Covenant With Hell (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-four

Prioress Eleanor sat in the high-backed chair of Prioress Ursell’s audience chamber and listened to Brother Thomas convey the latest news.

Prioress Ursell had insisted that she take these quarters. Her immediate reaction had been a kind refusal, but Brother Thomas called on the infirmarian to provide the obligatory stern-faced authority. Together they argued that Eleanor must accept if she wished to speed her healing and return to her own priory sooner.

She conceded. Now she was glad, even though Prioress Ursell was obliged to retreat to a harder bed in the company of her nuns.

Today was her first extended time out of bed. Most of her injuries were minor annoyances, but her wounded arm throbbed and she lacked her usual vigor. As she looked at her monk, she saw his concern, smiled to reassure him, and then discreetly tried to find a more comfortable position to ease the broken arm before she commented on what he had just said.

“I do not believe the story of the accidental brigands, Brother. The attack was too convenient, and their unwillingness to injure or steal from others is unnatural for those who live on havoc and theft.”

“If the band had meant only to silence her, they accomplished that effectively, my lady. We should be grateful that the innocents in the traveling party did not suffer because a traitor chose to hide amongst them.”

“One merchant might disagree, but otherwise the outlaws showed uncommon charity, a kindness that speaks well for those who sent them.” Once again, she shifted her arm into a different position. Using that as an excuse, she looked around.

Prioress Ursell’s current attendant, a young nun with solemn manner, stood by the door with head bowed, but Eleanor was certain that her ears were alert to anything of interest that might be said. “I wonder whom Mistress Emelyne served.” She smiled at her monk and tilted her head toward the nun. “I assume that no one knows.”

“I have heard no rumors,” he replied, cautiously signaling that he understood her meaning. “Are you healing well?”

“Quite so, with the help of a little comfrey and then yarrow for the bruises and cuts. To ease the pain of my arm, the infirmarian adds a few drops of poppy juice to that fine wine sent by a generous wine merchant from Norwich.”

Thomas blinked, his cheeks turning a light pink. “Kind, indeed.”

“Prioress Ursell has a fine healer amongst her nuns, one who is eager to improve her skills and has asked many questions about our hospital. I promised to pose them to Sister Anne on our return. Perhaps we can copy one of our herbals and send it back, in gratitude for the care here.”

Thomas looked away.

Eleanor knew his thoughts. In his opinion, Ryehill had no right to a gift after the evil it had fostered and the arrogance with which it had treated her. But we must agree, she thought, that the infirmarian has shown competence and much kindness to me.

“Gratitude for simple things as well as the great ones is a lesson I may take from this pilgrimage, Brother,” she said, in reply to his unspoken concern. “The journey here, despite the interruptions, has been a good one.”

“You have found the peace you sought?”

“I had at the Holy House, but before I lost consciousness in the bell tower, I felt something indefinable.” She grew pensive. “I saw nothing, nor heard a voice, but I was filled with tranquility. Had I died in that fall, I believe I might have faced God, content that I no longer carried one sin with which I have been burdened. Whatever some may claim about the events of last summer, Our Lady of Walsingham has let me know that I am not to blame for those conclusions.”

“We saw great wickedness that summer.”

“Perhaps some in the village learned compassion.”

“We may pray that is so, but never again do I want to be surrounded by so much hate as I was the day I stood in the midst of the mob screaming for a family’s blood.”

Lost in their own memories of that time, they fell into a long silence.

Outside, birds sang of hope and joy. In the near future, they would be building nests for their eggs and seeking food for the chicks born. The air gave hints that flowers and leaves would soon burst out to chase the color of death from the earth. Spring, it seemed, had arrived in time for Easter week and the large number of penitents who would travel here, including King Edward.

“I shall not stay for his arrival.” Eleanor looked at her monk, knowing he would understand her reference.

“And if you are not sufficiently healed by then?”

“We must arrange something so I can return to our priory. I’ll not remain in Walsingham, even if the journey back is slowed by my injuries.” She glanced at the nun by the door. “My presence would be a distraction. Courtiers, inclined to generosity, might give to Tyndal because of their respect for my brother. Ryehill, in this instance, needs the gifts to survive, far more than we, especially from the king.”

