Covenant With Hell (Medieval Mysteries)

by Priscilla Royal

  “I would therefore ask that you forgo any idle speculation on what might have happened here. After observing the body, I have concluded that our dear sister lost her footing and fell over the edge. There is absolutely no reason to believe otherwise.” Ursell motioned to Father Vincent. “Do you not remember? Only yesterday, someone complained that our bell had not rung for Compline.”

  He blinked as if confused, then nodded with enthusiasm.

  She looked back at Eleanor. “Sister Roysia overheard the criticism. I am certain she was in the bell tower to make sure the bell-ringer had not fallen victim again to self-indulgent sleep. Her death is unfortunate, but nothing other than an accident should be concluded from the facts.”

  Thomas wanted to ask whether the bell-ringer had been in the tower when the accident occurred, but he knew he would be rebuked rather than given a satisfactory answer.

  “We are disinclined to chatter,” Eleanor replied in an even tone. “Surely you did not mean to suggest otherwise.”

  The monk noticed that Prioress Ursell’s lips now began to tremble. Perhaps she had just recalled that Prioress Eleanor’s eldest brother stood high in the king’s favor? Offending such a woman would not be prudent if Ursell cared about the future prosperity of Ryehill Priory. Thomas suppressed a smile. His prioress was gaining the edge in this unpleasant encounter.

  “Of course, I did not,” Ursell replied, her speech hoarse with emotion. “I merely ask that you not speak of this sad event when others are near enough to hear.”

  Eleanor shook her head as if amazed that the prioress had even given voice to such a peculiar request. “Is that all?” The words may have been spoken as a question, but there was no doubt that the prioress of Tyndal had just concluded this audience.

  Ursell opened her mouth as if to say more, then seemed to reconsider and simply murmured assent.

  “Brother Thomas and I shall go to the chapel next door and dedicate our time to praying for Sister Roysia’s soul.”

  The priest spun around and stared. “That is most compassionate, my lady! Your charity on behalf of our dear sister is commendable, but do not further delay your journey back to Tyndal. Your own flock must long for your prompt return. Spend the little time you have left here contemplating the glory of the great shrines.” He cleared his throat. “Our Shrine of the Virgin’s Lock is, of course, worthy of your favor.”

  Thomas was surprised that Father Vincent had finally torn himself away from his profound reflection, not to criticize but to express an ardent concern for the needs of those in a distant priory. The anomaly was quite inexplicable.

  “A few hours on our knees, pleading with God to treat her with mercy, is insignificant compared to the time she must suffer in Purgatory. As guests here, we believe it our unquestioned duty to do so. The act is such a small mercy.” Eleanor smiled.

  “Since she was not one of your nuns, you are very kind.” Ursell looked at the priest, her eyes glittering with desperation. “Perhaps Father Vincent can guide you through the remaining hours of your intended penance to include this particular charity. Our sister’s soul will benefit, and you need not remain here longer than you had wished.”

  “You speak of hours, Prioress Ursell. I thought to be here for several days.”

  “From the tales I have heard told, I am sure you do not own enough sins for such a long penance! Please confer with Father Vincent. He can advise you.”

  “Brother Thomas, and he alone, directs my penance,” Eleanor replied, her smile turned frosty. With those words, she abruptly nodded to her fellow prioress and the priest, then glided with great dignity out of the audience chamber.

  The nun near the door almost tripped as she rushed to open it in time for the prioress to depart.

  Brother Thomas, hands tucked into his sleeves, swiftly followed.

  Except for the hissing flames from the dying fire, Prioress Ursell of Ryehill Priory and Father Vincent were left with silence and an uneasy sense of defeat.

  Chapter Seven

  Father Vincent scurried down the road to the chapel where Prioress Eleanor and her monk had preceded him. Prayer would have been his chosen goal, but the reputation of both priory and shrine demanded he follow another.

