A Killing Season

Chapter Five

Prioress Eleanor stood in the doorway of Lady Margaret’s chambers.

The shutters had been opened for light, letting in the brisk sea air, and a fire crackled in the small fireplace. Although the burning wood struggled valiantly, it only just succeeded in blunting the chill. As for the welcomed light, that was a pallid guest.

“Please,” Lady Margaret said and, with courtesy, invited her visitor to a place near the hearth. “There is Ypocras to drink for warmth and health.” While the white-haired servant heated the proffered mulled wine, Herbert’s wife fell silent and turned with an absent gaze to the window.

The lady has a hardened face, Eleanor decided as she accepted the cup. A sparkling glance or merry laugh might have softened the sharp bones and hollow cheeks, thin nose and narrow mouth, but there was no evidence that joy was common, at least not in recent times.

Yet the high forehead, silken skin, and blue eyes suggested Lady Margaret had once possessed beauty enough. Eleanor wondered when it had vanished. As Sister Beatrice once told her, youth wraps most young women with beguiling loveliness, which then flees after the first babe is born. Since Lady Margaret had borne her husband many sons, the allure must have faded only with the baron’s departure for Outremer. Try as she might, Eleanor could not name any by-blows sired by him, at least none known in England.

Eleanor winced at the injustice of her observation. The day after a son’s sudden death was not the time to seek joy or beauty in any mother’s face. Grief equally scarred hearts and brows with scouring ash. Recalling Raoul’s callous indifference to his brother’s death, the prioress found herself relieved that sorrow had at least touched the mother.

Lady Margaret turned back to face her guest, her eyes unfocused. She blinked as if surprised to see this stranger so near, then cleared her throat with embarrassment. “Forgive my discourtesy. I was distracted.”

The aged maid offered her mistress a cup of mulled wine. The lady accepted it, cradled the cup in her hands, and stared at the steaming liquid as if demanding the drink dispel her living nightmare. When it surely refused, her brow furrowed.

“Our arrival was sadly ill-timed,” Eleanor said. “If speaking of your grief would bring ease, my ears are your servants. I bear God’s comfort.”

Shutting her eyes, the lady bit her lips as she fought against emotion, but tears defied her will.

The prioress bowed her head in sympathy and waited for Margaret to speak.

“Then tell me the reason God has chosen to curse me. I bore all my sons in agony. That is a woman’s affliction, and I never complained of it. Instead, I rejoiced that I had given my husband so many strong boys. Most women are not so fortunate.”

Eleanor nodded and sipped her wine.

“Why now must I watch my sons die? God burdens me with more pain than Eve ever suffered, and she committed the greatest sin.” Margaret raised her reddened eyes and stared at the wood-beamed ceiling.

Eleanor said nothing, knowing the lady was not finished.

“Our five sons stood at my side when my lord knelt at the bishop’s feet and took the cross.” She gestured toward the chamber window. “We stood on those very walls and watched him ride away with his banners and his knights, proud to precede the Lord Edward in Outremer.”

Eleanor glanced at the elderly maid and noted a glimmer of sympathy before the woman quickly turned away. If this aged one has served the baron’s wife for many years, the prioress thought, the Lady Margaret may be a kind mistress who inspires affection. Now quite dismayed by her initial, unsympathetic impression, her heart softened with greater compassion.

“When our eldest died of a fever, the priest reminded me that one child’s death was an expected sorrow, more were common enough. At least we had had joy of him until he was old enough to take on a man’s burdens, the man of God said.” Her lips curled with contempt. “Must this bring us comfort, even happiness?”

Eleanor bit her lip and refused to concur with such icy consolation as the baron’s wife seemed to expect from her. Instead, she tilted her head in a gesture of commiseration.

“After much prayer, I softened my stubborn despair, although the memory of my boy refuses to fade.” She shot a glance at the prioress. Her look now held more anguish than ire. “Is that my sin? Does God punish me for refusing to rejoice in my lad’s release from wicked mortal flesh?”

“If God marks the fall of a sparrow, He surely mourns the death of any mother’s child.” Eleanor grieved that a woman might conclude that God deemed her maternal sorrow to be without reason.

The baron’s wife blinked, then her lips twisted with renewed bitterness. “When my husband arrived home, four sons still greeted him.”

Hearing the pitch of the woman’s voice rise, Eleanor was alarmed at the force of her enmity.

Lady Margaret spun around and threw her cup of Ypocras against the rough wall. The metal clanged in discordant protest. Splattered wine painted the stones crimson.

As if Death had just entered the room, Eleanor trembled.

The servant bent to retrieve the cup, then fell to her knees and took a cloth to the dark puddles of liquid.

Covering her eyes, Margaret gasped for breath. “Forgive me, Prioress Eleanor! I have never before railed against God, even while my lord fought the Infidel and I endured bitter chastity in an icy bed. When my eldest died, I did not curse Him but learned to pray that my son would find favor amongst the angels. I may be a flawed and sinful woman, but neither am I more wicked than others of my sex.”

Eleanor murmured sympathy, words she knew to be inadequate in the face of so much pain.

“I came to my lord with an unbroken maidenhead, bore sons, and sated my lust only with my husband. Tell me where I have sinned so grievously that I deserve more anguish than any mother ought to suffer!”

