Eleanor looked up in surprise. The purpose of the prior’s visit momentarily escaped her. She knew she had planned to spend this day in comparative quiet. The sprain was a bad one, and Sister Anne had ordered her to avoid the long, narrow steps into the cloister until the ankle was stronger. Gytha had even spent the night in her mistress’s chambers, rather than returning to the village as she usually did, in case Eleanor needed assistance.
That quiet day had included some plans the sub-infirmarian would have forbidden, had the prioress mentioned them. Eleanor hoped to talk to Sister Matilda about her mushroom hunting forays during her kitchen days, and she thought she might also walk to the chapel for daily prayers with the assistance of Gytha. Other than that, however, she had decided to listen to Sister Anne. If nothing else, obeying the sub-infirmarian in part would allow her an hour to indulge in reading from the copy of Wace’s Geste de Bretons which her aunt had loaned her from Amesbury. That book might have been the cause of Sister Ruth’s scowl this time. Or not. Eleanor shrugged. The nun never seemed to view anything Eleanor did with any approval.
“Of course,” she said, closing the book carefully so it lay flat on the lectern shelf in front of her. “Why is he here?”
“He didn’t say and I didn’t ask, my lady.” Sister Ruth sniffed.
Gytha rested the broom against the wall and sprinted over to the corridor door, opening it just enough to stick her head out. Sister Ruth closed her eyes in utter disgust.
“He has that big monk with him,” Gytha said, puffing out her cheeks and patting her stomach. “And Brother Andrew, the tiny one, is behind, lugging a box and rolls of something under his arms. The rolls are dropping and rolling around in the corridor, and he’s running back and forth after them. The big monk is just standing there and not doing anything. Does that help?”
“Do not make fun of others, child. It isn’t kind.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“At least I now remember why they are here. Please let them into the parlor before poor Brother Andrew exhausts himself. Some wine for our guests, perhaps slightly more for our Brother Andrew after his heavy work, and then I shall attend them.” Eleanor winked at the girl, who smiled broadly.
“Do you need me to stay, my lady?” Sister Ruth asked in a tone that suggested she most heartily wished to be anywhere else.
“I do. The good prior is going to tell me what lands are owned by Tyndal and what our income is from each. Since you have resided in the priory for more years than any other sister, you are the most knowledgeable person here and should be present when we discuss our financial health. Someone of competence must be as fully informed as I am should I suddenly be called away. As you are the one most qualified, I am appointing you sub-prioress and you shall act as such henceforth. Another sister will be selected to be porteress.”
Sister Ruth’s expression first suggested that she had just taken a bite of rotten meat, then that she was rather surprised she had.
“Please ask the good prior to wait while I ready myself.” She nodded dismissal to the new sub-prioress.
As Ruth stomped out of the chambers and Gytha returned, Eleanor gestured for the girl to come to her side. The young girl quickly turned and stuck her tongue out at the older nun’s retreating back.
Eleanor decided to pretend she hadn’t seen the gesture. “I had forgotten I had requested an examination of Tyndal’s account rolls today,” she said, “but I want to appear as if I had expected them and should enter with full dignity.” Eleanor noted the concerned frown on the girl’s face. “Help me up, child. I won’t fall. Sometimes we must do things which hurt to achieve a higher purpose.”
Indeed it did hurt to walk the short distance from her reading lectern to the public room, but once Eleanor had settled into her raised chair, the wrinkles of pain smoothed away and she gestured for the monks to approach.
“My lady!” The men spoke in unison and bowed. Andrew dropped a few scrolls, his bad leg clearly paining him as he stooped to pick them up. He was ignored by Brother Simeon, who concentrated on easing Prior Theobald into the chair indicated by Eleanor. She knew it was vindictive of her, but she offered the large monk not a chair but a seat on the bench at the table next to Andrew. It was her way of putting Simeon in his place after he had so rudely disregarded her during their first meeting.
