Chambers of Death

by Priscilla Royal

  “But she never told my mother.” Huet went over to the cook and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  She blushed and quickly grabbed another fowl, whacking it neatly in half with one blow.

  “Did your mother die very long ago?”

  “What does it matter?” Huet then waved those words aside. “Forgive those callous words, Brother. I should have said that a son may learn to live with the grief, but he never ceases to miss a mother even when he believes her soul must surely be in Heaven.”

  For just an instant, Thomas wondered where his own mother’s soul might be and quickly nodded with sympathy.

  “Although I encouraged my father to marry again for his comfort and prosperity, I did not like his choice. Mistress Luce is near to my age and nothing like her honored predecessor.” His brow darkened, and he stared at the fireplace where the soup pot continued to bubble with dogged enthusiasm.

  Thomas watched him with increasing interest. Although courtesy did forbid questions, he wondered much about this younger son.

  Huet looked back at the monk, his melancholy lightening from black to gray. “I have been told that a member of your company is gravely ill, Brother. Although I shall sincerely pray for her recovery, her sickness will require you to stay with us until she has regained health. I confess to some pleasure at the thought of your company.” He tilted his head and now grinned mischievously. “Though I fear you may learn more about this family than you might perhaps wish.”

  “No dark secrets, I hope?” Thomas replied in like manner, but he was jesting only in part.

  Huet’s smile was equally inexact.

  Chapter Seven

  Eleanor awoke with a jolt, but her eyes focused with painful slowness. The light in the room was gray as an old man’s hair, but the steady brightening proved the hour was after dawn rather than that fading grimness of coming night.

  All was silent.

  Terrified, the prioress jumped up from the bench against the wall and hurried to the bed. Bending over, she put her ear close to Mariota’s almost colorless lips. The girl’s breath was audible and ragged but steady, her skin dry and hot to the touch.

  “But alive still,” Eleanor said, anger with herself for falling asleep replacing the fear she had just suffered. At least God had been merciful, and her charge’s soul had not left her frail body during the badly kept watch.

  The wooden door creaked open.

  “Is all well?” Maud whispered, slipping into the room.

  “She sleeps.”

  The widow put the back of her hand against the girl’s forehead. “Her fever is still too high. Would you hold her head just so for a moment?” She reached over to a ewer on a stand next to the bed and poured water into the basin. Dampening a cloth, she wrung it out and washed the girl’s face. “We have tried an infusion of masterwort root and hope she will take some barley broth soon when she is alert enough to sip it. I hope that meets with your approval.”

  “You must follow the path you have found most successful,” Eleanor said.

  The corners of Maud’s lips twitched upward at the confidence shown. “If this fails, we shall try other remedies to chase the excess heat from her and restore the balance of her humors. Cooked onions are often successful in these conditions.” Smoothing the cloth out to dry on the stand, she gazed at the girl with evident concern. “At least she is young and looks strong enough to fight against this ill.”

  Eleanor closed her eyes. “I fear I slept toward morning.”

  “You need not fall ill yourself, my lady, and I think your prayers will have done this child more good than staying awake. As you see, she has survived the night. Had there been a crisis, the harsh rattling would have awakened you. There is no mistaking the sound of Death’s chains when he comes to drag souls off for judgment.”

  “All my prayers were for her last night,” Eleanor replied, “and I thank you for forgiving one who showed even greater carelessness than the five foolish virgins waiting for the bridegroom.”

  “My manner may be too blunt on occasion, my lady, but I meant no ill. A servant should have been assigned to stay with her while you slept. I saw how you stumbled with fatigue…”

  “…and thus you took a far longer vigil than you allowed me, demonstrating both wisdom and kindness. It may have been my responsibility to watch all night, but I now see the imprudence in even considering it.” She smiled to dispel any fears that she had been insulted by the widow’s decision.

  Maud chose not to reply and instead indicated that the prioress should lay the girl’s head back down on the pillow. “Might you wish to break your fast now that I am here to watch your charge?”

  The words may have been posed as a question, but Eleanor recognized it as a transparently disguised command. But a prudent one, she decided, without taking offence. Stubborn adherence to what she perceived as her duty would only add to the burdens on this household if a fever struck her down too. “Might you direct me to the main hall? I fear I paid little heed to how we came to these chambers when we arrived last night.”

  ***

  Once in the lower hall, Eleanor found all appetite had fled, and she found no pleasure in the one bite of cheese, its sharp flavor enhanced by warm bread fresh from the oven. At least the weak ale chased away some of the chill she had caught, sleeping against the damp stone of the chamber wall. Pouring more into her cup, she sipped. The bitter taste matched her mood. Perhaps she should delay her return to Mariota’s side until she could lighten her own troubled spirit. At least she would try.

  Dawn may have completed its announcement of the reluctant day, but the light remained dull and unenthusiastic. Most servants had left the hall to perform whatever duties they had been assigned and most probably with regret at the loss of this warmer haven. Eleanor prayed that they be given some respite on such a foul day. And stormy it most certainly was, she had noted on her way here, with intermittent rain slashing at any living thing within reach of the high wind.

