Chambers of Death (5 page)

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 real 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?

Yet he had sensed no particular evil in Huet, either last night or this morning. Indeed, Huet had joined the servants with a humility uncommon in those of higher station. Many monks were rarely as modest, and imps most definitely never.

And Huet was a good storyteller, with many interesting tales about his travels. What pleased Thomas most, however, was the man’s singing voice. He had amused them well with songs he had learned along the route, especially during his stay in Arras. The subject of the songs had been worldly love, but that did not matter to Thomas and most certainly not to Hilda, who alternately clutched her heart and wept joyfully over the lovers’ trials in the romance of Aucassin and Nicolette.

Later, after the hearth fire had been banked and the company left to find sheltered corners and another body for warmth enough to sleep until sunrise, the cook had made a bed for Thomas near the hot ashes, then wrapped herself in a blanket and was soon snoring on the bench. It was just as the monk was also drifting off to sleep that Huet slipped into the kitchen and knelt by Thomas.

“May I share this space with you, Brother? The fleas in the hall are fierce,” he had whispered. “I have brought a thick blanket large enough to wrap around us both. It will keep the draft away.”

Another time Thomas might have rejected the offer, fearing even the innocent touch of another man, but tonight he was too weary from the hard journey to protest when Huet wrapped the two of them securely together inside the soft wool. Despite any misgivings, Thomas soon fell into the most peaceful sleep he had had since his days in London, and, for once, he suffered no dreams.

When he awoke the next morning, Thomas knew he had slept through at least two Offices. Huet was still snoring as the monk slipped out of his embrace.

I am not the only laggard, he thought with gentle amusement, looking down on the steward’s younger son. Then he tenderly tucked the blanket closer around the sleeper so the young man would not suffer any chill.

Now Thomas caught himself singing, at least in muted voice, a very earthy chanson heard from the steward’s son last night. He already owed penance for his failure to observe the Offices, but this quite secular expression only added to his failings. God might well understand that he meant nothing by this choice of song beyond an expression of his current happiness, but Thomas decided he had best follow the example of Saint Benedict and find some physical labor to do for swift atonement.

Thus he turned toward the stable. Being fond of the four-legged beasts, he would offer to tend the horses and especially his prioress’ donkey.

As he hurried alongside the manor house, he was assailed by a rank odor and, looking down, saw the arched hole in the wall. “The night soil from the garderobe needs removal,” he muttered and put a hand over his nose. In the heat of summer, flies and the stink would be unavoidably foul enough, but the recent bad weather had clearly prevented adequate cleaning. “At least the latrines at Tyndal drain into a fast-running stream,” he muttered, grateful that their superior design prevented these problems.

The stench so distracted him that he did not hear the commotion until he rounded the corner.

There were several horsemen near the courtyard gate.

Thomas tensed. Was something amiss? He stopped to watch.

Near the stone steps leading to the manor house door, a manservant helped an older man dismount from his horse.

“Dearest husband, you are safely returned,” a female voice cried out.

Thomas looked in her direction and saw a brightly robed young woman, arms wide, approaching the man. Was this Huet’s father?

“Wife,” the man replied. His flat tone and perfunctory embrace conveyed no enthusiasm.

The monk watched the steward lean on the woman and limp toward the manor door. Had they not addressed each other, he might have concluded that they were neither kin nor close friends, for all the affection either showed the other. Aye, she had embraced him, Thomas thought, but the gesture was cold, nothing more than a formal greeting. Nor had the steward shown any especial joy at her greeting, and his arm around her shoulders seemed placed there solely to give his stiff joints ease.

“Ah, but none of this is my concern,” Thomas muttered, and turned away. At least his offer of help in the stables would surely be greeted with relief, considering the number of horses needing care. He smiled at the prospect of hard labor.

***

When Thomas walked into the high-roofed, timbered structure, he saw a tall man leaning on his pitchfork and staring at a donkey as if the beast had just sprouted a horn in the middle of its gray forehead.

“That is Adam,” the monk said. “The creature belongs to Prioress Eleanor.”

“Eve rides Adam?” The man spun around, his mouth twisted into a lewd grin, and then realized he had addressed his jest to the wrong man. “A monk? Where did you come from?”

“Not from the Garden of Eden,” Thomas replied. “Were it otherwise, I would have failed to understand your insult to my prioress.”

“I intended no evil, Brother.”

From the man’s obvious embarrassment, Thomas decided he did mean little by his ill-mannered words and had merely spoken without thinking. He nodded acceptance of the apology. “I came to see if you needed extra hands to help with these horses.”

“You accompanied the prioress who arrived in the storm last night?”

“Aye.”

“Monks may have callused knees but rarely work-hardened hands.”

Thomas grinned and stretched out his hand, palm up. “Mine may have softened in the last several weeks, but they will soon harden again with familiar work.”

The man squinted at the monk’s hand, then shook his head with some surprise. “I’m Tobye, groom to the steward and his family.”

“Brother Thomas of the Order of Fontevraud.”

