Eleanor found herself looking forward to such an encounter.
Then she saw Brother Beorn coming down the path toward her, the lay brother’s somber expression even darker than usual.
With fresh trepidation, she paused until he reached her side and then granted him the requested permission to speak.
“Baron Otes begs an audience, my lady,” he said. “Shall I send for our sub-prioress to join you in your chambers?”
Chapter Seven
Ralf swatted through the cloud of midges swarming around his head as he walked the path along the stream. Whatever relief he had gained from the swim with Brother Thomas had quickly vanished. Even his sweat now failed to cool him.
“May Satan roast that infernal pig,” he muttered.
A swineherd had claimed one of his sows was missing and insisted someone had stolen it. Although it was not part of a crowner’s official duties, Ralf had agreed to hunt for the beast. After spending too long in the sun searching for that cloven-hoofed lump of lard, he finally found her, joyfully wallowing in a cool patch of mud. The curses Ralf directed at the swineherd might have been hellish enough to increase the day’s heat.
He slapped his cheek. Glancing at his palm, he saw a smear of blood. “I’m at least swift enough,” he said. “Had the damnable thing bitten my brother’s flesh, it might have lived longer.” Wiping his hand on his sleeve, he trudged on.
Ralf had never harbored much fraternal affection for his eldest brother, although he honored him as head of the family and was glad enough Fulke had been the one born first. The man was better suited than he to playing political chess games for worldly gain, an acknowledgment the crowner had no difficulty making.
“And he is usually more honest than our Odo,” he conceded with some reluctance, then kicked at a rock in his way to compensate for the admission. Contempt for their middle brother was one of the few things Ralf and Fulke shared.
When it came to gratitude to the sheriff for arranging his appointment as crowner here, Ralf was of two minds. There was no question that he loved this land, and, before King Henry’s death, Ralf had been allowed to perform his duties with little interference from Fulke, who was pleased not to have to soil his boots with East Anglian mud. After the old king died, the sheriff had begun to meddle, and Ralf was not happy with the change. So far he had been able to cope with it.
He hoped that situation would continue, although he had heard tales enough to trouble him. The new king, Edward, was intolerant of his father’s lax ways in matters of the law. Of course Ralf agreed that corrupt sheriffs should be removed and the rule of law be honored. What he did not like was being told exactly how he should enforce the codes and the precise definition of justice.
Then his thoughts moved on to even less comfortable matters, and he grunted with the sharp pain the memory brought him. The time when his world had shattered and Tyndal village became unbearable had been relegated to dreams. Acknowledging that Fulke had ever shown compassion for him remained an arduous thing. Although he tried to convince himself that it was his sister-in-law alone who forced her husband to show kindness, Ralf was honest enough to admit gratitude was due Fulke even if he kept the moment both unspoken and brief.
“In truth, my cursed brother did take me in,” the crowner growled. Then he spat out a few insects that had flown into his mouth. “His price may have been a land-rich and gloomy marriage, but I got my daughter from it.” What he did not like to think on was that the cost of the babe had been her mother’s life. “The lady deserved a far better husband than this rude man,” he muttered, his heart aching with remorse as it always did when he thought about his dead wife.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he banished the memory even if he was unable to outlaw tears. He stopped, wiped his eyes with his sleeve, and realized he had reached the end of the path.
He was standing at the edge of that land he had gained from his brief marriage. Although mostly hidden from view, the house was not far and he could just see the rooftop above the brush. All this would be his daughter’s one day, and he worked hard to make sure the land brought his beloved Sibely wealth enough by the time she finally reached marriageable age.
Or rather his bailiff and sergeant, Cuthbert, did. Unlike Ralf, that man was far happier farming and overseeing the construction of buildings than he ever was hunting miscreants, which was well enough as far as Ralf was concerned. Other than wayward sows, there were few real crimes to disturb the peace here, even though the reputation of Tyndal’s hospital was attracting many strangers. Some violence was inevitable. Most of the time, Cuthbert could remain happy especially now he had married his beloved lass.
As for happiness, that emotion had been a rare guest in Ralf’s heart before his daughter was born and taught him to laugh and even sing. The latter pleased only Sibely, but he cared not as long as his voice delighted her. Ralf fiercely cherished the time spent with his child. Was his newly discovered peace about to be destroyed by his accursed brother?
When Fulke sent word about this visit to the priory, he had hinted that he had another profitable marriage planned for his youngest brother. The arrival of the sheriff made the crowner feel like an apple about to be invaded by some ravenous worm.
Ralf clenched his fists. He would not agree to this union. He had paid his debt for any kindness his brother had given him. Head lowered, he stomped toward the house like some tormented bull, his humors shifting from choler to melancholy.
Then he heard a woman’s laugh and looked up.
Gytha stood in the doorway, his daughter in her arms. Beside her, the maid was playing peek-a-boo with the child.
His mood brightened, and he ran the rest of the way to the house.
“My little beauty!” Ralf took Sibely into his arms and raised her up so she could touch the sky.
“Any higher and she’ll need wings,” Gytha teased.