  At least the stone walls of the manor offered good protection against both draft and wet. Eleanor noted, however, that this main floor, where the manor court must be held, was aisled with wooden pillars that resembled trees where the bracing split to support the flooring of the solar above. Although the design was pleasing in its suggestion of a wooded grove, the presence of the aisles proved the house was older than the more modern use of stone walls would suggest.

  Had the owner’s sole desire been to make this a warmer manor or had he some other purpose for rebuilding the walls? Stone was most certainly a stronger defense against attack than wood. She must ask the steward about the history of this place, Eleanor decided. Although it was doubtful that the Earl of Lincoln had any traitorous intent or would even consider using such a minor residence as defense, she would pass the information on to her father in case he found the strong, new walls of interest to those loyal to the king.

  She had delayed long enough, she decided. After all, she must relieve the physician’s widow and let her attend the steward’s wife. Willing herself to rise, the prioress left the hall.

  The stairwell to the solar was steep and the steps narrow, even for the prioress’ small feet. A clever device, she realized. Armed men would find the ascent more difficult here than in her father’s castle of Wynethorpe. Thus the steward’s family would be well protected. She nodded in appreciation of the design.

  Near the top, where a window offered a view of the fields and outer buildings, she stopped. The opening had been fitted with a shutter, but that now banged against the wall with each gust of wind.

  Perhaps it had been carelessly shut and the storm had finally blown it open, Eleanor thought, and tried closing it to keep the chill from the rooms in the solar. The alignment was askew, or else the boards were warped with the rain; thus she struggled awkwardly with the heavy wood. Finally, she gave up and sat in the window, putting her back to the recalcitrant shutter as if testing her ability to make the object obey
her. “Indeed,” she muttered to herself, “if I cannot force my own being to obey, how dare I hope that anything else will surrender to my command?”

  What a foolish creature she was! Again she condemned her folly for taking this journey. The property issue on priory land so far from Tyndal could have waited for resolution until wild storms were rare and some warmth had returned to the earth. If she had been wiser and delayed the matter, Sister Anne and Prior Andrew could have accompanied her. Instead, she cared only that Brother Thomas be forced to come and stay close to her side.

  She still loved this man—in all the wrong ways. When her prayers for relief from lust were answered, she was often grateful that Brother Thomas was at her priory, for their different natures allowed them to work most efficiently together in God’s service. The rest of the time, she was obsessed with hunger to couple with the monk.

  In the beginning there had been a certain sweetness to the longing. More recently, her lust had made her feel like a decaying corpse, and the rotten stink of her sin assaulted her nostrils with such foulness that she was surprised the stench had not spread throughout the entire priory.

  As a counterweight, however, her vow of chastity remained stubbornly sincere. A child when she first promised to remain a lifelong virgin, she had not understood the full meaning of what she had sworn. Now she did. Yet she never took vows lightly. If Satan, with God’s permission, set her body alight with these searing flames to test her steadfastness, she would battle the Prince of Darkness with the passion of a true knight and win the joust whatever the cost in physical suffering. After all, her body was only a shell that housed her immortal soul.

  Nor would she ever tempt a man into sharing her wickedness. Even though she often questioned the sincerity of Brother Thomas’ own calling, Eleanor had no reason to doubt that he had laudably kept his own vows. Thus she might choose to test her fortitude—or please herself, if she were ruthlessly honest—by keeping him close while she fought against her sinfulness, but she would never try to make him break his oath. At least she prayed she never would.

  These thoughts began to stab too painfully at her heart, so she chased them off with the image of Mariota. Had she sinned by bringing the girl with her? Of course she could have asked another nun to provide proper attendance, but in this matter at least, she had meant well.

  Mariota’s family had begged entry for her at Tyndal, hoping she would become a nun. Eleanor had had doubts from the beginning about the strength of the young woman’s calling. Even the girl’s mother had whispered some fear that her daughter might not be willing to completely forsake the world to serve God. Nonetheless, there was a generous dowry for the priory if Mariota stayed, and Eleanor was well aware that no religious community survived long without such beneficence.

  With all her other pressing responsibilities, however, there had been little time to gain the young woman’s confidence in order to talk with her as needed. Eleanor suspected the girl might simply not know what she wanted. There was no doubt that a life of prayerful service profited family souls, and God rejoiced when mortals rejected the violence and sins of a secular world. Yet choosing the religious life with no calling often brought its own problems, and Eleanor had no wish to force young women to take on a life they would grow to hate, a loathing that often infected a community like some plague.

  In any case, the decision regarding Mariota’s future must be made soon. Eleanor had hoped the enforced companionship on this trip would allow the young woman to confide in her, and thus the prioress might suggest a clearer path for the girl. With this journey so cursed, however, even that plan had been thwarted, and now the poor child lay sick and in danger of dying.

  Eleanor leaned her head back against the wooden shutter and groaned. How much she needed advice and direction herself!

  On one hand, she had Brother Thomas longing to leave the priory and become a hermit for at least a year. On the other, she had a girl with a fine dowry who might have come to Tyndal with no calling at all.

  She cursed her frailties!