“What can you do? Surely you didn’t come here to muck out horse shit. If I can catch any of the younger boys, I make them do it.” Tobye looked around. All lads had vanished.

Thomas rolled up his sleeves and looked around for another pitchfork. Now that the groom was standing straight, the monk realized how huge he was. Thomas himself was bigger than most men, and well-muscled enough, but this fellow had broader shoulders and was taller by some inches. He was grateful his vocation demanded the avoidance of violence for this was one man he would not wish to fight.

The man shrugged, found the extra tool leaning against the wall, and handed it to the monk. “Does your prioress truly ride that worthless creature?”

“She’s a little woman.” Thomas led the insulted beast to an empty stall nearby and returned to pitch fouled straw into a mound outside the donkey’s allotted space.

“Are you are such a poor Order that she cannot afford even a sway-backed nag?”

Adam brayed loudly.

Tobye glared at the perpetrator.

“Our prioress refuses to ride a horse. If you are a good judge of the beasts, look over there.” He pointed to the sleek creature in a nearby stall. “As you can see, I am but a simple monk, but that is the horse I rode on our journey.”

The groom shook his head in amazement, then bent to his task as well.

The two worked in silence until the stalls were cleaned and fresh straw put down for the priory mounts, including Adam the donkey.

“I don’t understand,” Tobye muttered.

“What troubles you?”

“I know of no convent on this road, certainly not one that could afford to have its priest ride that fine horse.”

“Have you heard of Tyndal Priory? It is close to Norwich.”

He blinked. “That sounds like the monastery where Master Stevyn’s first wife went when she fell ill. Although the lay brothers had no cure, the mistress praised the tonic they gave her to ease pain.”

“We have a hospital at Tyndal. Prioress Eleanor is the leader there.”

“A convent of nuns then?”

“Our Order is a double house…”

“With a woman in charge?”

“The mother house is in Anjou, and our founder…”

“French.” Tobye spat.

“The Order is much favored by those who rule England.”

The man blinked. “And you are mucking out a stable? What vile sins have you committed? I can think of no other reason than penance for this work.”

“Many men, who dedicate themselves to God, do respect the vows taken.”

Tobye jabbed the fork tines several times into the earth to clean them. “My tongue has a keener edge to it than is wise for a man of my low status. I beg pardon for any offense, Brother.”

Thomas grinned. “Candor is a trait I may value, but I gather you have made enemies with it?”

“Not so much for that, Brother.” He winked.

Opting to ignore the lewd inference, Thomas turned down his sleeves and put up the pitchfork. “As long as you do not offend your master.”

Tobye fell silent, his face darkening.

“A good master?” Thomas asked, sensing the change in the man’s mood.

“As good as some,” was the enigmatic reply.

“I am a guest here and did not mean to pry.”

The groom shrugged. “Your help was welcome, Brother, but I won’t count on it tomorrow. Surely your prioress will have need of her priest.”

The monk was confused by the rude dismissal but decided to let the matter be and quickly left the stable.

Watching Thomas walk away, the groom’s eyes narrowed. When the monk had disappeared around the stone wall of the manor, Tobye spat into the mud.

Chapter Nine

“My lady!”

Startled by the screech, rather akin in volume and pitch to the cries of mating cats, Eleanor spun around.

Mistress Constance stood but a few feet behind, her fists knotted against her chest, and her expression suggestive of either rapture or apoplexy.

Taking a deep breath, the prioress willed herself to remain calm and nodded. Speech, she decided, might be ill-advised considering her dislike of the woman.

“Mistress Constance. Wife of Master Stevyn’s eldest son, Ranulf. When you first arrived, I met you at the door…”

Eleanor took pity and interrupted the gasping recitation. “I remember you well, Mistress.” An honest enough statement, she thought, and continued in the same innocuous vein. “The shelter we were offered was an act of mercy. I shall not forget the kindness.”

“Ah!”

How sad, the prioress thought, as compassion now demanded entry to her heart. This woman might be wearisome, but she also lacked all joy, even in her faith. When mortals faltered with decaying age, terror over their sins often shimmered in their gaze, but surely Mistress Constance was only a few years older than Eleanor herself. Did merriment never dance in those eyes or laughter soften the angular features of her face? Faith might demand a healthy fear of doing evil to others, but, when Jesus turned water into wine at Cana wedding feast, he had shown that God allowed joy to reign equally in moral souls.

Joy? Now that she thought more on it, she realized that she had heard no child’s laughter in the manor house. Perhaps this woman’s sallow face and nervous manner were born of barrenness—or the death of too many babes, let alone so many other possible sorrows. A more gentle charity might be due this poor creature, Eleanor thought, and struggled to banish her annoyance. “We are well-met, Mistress. I seek the steward’s wife. Perhaps you might direct me to her?”

The woman waved a hand in front of her face as if a plague of flies had just descended. “Mistress Luce could be anywhere, my lady. Like many youthful creatures, she has little patience with duty and often lacks firm purpose. Fortunately, she has me to direct the servants in the work God made them to do.” She pointed her nose upward, a feature that matched her chin in sharpness. “As you must know yourself, servants are like children. They require close supervision if they are to do their duty and not steal the plate.”

