Eleanor bowed her head. Although the gesture spoke of respect to her aunt, it succeeded in hiding her troubled expression.
"It is a task that should be started soon," the novice mistress declared, rising with evident stiffness from the table. "Now, I fear, I must go to our infirmarian for something to give me some ease. I am an old woman whose joints ache more than I would wish, and I need something to help me sleep."
"It shall be done." Eleanor rose as well, kissed her aunt, and watched in silence as she limped away.
Suddenly, Anne leapt up and turned to Eleanor. "I might have a remedy for your aunt.
"Go to her then." Eleanor gestured toward the disappearing nun. "Quickly!"
"Sister," Anne called out, running after the elder nun. "We have found something at Tyndal that has proven successful.
When the two tall nuns were far enough from Eleanor to speak without being overheard, Sister Anne asked, "Do you think she is strong enough to handle this matter?"
Beatrice nodded. "My niece has ever been one to gain strength from a challenge. Did you not see pink return to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes? She even ate more than has been her wont. This task may be just the medicine she needs, and it is an easy enough one with your Brother Thomas doing the work of investigating. If I had thought otherwise, I would not have whined so about my trifling duties and aged joints. Now return before she suspects we are conspiring!"
But when Anne reentered the room and Eleanor greeted her with one eyebrow arched, the sub-infirmarian of Tyndal knew full well that she and the novice mistress had utterly failed to deceive.
Chapter Four
With that supple grace common to youth, sixteen-year-old Alys spun on the heel of her soft leather shoe and marched precisely five steps away from her mother. "I cannot accept this, and I shall not." Despite her resolute tone, her eyes were moist when she turned to face the woman she loved but longed to disobey.
The tumult in the daughter's heart was lost on her mother. Mistress Jhone, widow of a local woolmonger, was glowering instead at a round young man standing nearby.
Bernard, a maker of gloves, shifted uneasily and lowered his very pink face.
Turning her glare from him, Jhone now cast the full force of her disapproval upon her daughter. "A child's duty is to obey her parent: honor thy father and thy mother. I did not create that law. It comes from God Himself!" Although the mother's face was wan, her robe of rough brown russet suggested that her widowhood was recent and a disobedient daughter was not the sole reason for her pallor.
The young man stepped closer to the wall, glanced upward, and squeezed his eyes shut as if in rapt concentration. Although the glover could have been praying for protection against possible flying objects, he might have been thanking God as well, for the two women seemed to have quickly forgotten his presence.
"A duty in which you must be quite conversant, Mother," replied Alys. Her voice projected a determined gentleness, but the clenched fist she pressed to her breast hinted that her meaning was less than docile. "Sadly my grandparents died before my birth, but I must assume, from your certainty in this, that you did marry as your parents demanded." She breathed in deeply as if taking in courage, then asked: "Can you claim to have been happy in your obedience?"
Bernard nervously cleared his throat. If he meant to remind them that another was in the room, someone who should not hear this quarrel, his effort was wasted.
"You choose to remember your father only when he was…" Jhone closed her eyes and sucked in her lips if willing some unwelcome thought away. "Your father may have been ill-tempered from time to time." Her voice quivered. "The strain of running a successful business is hard on a man." This, she spoke with firmness.
Alys gave her a look that was both disbelieving and disdainful.
"Yet he was a worthy man, provided well for us, and loved you as much as I, even though you have now willfully decided to forget that." The mother's mouth trembled with suppressed emotion, and she absently brushed one thin hand over her abdomen. "Cruel daughter that you are, I am still grateful that God allowed at least one of the children your father gave me to live."
With sympathetic courtesy Bernard nodded, a gesture that the elder woman noted and acknowledged with a distracted smile.
Alys was also now gazing on the glover, but her look was not disinterested. Instead, it had a particular warmth to it, the meaning of which did not much please Jhone.
The widow loudly cleared her throat.
"Well and good, Mother, if that is what you believe," the daughter said, tearing her eyes away from the young glover with evident regret. "A child does owe obedience to her parent, but surely our obligation to God ranks higher? If you will not allow me to marry as my heart wishes, please permit me to join this Order of Fontevraud. Although I am sure Master Herbert is a most honorable man, I regretfully find marriage with him somewhat less than agreeable. I would rather leave the world and spend my life praying for your soul-and that of my father." The girl folded her arms. A soldier could not have had a straighter back.
"Surely there is a third way…" The young man reached out as if pleading for at least one of the women to listen.
Alys waved at him to remain silent. "I would not be the first in the family to ask this, Mother. You have told me that your parents were willing to let your elder sister take holy vows instead of entering a marriage she did not want." Certain that she had presented an unassailable argument, she smiled with satisfaction.
Jhone's eyes widened with horror. "Need I remind you, however, that my sister never took those vows but instead wed Wulfstan, a man of whom they most heartily disapproved? Had they been stricter, she would have vowed herself to a successful merchant and led a comfortable life instead of what she has suffered!" Her eyes glazed briefly, and she spoke the next words with a sweet but pleading tone. "Is it so wrong to want you settled into a prosperous marriage? May I not look forward to grandchildren? These wishes are not sins."