  In no particular order, he asked God to curse Sister Roysia for the sins that caused her death, Brother Thomas for finding her body, and Prioress Eleanor for betraying a most unwomanly determination to do as she alone willed. At least Ryehill’s prioress remembered her place in creation often enough.

  As he drew within sight of the inn, responsible for disturbing his sleep and prayer with unholy merriment, he stopped to catch his breath. The accursed place was quiet at the moment, and for that he thanked God. Revelers from the night before must be sleeping off their indulgence in rich food and strong wines, neither of which ought to be in the diet of any pilgrim. Recently, he had overheard two men comment on the innkeeper’s Lenten fare, claiming it was delicious. If true, eating it must be a sin in these weeks dedicated to renunciation.

  Much to Father Vincent’s disgust, he suspected that some families actually came here less for true repentance than to escape the drudgery of their labor for a few days. Yet they did buy badges to prove their piety and thus fed the monks and nuns of Walsingham. And most did confess a few sins, perform a little penance, and contribute to his own sacred shrine.

  A troubling question smote him, causing him to take in a sharp breath. Did God disdain gifts from the insufficiently repentant? Did He care about the source of the offering and the motive for giving it?

  The priest bit at his knuckle.

  Then came the flash of revelation, and he realized with relief that any gift given to God must be instantly cleansed of all foulness. He raised his hands to the skies in gratitude for this gift of understanding. He need not spurn coin for the Shrine of the Virgin’s Lock just because it might have come from the fingers of those, foreign or local, who were wicked. His conscience grew easy about accepting all gifts for his holy site.

  Walking on, he still cast a contemptuous look at the offending inn. As he did, his gaze fell upon a man watching him from the entrance.

  Something about the figure caused the priest to stop. He looked familiar. Was this a pilgrim with whom he had previous dealings? He blinked, trying hard to remember.

  The man began walking toward him, raising his hand in friendly greeting.

  Father Vincent struggled to bring some name to mind. With a swift assessment of the man’s finely made attire, he concluded he was an affluent merchant despite the modest lack of ornamentation in his dress. Surely he had spoken to this man before, but the priest could not recall either time or occasion. Unfortunately, it was too late to pretend he had not seen the merchant and avoid embarrassment by quickly passing on.

  “What a fortunate meeting, Father Vincent!”

  The priest was still struggling to find an excuse to escape when he saw the bright flash of a coin in the man’s fingers. His impatience forgotten, Vincent smiled with benevolence on this supposed pilgrim and even prior acquaintance. With hope and discretion, he also opened his hand.

  “I remember you well,” the man said. “That I was given this opportunity to speak with you suggests that God has truly smiled on my pilgrimage here.”

  The priest bowed his head with expected modesty, and the coin was softly dropped into his moist palm.

  The merchant knelt. “I beg a blessing.”

  The boon was quickly granted.

  The merchant rose, his lips moving with the final words of some silent prayer.

  Rubbing his fingers around the edges of the coin, the priest noted with delight that it was newly minted. Some pilgrims tried to pass off severely worn or even clipped ones of much reduced value. Suspecting that a blessing was not all this man wanted, Vincent waited to hear what was expected in exchange for the fine coin given.

  But the merchant seemed more inclined to casual conversation as he took the priest by the elbow and suggested they walk on. “I am
grateful to see Walsingham so peaceful during this visit. I have been here before when the crowds have been thick and the lines to get into the shrines very long.”

  “It is still the season of Lent. We pray that the weather will soon grow warm and more pilgrims will arrive,” Father Vincent said, feeling relieved when the man ceased to direct him quite so firmly onward.

  “During my early supper at the inn last night, I overheard mention of a visit from the king. As it was time for my prayers, I could not question the speaker further and thus remain ignorant of whether he has already been here or not. Have I missed him?”

  “King Edward had not yet come to Walsingham,” the priest said, “but we pray that he will honor all the shrines with his presence soon.”

