“My sister, the abbess, has fully informed me of these tales, knowing that such news from England is not always of great concern to the French court.” Davoir shook his head. “All this may suggest some medical competence, but I remain amazed that there is no monk, fully trained in medicine, in charge of the hospital. How can you manage cures without a doctor who can read the vital signs found in urine?”
Thomas caught himself wondering how a man who had just lectured him on humility could sound so vain. Did this priest really think that he could change a situation, deemed by him to be improper, merely by willing it to do so?
“Since our abbess has made you aware of this fact, you will understand why I called upon his skills in this important matter of your clerk’s health.” The sub-infirmarian deliberately ignored his remark about an infirmarian monk.
“You and I differ on the issue of what is best for the lad’s well-being.” Father Etienne turned to the prior. “Since my sister leads the Order of Fontevraud, I both understand and respect the premise of a woman leading men as the earthly representative of Our Lady. This otherwise unnatural situation applies only to the abbess and the prioresses of her daughter houses. It does not apply to the nuns within each priory.”
Prior Andrew paled and said nothing.
“They must, as is a woman’s lot, follow the rule of men as it is we who represent the higher spirit while women are but lowly flesh.” Davoir gestured to the prior. “You will do as I direct, Prior Andrew, and examine my clerk. Sister Anne, you will await his observations and, if required, my further instructions.” He spun around and pointed. “Brother Thomas, you may leave the quarters.”
“As you wish, Father, but I beg one favor,” the prior replied. “Since I must speak with Brother Thomas as soon as we leave about some complex matters, I ask that he remain so I do not have to waste time finding him again.” Andrew looked dutifully sheepish. “Such a boon to me would be most kind.”
Brother Thomas tried hard not to grin at the prior’s cleverness.
Davoir nodded. “As you will.” He waved at the monk. “Stand near the door where you will not interfere with the consultation.”
Thomas did as he was ordered but was pleased to note that he could still overhear most of what Sister Anne and Prior Andrew discussed.
As expected, the consultation took much longer than needed. In one thing only had Davoir been correct. Not being a physician, Sister Anne rarely examined the color, smell, texture, or taste of a patient’s urine, although experience and observation had taught her a little. She had chosen not to mention that detail to Davoir.
But she was a skilled apothecary, and Prior Andrew, a former soldier and untrained in the medical arts, had no idea what he should be looking for. Had the matter been less serious, the back and forth discussions between the pair might have been humorous.
Finally, Sister Anne had had enough and muttered instructions to the prior. The process went much faster. When Prior Andrew next emerged from the clerk’s sickroom, Sister Anne whispered some words into his ear, and he turned to address Father Etienne.
“The illness is not dire. Your clerk may have eaten something that did not agree with him. The hospital has a remedy for the humor imbalance, but it must be prepared. We will deliver it to you as soon as that is done. The lay brother will bring instructions on dosage.”
Pleased, the priest thanked Prior Andrew, ignored Sister Anne, blessed Gracia, and dismissed the party from his presence. Thomas had already slipped out of the chambers.
***
As they walked back to the hospital, Sister Anne laughed. “From what our good prior told me, the youth suffers from too much wine drunk at dinner last night. He almost vomited in our prioress’ chambers, coughed to hide the affliction, and swallowed the bile. Then he gagged in the attempt. Poor lad! He denied the excess at first, but his symptoms pointed to a sour stomach and an even more painful head. He confessed all when our prior promised not to tell the clerk’s master.”
“An ailment most clerks suffer frequently enough,” Thomas replied with a grin. “I am sure that Father Etienne sleeps deeply in the arms of righteousness, but his clerks may dance in the embrace of imps while he does.”
“Surely he knows this!” Prior Andrew gave an almost accurate imitation of amazement.
“When I was a clerk, my masters either did not or chose not to know.” For an instant, a dark cloud from that memory settled over his soul, but it quickly moved away. “’Tis a pity the priest would not let me talk with the youth. I might have given Jean some advice about how to chase away the effects of wine, remedies learned in my own sinful youth.”
Sister Anne looked at her friend with gentle amusement. “And for your sins you came to Tyndal and blessed us with your goodness.”
Thomas felt his face turn hot with embarrassment.
Gracia looked at him and wanted to weep. Had she spoken to Sister Anne about the prioress’ orders, her beloved monk would have been spared the indignity of Davoir’s contempt.
Chapter Seven
Ralf drank his ale, rubbed his hand on the edge of the wood table to ease an itch, and stared at nothing in particular.
He had stopped by the inn to tell Signy the latest details of his wife’s health. Although he and the innkeeper shared a troubled history, the tension between them eased after his marriage. Signy’s close friendship with Gytha tempered the innkeeper’s bitterness, and she no longer greeted him with sharp words and mockery as was her wont in times past. She even sat with him willingly now, something she had refused to do before his marriage unless he came with questions in his position as crowner.
But the innkeeper was eager for news of her friend. It was rare that she could take time from the business to walk out to the manor house, although she gave her word that she would be there with Sister Anne for the birth. “And I shall even if the inn is burning to the ground,” she had solemnly vowed. Ralf had no doubt she meant it.
