyone not aware that only the gentle lived within, men and women who devoted their lives to praying for souls in Purgatory.

  But invasions sometimes did breach walls built to withstand all common weaponry and protect the innocent. Might the Evil One have slipped in with the party of abbots and brought her the tragedy of some nameless plague? Remembering Brother Thomas’ frown, she shivered. Or had the Devil brought violent death to her once again after a long and welcome hiatus?

  She looked over her shoulder and watched Gracia finish the sweeping.

  And then there was this question of whether her beloved maid would choose to leave or stay, the answer to which might break her heart.

  The girl was healthy but had never gotten much taller in the years since Eleanor and Brother Thomas had rescued her from the streets of Walsingham. Yet the child had grown into a bright, observant young woman, always quiet and keeping her own counsel.

  In the tradition of the prioress’ maternal family, who had come with Queen Eleanor from the Aquitaine, the prioress had made sure Gracia was well-educated. At the end of her work today, the girl would take up a book she had borrowed from the priory library and read to Eleanor. It was a shared time they both especially cherished.

  What will be Gracia’s future, she wondered. Instinctively, she hugged herself to keep from shivering, not from the cold air slipping in from the window, but from nervous dread.

  In the background, the flames in the fireplace snapped loudly, punctuating her fears.

  In the beginning, Gracia had been interested in taking vows, but Eleanor discouraged her, insisting she wait until she was older. Growing up at Amesbury Priory, the prioress remembered young women who rushed themselves, or were hurried by others, into a religious life for which they had no true longing. They suffered. Many claimed such agonies cleansed the soul and made it more acceptable to God.

>   Eleanor doubted that.

  And so she had insisted Gracia wait until she was able to understand what both God and the world had to offer. She also swore that the choice must be Gracia’s alone. The latter had been one of the hardest oaths she had ever sworn.

  Five years had since passed. The time was nigh for the decision.

  She closed the shutter and walked toward the fireplace. Picking up the large orange cat, she eased herself into the chair and waited for Arthur to comfortably reposition himself. He was showing no signs of age, she concluded with relief, and the priory was almost entirely unburdened with rodents, thanks to his efforts and those of his many descendants. Although his favored female had died, he had found others to satisfy his needs.

  Perhaps this borders on the sacrilegious, the prioress thought with amusement she feared was wicked, but I doubt my cat cares whether his carnal relations are within any prohibited range of kinship.

  The warmth of the room and the study of the accounting rolls made her eyes ache and feel heavy. She hoped she was not starting one of her migraines. For a moment, she closed her eyes. With the soothing sound of the whisking broom in her ears, she sent her thanks to God for His benevolence to her priory and for the joy she had had from Gracia’s companionship during the past few years.

  “Are you asleep, my lady?” The voice was soft. Had Eleanor truly been asleep, she would not have been awakened, but she did wonder why she had not heard Gracia stop her work.

  “Nay,” she said, opening her eyes.

  Gracia looked so grave. The expression reminded Eleanor of the early days when the child feared accepting enough food to nourish her and a comfortable place to sleep, lest all be wrenched from her as swiftly as her family when they all died of a fever.

  “Come, child,” she said. “Draw that stool over and sit by me.”

  Gracia hesitated. “I beg permission to speak with you, my lady, on a matter troubling my heart.”

  Eleanor froze. There was something unsettling in the tone of the young woman’s voice and her choice of words. Did she just say her heart was troubled? Had the girl fallen in love?

  There were lay brothers of the same age as Gracia in the priory, lads who might find the young woman appealing and try to dally with her. Gracia rarely went out to the market as her predecessor had, so the prioress doubted she had met a young man from the village. Eleanor did feel confident that Gracia was not likely to have lain with any of them. The rape had taught her to be wary of coupling.

  She dragged herself back from these fears. “Confide in me, my child,” she said gently. “There is nothing you cannot tell me.” Eleanor reached out to take Gracia’s hand.

  The young woman began to extend hers.

  Suddenly, from outside the door, they heard voices in the prioress’ audience chamber.

  Arthur jumped off Eleanor’s lap and hurried out of the room. One of the voices was that of Brother Thomas, a monk whom the cat favored highly.

  Eleanor reluctantly rose as well.

  “Shall I bring refreshment, my lady?”

  Sighing, Eleanor asked her to fetch and heat more spiced cider to ward off the chill that Sister Anne and Brother Thomas had suffered when they went to examine the abbot’s corpse.

  Although she was eager to hear the news the two religious brought, she resented that her duty demanded she lose that precious moment of confidence Gracia had requested.

  Chapter Seven

  Brother Thomas smiled at Gracia when she hurried through the door, and she responded with her usual playful look. Before he followed Sister Anne inside, he watched the maid for a brief moment as she rushed to whatever task she had been given.

  He felt a kinship with her, one she seemed to sense. Even though Gracia had become a young woman, she would always be to him that cleverly minded, thin waif who balked at trusting anyone. It was a caution he understood. He had never told her how much pain they shared, including rape and the loss of everyone each had ever loved.