He studied her for a moment, then his expression grew gentle.

How well he knows me, she thought, and understands that I also yearn to go home where I feel safe. The prioress did not need a painful arm to remind her that her pilgrimage had almost proved fatal.

Glancing at Prioress Ursell’s attendant by the door, Thomas said: “I have sent the requested message to our king, including your prayers that he will be generous to this place.”

“But we have one other important matter to resolve, Brother.”

“I had hoped we were in concurrence on that issue, my lady.”

She smiled at his eagerness. “Does she wait to be called?”

“She stands outside the door.”

“Then bring her in.”

Thomas asked that the door be opened, and the nun who had been Sister Roysia’s friend entered, holding Gracia by the hand.

The child knelt and folded her hands. She was now dressed in a simple robe and did not reek of the streets.

“I bathed her, my lady, and have untangled her hair.” The nun looked down at her thin charge. “Sister Roysia said she was a good child, although grown too feral.” Her brow furrowed with worry. “I have made sure she has been fed, as Brother Thomas required, but she does not eat much.”

With thanks for her gentle care, Eleanor dismissed the nun and told the child to rise and sit by the chair. “Tell me of your kin, child.”

Gracia hesitated, glancing at Thomas.

He nodded.

“They are dead, my lady. I have no family on Earth.”

“And who were they while they lived?”

“Honest but poor. I have no siblings left. All died with the last fever.”

Eleanor reached out her good hand. “You lived. God has a purpose for you.”

With some hesitation, Gracia took it. “If so, He has a strange way of showing it.”

To the girl’s surprise, Eleanor laughed. “He often does. I wish you had not suffered as you have, but I believe that torment may have ended.”

Thomas grinned.

Gracia looked wary as only a child can who has forgotten the experience of kept promises.

“Would you like to return with us to Tyndal? I do not inquire whether you have a calling for the religious life, nor do I require it.”

Gracia started but, instead of drawing back, grasped the prioress’ hand more firmly.

“You are young and need the care of good women.”

“I must serve, my lady. I shall not live on charity.”

“I did not ask you to come to our priory to labor in the fields.”

“I must do something to earn my bread. I have begged in the streets long enough.”

This might be pride, Eleanor thought, but the form was an honorable one, not a sin. “First, you must gain strength, and then I insist you suffer the trials of education.”

Gracia nodded with eagerness.

“When you have lived with us awhile, you may decide whether to continue within the walls or find a life without, but you shall not go forth without skills and the good health to survive.”

“My lady, I have no love for the world. There is too much violence, and I fear it. May I remain as a servant to your nuns?”

“You are too young to decide, my child.”

“But you shall not force me to leave if I do not wish it?”

“I give you my word. When hunger becomes a vague memory and you have gained all that is needed to live in the world, then you, and only you, may decide whether to go or stay.”

“And I shall never again have to see that merchant who raped me?” She began to weep. “My lady, he threatened to strangle me if he ever came upon me while I was sleeping. He believed I would spread the story of what he had done and vowed that I would not live to do so. I could run from Father Vincent’s rocks, but I could not stay awake forever!”

With profound unhappiness, Eleanor watched the girl tremble and cursed those who would cause any child such terror. She squeezed Gracia’s hand and longed for two good arms to hug her. “I swear it. You need not be afraid of him any longer and shall sleep without fear.” In silence, she promised God that she would protect this girl if she had to give up her own life to do so.

“May I ask two last questions, my lady? I do not want to try your patience.”

“I like questions. If I cannot answer them, I shall say so honestly.”

“May I change my name from
Gracia
to
Felicia
?” She looked over her shoulder at the door. “Sister Roysia’s friend told me that I was most fortunate when Brother Thomas took responsibility for my care. She said the word in Latin was
Felicia
.”

“I agree to that, but only if you choose, in time, to take vows.
Grace
is an attribute of God, and thus
Gracia
is a sacred name.”

“May I begin my service to those within the walls of the priory very soon?”

“When you are strong enough, you may.” Eleanor’s eyes twinkled. “Do you have some work in mind?”

“Whatever is most needed, my lady.” She straightened her back. “I can run quickly and remember exactly what I am told…”

“Do you like cats, my child?”

