“Aye.”
“If you find I am too unworthy for such work, I will gladly spend my days preparing the dead for burial, cleaning the stables, or any other…”
“I praise you for the humility you have expressed in this matter and will not keep you in suspense any longer. I have decided how you may best serve God in this priory.”
She heard the bench scrape on the floor and knew he had fallen again to his knees. Even though she feared for his bad leg, she waited, resisting a woman’s concern.
When she did choose to look at him, she noted he did not even try to hide the river of tears flowing from his reddened eyes into the rushes on the floor. “Stand and face me,” she ordered, her voice breaking in spite of her resolve.
He struggled to his feet but kept his eyes lowered.
“You must retain the position of prior at Tyndal,” she said. “Nay, do not protest for my decision is final.”
“I am known to be a man who fought for de Montfort!”
“And many others have been long aware of that connection. Did you not confess it to me when I first arrived here?”
He nodded and looked longingly at the ale.
“Drink, for I have heard the hoarseness in your voice,” she said, knowing full well that his need for the ale had little to do with a dry throat. Her heart ached when she saw how his hands shook.
“I am unworthy of this clemency.”
“Let me be frank, Prior. Tyndal is a minor religious house, and we struggle to pay for our simple needs. Since we are not wealthy, we wield no influence in the world. I doubt King Edward will care that our prior served the Earl of Leicester in the distant past, and, in fact, you were pardoned by his uncle. Now you serve God, as does our new king, and surely he is wise enough to see that he has far greater threats to contend with than a man who has long foresworn the world.”
“I cannot forget that Baron Otes threatened you because of my past.”
“The baron tried to bribe me. Or else he only meant to offer Tyndal the lands so their worth might grow greater in the eyes of another and the latter inspired to increase his payment for them. In any case, he misjudged my greed. Where Baron Otes saw profit, I saw thirty pieces of silver.” For the first time, she chanced a softer tone. “Nor would that Judas price buy this priory such a talented administrator as you, one who serves in God’s name and without worldly recompense.”
Then Andrew smiled, albeit weakly.
She poured herself a cup of ale and smelled the yeasty scent of the freshly baked bread on the table. Sadly, she had no appetite. “Whether or not the cause is righteous, war is a brutal thing, and many grow wicked in the heat of it even as they shout God’s name. In our priory, it matters not that my kin fought for King Henry while you, and your brother, supported a man now called either saint or traitor. We each have begged, and received, clemency of the other as our beliefs demand.”
“When I told my tale several years ago, you were merciful and kind. I know of no offense your family ever committed against any of my kin, but I would bear no ill feeling if such have been the case. I am honored to serve you, my lady, for you truly represent the Queen of Heaven in this priory with a mother’s wisdom and compassion.”
“Then go forth, Prior,” she said with a smile, “and see to our sheep as you have always so ably done.”
He bowed. “Gladly. Both the four-footed ones, blessed with wool, and the less well-covered of God’s creatures that stand on only two feet.”
Eleanor laughed and dismissed him.
Despite his lame leg, he was gone in an instant.
***
Eleanor stared at the door and clung to solitude for just a moment longer, although Gytha waited outside.
She was glad Andrew had been kept safe from suspicion and that he would remain to help administer priory business with his much needed skills. It was thanks to his stewardship that the debts of the past had been paid and Tyndal, in fact, showed promise of more prosperity than she had suggested to him. After all she had just seen over the last few days, however, she did wonder if there was too high a cost paid for that little prosperity.
Although she wanted Tyndal to have sufficient income to fulfill all of God’s commandments regarding the care of the sick, poor, and helpless, she knew men grew selfish if there was too much of it. “We had best remain lean,” she thought, “and ever grateful for whatever we receive of His bounty.”
Eleanor walked back to the window and looked down once again at the land she ruled on God’s behalf. It was beautiful in her eyes, even when snow and ice turned the earth glacial white. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the scent of the earth and knew how precious Tyndal had become to her. “If God is merciful,” she said, “He will give me the wisdom to recognize when we have sufficiency and keep me from wanting more.”
Suddenly, she felt something press firmly against her leg, and, looking down, saw her great orange cat, Arthur. She picked him up and buried her face in his thick pelt.
He purred.
“I have not seen you here for far too long, my prince,” she murmured. “Did Father Eliduc frighten you away?”
Crawling higher on her shoulder, he burrowed his head into her wimple.
“I may hope that neither of us shall ever see the man again.” The words caused her to shiver for she had little faith in the truth of them. “If he should reappear, you must show me all your hiding places so I might join you until he departs.”
He began to scrub the cloth around her neck.
“Indeed, he is too clever for me. Although he was not complicit in murder, he had a purpose here, was successful in attaining what he wanted, and was most satisfied by the time he left. Nor do I believe that I shall be spared a future meeting. I can only pray that God gives me the insight and calm to outwit him if our intentions conflict.” She shook her head and wished, as she had oft before, that her aunt, Sister Beatrice, was closer than Amesbury Priory and could help her handle these matters with more understanding.
