The Proud Sinner

by Priscilla Royal

  “Is he?” Eleanor whispered to Anne. “He seems too weak.”

  “Last night, he began to vomit and suffered diarrhea. His servant ran to the hospital to seek aid. We were able to stop those ailments, but the abbot’s pallor is now tinged with a yellow cast. I believe he is growing worse, but he chose to ignore my fears, saying he must travel on.” Her expression was sad. “As soon as one of his problems improves, another takes its place.”

  “What has caused this illness?” Eleanor was watching Tristram’s listless progress to the horse held for him to mount. The death of the first abbot yesterday and the current illness of the second were disturbing coincidences, even though each man had exhibited different symptoms. This might not be a common plague, yet the situation concerned her.

  “The signs point to food poisoning, but the root vegetable and chicken stew was given to everyone last night, including our own religious. No one else is ill, and Sister Matilda does not tolerate carelessness in her kitchen.”

  “But the kitchen serving the guest quarters is new. Our dear sister cannot oversee it as she is accustomed to doing for the priory meals. The meal may have had the same ingredients, but the preparation might have been different.”

  “Supper was prepared under Sister Matilda’s eye. When she learned of the abbots’ arrival, she had another old chicken killed and found more onions, turnips, and parsnips to add from our stores so there would be enough for the entire party. This stew was cooked in the original kitchen, then brought over to the new one. The only thing done there was to heat it all again so it would be hot for the guests.”

  Eleanor frowned. “You are certain that none of the other abbots got sick?”

  “None. I am convinced that Abbot Tristram is not suffering from anything rotten in the stew that he ate.”

  Eleanor shared her sub-infirmarian’s frustration. If blame were due, she would take the responsibility on herself. As prioress, it was her duty to guarantee the comfort and safety of any guests to which Tyndal offered the grace of hospitality.

  Looking over her shoulder, she saw Abbot Odo talking with Prior Andrew. It was evident from the words she overheard that they were discussing how to prepare Abbot Ilbert’s corpse so it could be sent back to his abbey for burial. Odo seemed to have strong opinions on the matter for his face was red while her prior looked like a chastened boy.

  She sighed and glanced again toward the entry gate. Still no crowner was in sight. What a mismatched trio of brothers, she thought. The eldest was sheriff here but spent all his time at court. He and Ralf looked alike, but their natures lacked any kinship. The only outward resemblance the abbot bore to his brothers was that smile which mirrored Ralf’s.

  Yet Odo did share other traits with Ralf, Eleanor thought, and some of those mutual qualities might have fueled the intense dislike each felt for the other. Despite her brief acquaintance with the rotund abbot, she had learned that neither was a patient man, both held strong opinions, and each viewed the vocation chosen by the other with contempt. They also shared a passion for food. At least Ralf led an active life and had a wife who learned from Sister Anne that moderation in eating and drinking was important to health. Odo, on the other hand, had clearly never embraced moderation when it came to the pleasures of the table.

  A horse neighed with impatience. Another snorted in agreement.

  Slow moving though Odo was due to his impressive weight, there was nothing sluggish about his wits, Eleanor thought, and, like the younger brother he loathed, the abbot’s eyes never stopped moving lest he miss some important or useful detail. Ralf might condemn his brother for hypocrisy, arrogance, and rampant ambition, but Eleanor suspected that one dismissed the Abbot of Caldwell at one’s peril, a fact equally true of the rough-hewn crowner.

  Whether or not Ralf did come in time to see his brother, Abbot Odo would be leaving soon, the prioress decided with relief. He was a man who might be easily offended and was not an enemy she cared to have.

  A squeal of pain ended all her musing, and she spun around to see the cause.

  Two men were holding Abbot Tristram, who had failed to mount his horse and was doubled over with unmistakable agony.

  Sister Anne hurried to his side, calling for the assistance of the hospital lay brothers who had remained nearby.

  Odo turned his attention away from the prior to the commotion and folded his arms into his sleeves. His expression was inscrutable.