He looked surprised and a bit confused.
She felt sinfully pleased.
Gytha served cool wine in glazed pottery cups from a simple pewter pitcher, and Eleanor noted the slightly fuller one given to Brother Andrew, who glanced up at the girl, then at the prioress, with amused pleasure. As the men drank and shifted, she decided she would not bother to pretend, beyond the demands of courtesy, that the prior knew anything about the financial situation of Tyndal.
In fact, she probably knew more than he. Prioress Joan of Amesbury had told her what lands were owned by Tyndal and what other assets the priory had before she left to take this new office. Pretending greater ignorance was a ploy intended to find out what she would be told and how. In truth, all she needed to establish was whether the stewardship had been proper, despite the drop in revenues, and whether all resources had been used as efficiently as possible. Courtesy did demand, however, that she address Theobald first.
“Prior Theobald. I appreciate your attendance, and, as I informed you, I would like a summary of our holdings and the income thereof.”
Theobald coughed and grasped his cross, an habitual gesture which Eleanor was beginning to learn meant he felt inadequate to whatever task he was called upon to do.
“I have brought our receiver, Brother Simeon, to provide the information you requested, my lady. His eyes are better than mine, you see, and he is better suited to read the documents to you and interpret their meaning.”
Eleanor glanced up at the large monk. His expression was quite smug.
“Indeed, Prior, your thoughtful preparation is most impressive, and I shall accept the work Brother Simeon has done in preparation for my questions. Perhaps you did not know, however, that I am capable of both reading text and comprehending numbers.”
“The wording of the charters is in Latin, my lady.” Simeon’s expression had changed but minimally.
“I also read Latin, brother, but I will be pleased to accept your detailed review since Prior Theobald has assigned that work to you. In the future, Prior, I will be happy to accept whomever you assign to provide the information I request.” Eleanor nodded in Theobald’s direction. “I sympathize with the burden it must put on your eyes which have been strained in the many years of service you have given to Our Lord.”
Theobald sighed and lowered his head in a sign of gratitude at her concern and his escape from responsibility. “Indeed, my lady, my eyes have aged in His service.”
“Brother Simeon, please do begin.”
Brother Simeon did not make the process either simple or short. In fact, Eleanor got the distinct impression he wished to make his presentation so convoluted that she, lesser vessel that she was presumed to be, would either feel obliged to accept his information as fact or give in out of frustration and irritated fatigue.
Eleanor was no lesser vessel. Tyndal was her responsibility and, although she was willing to accept Simeon’s past reputation in running the estates in view of the official reviews done on his account rolls, he had to prove his competence now and explain, to her satisfaction, the recent reduction in income. She was also determined to teach him that what might have worked with the good prior and the former prioress was not going to work with her. Rhetoric was lovely in its place, but its place was not in the reporting of figures and balances. Those required clarity. He would learn that she demanded no less. Annoyed, Eleanor stretched out her hand.
“Let me see the charter, brother. I cannot believe that we own the land on which the forest grows but received nothing from the timber removed from it. To my knowledge, we have not given King Henry a gift of trees for any ship. H
ave we?”
The charter he handed her had sweat stains on it.
She pointed to one line. “See here. It says we have full ownership of the…”
“My lady, I did not mean we received no income from the sale of timber. I only meant that we granted the poor of the village the right once a year to gather fallen branches free of any charge.”
Eleanor looked steadily at the monk. His face was glistening and red from the effort of answering her pointed questions.
“Then say so, brother. I do not count good stewardship by the number of words you use to describe it. I like precision, accuracy and supporting documents.”
She glanced down at one of those documents, which showed the accounting of rental income from one of the priory grants, and sighed. She would have to get used to his crabbed numbers and awkward letters. Wherever the good monk learned to write, he had not been taught either grace or legibility in the skills.
“Very well, brother. I will keep the charters with me to study further.”
Brother Andrew sighed softly and smiled, then quickly raised his hand to hide his mouth.
