Covenant With Hell

Chapter Nine

After visiting the one shrine, Eleanor chose to return to the priory gardens rather than continue on to other holy places for contemplation.

Restless, she paced along the paths, ignoring the decaying plants, blackened by winter frost, and the paucity of emerging green tendrils. The bleakness suited her mood. It was not the rudeness of the prioress here that gnawed at her. It was the dark image of a child condemned by Father Vincent as if she had no right to a decent meal or a gently cleansed soul.

Only with great effort could she swallow her anger over the cruelty to the little vagrant and not go in outrage to Prioress Ursell. This was not her priory, she kept reminding herself, but that argument failed to win her heart. Like Brother Thomas, she was determined to do something for the child. And despite her profound longing to concentrate on her penance here, the soul of the nun, whose suspicious death was being ignored, begged for justice with compelling urgency.

“My lady!”

Fearing another tragedy had occurred, Eleanor froze and looked over her shoulder with foreboding.

Mistress Emelyne stood just behind her, hands fluttering like uneasy birds hesitant to land. But her eyes sparkled with unmistakable eagerness.

The prioress tried hard to disguise her annoyance. She wanted to be alone and resolve her dilemmas. Looking down at her fingers, Eleanor decided she had too few on which to count her conflicting priorities.

“How fortunate that I have discovered you here!”

With forced benevolence, she flashed a smile at this pert widow and swallowed her impatience. Anyone on pilgrimage should not succumb to even the pettiest of transgressions, she reminded herself, and tried to cast aside this unseemly intolerance. The attempt was short-lived. Eleanor could feign only so much virtue without committing the greater sin of hypocrisy.

“I have heard such amazing tales!” The widow raised her hands as if awed by the immensity of what she had learned.

The prioress shut her eyes. On the brief journey here, this woman had tried to amuse her with innumerable stories of misdeeds, great and trifling, committed by the widow’s neighbors in Norwich. Eleanor had often bitten her tongue, resisting the temptation to chastise Mistress Emelyne for bringing worldly matters on a pilgrimage intended to escape them.

Normally a decisive woman, she was therefore puzzled when she could not choose between ordering the woman to be silent or letting her talk. Concluding now that the former was based in arrogance, a sin she feared she owned, she once more chose the latter as a lesser evil.

“To what could you possibly refer?” She began to walk briskly down the path, hoping her clipped speech lacked the warmth of encouragement. With God’s kindness, the widow might take the hint and leave her in peace.

Mistress Emelyne broke into a trot, just keeping pace by the prioress’ side. “To the death of Sister Roysia,” she puffed. “Have you not heard the news?”

Eleanor avoided the temptation to lie and had to agree that she knew. Why was God testing her with so many forms of sin?

The widow bent as close to her companion’s ear as she could and murmured, “She was seeing her lover in the bell tower. Everyone knew she met him there.”

Stopping abruptly, Eleanor stared at the woman in astonishment. This time, her reaction was genuine.

“Oh, I may be a stranger here, my lady, but my late husband always said that the wise must keep ears open for any news. One never knows when there may be value in it.” Her expression grew suitably solemn. “Of course I would never spread this tale to others, but you are a woman devoted to God. Telling you can be no sin.”

That was a new concept to Eleanor, but she did not want to discourage this important confidence. She was eager to hear what Mistress Emelyne had to say, yet still feared the woman would think she welcomed such stories. Deciding the widow was inclined to believe she welcomed them no matter what she did, the prioress told her conscience that any virtue in rejecting gossip had long been lost.

“Surely this is but idle tale-telling on the part of the unkind,” the prioress said. Realizing her tone suggested censure, she quickly smiled to prove her interest in learning more.

“I heard it from several sources as I wandered through the shops today.” Emelyne took a deep breath, girding herself for a longer exposition. “It grieved most that Sister Roysia had been bringing such shame to her priory.” For a moment she hesitated, studying the prioress’ face for any clue that she had taken offense. “From the way the story was told, I believed that the tellers were God-fearing and well-meaning folk.”