  Sister Anne and their prioress were talking in low tones, and Thomas let his mind shift from the death of Abbot Ilbert to Gracia’s future. Like their prioress, he knew the maid had reached the age when she must decide whether to take vows or seek a life in the secular world.

  Why would she take vows? Could one who had been abused as a child ever truly believe in the existence of a caring God? Could she serve a God she was convinced was not benevolent, even if she must worship and obey Him out of fear for her soul? Or might she choose vows to escape the world outside the priory walls, a world that was filled with a cruelty she knew far too well?

  The prioress’ orange cat put a paw on his leg and began to purr loudly. Thomas crouched and began to pet the creature.

  But what might he say if Gracia came to him for counsel on whether to stay or leave? What, indeed, dare he say? Although he had come to Tyndal with no vocation, and endured hellish dreams for years that destroyed sleep, he had at last discovered more tranquility here than he had imagined possible. Perhaps she might as well.

  Perhaps.

  Repeating the word, he found it had a sour taste.

  Ought he to give her such hope? Sometimes he had doubts about God’s essential nature, especially when he saw how the world took unrestrained pleasure in salting the wounds of those who erred so little while rewarding those most in the Devil’s thrall. But he was a man who had long fought with God and discovered He never punished him for it. Over time, he had found Him willing to listen. On occasion, He gave answers. Thomas had had no choice but to receive the tonsure and take the vows, but he had slowly learned to live with an ultimately unknowable God.

  Thomas found a mat in the cat’s fur and gently began pulling it apart. There was a small twig caught there, and he eased it out.

  Arthur purred.

  Smiling at the cat’s patience, the monk shook his head. This was also not the time he should be giving advice to a young girl who had options. Just as he had loosened the bonds of one grief, and hoped he might find comfort in ways he dared express only to God, he was pushed to the edge of Satan’s pit of despondency once again. Maybe, he thought with bitterness, he should take solace in knowing he had not yet fallen in.

  At this moment, his faith was too brittle to give any wisdom to Gracia. He had not yet found the right answers himself. Wincing, he silently cursed.

  “Brother Thomas?”

  He rose. Prioress Eleanor was studying him with eyes that missed nothing. Uneasy, he looked at the floor and said, “You seek to know what Sister Anne and I have learned.”

  “And she has forewarned me to expect news that is disturbing.” The prioress tilted her head as she continued to gaze at her monk.

  From her concerned expression, Thomas feared that she had seen too much of his unhappy soul through his eyes. Was she worried more about that than any suggestion that untoward death had once again set foot in Tyndal Priory? He prayed not.

  “When Sister Anne described the symptoms Abbot Ilbert exhibited just before he died,” he said quickly, “I was reminded of the death of a high-ranking cleric I once served in my youth.”

  The prioress raised an eyebrow. Thomas rarely referred to his days before coming here. She begged him to explain.

  “The man fell ill several hours after eating a meal he complained tasted bitter. When he was unable to produce urine for the physician to interpret, his body began to swell. He died with eyes dilated, mouth frothing, and severe convulsions. Rumor was rife that he had been poisoned, but no one could prove it. He was not a man well-loved, however. When I sought to learn more, I was told by the secretary to a bishop that I would serve God far better by praying for the man’s soul than discovering the reason that soul had fled so soon to Him.”

  “And from that you concluded that his death was unnatural and the result of a human hand?” Eleanor saw Gracia hesitating at the door with a jug of the spiced ci
der and told her to enter. There was little she did not allow or trust the young woman to hear. “What was the man’s crime, Brother?”

  “He had sent word to Rome that one man in line for a bishopric had two mistresses and several children.”

  “Who was awarded the position?” Sister Anne thanked Gracia when she served the mazer of cider.

  “Not the man with the mistresses.”

  “And this party of abbots is traveling to Norwich, in part, because each one hopes to impress the papal legate with his administrative skills and ability to channel gold to Rome. Should a position open up for advancement within the Church, every one of them longs to have an influential friend close to the ear of Pope Martin.” Eleanor took the warm cup of cider from Gracia and held it close to her breast for a moment. “Your description of the similarity in symptoms and death is interesting.”

  “Indeed, my lady. The corpse of this abbot looked much the same as the one in the tale I just told. The symptoms described by Sister Anne most certainly are.”

  “Did you ever discover the poison used in that early death?” Eleanor looked optimistic, but her hope quickly faded. The monk would have said if he had known.

  As expected, Brother Thomas replied that he had not.

  “I wonder if Abbot Ilbert had also sent Rome news that might have displeased one of his fellows,” the prioress said.

  “We still have the illness of Abbot Tristram,” Sister Anne added. “His symptoms are quite different.”

  “And perhaps not fatal?” Eleanor looked at her friend. “You thought he might have suffered from food turned putrid.”

  Brother Thomas held out his cup for Gracia to refill it. “Rotten food served in this priory? Sister Matilda is too exacting in her kitchen fiefdom.”