A Killing Season

Chapter Thirteen

Lady Margaret’s intended feast of hospitality soon became a burdensome thing.

The lute player’s string snapped, cutting his finger and ending the diversion. The ballads had been melancholy, but the music did mask the absence of conversation. Only the shuffling of servants’ feet, the clunk of platters, and an occasional cough now echoed through the Great Hall.

Sir Leonel offered Eleanor a choice slice of cold rabbit.

After a graceful refusal, she looked away. Her prior attraction to him had been swiftly countered with painful sessions as she implored forgiveness on her knees in a damp chapel. Tonight, when she saw he was seated next to her, she was unhappy. His presence had initially rekindled uncomfortable pleasure before the memory of aching knees ended it. Mild annoyance replaced desire, but she was not certain how long that would last.

Her longing for Brother Thomas was difficult enough, but the monk had shown such virtue in women’s company that she doubted any could ever tempt him into bed. She felt safe with him, no matter how wicked her lust. Glancing up at Sir Leonel, she was not as sure about him. She shivered.

“Are you chilled, my lady?”

“A draft,” she replied and said no more.

Instead of pursuing conversation, Leonel grew quiet. Reaching out with his boxwood-handled eating knife, he speared a thigh from the platter and concentrated on tearing the meat into small bits on his trencher.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye and was perplexed that he had so quickly chosen to honor her assumed preference for silence, born of habit from priory meals. More likely he has been infected with the settling gloom, she concluded. All others had been this night.

The gathered company was a small one. Although she was surprised that Raoul had not attended this supper, she took no umbrage. He had been wise to avoid it. As for Umfrey, Brother Thomas told her that the current heir was still cowering in the chapel. Eleanor did not think the cold rabbit enough to tempt him forth. As for the baron, she had learned his habits and expected his absence.

Eleanor stifled a yawn. She had little appetite for food, drink, or even company, but courtesy demanded she remain until Lady Margaret rose. Nuns might be excused for additional prayers; prioresses had secular responsibilities. This was one occasion when she regretted that obligation.

Closing her eyes, she recalled Naaman’s story, a man healed by Elisha. Although he wished it otherwise, Naaman continued to bow before idols because his king, an honorable man, required his support. She sympathized with his grief over not taking the more righteous path as much as she understood his predicament.

A woman’s laugh shattered her reflections. Surprised by the unexpected levity, Eleanor looked up to discover what had amused the Lady Margaret.

Sitting next to the baron’s wife was Sir Hugh. When they first took their seats for supper, the prioress noted that her brother had tried to engage the lady in conversation. Margaret responded then with minimal courtesy, but now he had apparently succeeded in lifting her melancholy mood.

Again, the lady laughed.

Few sisters believe their brothers to be captivating, yet Eleanor had been well entertained on the journey by Hugh. He had become a fine teller of tales after his years in Outremer. With so many adventures behind him, he could draw upon countless stories to inspire wonder, delight, and even terror in his listeners. As she studied Margaret’s face, however, the prioress feared that Hugh had done more than amuse. There was a new sparkle in the lady’s eyes.

Eleanor frowned. Surely Hugh had not meant to seduce the wife of his friend, yet Margaret was responding as if that had been his intent. The lady turned her head to expose the smooth whiteness of her neck. Her face colored a pleasing light pink as she gazed back with half-open eyes at the knight.

This was not the conduct of a virtuous wife. Perhaps the baron’s wife had been trying to seduce Hugh? Eleanor wished she had paid more attention to their conversation.

Sir Leonel muttered something under his breath.

Stealing a look at this nephew, she saw him scowl in disapproval at his aunt and her guest. Eleanor knew she must devise a way to warn her brother against continuing on this dangerous path. Cuckolding a friend was always dishonorable. Doing so after the death of a son was unforgivable.

She could think of nothing to do. Frustrated, she reminded herself that Hugh was no callow youth. He was several years older than she and had fathered at least one child. Sister though she was, Eleanor knew he was handsome enough to attract women into his bed and was probably skilled in the arts of both pleasing and rejecting them.

She shut her eyes and sat back in the chair. May he be wise enough not to pursue the seduction of this one, she prayed, then picked up her short eating knife and pretended to find something on her trencher of interest.

Sir Leonel mumbled an apology, rose, and left the hall.

She watched him stride off. Had she not been worried about Hugh’s behavior, the prioress might have sighed with relief at the man’s departure. Again, she cautiously looked over at her brother and the baron’s wife.

This time the lady sat with her eyes modestly lowered. Hugh was talking to the guest on his other side.