When he sat down to drink his ale today, Ralf had commented to Signy about the large number of strange men at the inn tables, and she explained their presence. He had heard that the abbess of the Order of Fontevraud was sending a host of clerks to the priory but not the date of their arrival.
He glanced around and decided the men should be a peaceful enough group. If these soldiers were sent by the king to protect the company of quill-bearing clerks, they would have been warned to behave themselves near the priory. The most he had to fear was drunkenness and a few unwelcome hands on the buttocks of the inn’s serving women.
Thinking about the latter, he grinned over his cup of ale. The soldiers would have to seek their pleasures elsewhere. Signy was more than capable of dealing with rude gropings, protecting herself and her women.
Having left him with the finest ale brewed by Tostig, a man who was now the crowner’s brother-in-law, the innkeeper walked around the benches of patrons, stopping briefly to chat but never pausing long. Without regret or lingering desire, Ralf watched her.
Signy was a strikingly beautiful woman, despite her somber attire. Had he not known who she was, he might have wondered why a nun or widow dwelled in such a rough place. Although he never quite understood the reason, Signy had chosen not to marry yet expressed no longing to take vows. Instead, she had taken over the inn on her uncle’s death and brought two orphans to her home and into her heart as foster children. One of them, Nute, was growing tall and looked more like a man each day. He never saw Nute’s younger sister, whom Signy kept away from the eyes of men.
“May I join you?”
Ralf started with unwelcome surprise. It was rare for him to let down his guard. Representatives of the king’s justice did not live long if they did, although he was safe enough in Signy’s inn. He grunted as he looked up at the man. Had marriage softened him, he asked himself, and then determined that it was just fatigue. Since his wife did not sleep well, he often awok
e himself and worried over her health.
The man smiled down at him. “I am the captain of the guard sent by the king to accompany Father Etienne and his clerks from the coast to this priory. Conan is my name.”
Ralf gestured to a serving woman for more ale. “A Breton?”
The man laughed. “My forbearer followed the Conqueror, and the family has loyally served the kings since. It has long been the custom to name the first son William and the second Conan after the one who fought at Hastings.”
And this man has swung enough swords himself, Ralf thought, considering the scarred face of the one who now sat across from him at the table. “You have seen a few battles.”
“Ah, you see the beauty it has left me with!” Conan rubbed a hand over his scars. “The Welsh fight like demons and little care if a man might want to bed a woman before dark when she might still see his face.” He smiled, then looked around. “The only thing that saddens me is that I sometimes frighten the wee ones.”
Ralf felt the sorrow and liked the man for that particular regret. “Guarding a priest and a company of clerks must be a relief from battling the Welshmen.”
Conan raised the half eyebrow still remaining and bent closer to speak softly. “I’d rather the howls of the Welsh devils. I pray as much as any Christian, but we had to stop every time we heard a church bell toll on the journey here. The ride to this village took twice as long, and we did not always reach decent inns or priories by nightfall. These clerks are not accustomed to sleeping on beds of leaves. Soft creatures, they are, despite the hair shirts they claim to wear.”
Ralf raised his cup in agreement.
“Tell me about this inn and the village of Tyndal,” Conan took a long drink of ale and nodded with appreciation.
“Yes, the ale is good here, as is the food. You will sleep in clean straw, suffer no flea bites, and get honest value for your coin.” Ralf hesitated. “No whores. The innkeeper will not allow her women to offer that comfort to any patrons.”
“Are you sure?” Conan tilted his head in the direction of one woman.
“If they do, they find another place to lie with a man.”
The captain smiled. “And what pleasure does the village offer?”
Ralf laughed. “If pious talk delights you, there are enough pilgrims stopping at the inn on the way to shrines in Norwich to the east or Walsingham to the west. Many more come to the priory to seek cures for the ills men suffer. The hospital there is known throughout England for successful cures.” He winked at Conan. “With the king’s invasion of Wales, Tyndal’s reputation may have spread to that land as well.” He waited but got no response. “Otherwise, there will be a market day soon for entertainment.”
Conan briefly looked over his shoulder when someone shouted, then he turned his attention back to Ralf. “Can the hospital cure a man of ugliness?” Lest Ralf think he was serious, Conan laughed.
“If it did,” Ralf retorted, “my face would have blinded you with its perfection.”
A silence fell as the men drank.
“Tell me more of this famous priory. I have heard that it has a mill and fine guest quarters.” He shrugged. “We did not enter the gate. Once we safely delivered the priest and his wagons full of clerks, we were directed to the inn. I was hoping to see more of this unusual place that houses both monks and nuns.”
“If you walk back on the road toward the main entrance, you will find a gate in the wall. Those who use the mill take their grain in there, and so the grounds are open. Occasionally, you may see a monk, although it’s mostly lay brothers who trim the trees, tend the hives, and serve the needs of the mill. The guest quarters are to the right of that path, across a small bridge over a branch of the stream. You can see the buildings easily enough from the path.”