Eleanor shut her eyes. Her charitable resolve now began a determined retreat. “I defer to your superior knowledge.”

Constance had the grace to blush.

“Taking on such arduous duty is most praiseworthy, Mistress, and I am aware that our unexpected arrival has added to your already significant burden,” Eleanor continued, biting her lip to remind herself that a civil tone was required. “As you surely understand, however, I owe due courtesy to the mistress of this manor, Master Stevyn’s wife.”

Mistress Constance nodded, then must have realized how propitious an opportunity this was to talk further with the Prioress of Tyndal. Her face brightened. “I shall help you find her!” she said, and gestured for the prioress to follow.

As the woman took Eleanor to several places where Mistress Luce might be found, Constance chattered breathlessly about her own many duties, before explaining in yet more detail why the mistress of the manor was rarely at any of locations visited.

After seeing the linen storage, buttery, kitchen, and even where furs were kept in the garderobe to keep them safe from moths, Eleanor had had enough and found a way to extricate herself. Taking advantage of a momentary intake of breath, Eleanor quickly thanked Constance for her trouble and hurried away, climbing the steps to the solar and the room where Mariota lay. It was there she actually found Mistress Luce, in the company of Mistress Maud.

***

When she pushed open the wooden door, however, both women cried out, alarmed by the unexpected arrival.

Maud was the first to bow her head in greeting when she saw the prioress. Luce remained rigidly still, face pale and eyes narrowed as if resentful over the intrusion.

What have I interrupted? Eleanor asked herself, noticing the pallor in each woman’s face.

Maud begged leave from the prioress to depart, then disappeared without any word to Mistress Luce.

Walking to the edge of the bed, Eleanor decided the wisest course would be to ignore any tension between the two women. “How does the patient fare?” she asked mildly.

Mistress Luce raised her eyebrows as if surprised at the question, then followed the prioress to the bedside.

Mariota still lay on her back, eyes shut, covers tucked up around her chin. When Eleanor touched her forehead, however, she realized the fever had eased. “God be praised!” she whispered. “She is better.”

“The widow does have some skill with the sick,” Luce replied, her tone mocking. “Moreover, she has decided which of my servants should sit by this girl’s side when you need respite.”

The prioress stepped back and silently studied Master Stevyn’s wife.

Luce’s expression was both defiant and scornful. Her lips twisted into a thin smile.

Although Mistress Constance had described this woman as a young and flighty creature, Eleanor saw only anger, perhaps resentment, but no immature petulance. In addition, Mistress Luce was as possessed of as much passion as Ranulf’s wife was devoid of it. “I am happy to have found you, Mistress,” she said aloud. “Expression of my gratitude for your charity is long overdue. I fear our arrival has settled a great burden on your household.”

“I had little to do with giving you shelter, my lady. My daughter-in-law may have been of service, although she usually succeeds only when others with greater ability grow impatient with her incompetence and do the tasks themselves. The woman who just left often forgets her place here, but she is probably more worthy of your thanks. As mistress of this manor, however, I must take the blame when things go ill, so perhaps I should take credit as well in balance.” There was no warmth and little grace in her smile. “You are most welcome to our poor hospitality until your charge is strong enough to travel. My husband would have it no other way.”

Eleanor replied with due courtesy, all the while amazed at how different Mistress Constance and Mistress Luce were. If she had cause to wonder at the rigidity and lack of any joy in Mistress Constance, she was equally surprised at Mistress Luce’s angry soul—and the dangerous passion she had shown for a man not her husband.

Was Master Stevyn such a brutish spouse that resentment had bloomed like gangrene in her heart? Was she truly deficient in her duties, as Ranulf’s wife had suggested? Was she so ruled by lust that she let others, like Mistress Maud, take over what she herself should do? And why allow an outsider, a physician’s widow, perform a wife’s duties and not some longtime servant? Yet this adulterous wife did not strike Eleanor as a frivolous or even a lazy woman. Her wiry, albeit short, stature almost vibrated with energy.

She realized she had remained silent for too long. “I will add you to our prayers for this profound generosity,” the prioress said aloud. Although she questioned much in this manor, Eleanor knew she would have to quiet her curiosity since neither the health nor the safety of her charges was at stake.

“Such repayment will be sufficient. We have no need for more. My husband manages this land quite profitably, and the Earl of Lincoln shows his pleasure in useful ways,” Luce replied. “Now I must attend my husband who is resting after his arduous journey home.” With that, she turned abruptly and left the room.

Perhaps she had no cause to pry into Mistress Luce’s soul, but Eleanor could not resist following her quietly and peeking around the door to see which direction the steward’s wife had taken.

After the woman disappeared down the steps, Eleanor went to the window and waited until she saw Luce in the courtyard below, walking toward the stable. Unless Master Stevyn had chosen to nap amongst his horses, his wife was probably going to meet her lover.