“Da!” the child giggled and grabbed at her father’s hair when he lowered her for a kiss.
“You have a guest within, Master Crowner,” the maid said, her voice signifying reluctance at being the bearer of such news.
Ralf looked at Gytha.
“A man who claims to be your eldest brother. I did believe him for his face bore a likeness to yours, although I fear it also bore a most disagreeable expression,” she said in a soft voice. “I brought him enough cider to mellow his ill humor and food as well. Nothing seemed to please him. I hope his arrival does not mean…”
“Trouble?” The crowner scowled. “Aye, I fear he usually brings it.” Hugging his child, Ralf passed her back, with more unwillingness than usual, into the arms of Gytha.
His forehead deeply furrowed, he strode through the door.
Fulke sat on a bench with his feet off the floor. A bowl of small wood strawberries next to a fine cheese lay untouched on the table. He glared at his brother with evident disgust.
In the spirit of that greeting, Ralf scowled back.
“The whore is comely enough for a Saxon, brother, but I had hoped you’d choose a creature of better birth for your leman.”
Flint could not have sparked fire quicker than the time it took for Ralf to wrap his hands around his brother’s throat.
Fulke’s eyes bulged with the need for air, and he impotently swung his fists in defense.
“You bawd!” Ralf roared. “She is Tostig’s sister!”
“Remember Cain and Abel, Master Crowner,” Gytha cried out from the doorway. “Might you not regret killing your brother-someday?”
He shoved Fulke onto the dirt floor, and then wiped his boots on the man as he lay gasping. “Aye, you have the right of it, Mistress Gytha. Were I to murder the badling, I would spend eternity with him in Hell instead of having some hope of Purgatory and a more peaceful torment.”
“You show wisdom in that logic, good sir,” she replied.
“He insulted you. I shall not tolerate it.” Ralf folded his arms and watched his brother’s cheeks fade from a shade much like that of ripe plums
.
“For defending my honor, my lord, I am grateful to you. Remember that God does teach that truth will vanquish all of Satan’s lies in time.” Gytha smiled. “I have stayed overlong in visiting your daughter’s maid and must return to Prioress Eleanor’s service.” With a mischievous wink, Gytha gave the crowner obeisance proper to their difference in rank and disappeared out the door.
Ralf knew he was grinning like a boy.
Fulke had pulled himself back onto the bench and was reaching for a mazer. “Assault on king’s man. Arrest you,” he croaked, rubbing uselessly at the muck on his robe left by his brother’s foot. “Filth. Costly.”
“Honest dirt. More honest than the night soil you roll in at court. As for arresting me, think again about the consequences. You claim that no rational man would ever live in this land. If you did not have me as your crowner, King Edward might insist you take up residence in Tyndal village in my stead.” He looked into the jug and poured his brother some cider. “This is better drink than you deserve.”
With a grimace, Fulke swallowed it and held out the mazer for more.
Ralf drew the jug back. “What did you say or do to Tostig’s sister before I arrived?”
“Little enough.”
“She is Prioress Eleanor’s maid, you pocky boor. If you so much as brushed her robe…”
“A lay sister?” To his credit, Fulke paled.
“Nay, but she was a virgin before you came here.”
“And remains so.”
Ralf poured more into the cup and set the jug down. “Why did you come to trouble me?”
Fulke swallowed with a wince. “Your daughter needs a proper mother. I have a wife for you.”
“To be more precise, you have hatched another plot involving land.”
“Richer ground for farming and located in a place better suited to the raising of sheep. Even your befuddled wits must understand that wool is profitable.”
“What advantage comes to you from this?”
He shrugged. “Did you care the last time I found a suitable wife for you?”
“You do naught unless you benefit. I later learned my wife’s brother sided with you on a scheme that brought you both increased wealth.”
“And did your marriage bring you nothing you value?” Fulke replied, brushing aside his brother’s accusation with a sweep of his hand.
Ralf nodded readily enough as he gestured toward the sound of his daughter’s voice outside.
“Your child, of course,” Fulke said, “and this lovely bit of muck as well, near the village you so adore. All of which, I must remind you, reverts to your daughter and her husband when she comes of an age to marry. I hope you are making use of the income now to buy land for yourself.”
“Any profit is used to improve my daughter’s birthright from her mother. As for me, I earned enough spoils from my days as a mercenary to live on.”
“Live like a wild boar, you mean. You need another wife with land who can bear sons, Ralf, or are your wits so addled that you have forgotten how a man is best served by seeding boys in fertile women?”
“Then do your duty, brother, and leave me alone.”
“My wife has birthed many dead babes and now seems no longer able to bear. Odo has either truly chosen chastity or else hides his bastards. It seems God has cursed our family. Whatever I might prefer in this matter, our very survival lies in your loins. If it makes you happier, I would have chosen the matter to be otherwise.”
Ralf looked away.
“I promise you she is a good woman. You and I may be ill-matched as brothers, but I have never abused you.”
“Not since I grew tall enough to abuse you back.” The crowner gazed at his hands. “Nay, the woman you had me wed was a better creature than I deserved. I do not doubt that this current one is much the same.”