  “He should either mount his horse or remain behind,” Abbot Ancell muttered. “Daylight flees, and we must reach Norwich before Satan’s hour arrives.”

  Odo walked over to the sick abbot, laid a surprisingly gentle hand on his shoulder, and spoke quietly to him.

  Tristram was visibly trembling.

  Odo then looked at Sister Anne and asked a question.

  Knowing her sub-infirmarian well, Eleanor assumed she was telling the Abbot of Caldwell that his brother in faith was not able to sit on a horse nor was he well enough to continue on this journey, even if he were carried in a litter.

  The hospital brothers were awaiting instructions. At the sub-infirmarian’s direction, they carried the ailing abbot away, supporting his weight between them.

  Tristram offered no protest.

  Odo faced the other abbots and called out for their attention. “We have a choice. Our beloved brother, Abbot Tristram, is unable to ride. He is in much pain, and this good sister says he should stay here until the weather and his health allow him to travel.” He stopped to look each abbot in the eye. “We can linger here until our brother heals or we can travel on to Norwich without him. What is your decision?”

  “Abbot Tristram is surrounded by many prayers at Tyndal. If we remained, our few would mean little more to God, especially since they can be offered as effectively on the road,” Gifre said. “I am ready to leave before darkness falls. Another night in an inn would be insufferable.” His horse briefly pawed the ground with approval.

  “We dare not offend the legate who waits for us in Norwich. Rome would not be pleased if we failed to answer his call.” Abbot Mordredus signaled for assistance in mounting his horse.

  Odo waited for the other abbots to speak. When none did, he muttered about the likelihood that a papal legate might have secured a haunch of venison from the king to serve them and looked about for men to lift him into the saddle.

  Didier and Ancell glanced at each other, nodded agreement, and started toward their horses.

  “We shall leave Abbot Tristram in your care and travel on,” Odo said to Sister Anne. “On our journey back…” The Abbot of Caldwell turned to the prioress, but his eyes grew large and his words froze in his mouth before they could be uttered.

  Eleanor became aware that someone stood behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Ralf had arrived with Brother Thomas by his side.

  “We came through the mill gate,” the monk murmured.

  Ralf strode toward Odo and did not stop until he stood only a foot away from the bulge of his brother’s stomach. Gazing with pointed interest at the paunch, the crowner chuckled. “Dear brother in flesh and sin! What a joy to see you in such abundant health!”

  Odo stepped back as if the Devil had just opened his arms to embrace him with terrifying fondness.

  “I see the typically austere abbey life suits you well.”

  “And you still bear the scars of your wickedness,” Odo hissed, “along with your usual stench of hellfire’s smoke.”

  “These scars and my sword paid for your position at Caldwell, my increasingly weighty brother, or does your deliberate forgetfulness of my largesse mean that the padded cushion, used to protect your knees from cold stone floors during prayer, needs replacing?” He raised his hand as if swearing an oath. “Never fear. I shall pay for another. Heaven forbid that your knees should suffer.”

  “When I am a bishop, you will regret your impiety and lack of
respect for a man of God. Fear the bell, book, and candle, Ralf.”

  “Tell that to Fulke and see if he agrees with your threat. I keep the family name honorable in East Anglia so our eldest brother can keep his position, rank, and increase his wealth under a king who demands honesty, not empty phrases. If our eldest loses influence and the family loses honor, where will you be? Certainly not a bishop and possibly not an abbot of anything.”

  “Although I am a loyal subject of the king, God has my ultimate allegiance. I trust in His protection no matter what you and Fulke do.”

  Ralf spat near his brother’s feet.

  “Blasphemous wretch! We are going to Norwich to meet with the special papal legate. You may worship the talents the world admires, but my proven skills in promoting the faith, and improving adherence by all believers in tithing and other worthy gifts to the Church, will win me that bishopric.” Realizing others might hear him, Odo quickly bowed his head and steepled his hands. “But only if God finds my service acceptable, for I am one of His lowliest servants. My greatest desire is to gain wisdom in our faith before any advancement.” His tone was almost believably meek.

  Ralf snorted.