The chamber door groaned on its leather hinges.
Eleanor turned around.
Gytha peeked through the opening. “My lady, forgive me for disturbing you. A monk urgently implores an audience.”
Perplexed over who this might be and what new trouble was facing her, the prioress eased the cat back down to the floor and gave her consent.
The young maid opened the door wide and stood aside.
A tall, freshly-shaven and tonsured monk entered. He knelt at the prioress’ feet.
Her hand flew to her pounding heart as she gazed at him and wondered at the sun dancing in his red-gold hair.
“My lady, I beg permission to return to my former duties at Tyndal Priory,” he murmured, his deep voice soft with longing.
“That plea is granted, Brother Thomas,” she replied, not caring that her tone might well convey the caress she dared not give him. “You have been deeply missed by all here.”
In truth, even the cat seemed pleased. Walking over to the monk, Arthur tentatively sniffed at the former hermit and began to lick Thomas’ hands.
Author’s Notes
Despite loving theater for decades, enjoying many musical forms, and having some experience with Christian rituals, I remained utterly ignorant of liturgical drama until early December 2003. This embarrassing gap in my knowledge was filled when the Aurora Theatre and the Pacific Mozart Ensemble presented The Play of Daniel at St. Mark’s Episcopal Church in Berkeley, California.
Although the night was certainly dark and very stormy, I inched my way to the performance of the 12th to 13th century drama. Not only did I discover that it was an astonishingly delightful mini-opera, but the moment I heard the roaring lions off-stage, I knew it was also perfect for murder.
After the sun came out, my first visit was to the University Press Bookstore, which made sure I got Professor Dunbar Ogden’s The Staging of Drama in the Medieval Church; the next was to the adjoining Musical Offering where I found CDs of Ludus Danielis by the
Dufay Collective and Clemencic Consort. Later, a friend discovered E. K. Chambers’ The Medieval Stage at Black Oak Bookstore. Thus a few Berkeley merchants were made minimally richer by my small purchases and I, immensely so.
From its earliest years, the Church condemned plays, equating them with the many varied depravities of a few murderous Roman emperors as well as the legitimization of non-Christian deities. Yet the love of “playacting” may be as much a part of our DNA as music, dance, and other ways of telling of tales in verse or prose. Whatever the antipathy for them, few can deny that enactments are powerful teaching tools.
When something is useful, we have always found a way to repackage and incorporate it into the culture even if it was objectionable in its original form. (Today, we might call this spin.) The Church leaders have been successful at this as well, and, as they have converted popular wood nymphs into Christian saints, they have also transformed theater into a method of educating those who did not understand Latin, did not read, or might be converted. And so a tenth century canoness, Hrotswitha of Gandersheim, was permitted to write well-regarded, instructional plays inspired by Terence. About the same time, brief dramatizations of the Easter tale (with the three Marys at the tomb) and the manger scene at Christmas (complete with shepherds, ox, and donkey) became commonplace.
The twelve days of Christmas were especially suitable for enactments. It was a harsh season in the northern latitudes, filled with illness, bitter cold, and diminished food supplies. People needed color and excitement to lift their spirits. One popular event was the Feast of Fools. As possible counter to this rather riotous amusement, which probably included a little warming alcohol, the Church put on more edifying performances like the flight into Egypt, Herod slaying the innocents, and the Prophetae. The latter were stories of prophets from the Old Testament, all of whom foretold a messiah. One of the most popular and well-developed of these was the Play of Daniel or Ludus Danielis.
Like many early enactments, there is much information we do not have about the play: what the actual costumes looked like; most details about stage directions and set; or the music. With Daniel, however, we do know that the first recorded version was written by Hilarius, a twelfth century pupil of Abelard, and further developed by “the youth of Beauvais” in the thirteenth century. The popularity of Daniel (with Darius, Belshazzar and the Persians) may be explained, in part, by the numerous crusades in those centuries. Not only did crusaders bring back spices and medical knowledge from Outremer, they also sparked curiosity about the cultures there.
Given such gaps of knowledge and even contradictory information, I saw that I might have some reasonable flexibility with the performance done at Tyndal Priory. After listening to more than one version of Daniel, I learned there were many interpretations possible for stage set, the type and number of instruments used, composition of singers, and even how to use the lions. One of the most intriguing omissions in extant manuscripts is an explanation of how the writing on the wall was done. Some suggest a monk did it, but I preferred more drama in the moment and so created the embroidered banner myself. The idea fits the time and might have actually been used.
The play is primarily written in Latin, but many vernacular phrases are sprinkled throughout. As for the narrator, this may not be strictly original but was used in the 2003 Berkeley performance. Since Queen Eleanor was not comfortable with Latin (nor was Edward), I thought she might like the thoughtful addition even though the story was quite familiar. Overall, I have kept details close to what is known of early performances of this or similar plays.