"I would agree, but only if I become Bernard's wife." Alys' face flushed as she looked back at her beloved whose face quickly matched her rosy color. "Why do you object to our marriage? We adore each other so."
Jhone's pale face turned a rough and angry red. "This is a matter for private discussion!" she growled, staring at the glover as if he had just walked in on this conversation unbidden.
Master Bernard bowed with nervous grace. "I will take my leave most willingly…"
"Nay, you shall not!" Alys barked, then beamed at him with love. She turned to her mother. "I can think of no reason why he and I should not marry. Since he has asked most courteously for my hand, he has the right to hear from you in plain speech why his suit is unacceptable and Master Herbert's so persuasive."
"Later might be best. I can return when…" Bernard edged toward the door.
Jhone's back stiffened. Although her lips twisted into a chill smile, disdain burned hot in her dark-rimmed eyes. "My disobedient daughter may have chosen to forget that it was her father's last wish that she marry Master Herbert, but I have not. Of course I must follow my dead husband's direction. Surely you can understand my obligation as a proper wife in this matter, Master Bernard?"
The glover nodded quickly, then glanced at Alys with silent apology.
She turned her head away as if he had just denounced her.
"Were my husband still alive, Master Glover, he might have explained that your youth and failure to show great success in your own trade were strong arguments against your suit. My dead husband's wool venture was profitable, and my daughter's husband must not only assume this undertaking but build on it. Neither you nor Master Herbert is knowledgeable about wool. That is true, but my husband left a trusted man to help run the business until a sound tradesman can take over the management of it and learn what is needed. This requires a man who has proven he knows how to manage a profitable enterprise. You clearly lack this experience. Master Herbert, on the other hand, has proven his skills in his vintner trade."
"This boy makes gloves!” Jhone shouted with evident exasperation. "Master Herbert is a wine merchant with vineyards in Gascony. He has gained respect amongst merchants beyond our shores and could improve on what your father began with the contacts he has made." She waved at the young man as if he were so insubstantial that her gesture would make him disappear.
"What is wrong with gloves?" Alys protested.
"May I explain…" Bernard began.
"Fa!" Jhone spat, doggedly pursuing her argument with this daughter who remained so illogically enamored of something other than a secure living. "A glover and his family will starve the first time crops turn black from drought and no one can buy such pretty trifles. Wine and wool are things we all must have. Not only does Master Herbert have the more secure business and better connections, he is of more mature years." She put her hands on her hips. "Must I remind you that he provided well for the wants and fancies of a prior wife?"
"We can all drink beer and wear homespun cloth if bad times come." The girl's voice dripped with contempt. "I would rather a man whose hands are as soft as his gloves than one with horny, old paws. Marry him yourself, mother, if you like him all that well!"
Jhone leapt forward and slapped her daughter, then stared with horror at the red mark her fingers had left on her only child's cheek.
Bernard put his hand behind him against the wall and moved toward the door. Quickly he looked over his shoulder. The door was shut. He closed his eyes.
Tears streamed out of Alys' eyes, and she fell to her knees in front of her mother. "I beg your forgiveness! Can we not make peace in this matter? I want to be your most dutiful daughter, but I yearn just as much to become Bernard's wife."
Jhone clutched her hands tightly under her breasts, a gesture that might have suggested grace and dignity if the knuckles on her fingers had not been quite so white. "You must obey me, child."
Alys shook her head as she rose to her feet.
The mother now turned a beseeching gaze on the young man. "And you, Master Bernard? Surely you understand my obligation in this matter. Will you not show charity and support this poor widow by withdrawing your plea? I have no quarrel with you other than this unwise suit."
His eyes shifted away from hers.
"If you hesitate to do this," she continued softly, "I beg that you ask yourself if you would not make the same decision as I must for a much beloved daughter."
"We would not demand such a terrible sacrifice from any child of ours!" Alys cried out before Bernard could reply.
Jhone stamped her foot in outrage. "You shall marry Master Herbert!"
"Before you drag me to his bed, I will enter Amesbury Priory as a novice!" Alys pounded her fist on a nearby chair.
As the two women glared at each other with equal obstinacy, the now forgotten Bernard, maker of soft gloves, leaned against the hard wall and silently prayed for peace.
Chapter Five
Wulfstan was an angry man. Had he been less so, he might have felt pain as he stomped along the path to the river, jolting his aging joints as his feet pounded the earth with the force of his just resentment.
"I did see the ghost," he muttered. When he reported this earlier in the day, Sister Beatrice should have listened with both courtesy and respect. Had he not proven to her over the years that he was a reliable man? Instead, her frowning silence had proclaimed her utter disbelief.
Wulfstan snorted. How dare the nun so casually dismiss what he had seen? He was no woman, prone to irrational fantasies and likely to faint if a shadow took on some writhing shape. He had, most certainly he had, seen the ghost.