  Eleanor glanced at Sister Anne. “So their journey to Norwich was not just about their longing to assure the Pope that he had their financial support for the preached crusade,” she whispered. “That was the tale told to Prior Andrew.”

  “We should have known better,” the sub-infirmarian replied, her eyes sparkling with humor.

  Ralf slapped his brother on his shoulder. “Well said, Odo, and God has granted your prayers for wisdom. He has decided you need time for reflection in this holy place of faith.” He watched with evident pleasure as his brother’s eyes started to blaze with ire, then flickered with puzzlement. “Perhaps it was due to your mewling prayers that He has decided you must stay longer at Tyndal Priory. The legate, it seems, must wait in Norwich without your company, or else find others nearby who will impress him with their devotion to the crusading cause.”

  “How dare you speak of holy places of faith and reflection, venomous liegeman of Satan?” Odo roared, brushing his shoulder as if cleansing it of Hell’s ash. But as he studied his brother’s face more closely, he asked in a quieter tone, “We must stay here? Why?”

  “Yes, sweet brother, you must remain in the priory guest quarters, unless you wish to mingle with the wicked at the local inn or raise tents and bed down in a nearby snow-filled forest. I have just received word that the road to Norwich is impassable. The last snow and high winds further on have buried it in deep drifts. A bridge has collapsed from the weight. No one can walk or ride through to your desired destination.”

  Eleanor may not have been any more pleased with this news than Odo or his fellow abbots, but she quickly stepped forward to offer hospitality. “The quarters will be prepared for your longer stay,” she said, “and the adjacent kitchen staffed to prepare hot meals for your comfort until you are able to travel on.”

  To Odo’s credit, the abbot thanked the prioress for her charity and failed to voice any allegation that his hated brother was lying about the condition of the road just to thwart him. But his expression, as he gave Ralf one last glance, suggested that the strength of his rage might cause even Satan to tremble.

  Chapter Five

  Gracia warmed the mulled cider with an iron heated in the crackling fire. The scent of ginger, cinnamon, and cloves softened the air and raised the spirits of those assembled in Prioress Eleanor’s chambers.

  Ralf, very pleased with himself after spoiling his brother’s plans to meet with the man from Rome, was recounting his verbal jousting with Odo. “He has always been insufferable,” he laughed. “A little pricking momentarily stops him from trying to elbow aside a few angels and assuming a place closer to God than he deserves.”

  Sister Anne and Brother Thomas smiled.

  “Your brother should be grateful you warned him before he left and became stranded in the forest at nightfall.” Eleanor was amused, but she noted that her other two friends had been quiet and their usual enjoyment of the crowner’s wit was muted.

  “He is fat enough to survive a night in the snow,” Ralf replied, “and he most likely has a good supply of fine wine with him as well. My brother has never lacked for ways to produce a fine meal.”

  Eleanor shook her head. “I doubt he liked the one he and the other abbots were given last night. We were not prepared for special guests, and they had to eat what we were served.”

  Ralf grunted. “Tyndal Priory is one of the few monasteries that actually follows the Benedictine Rule on diet. That is one of the many reasons I respect your leadership, my lady. At Caldwell Abbey, my brother insists that meat be served daily, except during Lent.” He drank his cider and sighed with content over the fragrant warmth. “My brother hates Lent, although he would never admit it.”

  “I, too, am glad you warned him about the fallen bridge and blocked road,” Sister Anne said. “Two sick men, one dead, is enough tragedy.”

  “One has died of those two?” The crowner looked at Brother Thomas.

  The monk blinked as if his thoughts had taken him a long distance away. “I failed to mention that the one died. Abbot Ilbert’s illness brought the party here, but he was so unwell he died shortly after arrival.”

  “Ilbert? I’ve heard tales of him,” the crowner grunted. “He loved to beat his monks when they offended him and claimed his edicts were God’s law, so disobedience was akin to heresy.”

  “Ralf!” Sister Anne shook an admonishing finger at her former suitor and now beloved friend. “You are accusing the abbot of terrible transgressions. No man is the same as God, and such pride would qualify as one of the seven deadliest sins.”