The girl looked perplexed. “They taught me much when I watched them in the streets. God made a clever beast when He formed the cat.”

“If you are to serve me, you must be gentle with the great orange creature who shares my quarters. I have named him Arthur, but he is no pampered thing. He keeps the kitchen free of vermin.”

Gracia gasped. “You wish me to serve you, my lady?”

“My maid has just married, and I need a young woman who is discreet, clever, and observant. You own those qualities, and the duties are not hard. Would you mind the task?” In fact, Eleanor thought, this child was only slightly younger than Gytha was at the time she became her maid.

When the girl began to weep, these tears were joyful. Prioress Eleanor slipped from the chair, knelt next to her, and, with one arm, held her fast.

Chapter Thirty-five

The crowd of happy pilgrims traveling back to Norwich was a noisy one. Some sang; others prayed aloud. The day promised to be warm, and a sweet-smelling breeze brought gladness to those souls, recently cleansed at the holy shrines.

Master Durant’s palfrey shared the general eagerness to return home, but its rider was more reluctant. The merchant slowed the pace until he and his mount dropped to the rear of the traveling band. Finally, he turned his horse around to look back at the town of Walsingham.

With an equine snort and shake of the head, his palfrey protested the delay but complied. After all, this master had always been kind.

The outline of the town was softened with a morning mist. Bells from the priories and churches rang the hour of the Office. The sound was haunting. To Durant, it was also bitter. He bowed his head and prayed, once more admitting to God that he did not yet regret all his sins and most especially those committed after his duty to King Edward was done.

The previous night, his last in Walsingham, he had slipped from the inn in the darkest hours to an alley off a narrow street and sought that place he knew well. There he and another man found each other. Each avoided the gaze of the other as they drew close. To see was to remember. To remember might bring madness—or perhaps the contemplation of questions displeasing to kings and bishops.

Their kisses had been hard and brief, the fondling desperate, but for an instant afterward they held each other as mortals do when both wish their act meant love. Then the man had fled, and Durant walked back to the inn, stifled moans from other dark corners echoing in his ears.

In the hazy light of this morning, he shook away the memory and patted his restless horse on the neck, letting the creature trot back to the pilgrims who had not traveled far down the road.

Promising that this would be his last look back, he gazed over his shoulder at Walsingham. His heart felt as if someone was carving bits of flesh from it with a dull knife, but his pain had nothing to do with what he had done last night. The cause was Brother Thomas.

Pressing a hand against his chest, he groaned and rode on, forcing his thoughts to think about what must be done on his return to Norwich and his wife who was waiting for him.

In truth, he loved her. Early in their marriage, they had agreed to lie together only to beget children, as the most pious often did. When their only babe died, his wife suffered more than he, and he had grieved deeply enough. Her dark moods seemed to descend when she was deemed most fertile, and she confessed she could not bear to couple with him for the pain it caused. Unlike most husbands, he had taken this news with gentle concern and never complained about her failure to pay the marriage debt. Over time they grew closer, except for the sadness of having no laughing children. That was a grief they shared.

Then she heard about the reputation of Tyndal Priory for healing. At her urging, they traveled there where she received herbs and a balm that eased her moods and numbed the pain of intercourse. Now she was eager for him to give her a child.

In part he shared her joy, relieved that she no longer suffered and that she might bear children. She was a good woman, competent in the house and business, faithful and dutiful, but he did not yearn to couple with her like other men did beloved wives. He had been happiest when they shared affection but not passion.

He sighed. In the past, he had found it easy enough to return to those necessary deceptions after his missions for the king had ended and he had his night of relief. This time, he dreaded it, in particular the joyful expression on his wife’s face. It would not be easy to lie with her, even to beget the child they both wanted. He would do so, but there was a difference now. Durant of Norwich, wine merchant and spy, had fallen in love with a monk.

He was also terrified. It was one thing to seek the occasional encounter with men he did not know, and even refuse to confess it until he must, but his soul howled at the blasphemy of wanting to lie with a man vowed to God. Yet he also knew that he might be willing to suffer an eternity of hellfire for one night in the arms of that auburn-haired monk. It was that truth which frightened him most.