Conan smiled. “I will need exercise. I have been a soldier too long and cannot sit still as merchants can.” He reached for the pitcher and poured more ale.
“You still serve the king?” Ralf asked as he also poured himself another cup.
“Aye, and the men under me. To provide this safe passage for these guests from the continent is our reward for battles well fought.”
For a while, the two men shared stories of wars and battles, Ralf as a mercenary and Conan as the king’s man.
Finally, Conan rose. “I have enjoyed our talk, Crowner. I hope we may meet again. Indeed, I have much time on my hands until those clerks are done, and we can deliver them safely to their ships for France. I’ll be glad to see their backs. I do not like the idleness here or fancy the long journey back. The priest and his lead clerks speak enough of our language to offer conversation on the road, but no one else does and we do not understand either Latin or their Frankish tongue. Pity King Edward could not offer us something in the nature of coin or proper land instead of this.” He grinned, turning what might be called ingratitude into a jest, then walked off through the inn to the door and disappeared into the village street.
Ralf wondered what this man might do in an isolated East Anglian village with little vice to tempt a man who did not seem inclined to great virtue.
Then he sat back and frowned. The captain had called him crowner. How did he know that? Ralf knew he had not mentioned it.
He shrugged. Presumably, someone had told him, but, if so, why had this Conan chosen his company? Few did, even men with no cause to fear one whose work was to seek those who ran afoul of the king’s justice.
Chapter Eight
Arthur, the prioress’ orange cat and lord of the kitchens, marched through the door and into the audience chamber.
Sister Anne swiftly followed. “He has sired another litter of kittens,” she said to the prioress.
Out of the corner of her eye, Prioress Eleanor noted a spark of interest in Gracia’s expression. “The hospital will remain free of rodents,” she replied, then frowned. “I thought the dam there was still nursing her last litter.”
“This one belongs to the anchorage. One of Anchoress Juliana’s dams slipped out the window and had a fruitful tryst with Arthur. I have heard some now call him Lancelot to honor his many conquests.”
Eleanor laughed heartily. “Is she angry?” She tried to give her cat a disapproving look but failed and picked him up instead.
Snuggling into her arms, Arthur half closed his eyes and purred, secure in the belief that his charm could conquer any female heart.
“Our anchoress has been heard cooing over the kittens. Her servant has gotten bits of food from Sister Matilda for the nursing mother. I suspect they would prefer to keep all the kittens, but the anchorage is too small.”
“Most will not survive, I fear.” Eleanor glanced at Gracia again.
The young girl looked sad.
Eleanor instantly looked concerned. “I think I saw a mouse just over there yesterday.” She nodded in the general direction of the opposite corner. “Since Arthur spends so much of his time protecting our food in the kitchen from pillaging rodents, we might need more protection in these chambers. Gracia?”
The girl straightened.
“Do you think you could look at the litter and choose a healthy kitten to bring here?” She gestured around the chambers. “I think we might need another cat to keep the vermin out. Have you not seen mice in these rooms?”
“A tail, perhaps.” Gracia was smiling. “I would be happy to do your bidding, my lady.”
“Then go seek our anchoress’ servant. She might be in the kitchen now. Oh, and do you think you might take responsibility for the care of this new charge? Arthur is grown and fends for himself, but a kitten needs special care.” She smiled. “Arthur will surely adjust to the new arrival.” She looked down at the purring bundle of orange fur in her arms. “It is time you took some responsibility for your progeny, good sir!”
Gracia nodded with enthusiasm.
“The kitten must stay with its dam for a
while longer. Look for a sturdy one.”
Gracia headed for the door.
“You might want to name the creature and visit often so it will get used to your voice.”
The girl agreed and danced out the open door, before running back and shutting it softly behind her.
“You have a problem with vermin?” Anne raised an eyebrow.
“Gracia needs the gift of a creature to love.”
“She still does not trust her good fortune?”
“Nor would we if we saw our kin die of fever, learned to survive by our wits through winter, and suffered rape. Oh, and all this before we reached womanhood.”
The sub-infirmarian lowered her gaze in sympathy.
Eleanor put the cat down and rubbed the arm that had been broken during her pilgrimage to the Walsingham shrines. Although fully healed, it ached on occasion and reminded her how close she had come to death.
“Would you like some ale?” Sister Anne reached for the jug on the table. “Does your arm still hurt?”
“The memories cause far more pain.” The prioress took the offered mazer.
“Then let me distract you with some news!” The nun smiled with mischievous delight.
“Perchance our visiting priest has realized that he should be in Nuneaton instead of Tyndal?”
“Sadly, no, but I wanted to tell you that our beloved and revered sub-prioress has gout.”
Eleanor coughed to hide what she knew was unkind amusement. “I am grieved…”
Sister Anne waved aside the need for charitable thought. “She is in pain, but I have shown sympathy enough for us both. When I asked if I could touch the afflicted toe, she stifled a scream and refused. It is very swollen and red, but I have a treatment that might help if taken faithfully and for a long time. That would require patience, a quality our sub-prioress is not known to possess.”
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