Perhaps she had misjudged what was happening between the two. Assuming lack of virtue based on a moment or mere glance was ill-advised. Eleanor gritted her teeth, chided herself for making rash assumptions, and turned her attention to Sister Anne who was on the other side of Sir Leonel’s vacant chair.

The sub-infirmarian’s head was bent, her eyes half-closed. She coughed.

Seated next to her, Master Gamel looked startled and bent to softly ask a question.

Giving him an equally hushed reply, the nun looked up and, with evident disinterest, studied a group at a lower table.

Had some wizard cast a charm on this place, causing otherwise honorable people to succumb, one after another, to mortal failings? Or was it Satan who was sending his imps with hell-lit torches to enflame lust in them all? Eleanor looked up at the heavy wooden beams across the ceiling as if expecting to see a fork-tailed creature exuding a foul reek. Looking back at Anne, she swiftly made the sign of the cross as her heart began to ache with growing concern.

Although the sub-infirmarian served God honorably, she had confessed to Eleanor how much she missed the comforts of the marriage bed with the man they both now called Brother John. Eleanor knew Anne had not come to the religious life with a profound vocation, but this was the first time she feared that her good friend’s obedience to her vows might be sorely tested.

As she looked at the expression on Master Gamel’s face, both tender and worried, the prioress suspected the man had touched her friend’s heart with his own affection. If so, it was her duty to condemn this, but surely God’s compassion would permit her to be gentle about it-unless, of course, the physician had said or done something to compromise Anne’s virtue.

Eleanor hoped nothing untoward had happened. When the two healers were introduced, both seemed eager to share information. The nun had always welcomed conversation with those who might teach her more of the healing art. On this journey, the pair had ridden together, often lost in dialogue, but in clear view of everyone in the party. The prioress had not seen anything unseemly in this.

Brother Thomas would know best, she thought. Since he had ridden close by the physician and nun for propriety’s sake, he surely would have intervened had he seen or heard anything improper. As another who respected Sister Anne and loved her chastely as a friend, Thomas would never let anything occur that might harm her. Eleanor was equally certain he would have told her in confidence had he felt any doubt.

Stealing another hurried look at Master Gamel, Eleanor now perceived nothing in his expression except a physician’s concern. Maybe he feared the nun was ill and would not admit to it. He raised one hand to his mouth, bit a finger, and carefully studied his quiet companion. His eyes glittered with moisture, but the air was heavy with smoke from burning candles.

Eleanor reached for her goblet and sipped the excellent red wine. I had best cleanse my own heart of sin, she decided, before I start accusing anyone else of lust. It may be that the Devil has so filled my soul with unchaste thoughts that I see the fault in all others.

Another burst of laughter exploded in the hushed room.

Eleanor looked up in time to see Lady Margaret rest her hand on Hugh’s arm. The baron’s wife put her other hand on her breast and let it slip down her body with a caressing gesture.

Hugh sat back, his face flaming red.

That might answer the question of which is seducing the other, Eleanor thought with some relief. Hugh is a frail mortal like us all, she thought, but I am grateful that my brother seems to be resisting the temptation to swyve the baron’s wife.

Then Eleanor’s anger flashed. How dare Lady Margaret try to deceive her with fine declarations of unyielding virtue? Hadn’t this woman proclaimed just yesterday that she had maintained her chastity under the most trying conditions during the baron’s absence? Now that her husband was home, she seemed eager to wallow in another man’s bed and right after her son had died. This was sin beyond imagination.

Or had grief and the rejection of her husband so weakened her resolve that temptation found her an easy prey? Eleanor shook her head in confusion. There might be more to this strange behavior than wickedness, unless, as she feared, her own sins were coloring her observations.

The prioress searched out Brother Thomas at the table to see if he had also witnessed what was happening between her brother and Lady Margaret. Were he as perplexed as she about the interaction between the pair, she would feel more confidence in her conclusions.

But the monk was lost in thought. The food on his trencher remained untouched. His brow creased, he slowly rocked a wine cup back and forth.

Everyone seems bewitched, Eleanor decided. Mortals might be the usual perpetrators of evil in her experience, but she was uncomfortably aware that this occasion could be the exception. Each of them acted as if enchanted by some strange charm: she with lust for Sir Leonel, the lady for Sir Hugh, and perhaps Master Gamel and Sister Anne for each other. Brother Thomas, whose virtue had always been strong enough to withstand the lure of women, appeared to be in a trance.

Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut, but not before the pressure of a throbbing headache begin to build over her left eye. She pressed her fingers against her brow. Not since she was a child and learned of her mother’s death had she felt so vulnerable.