“How could Prioress Ursell knowingly tolerate a nun in her flock to remain unchaste and unrepentant?” Eleanor returned the steady gaze.

“As I heard the story, she could do little about it.”

Eleanor raised an eyebrow. This conversation was proving to be very interesting.

“The nun’s lover may be Master Larcher, a man who contributes to the priory income by making pilgrimage badges sold by Ryehill. Without the income from his work, the priory would become impoverished beyond any hope of recovery.” With a troubled expression, she lowered her voice and confessed, “I did buy one.”

“May be is not proof of anything.” Eleanor scowled. Prioress Ursell had the right to punish Sister Roysia’s unchaste behavior, and the craftsman should fear Hell for coupling with a nun. If anything, Master Larcher ought to donate badges to the priory as penance for his terrible wickedness.

“Or,” the widow continued as if the prioress had said nothing, “her lover is the priest, Father Vincent.” She bowed her head. “The priest’s name was spoken in a whisper, my lady, but both men were mentioned with equal certainty.”

Eleanor stiffened, then calmed herself. When two rumors are of equal weight, the likelihood is that neither is accurate, she thought. Yet these stories proved that Prioress Ursell’s fear of scandal had greater cause than she and Brother Thomas first thought. If there was a lover, this detail would also add strength to Brother Thomas’ suspicion that Sister Roysia’s death was not accidental and that someone was with the nun in the tower.

“You seem perplexed, my lady. Had you heard none of this, apart from the death?”

“I would not have heard that much if Brother Thomas had not found the nun’s corpse under the bell tower. It was he who alerted Father Vincent, and the priest took the news to Prioress Ursell.”

Mistress Emelyne’s face glowed with delight.

Presumably he was happy at the prospect of being able to add a detail to the gossip already spreading, Eleanor thought. She regretted abetting the widow like this, but the information given would soon be learned by others anyway. Surely Prioress Ursell would have no justification for outrage at this confirmation of a harmless fact.

The widow’s expression became solemn, and her lips lost all suggestion of worldly merriment. “But we are here for a higher purpose, are we not? And I should refrain from prattling on about mortal frailties.”

Eleanor was surprised by the sudden change. Trying not to betray this, she nodded gravely. “We should.”

The widow sighed and put a hand to her heart as if suffering profound remorse. “Will you join me in a walk to the healing wells on the great priory’s grounds? Have you visited them already? If so, perhaps you would like to visit the chapel containing the knuckle bone of St. Peter?”

Eleanor admitted she had not seen either.

“If I could see the miraculous wells at your side, I would be honored.” Mistress Emelyne motioned hopefully toward the door leading into the priory. “According to what I have heard from other pilgrims, the wells are noted for curing stomach ailments, an affliction from which I suffer, but drinking the chill water helps those suffering headaches as well. I wanted to buy a small container of the water to take back to Norwich.”

Finding no good excuse to avoid this woman’s company, Eleanor agreed. Perhaps a sip of the blessed water would cure her headaches. Sister Anne’s feverfew remedy had helped for a long time, but the headaches were growing more virulent. Last summer they had caused her to see something that many called a vision. For her, the story had become a curse, not a blessing, and had been one reason for traveling here to the shrines of Our Lady of Walsingham.

“I’ve been told that the wells are perfectly round and always filled with pure water, even when the earth becomes dry,” the widow said, her voice rising with fervor. “It was Our Lady of Walsingham who struck the ground and brought the water forth! Of course, nothing earthly could…”

But Eleanor had ceased listening. Following Mistress Emelyne out of the gardens, she prepared herself for the holy sites by reflecting on the goodness of the Queen of Heaven. Before all thoughts moved heavenward, however, Eleanor concluded she had been wise to suffer one more tale from the irritating widow. The information was important and must be passed on to Brother Thomas.