  Instead of granting her monk’s request, she had ordered him to come on this trip where she could see him every day. Rather than sending Mariota home to think about her vocation, she had let her sit with the novices for far too long, hoping she would simply discover a calling.

  “I am a fool,” she muttered. “Greedy, selfish, and imprudent. Have I considered what is best for their souls? Nay, I have only thought of my own desires and the wealth of my priory.” Sighing in frustration, she looked down on the manor land.

  The fields were barren, all crops long harvested and either sold or stored in one of the outer buildings. To the left she could see a road crossing through a pasture, then where it veered abruptly toward the gate to the courtyard. Ruts, dug deep by wagon wheels, had filled with rainwater, making the way treacherous with slippery mud. Her party had been fortunate, Eleanor thought, that none of their horses had fallen or broken a leg last night.

  A movement below and to her right caught her attention, and she cautiously slipped closer to the other side of the window to see more clearly.

  Two people stood together near the thatched and steepled barn. In spite of the vile weather, neither appeared inclined to seek shelter.

  How curious, Eleanor thought.

  One of the pair was a woman, judging by her size and dress. Her robe was brightly colored and stood out against the rain-blackened wood of the barn. The other, a man, was clothed in a duller hue.

  While the prioress watched, the man slid his hands down the woman’s back, tucked them firmly under her buttocks, and pulled her hips against him. She clutched him yet closer, then threw her head back as he began to kiss her neck.

  “And ardently enough to warm any body on such a day,” Eleanor said aloud, surprised at the wanton display.

  Suddenly the couple jumped apart.

  Eleanor followed the direction of their gaze and saw several riders turning down the road toward the manor gate.

  The woman picked up her robe and fled toward a low-roofed building, which the prioress guessed might be the stable. Her companion walked slowly to open the gate, then stood in the road where he waited to greet the lead horseman.

  Gripping the rough stone for balance, Eleanor bent further out of the window. She could just see into the courtyard.

  The rider was dismounting with observable stiffness and the steadying hand of the woman’s companion.

  The bright-robed woman now raced from the shelter of the stable, arms wide to embrace the horseman. “Dearest husband, you are safely returned!”

  Had anyone noticed what she had seen just a moment before? Perhaps the couple had been sufficiently hidden from the view of all but her, Eleanor concluded.

  The horseman apparently had not seen anything untoward. He embraced the woman willingly enough, before slipping his arm around her shoulders and limping out of sight.

  “I wish I had not witnessed that,” Eleanor murmured, sliding out of the window and back into the shadows of the stairway. Giving the shutter a pat as if granting some form of absolution, she left it hanging open and climbed the last couple of steps.

  Surely the woman must be Mistress Luce. Although many religious might rightly consider the apparent lapse of virtue a proper matter to address, Eleanor decided that both courtesy and wisdom demanded she say nothing about what she had beheld. As a guest, she had no wish to bring dissention to a house that had granted refuge and aid to her desperate little company.

  “The woman has a confessor,” she murmured, while fervently hoping that the errant wife would seek both counsel and penance before her actions festered into even greater evil.

  Chapter Eight

  Despite wind so freezing that his nose ran, Thomas bent his head and walked through the courtyard mud with determination, while humming something Brother John had been teaching the novice choir at Tyndal.

  A calico cat from the kitchen raced past him, in pursuit of some re
al or imagined prey, then skidded and tumbled into a puddle. As the creature shook herself, Thomas grinned. “Prioress Eleanor’s orange cat would never display such lack of feline dignity,” he teased affably.

  Scrubbing with vigor, the cat pointedly ignored him.

  Thomas slogged on, delighted at his remarkably bright spirits on this glum morning. Considering his long-entrenched gloom, this change should perhaps trouble him, but he decided that sort of logic came from Satan. The Fiend would rather any mortal be cursed with such hopelessness that the soul took on the burnt hue of the Evil One himself. The monk banished his doubt. After all, if he chose to analyze it with more care, the root of his happier mood was easy enough to discover.

  After he had been shown to the kitchen last night, and dried himself by the hearth fire, he shared a late supper of hot soup and fresh bread with the cook and the kitchen servants. Although the arrival of the prioress’ party, and the anticipated return of Master Stevyn, would mean extra work on the morrow, the servants took advantage of whatever ease they could enjoy before dawn.

  And the company had most certainly been a merry one, reminding Thomas of boyhood days spent with the cook who raised him after his mother’s death. Adding to the cheerfulness was the addition of Master Huet, younger son to the steward, who had just arrived himself the night before.

  From a few overheard remarks by the servants, the monk concluded that the son’s return had been quite unexpected, but the man was greeted with great delight nonetheless. Of course Thomas had recognized the grown-out tonsure at the time, an observation he found rather disturbing, but no one else seemed bothered and thus he dismissed his curiosity. If the others found joy in Huet’s company, a man they knew far better than he, perhaps he should respect their view.

  That had, in fact, been easy enough, for Thomas was soon beguiled by the man’s graceful charm and quick wit. Now he shuddered in retrospect. Didn’t the Devil have that kind of charm, numbing the soul to danger as he transformed his vile and sinful shape into one of more pleasing appearance?