  The man sighed. “Now I am truly perplexed. Shall I stay or must I leave? There will be so many who want to welcome our earthly lord. They and his attendants will demand comfortable lodgings.” He shook his head. “My room is small, but the bed lacks fleas. Were I to stay, one of his men might toss me out of the chamber and claim it for himself.” He laughed, a sound that lacked both mockery and cheerfulness. “What then should I do?”

  Father Vincent again ran his finger over the clean edge of the coin and dared to hope there might be more of these if his reply was cleverly phrased. “I beg pardon, but my memory fails me on occasion. Your name, Master?”

  “Durant, a merchant of fine wines.” The man lowered his gaze as if discomfited by possessing such a worldly occupation.

  “Of course! I do recall your other visits here.” That was not true, but the name did sound familiar. “If you wish to stay longer, I could arrange plain but clean quarters so you need not fear if the king’s men required your present room at the inn. King Edward himself will be given lodging at Walsingham Priory, but I can offer you my own chambers attached to the chapel next to Ryehill Priory. Perhaps this transformation had not yet taken place when you were last here, but that chapel has become the glorious Shrine of the Virgin’s Lock. I have the honor of caring for it.”

  The Augustinian priory and Prior William would be obliged to find a spot for him to sleep if he had to give up his small room, Vincent thought, and this pilgrim seemed inclined to a generosity that should compensate him for that temporary discomfort. Staying at Walsingham Priory might also give him the opportunity to direct the attention of one of the king’s courtiers, or even the king himself, to Ryehill’s small shrine. Trying not to smile, the priest grew quite pleased with the merits of his idea.

  Master Durant’s expression blended gratitude with pleasure. “Your charity to this lowly pilgrim is admirable, Father, and God demands that such kindness not go unrewarded.” He discreetly ran his hand over a bulging pouch near his waist.

  The priest licked his damp lips and hoped this man did not habitually go into the streets with so much obvious wealth. Coins like the one he had just received were better given to God than some unholy thief. He opened his mouth to advise caution, but words failed to come forth. His eyes were fixed on that pouch.

  The merchant rested a gentle hand on Father Vincent’s shoulder. “Do you think the king might be visiting very soon?”

  “We have not yet heard the precise date.”

  “But surely he would send a messenger so you could prepare the setting of this newest relic for a royal viewing. Although I have not yet visited the shrine of which you speak, I have heard others praise it. The king must have as well.”

  The priest’s thin chest puffed with pride. “Our king is deeply attached to all the shrines here. He credits the Lady of Walsingham for saving his life.”

  “I believe I have heard that tale. Was he not playing chess when Our Lady inspired him to move just before a large stone fell from the roof?”

  Vincent nodded. “It landed on the spot where he had been sitting, yet he was unhurt.”

  The merchant’s expression grew soft with admiration. “Many say that his devotion to this place exceeds even that of his devout father,” he murmured.

  “You must be correct that he would want to seek our tiny but holy shrine.” The priest looked meaningfully at the merchant. “Who would not long to worship strands of the Virgin’s hair?”

  The man smiled and put two fingers into that rounded purse. “And might you send word to me as soon as you know when our king will be entering Walsingham?” He nodded at the inn. “I shall remain there for the time being, as I have many sins and much penance to perform. When I know the date of the king’s arrival, I shall arrange with you to lodge in the chambers of which you spoke. It would bring me joy to glimpse our king after visiting the shrines during this more peaceful time. And I shall not fail to offer a suitable gift to honor your own holy relic.” He stretched his hand toward the priest.

  Father Vincent swore to do as the merchant required, then closed his eyes and his hand. The man had given him two coins, so newly minted he could feel the details of the king’s image on them. Fondling them, he savored this welcome gift.

  But when he opened his eyes, the merchant had disappeared. The priest looked around, but there was no sign of him. Were he not holding these coins as proof, he might have wondered if he had imagined the conversation.