He shivered. The evening was chill. Now he began to feel the pain in his knees and shins as well. "Fa! This is the priory's fault," he growled, and spat on the damp earth.
Maybe that difficult wife of his would at least have a hot stew ready when he got home. Last night, after the fright the ghost had given him, as it would any mortal man, he had sought ease from her body; but his wife had pushed him off, whining that her courses had come and she would have none of his urges for at least six days.
Or so she claimed. Wulfstan shook his head, his mouth imitating a peevish look. "I will not be humiliated by bearing a red-haired child so the village can mock us for sinful intercourse," he muttered in high-pitched imitation of his reluctant spouse.
Grumbling to himself, he remembered when she could not have enough of his urges, but after the birth of their sixth, she had found far too many excuses to deny him his rights as husband. Tonight he should demand his marriage debt. If he recalled correctly, and he was sure he did, her courses had come quite recently. She must have been lying last night. Women did that, or so his father had told him.
He shivered again but trudged on. From the sound of the Avon, he had reached the part of the path that passed close to the river bank. As he looked up, he could see a few specks of light from Amesbury Priory. Aye, he was getting closer to home. There had better be a warm hearth waiting for him, Wulfstan thought sullenly, or else he would administer a beating to someone for cert. He rubbed a hand under his dripping nose.
With sudden apprehension, he saw how near he was to the place he had seen the ghost. Quietly, he cursed the stubborn pride that had sent him back along this path where the spirit had appeared to him. Last night the phantom may have turned away from him, disappearing into the mist and rushes without causing him harm, but the memory of her black form made him uneasy. Perchance the first sighting had been but a warning. The second time, might she not carry him off to Hell?
Wulfstan quickened his step.
Without a doubt, monks had warm enough hearths, he said to himself, attempting with small success to turn his thoughts away from specters. Not much better than women, they were, groveling on their knees and weeping over their sins to God while others sweated on the land so they could eat. Yet that was not enough for some! He knew about those who had slipped through the hole in the wall to warm their little cocks in the dark chambers of whores. "No wonder Queen Elfrida has returned from Purgatory," he muttered.
He shook his head with indignation. "So why should her spirit trouble me?" he growled, his breath gray against the growing dark. He, Wulfstan, had done her no harm. She should haunt the monks that had lengthened her time in Purgatory when they chose lust over prayer.
The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He looked around. Nay, it was not yet dark enough for ghosts to be fluttering about, troubling the likes of the honest living. Nevertheless, he could not stop shaking, and his temper began to cool in the darkening light.
Maybe he had no wish to swyve that wife of his tonight after all, he thought. He did not want any red-haired child either, and she had been a good woman to him in so many ways over the years. Briefly he smiled. Aye, she always made sure one of the children put wood on for a fire, and she would have a hot meal waiting for him. And, if he mentioned the ache he had, she would even rub his shoulders with that balm…
A movement on his left caught his eye.
He stopped.
A tall, black figure stood by the priory wall.
Monks! Even with the wall repaired, this one had discovered a way to get through. He cursed. Once more the inn would gain from the ale the man drank to dull his guilt before he found soft breasts to fondle.
The figure remained motionless, watching him.
Wulfstan glared.
The dark and hooded shape glided toward him.
"Off to play at thrusting like a gelded goat," Wulfstan said in a low growl, then raised his voice. "Others might stay silent, but I shall go to Sister Beatrice about this!"
The figure halted in front of him.
Wulfstan stepped back
. "What were you doing…?"
The first burst of pain was unbearable, but Death came with compassionate speed.
Chapter Six
The cresset lamps in the prioress' chambers flickered unevenly and cast moving shadows on the faces of the four monastics.
Prioress Eleanor was seated. The others remained standing.
"I'm told you have a talent for clever investigations, Brother," Sister Beatrice said. Soft though her words may have been to the ear, her piercing gaze sharpened their meaning.
Thomas lowered his eyes, but this had nothing to do with modesty. The novice mistress reminded him of the cook who had raised him, a woman who could read everything in a boy's soul, including those secrets left unformed by word or image. The man began to sweat.
The silence lasted a heartbeat too long. Mercifully, his prioress broke it. "Brother Thomas is humble," she said, her voice tender as the May air. "I shall respect that virtue and confirm myself what you have heard. Not only has his pursuit of justice been of great value to my priory, but it saved our family's honor…" She began to cough, bending forward with the force of it.
How thin she is, Thomas thought, watching Eleanor gasp for breath. As he saw the quick glances now passing between sub-infirmarian and novice mistress, the monk knew they shared his concern that this once energetic young woman was still so wan and frail.
When the prioress' fever had spiked to dangerous heights just after Twelfth Night, Sister Anne had remained by her bedside, sending him orders for herbs and potions. Dark-eyed with worry and ashen with fatigue herself, Anne confided her worst fears when he delivered the medicines to the nuns' cloister door. Then Eleanor's fever broke at last, and Tyndal's religious offered grateful prayers that their respected leader had spurned Death's skeletal hand.
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