  “I doubt God cares if one small weed is not pulled in the abbey vegetable garden, yet Ilbert whipped a lay brother for missing it.” He looked sheepish. “Forgive me, Annie. Despite my brother’s opinion of me, my dear wife is laboring to change me into a less impious man.”

  She chuckled. “I will acknowledge that Gytha has made a little progress. A saint could do no better.”

  “Yet I still cannot abide men who claim to have God’s ear while sinning grievously against the intent of His commandments.” Leaning back with a more serious look, he took a deep breath. “From what did Abbot Ilbert die?”

  “That is what troubles me,” Sister Anne said. “I do not know. His symptoms could have been caused by any number of illnesses. Although I do not pretend to have perfect knowledge, and God does not always enlighten me to the cause of mortal ills, I am familiar enough with the usual ailments.”

  “You have greater skill than most who treat illness.” Eleanor reached over and patted her friend’s arm. “Do not condemn yourself for this one death you could not understand.”

  “The convulsions were strange, as were the dilated eyes.” The sub-infirmarian continued in a troubled voice. “After the abbot’s death, I even asked his servant if his master suffered from the falling sickness. I only thought of that because of the convulsions. None of the other symptoms matched what I have observed in others suffering the condition. I was told he did not. As for pain, Abbot Ilbert did not complain of it except on the day he died. The combination of the quick onset and specific symptoms does not point to anything I know well.”

  Thomas leaned forward. “What about Abbot Tristram? Do his symptoms match the early ones suffered by Abbot Ilbert?”

  “Not that I have discovered.”

  “Is Abbot Tristram in danger of dying?” The monk’s expression was grave.

  Anne hesitated. “No more than we all are, or so I hope. He is comfortable. His abdominal pains have lessened, and his vomiting and diarrhea have ceased. He is weak, and his face is a yellow color. That last symptom worries me, but he could heal. Since a man may not wish to tell a woman about many complaints, I have sent a lay brother to ask Abbot Tristram’
s servant further questions. If God wills it, we may yet discover that the abbot has a recognizable illness.”

  “Do not trouble yourself too much, Annie. If these men are like my brother, they all suffer from self-indulgence. Odo’s fat will one day suffocate him.”

  “Both Abbot Ilbert and Abbot Tristram are lean men, Ralf. They show no signs that they have feasted with regularity at a bountiful abbatial table.” Sister Anne may have meant to jest, but her sharply expressed reply betrayed her uneasiness.

  Eleanor was watching Brother Thomas who had retreated back into a pensive mood. “You seem most deep in thought, Brother. I would hear what you have to say.”

  “I share Sister Anne’s concern, my lady. If this is some strange new plague attacking our land, the death of Abbot Ilbert and illness of Abbot Tristram are important to evaluate. If not, why have two abbots fallen ill, at least one fatally, within such a short period of time? Does this plague have different manifestations? Has Abbot Tristram sickened with another illness, or is there a third cause which we have yet to discover?”

  “It is winter,” Ralf said. “They are not young men, and making a journey in the cold is one most men of sense and of all ages avoid for reasons of health and safety.”

  “They were summoned to Norwich by the special papal legate. Would you refuse to obey the king’s command if he ordered you to come to him today?” Sister Anne’s tone suggested a rare impatience with the crowner.

  “King Edward would not do so unless the reason was a dire one.”

  “Nor would the papal legate,” Eleanor said. “As I have heard the story, his visit with the king took longer than hoped, and winter stranded him on our shores. The need to recover Jerusalem is a pressing one and a sacred cause. Since the legate cannot return to Rome, is he not right to call on those men of influence to confer on the best way to successfully preach the crusade and gather the funds needed for the effort?”

  Eleanor saw Ralf’s eyes flash and quickly changed the subject back to the discomfort Brother Thomas and Sister Anne felt over the oddity of the illnesses. She did not want to enter into an unwinnable and fraught debate with the crowner, nor was she in the mood to admit to her friend that this visit was darkly stained with the abbots’ ambition.