  He tried to picture the man’s face, but it had been of such common form that it was quite unremarkable. Now he feared he might not recognize him again.

  He took in a deep breath and calmed himself. After all, he knew the man’s name and where he was staying. That was sufficient to send a messenger as the man had asked.

  Looking heavenward, Father Vincent smiled. All he need do is tell this merchant the date the king would enter Walsingham, endure a short time as a charity guest in the priory of the favored shrines, and find a way to urge King Edward to visit a new shrine near Ryehill Priory, acquired after the king’s last visit.

  Were God to smile with especial kindness on the little shrine, the priest was sure the coin from the wine merchant and any gift from the king would be enough to repay in full what he had secretly taken from alms due the priory to acquire that relic. For so great a blessing, he would cheerfully tolerate the itching from a flea-ridden straw bed.

  Gripping the three coins he had already received, he hurried on to the chapel, praying that Prioress Eleanor and her troublesome monk were still there. If they had left, Prioress Ursell would be deeply angered over his failure to achieve what she required. And her fury could be awesome. Had he not seen her bow to the cross, an act no imp would perform, he might have wondered at the source of such hot rage when she was thwarted.

  The merit in his delay was not anything he dared explain. The prioress knew nothing of what some might call theft from her coffers. Had he asked for the sum to buy the relic for the Shrine of the Virgin’s Lock, she would have refused, citing the poverty of her nuns, but he was certain the holy object was worth a little less bread and ale for the religious. Women lacked a man’s wisdom in these matters, and so he had gone ahead with his plan. He had told her the relic was a gift from a penitent, a tale that brought him respect and even awe from a prioress who occasionally failed to show the deference owed a man of his vocation.

  He shrugged. After the relic was finally paid for by money from merchant and king, Prioress Ursell would conclude that he had increased income for Ryehill as offerings rose to what they had been before he had borrowed from them. In time, he was certain the relic would bring more pilgrims to the chapel and alms for the priory. When that occurred, and he was duly praised for acquiring the precious object, he would relish the acclamation but with eyes lowered. A show of humility was a virtue too often ignored by those less than pious. He sniffed with contempt.

  As he rounded the corner of the inn, he saw the street child disappearing down a narrow street, and he clenched his fist in fury. Had he not been so delayed in his purpose, he would have chased after her, throwing rocks and casting forth imprecations.

  Instead, he slipped inside the chapel and contented himself with asking God to send the vile creature the s
ame fate suffered by the wicked Sister Roysia. Unlike the nun, whose vocation allowed her some mercy, he would make sure Gracia’s corpse rotted in unsanctified ground.

  Chapter Eight

  Daylight struggled to enter the little chapel from one window placed high in the wall behind the altar. Where shafts of light struck the ground, the damp stones glistened, and the air was rife with the stench of must.

  A few pilgrims wandered in, but they spent little time on their knees before the small box containing the Virgin’s hair. Reverence was sincere but they quickly left, longing to see the sacred wells and the famous Holy House of the Annunciation, called England’s Nazareth and maintained by the religious of Walsingham Priory, farther down the road.

  Brother Thomas and Prioress Eleanor rose from where they had knelt. Seeking privacy, they walked to the inside columned walkway nearby, cupped their hands over their mouths, and bent their heads to muffle their voices lest someone overhear their words.

  “Prioress Ursell wishes to conceal something about Sister Roysia’s death, my lady.”

  “Perhaps she does, Brother, but there is no reason to believe this matter must be our concern.”

  Thomas looked around, then whispered, “More happened before your arrival that troubled me.”

  With evident reluctance, she permitted him to continue.

  “When Father Vincent ordered me to return with him to the prioress’ audience chamber, I assumed they wanted to hear what I had found and any conclusions I had formed. After making me wait, Prioress Ursell greeted me with a coldness to match the air in this chapel.” He shivered. “What distressed me more was the lack of sorrow shown by either priest or prioress. Their eyes were as dry as a road in summer heat.”