Tears rolled down his cheeks, and he sobbed quietly, bowing his head to hide his agony. One night? He would prefer it be a lifetime.

A mother in the band of pilgrims heard his sobs and asked what comfort was needed.

He shook his head and tried to smile.

Now assuming his tears were joyous, she bent to her young son and pointed out that man who wept because he found God’s forgiveness and was cleansed of his sins.

Durant wiped his cheeks dry. If that explanation made her son hesitate before committing some cruelty, then let the boy believe it.

Whatever his heart wanted, his longing for Brother Thomas was doomed. Even if the monk shared his lust, if not his love, he would never lie with Durant. He had taken vows, oaths he honored, and had made it clear that he found solace in the priory. After all Thomas had suffered for the one time he had lain with a man named Giles, Durant also knew he would never try to seduce him. That would be an even graver sacrilege.

The merchant urged his horse to a faster pace. When he returned home, he would try to bury his sorrow with the reward from the king in that cracked vessel near the privy. Then he would lie with his wife, as they must do to bring forth the child they longed for.

But when I do, he thought, I shall imagine I am in the arms of an auburn-haired man, with no tonsure, who happens to go by the name of Thomas.

***

Thomas hurried down the street to meet Prioress Eleanor at Ryehill Priory. Although her arm would be long in healing, she had insisted they plan their return to Tyndal Priory as soon as possible. A cart must be found to carry her and the child, she said. Adam, her donkey, would be spared the burden of her weight on the journey back. As they imagined the beast’s expression of contentment when told the news, they had both laughed.

When he passed the inn, he hesitated, and then walked on. The merchant would not be there. He had told him that he was joining a large group of pilgrims returning to Norwich very early that morning. The thought that he would never see Durant again grieved him.

He looked back at the inn. Complex and troubling though Durant was, Thomas liked him. Were he to be honest, he felt something more, an emotion he could not quite define. Surely not love, he thought. He had felt that only once, a devotion for which he had suffered in prison and then endured mockery by that very person who had been as eager as he in the coupling.

But the pleasure he had found in Durant’s company was more than the simple enjoyment of working with him to save the king’s life, although that was part of it.

Did he long for a more secular life? He had not always liked spying for the Church, rooting out those who worked against the best interests of the proclaimed faith, but he did enjoy solving mysteries when he and his prioress were called to do so.

Although he still did not own a deep faith, he no longer regretted taking vows. Tyndal was his home, and he had friends who brought him joy, both inside the priory and without. Before this pilgrimage to Walsingham, he had married Crowner Ralf and Mistress Gytha, two people he loved far above himself, and he looked forward to baptizing their children. Whatever his initial reluctance in joining the Order, he had found some peace. He no longer looked at any woman with lust. In Prioress Eleanor, he had a worthy liege lord, and she was pleased with his service. Sister Anne gave him the love only an elder sister of the flesh could and had taught him much that helped in healing bodies.

No, he said to himself, I would not leave the priory to serve the king as Durant does, even if I were promised a rare forgiveness for abandoning my vows.

Meeting Durant, however, had changed something within him. He had lusted after other men, a few had even evoked tenderness in him, but he would never forget the kiss he had willingly shared with the merchant that night in the inn. The difference, undefined and insistent, between Durant and all those other men gnawed at him.

Suddenly Thomas stopped, frozen in amazement at what had just occurred to him.

With a sharp intake of breath, he realized that he no longer grieved for Giles.

Were he to meet him on this street, this man he had loved since boyhood, he would not weep, nor would he suffer. He might offer him a blessing, praying that he had found contentment and that his remaining years on Earth would be joyful, but he would not long for a kiss or an embrace. If Giles offered either, he would comply without grief or desire. Giles had become a memory, both pleasant and sad, but the festering wound was healed.

Gazing upward, Thomas asked God why this had happened. As usual, He remained silent, and yet the monk sensed, more than heard, a soft whisper in the light breeze caressing his face.

“It matters not if I fully understand,” he murmured. Although he had denied that he had found peace when Durant asked, he felt it now. With an inexplicable conviction, he also believed that his meeting with this merchant was the cause of it. Perhaps, he thought, he and I will meet again.

Then he hurried on to Ryehill Priory, as eager as his prioress to return home.