Covenant With Hell

Chapter Five

“My lady.”

Prioress Eleanor struggled to remain within that sweet embrace of sleep. She was about to hear something important, an answer she desperately needed to learn.

“Please, my lady, awaken!”

Why did this rude and annoying voice not cease? She opened her mouth to protest, but no sound came forth.

A hand gently shook her shoulder.

Her dream fled like a stag before a hunter and with it all hope for the peace of revelation.

Feeling a bitter cold, she reached for her blanket, but the covering she grasped was thin and rough. When she sought the comforting softness of her orange cat, he was missing from his usual spot on her bed.

All was not as it should be. The chill was now joined by ill-defined foreboding. Apprehension dragged her with merciless persistence toward raw consciousness.

“You must awaken.” The voice spoke close to her ear, its sound both familiar and troubling.

Eleanor opened her eyes.

The gray light revealed bare stone walls. The beloved tapestry that hung in front of her bed was missing; the air was heavy with damp. Taking a deep breath, she winced at the pervasive reek of unwashed bodies. Had she drifted into a cruel nightmare? This was not her chamber at Tyndal Priory. She rubbed her fingers to bring back feeling.

“You must rise.”

The woman kneeling next to her looked more like a wraith in the dull light than anything earthbound, but Eleanor recognized her as mortal. She was a fellow pilgrim, a merchant’s widow called Mistress Emelyne, who shared this room and their straw pallet. As part of her penance, Eleanor had rejected the offer of chambers suited to her rank and instead asked to stay in the quarters assigned to women of lower status. In this moment, that choice felt very austere indeed.

“Is it time again for prayer?” The prioress was sure she had just fallen asleep, but perhaps the journey from Tyndal had wearied her more than she realized. Or else this damp cold had sapped her strength. What weak faith I own, she thought, if these minor discomforts are greater than I can bear.

“It is not, my lady.” The woman nervously wrung her hands together and bowed her head. “Prioress Ursell has summoned you.”

Eleanor blinked in confusion. What cause had Ryehill’s prioress to ask for her at such a strange hour? Had a dire tragedy struck Tyndal? Her sub-prioress would never beg her to come back for anything less.

She struggled to rise, but every part of her ached. When she finally stood, she bit her lip but could not prevent a small cry of pain. The soles of her feet felt as if they had been beaten raw. What a fool she had been.

Insisting on this thin straw mat laid over a stone floor might have been acceptable as atonement for her sins, but walking bare-footed along the pilgrim’s road for that last mile had been imprudent. Penitential humility often masked pride. Now she feared she had fallen victim to the vice. In any case, she was too soft a creature to have removed her shoes and walked that far over the rutted, stone-littered road. Meant as a singular act of piety, she had only confirmed her foolishness.

Reaching out to brace herself against the wall, she implored God to forgive her for the luxuries she allowed herself in her own priory. And if this absolution was not too much to ask, she also begged Him to accept her pain as atonement.

Now she grimly attempted to ignore her tender feet. The effort was more than she could manage, and tears rolled down her cheeks.

The widow braced Eleanor’s elbow to help her stay upright. “Shall I bring some shoes for you, my lady? I own a soft pair that might fit.” Glancing down at her own feet, she added, “We are much the same size.”

The offer was kind, but the prioress did not welcome the charity. Gritting her teeth, she brusquely refused the offer, then the woman’s assistance in walking, and stubbornly limped toward the chest provided by the nuns for those pilgrims who had worldly possessions to store.

As she reached the chest, she bent over and braced her hands against it for support. “Pride,” she muttered. “Pride is sin.” A hand lightly grasped her shoulder. Annoyed, the prioress looked around, sharp words ready to punish such impertinence.

“Forgive me, my lady, but I anticipated your wishes and found the ones you had brought.” The merchant’s widow pointed to a pair of shoes on the ground. “I do have others that might be softer. Yours are sturdy, meant for mud or snow.”

Eleanor closed her eyes in defeat, murmured gratitude, and sat down on the chest. One of her feet had left a bloody mark on the floor.

The merchant’s widow knelt and wrapped the wounded foot in a white cloth before easing on the shoes.

Eleanor looked around. The only other person in the room was another pilgrim who lay snoring in the far corner, her child clutched in her arms. Other straw beds were empty. No one stood waiting, and the chamber door was shut. “Did Prioress Ursell send a messenger, Mistress Emelyne?”

“She sent one of her nuns, but I told her to wait outside while I awakened you. I feared a strange voice would alarm you, and mine is familiar from our travels together.”

“You were kind to think of that.” The prioress struggled to rise, then reluctantly accepted the widow’s proffered hand until she was able to stand without support.

She was not unappreciative of the woman’s thoughtfulness, nor had she taken for granted the compassion the widow had shown by helping her on with the shoes. But Eleanor had had more than she wished of the woman’s companionship on the road from Tyndal. As ungrateful as it seemed to her now, she still found the widow’s company annoying.

I am just out of sorts, Eleanor decided on swift reflection, and taking my ill humor out on a good woman. Wincing with the pain from her abused feet, the prioress forced a grimace into a stiff smile. “Now, Mistress Emelyne, if you will call the nun to me?”

Nodding, the widow walked to the door. As she swung it open, the ill-fitting wooden slats creaked ominously on rusting hinges. Peering around the corner, Mistress Emelyne waved at a hidden figure in the hall.

The hollow cheeks of the young woman who entered were paler than the weak light would explain. When she saw the prioress of Tyndal, she bowed with courtesy. “Prioress Ursell requests your presence in her chambers, my lady,” she stammered. “Your monk waits there as well.”

“Brother Thomas?” Eleanor willed herself to walk with stiff-legged dignity toward the nun. “Has disturbing news come from Tyndal?”

The nun’s eyes glistened with restrained tears. “Nay, my lady, but he has discovered a corpse lying beneath our bell tower. We fear it is one of our sisters.”

Eleanor glanced upward with dismay. She had come on this pilgrimage as penance for her sins, to seek answers for troubling questions, and find peace in the worship of the holy relics. Why, she now asked God, could He not send that grim reaper of souls to accompany another for a change? Death’s fondness for involving her in his more violent acts was always wearisome, but she had long tolerated it as part of her service to God. On this one journey, however, she begged for a respite from the vile creature.

Her silent protest ceased when she saw tears flowing from the nun’s deep-set eyes. “I grieve to hear this news,” she said, “and pray that God sends comfort to the hearts of all in this community.”

Murmuring gratitude, the messenger swiftly brushed her hands over her face.

With no further hesitation, Eleanor followed the mournful sister to meet with Prioress Ursell and hear what Brother Thomas had discovered. Whatever dismay she felt over this interruption in her pilgrimage, she was still God’s servant and would follow Him no matter where He led her. And, she reminded herself, I owe Him joy in the performance of my duty, not resentment.

As she carefully walked along the narrow hall, she concluded that the dead nun must have been well-loved to cause such grief in this sister. Shamed by her pettiness, Eleanor acknowledged that this sorrow was of far greater import than any minor complaint she might have about enjoying an undisturbed pilgrimage.