Most of the information we have on enactments are from those done in great cathedrals or wealthy religious houses, but, having seen Daniel in a little church, I can attest to the power of the tale in a small space with less elaborate settings. Since Tyndal Priory is modest in size and riches, I have kept the staging simple and limited the number of instruments to those easily learned by young boys and readily available in a rural setting.
To anyone who wants to know more about this subject than I could possibly write in short notes, I point to the wonderful sources listed at the end of this book.
To the best of my knowledge, Eleanor of Castile, wife of Edward I, never spoke of going on the pilgrimage suggested in this book. As a conventionally religious queen, she might have considered doing so but would never have been able to undertake it. Her only living son at that time, Henry, died in October 1274, and she was already pregnant with her next child, born in March 1275.
In fact, during her twenty-five year marriage, she had fifteen known pregnancies, the last in 1284 or six years before she died at forty-nine. She and her husband had a remarkably happy marriage, much like the one between Henry III and Eleanor of Provence, and Edward grieved deeply at her death. The famous Eleanor crosses are testimony to that.
Although her husband was not noted for his literary interests, Eleanor read the vernacular and owned a library containing both history and fiction. Embroidery and weaving were favored leisure activities, but she preferred hunting with dogs rather than falcons, the king’s favorite. She did not especially fancy gambling but did enjoy chess and was serious enough about that to have studied a contemporary manual on the game. In addition, she loved gardens and was very fond of fruit, imported her own olive oil, and received the occasional cheese from her sister-in-law who was the dowager countess of Champagne and Brie.
Eleanor of Castile is also surrounded by legend and controversy. The story of how she sucked the poison from Edward’s wound when he was almost assassinated on crusade is probably untrue. Another tale has Otto de Grandson doing the same thing, which may well be equally fabricated. But I also doubt she had to be gotten out of the room because of her weeping and lamenting. The known details of her life suggest a much tougher woman than that.
As for the controversy, there is some debate over how much she had to do with her husband’s callous expulsion of the Jews from England in 1290. Her preferred religious were the Dominican friars, later closely associated with the Inquisition, and there is little to suggest she had much concern for the Jews, besides viewing them as cash cows whenever she wanted extra money. I have seen the argument that the strength of her faith was often questioned, because she was more highly educated than many women of her time, and thus she dared not show tolerance of non-Christians out of fear that she might suffer even harsher censure. At the moment, I have some doubts about that, but, since Eleanor of Castile is far too interesting not to show up in some future book, I plan more reading to grow better acquainted with the multi-faceted person she most certainly was.
The Seven Comfortable Acts were based on that highest of all virtues, charity. They included feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, quenching thirst, housing the wayfarer, visiting prisoners, nursing the sick, and burying the dead. Although they were intended to balance the Seven Deadly Sins, it is the latter we know best.
Kenard’s loss of speech, a form of aphonia, is an actual psychological condition, often caused by trauma and known to occur in soldiers. The victim can cough and sometimes whisper but not speak normally. It is also curable. The modern methods of doing so, however, are definitely preferable to how Kenard recovered his ability to speak.
In September 1274, Edward replaced the majority of sheriffs who had grown corrupt under his father’s lax administration. Oaths were required to keep the few retained and the new ones honest, but some were skeptical about the efficacy of this method. One clerk noted on an official document that he considered these oaths to be no better than sheriffs’ perjury.
Edward himself had been an early de Montfort supporter and, once king, even instituted some governmental changes favored by the dead Earl of Leicester. It seems reasonable, therefore, that he should offer, in 1276, what we might call a general amnesty for all who had fought in the civil wars during the reign of his father. How this gesture might have affected someone like Simon in this story is unknown. Then, as now, a broad statement may sound good, but people often
discover to their dismay that the devil inevitably lies in the details.
Bibliography
One of the joys in writing these mysteries is the opportunity to discover academic treasures that both spark the imagination and delight the mind. The following are a few I’d like to share for those who want to know more about certain details in this book. As always, I take full blame for any errors of understanding or fact.
The Medieval Stage (2 volumes) by E. K. Chambers, Oxford University Press, 1903.
Contemplation and Action: The Other Monasticism by Roberta Gilchrist, Leicester University Press, 1995.
Requiem: The Medieval Monastic Cemetery in Britain by Roberta Gilchrist and Barney Sloane, Museum of London Archaeology Service, 2005.
The Play of Daniel: A Thirteenth Century Musical Drama, edited by Noah Greenberg, Oxford University Press, 1959.
Simon de Montfort by Margaret Wade Labarge, W.W. Norton & Company, 1962.
The Staging of Drama in the Medieval Church by Dunbar H. Ogden, University of Delaware Press, 2002.
Eleanor of Castile: Queen and Society in Thirteenth Century England by John Carmi Parsons, St. Martin’s Press, 1998.
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