“But I am concerned with the share of produce sales we are receiving. I do not believe they are high enough to guarantee the income we will need to buy provisions for the coming winter. Our own garden has failed to yield what it should for our needs and we will be forced to buy additional food.”
“Indeed, my lady, crops have not been what we hoped this year from the priory farms either.” Brother Simeon took a large drink from his goblet. His eyes were glazed and he looked fatigued.
“In truth? I had heard otherwise about our farms in the area.”
“I cannot speak to what you may have heard, my lady. I can only say that I have not seen any farm producing what we had either hoped or expected.”
“Then we must either eat less this winter or conserve in other ways. Perhaps on wine purchases this fall. We do make our own ale, I believe.” Eleanor smiled as she watched the fleshy monk pale. Was it the reduction in unpalatable food he abhorred or the prospect of a winter without a fine Gascony wine to warm him? Prior Theobald, she noted, had drifted off to sleep some time ago and, from the look of his thin body, would have been disinterested in the lessening of either. Sister Ruth had thoughtfully, and with gentleness, inserted a pillow between his head and the chair.
“Or raise rents, my lady! Indeed, we could raise rents!”
“Brother Simeon, if the crops have been so poor, then the farmers will also suffer from deprivations. I do not think raising their rents is compassionate.”
“Their souls, my lady. They will think of their immortal souls and gladly give more money to our house of God.”
“Our souls should face a little less comfort more easily than those used to the world, good brother. In fact, I believe it would be better for us to consume less food and wine than to deprive those we have promised God to care for.”
“But our strength. We must keep up our strength to better serve Him…”
“Brother, I will make no decision until I have toured our lands and spoken to those who rent as well as to those who manage and work the grants. Perhaps something has not yet been brought to your attention that will save us all from such severity.”
“My lady, Prioress Felicia left all such things to…”
“I am not the good prioress and, as you know, I am not from Tyndal. The people who serve us and those who gain from us are as unknown to me as I am to them. It is unwise for any of us to remain so ill-acquainted.”
“You will need a horse, my lady. It will take me a little time to find a suitable one.”
“I need a donkey, brother. I am a small woman and a nun. A horse is both too big and too grand. Our Lord rode a donkey into Jerusalem. I will follow His example.”
“But to find such a creature…”
Gytha put down the wine ewer. “I know where you can find a good beast, my lady.”
Eleanor smiled. “I thought you might, my child.”
And as Brother Simeon looked down, Eleanor noted that his face had turned the shade of one of his beloved red wines.
Chapter Twenty-One
“What an odd group we make,” Thomas muttered as he glanced at the small cluster of dark-robed religious. They were all assembled outside the thick wooden door of the thatch-roofed house belonging to one Tostig, brother of Gytha.
When Brother Andrew first told Thomas that Prioress Eleanor Wynethorpe of Tyndal Priory had decided to buy herself a braying, gray-bristled donkey for riding forth into the world, he had roared with laughter. Then he remembered the story of one fine bishop, and Thomas changed his mind.
The bishop in question, dressed in richly dyed vestments of soft-woven cloth and seated on a horse of rare breeding, had ridden into a mob of querulous farmers. With the arrogance common to both the aloof and the ignorant, he had assumed that such crude creatures would be suitably awed by his eminence and cease their silly arguments over his increased rents. Instead, they had pelted him with offal, vegetation rotten beyond recognition, and unidentifiable animal parts. Later, his chief clerk, dressed in duller clothes, had walked with impunity into the village and negotiated a compromise that was acceptable to both the lowly farmers and the clerk’s high-minded master.
Even now the story made Thomas smile, and he nodded with respect toward his wisely humble prioress just as the door to the cottage swung open on its leather hinges and Gytha gestured for the assembly to enter. As he approached the door, Thomas sniffed nervously. There was a strong scent of farm animals in the air, but the smell was the fresh, earthy one of healthy beasts. He would not have to wade through aged cow manure. No matter how long he lived on this forsaken coast, Thomas knew he would never quite become a man of the soil.