“Then you agree?” Fulke’s eyes widened with delight.
“I refuse.” Ralf stood up and walked to the door, closing it firmly.
“Surely you have not become besotted, once again, with Anne, the physician’s daughter…”
“…who married John and took vows with him at Tyndal Priory? Nay.” He leaned his back against the door.
“Then what objection could you possibly have for rejecting a profitable alliance which also brings your child a mother?”
“My reason is simple enough. When I agreed to your first marriage arrangement, I was indebted to you for finding me a place at court when I needed refuge. That debt has been repaid, and now I have no reason to agree to another of your schemes. Should I choose to marry again, I shall do as I please. If God wishes our family to thrive and grants sons of my body, they will come from a wife of my choosing.”
“Not from here!” With a look of horror, Fulke gestured at the ground as if he expected a barely human creature to spring from the dust. “Surely you jest? You must have met someone suitable in Norwich,” he added hopefully. “If so, let me speak with her family.”
Ralf shook his head.
“You cannot wed beneath your rank. Third son though you may be, you are still my brother. Since I am head of this family, you are obligated to obey me, and I will not allow you to wed without my approval!”
“Think again, sweet brother. The little I inherited at our father’s death, I gave over to you when I left England. What I own in my name alone, I earned from the sharpness of my sword, if not my wits. As for obligation, I wed once at your behest and you did profit well enough methinks. If there is anything owed between us, you are the debtor, not I.”
Fulke fell silent and stared warily at the crowner. “What do you think I owe you, brother?”
“My silence,” Ralf replied, his lips twisting into a thin smile.
Chapter Eight
“Sir Hugh saw our party off and sends his greetings, my lady.”
With a gracious smile, Eleanor conveyed her appreciation of the baron’s message, although she was surprised to hear her eldest brother had returned to court so quickly. Their father had included nothing about this when he last sent news, saying only that Hugh had safely arrived in England not long after the king.
The ruddy-faced Otes now turned his attention to the sub-prioress, honoring her with a flash of his widely spaced teeth. “And I had the pleasure of a brief word with your brother before I left the king’s side.”
Sister Ruth blushed.
Seeing her adversary turn bashful over a common civility amused Eleanor, although she acknowledged that this response was mildly sinful, unquestionably uncharitable, and ought to be dismissed with stern resolve. Her effort was not as swift as virtue required.
Now that formal courtesies had been observed, the prioress hoped to learn what profit the baron expected to gain from this meeting. She assumed she would not have to wait long to discover it.
“My lady, I am a man burdened with my sins.”
An honest enough beginning, she noted in silence, for the baron had more than his share of faults. Inclining her head, she wisely kept her own counsel and politely suggested that all earthly creatures were flawed.
“I fear my soul shall be found unworthy when God calls me to Him.”
Most likely the Devil, Eleanor thought, and then quickly moderated her unkindness with a firm reminder that God always forgave the truly repentant. Men often found their hearts filled with remorse for wicked deeds when they felt their souls striving to escape over-ripened flesh. Although she had no quarrel with this, she chose to be like the good sailor, who wisely suspects that coastal fog hides treacherous rocks, and remained wary of the man’s expressed atonement.
“I came on this journey with a twofold purpose.”
And so the circling of his real prey grows tighter, the prioress concluded with a nod of encouragement.
“When Queen Eleanor asked me to travel her proposed pilgrimage route, I agreed at once, knowing she values my opinion most highly.” His sigh conveyed the immense responsibility such a regal appeal entailed. “When I first learned she had inc
luded a stay at Tyndal, I was quite perplexed until I did realize that this remote priory could be a proper destination for a pilgrim, even one of her rank.”
There is less honey than sour wine in those phrases, the prioress thought.
“I began to hear talk of its saintly infirmarian and an anchoress as well. Now I have learned that you have a blessed hermit nearby.”
Eleanor lowered her gaze, hoping to convey modesty while praying she could hide her anger at such thin courtesy and poor flattery. Not that more skillful praise would have fooled her, even though clever phrasing did entertain, but the baron had offended with his insufficiently veiled disdain. Even if she set her own pride aside, a prioress represented the Queen of Heaven in the Order of Fontevraud, and Eleanor would not so easily dismiss the insult to her office. She chose to counter the offence with a cautious and suitable response. Raising her head, she graced him a look of contrived benevolence to match his false smile.
He had misjudged more than the sharpness of her wits. Although King Edward and his queen favored other Orders, the king’s ancestors had always looked fondly on their Angevin Order, and many were buried in the mother house of Fontevraud Abbey. The king would be displeased should he learn of any insult given to one of its prioresses, and the baron might discover that his alleged status in court had diminished when he returned.
Baron Otes was a fool.
She patiently awaited the full revelation of his intent.
“With so many signs of holiness at Tyndal, I saw possible merit if I offered your priory some gift in return for the nuns’ prayers after my death.” He put a hand to his breast. “As you must know, I am a man whom God has favored with worldly riches.”
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