“Remember the story of Job, whom God first blessed above all other men and then burdened with more curses than any shameless sinner. This man also suffered the death of all his children. Afterward, God touched his flesh until there was not a spot on his body where a festering boil did not weep. Yet Job cursed God not and was rewarded with even greater wealth and more children for his faith.”

“Job was a saint,” Margaret hissed. “And his wife remained fruitful and bore other children because he slept with her. My sons are dying. My lord refuses to share our marriage bed. Now my courses begin to fail me.” She turned away. “Our old midwife says this is a sure sign that my womb grows barren and shall soon fail to provide the nourishment needed for a man’s seed.” A thick tear wove a torturous route down her cheek. “She has given me fennel but…”

“Are you not still blessed with two living sons?”

Raising her eyes heavenward, Margaret began to wail.

Eleanor wished she could have taken back what she had just said. Walking to the weeping mother, she laid a comforting arm on hers. “My words were thoughtless but not meant to be unkind. There is no child’s death that does not cut away part of a mother’s heart.”

“Our former priest said I must forget the dead ones.” Margaret spat out this advice as if the words were made of wormwood. “My firstborn had time to confess before he died, but the soul of my Roger may be in Hell. He drowned without making peace with God. Had that priest been alive yesterday, he would have claimed the same fate for my Gervase, blaming him for his own death.”

“In Hell? Surely not with a priest in residence to urge him to frequent confession!” The full meaning of Margaret’s words about Gervase now struck Eleanor. She stepped back in shock. “Do you believe your son’s death yesterday was a deliberate act of self-murder?” She looked at Margaret’s face.

The lady turned away.

Eleanor shivered and reached down to retrieve her drink. The warmth of the Ypocras had dissipated, and she set the cup back on the table. “What has led you to think that the fall was no accident?” she whispered.

Beginning to shake uncontrollably, the baron’s wife said, “Your priest may have rescued my son’s soul. He tried.”

Eleanor urged Margaret to sit, then gestured for the servant to reheat the wine with the poker near the fire.

The earthy smell of cloves mixed with sweet cinnamon filled the air.

Taking the cup herself, the prioress put it into the lady’s hands and braced them so the mother could sip. “Drink a bit more,” Eleanor said and waited until natural color had returned to Margaret’s face.

“I was there,” the lady whispered.

Eleanor ached with compassion.

“My husband’s nephew was with me. Leonel and I stood in the corridor just outside this room, looking out the window. Since we knew your party was expected to arrive before nightfall, we wished to greet you below as soon as you rode up.”

And why was the baron not with his wife, waiting for their guests to arrive? The question flashed in her mind, despite the tension of this moment, and Eleanor was perplexed. It was a strange discourtesy from a man who had asked such a great favor from them all.

“My son called to us from the stairwell. We watched him approach.” Margaret put a hand over her heart, her widened eyes signifying she was reliving the event. “He staggered, laughed and shouted nonsense, as if he had drunk too deeply of wine.”

“Was this common with your son?”

“Boys, learning to be men, often do, but my son was neither very temperate nor too fond of unwatered wine. To see him drunk that early in the day was a surprise. Leonel was as shocked as I and whispered that he would take his cousin off to bed before he disgraced himself. He swore he would discover the cause for this behavior.”

“Your nephew is close to his cousins?”

“He has lived with us for many years. He was like an elder brother to my sons and was well-loved by them before he left for Outremer with my lord. If anyone could have persuaded my son to sleep off his indulgence before exposing himself to ridicule, it was Leonel. His heart is as kind as his manner is firm.”

“So your nephew went to your son…”

“He called out, telling Gervase that he must show manliness, that even angels would be angered if he failed to do so. My son replied that he had sworn an oath and would honor it, then slid onto the bench of the window seat. Leonel turned to ask me if I knew what his cousin meant, thinking my son had promised me something. When he did, my son leaned out of the window. He spread his arms and shouted that God had made men masters over birds. He would fly with the mews. Leonel and I stared at him in confusion, then my boy went head first out of the window. I screamed.”

Eleanor knelt by Margaret and took the forgotten cup from her hands.

“As my son fell, I saw his face from the window where I stood. For an instant, he was joyful, then understood he was falling to his death. He screamed for help. I reached out. Leonel dragged me back, fearing I would leap after my boy. The last thing I remember is Gervase’s horrible shriek…”

Margaret grasped the prioress’ hands with a painful grip.

Pulling the woman into her arms, Eleanor whispered words of comfort she knew were not heard. Perhaps it mattered not what she said as long as the sound of her voice silenced the memory of the son’s howl as he plummeted downward, knowing his body must shatter on the unyielding earth below.

“He did not mean it! He did not,” Margaret cried out.

Surely Gervase did not intend to kill himself, Eleanor thought, but there was something wrong about what had happened. If the young man did not make a habit of drinking too much, why had he chosen this time to get drunk? She knew that mothers were often willfully unaware of their sons’ vices. Perhaps the lady suffered this loving blindness. It was a question best answered by someone else who knew the habits of these family members and owned a clearer eye.

In any case, too much wine might cause men to do foolish things, but rarely did it make a man believe he had been gifted with impossible flight. And what oath had the son sworn? Was that pertinent to his actions or were his words meaningless babble? There were too many oddities for her to set aside. Eleanor grew increasingly puzzled.

For now, her duty lay in giving what comfort she could. Later she would speak with her brother. Perhaps he knew more that would settle her uneasy questions. Barring that, the baron’s plea for help might contain a detail that would explain why this family had been so burdened with this much tragedy.