***
The space inside Tostig’s house was small, but the floor was planked and strewn with sweet-smelling straw and herbs. There was no window to let the daylight in, but a centrally located stone hearth both warmed the damp air and provided enough light to see and move about with ease.
The master of the place stood in front of a dark wooden table near the hearth, his arms folded. Tostig was a straight-backed, muscular man in his early twenties, his hair long, thick, and golden like his sister’s, but there was none of her gentleness showing in his blue eyes. After scanning the faces of the priory visitors with contempt just barely concealed, he looked down at Prioress Eleanor and bowed with an easy grace.
“I am honored, my lady. Your visit brings a blessing to my home. I would offer some refreshment, but I am a simple man and do not have things that you and your attendant monks are accustomed to. There is only a rough ale, not wine, and coarse bread to give you and your companions. The cheese, however, is a goodly one.”
Eleanor noted that his smile at her might have been somewhat genuine, but his words to the party as a whole were spoken in a tone edged with brittle sarcasm. Then Gytha bent over and whispered in her ear. Eleanor burst out laughing.
“Your sister tells me that I should ignore your ale but take your bread, which she has baked herself, and your cheese, which she says is famous in the town.”
“My sister is rightly proud of her baking, but the bread is still unsuited to the tender mouths of noble folk,” Tostig said as he shot Gytha a glance gentled with love and humor.
Brother Simeon shifted from foot to foot, his nose wrinkling in exaggerated disapproval at the smells of the cottage. “Perhaps we needn’t bother with refreshment, my lady. We came only to look at donkeys.”
Brother John’s green eyes sparkled with ill-concealed laughter as he looked at the receiver. “Indeed we have, brother, but I have heard of Tostig’s cheese from our annual fair, as you must have as well.” He turned to Eleanor. “It sells out on market days and is gaining fame abroad, my lady, or so I have heard from travelers who have stayed with us.”
Eleanor looked at Thomas, who was watching the interchange between novice master and r
eceiver with interest, and then she turned to Tostig with a mischievous smile. “Brother Thomas and I are new to this part of England,” she said. “We would be delighted to accept your offer of ale, bread and cheese. Perhaps our good Brother Simeon has vowed to fast today, but I believe the rest of us would be grateful for your hospitality.”
Gytha happily ran off to serve the guests. As Tostig offered Eleanor and the monks seats on the bench behind him, he lowered his head so she could not see his reaction to her acceptance of a hospitality he thought would be rejected. For all his obvious dislike of the priory visitors, however, Eleanor felt a modicum of tolerance, even warmth, exhibited to her.
Indeed, the fare served would be considered too plain for a manor house, Eleanor thought, as she ate what Gytha had put before her. Nonetheless, the flavors of the ale, cheese, and bread when eaten together were wonderful, especially after the flavorless meals she had suffered since her arrival from Amesbury. As to ale, she had rarely drunk it. Her family and those she had been raised with at Amesbury much preferred wine to this very English beverage. After the initial shock of its bitter taste, however, Eleanor found she rather liked it. It was lighter than wine, yet warmed the stomach well, and it suited the nutty bread and the robust, marbled cheese served with it.
She looked up to see Gytha and Brother John studying her with smiles twitching at the corners of their mouths. Turning to Gytha first, she pulled her eyebrows together in a slight frown.
“You were wrong, my child.”
“About what, my lady?” The girl looked worried.
“I must either stop teasing you, Gytha, or you must learn when I am.” She put her hand on the girl’s arm. “Everything is all right. I only meant that you were wrong about the ale. It is delicious. Indeed, whoever brewed this is superior in the craft.”
Brother John pounded the table lightly in evident delight. “My lady, not only is Master Tostig’s cheese famous, so is his ale. The local ale-wives praise his even above their own.”
Wine of Violence Page 14