Wine of Violence

Chapter Twelve

A morning mist with the softness of tears caressed the faces of those who stood, heads bowed, on the day Brother Rupert was buried. As befitted a cleric vowed to chastity, only the monks clustered around the simple grave of their brother. Prioress Eleanor and the nuns of Tyndal honored him by standing at a distance sufficient to show respect for his vows even after death. Prior Theobald, supported by Brother Andrew and Brother Simeon, quietly spoke the last words that ever would be said over the priest’s now discarded, silent, and rotting body.

For those whose first thought was for Brother Rupert’s soul, it was a time of joy. For those who had loved the kindness of the mortal man, it was a time of very human grief as well as horror at the manner of his leaving them. When Eleanor looked around her, she saw more tears slipping down the cheeks of her charges, many of whom lowered their heads to hide them. Only the wide blue eyes of Sister Christina were free of tears and raised to heaven. Only on her smooth face was there a smile of happiness.

The service ended. Eleanor turned and gestured to the nuns, allowing them to return to the cloister, but Sister Ruth remained, lost in thought, her eyes moist as she gazed down her long, narrow nose at the damp grass around her feet.

Eleanor reached over and put her hand on the nun’s shoulder. “Walk back with me, sister.”

Ruth nodded. Her eyes, raised to meet Eleanor’s ever so briefly, were black with sadness. For once the familiar look of bitterness was absent from them.

“He was a good man, Brother Rupert,” Eleanor said.

The nun hesitated. “For a mortal one, yes.” Her voice was harsh from soundless weeping.

“And one who did not merit such a death.”

The two women walked together in silence. Their breathing and the gravel grinding under their feet with a harsh scraping noise were the only sounds in that rain-laden air.

“I wonder that no one saw anything strange that day,” Eleanor asked at last.

“I saw nothing, my lady,” Ruth replied, pursing her lips in what was becoming a very familiar expression. Eleanor wondered if the look was indicative of anger or just plain stubbornness.

“I am sure you did not or you would have reported it to me,” Eleanor said, rather doubting that the porteress would have done any such thing. “Brother Rupert’s corpse did not find its way into the cloister garth by itself, however. Haven’t you heard anything from anyone who might have seen something out of the way?”

“This horrid act might not be the work of a mortal man. Satan is capable of wondrous things.”

“The Evil One rarely expends such energy unless his purpose in astounding us is clear and will bear good fruit, however. The point of leaving our poor priest’s mutilated body near the fountain remains a mystery. Thus I doubt bearing it there was the direct action of Satan, wondrous though he may often be.”

Ruth sniffed audibly and raised her head. “Brother Simeon believes it is a warning against lust. He noted that Brother Rupert was far too fond of Prioress Felicia and was spending more time with her than was seemly near the end of her life. I, too, noted that with some dismay.”

“If his mutilation was a warning against lust,” Eleanor said, feeling somewhat uncomfortable on that subject in view of her own weakness for the auburn-haired Brother Thomas, “it was no work of Satan. The Prince of Darkness would surely choose to paint a more appealing picture of its consequences.” She took a deep breath. “Tell me, was my honored predecessor ill long?”

Ruth blinked at the sudden shift in subject. “Not long at all. She felt pain in her chest and collapsed at Compline. By Matins her soul had left us.”

Then most likely her death was a natural one, Eleanor thought. “And her age? I was never told.”

“We understood she had entered her seventh decade.” Sister Ruth’s expression had changed to one of puzzlement.

Eleanor shook her head. Brother Rupert had been of much the same age, perhaps a few years younger. She discounted uncontrollable lust between priest and prioress or even in the heart of the priest alone as the cause of his death. As the all too palpable dream of Tyndal’s young new priest that had visited her last night had taught her, the pain of passion burned with unbearable sharpness in youth. It was as consolation that her aunt had told her that the sting grew more blunted in well-advanced years, although it was never entirely banished. How she wished she had reached that stage of life!

“Did you have further need of me, my lady?”

Eleanor blinked. She had been woolgathering over her dream of last night and hadn’t realized that she and Sister Ruth were now standing in the passage leading to the nuns’ quarters.

“One moment more, sister. On the first day of my tenure here, Prior Theobald honored me by leading us all in prayer. I understand Brother Rupert usually did so when Prioress Felicia was still alive and would then attend her chapters.”

Sister Ruth nodded.

“Did you expect Brother Rupert to come to my first chapter?”

“Prior Theobald had sent me a message through Brother Simeon that he might not. His absence from nuns’ chapter was infrequent but not, certainly, uncommon.”

Sent a message to Sister Ruth, Eleanor noted with irritation, but not to her as prioress. “Did he give a reason for the absence?” she asked, her voice calm.

“It was not my place to ask.”

“Yet you said nothing when I asked Sister Christina if she had seen him. You knew I was expecting him.”

“You did not ask me, my lady, and I would never presume to know what is in the mind of my superior.”

Despite the sharp retort, Eleanor noted with interest that the nun had paled slightly. Indeed, she suspected that Sister Ruth either knew more about all this than she was telling or that she simply would not give even an inch of cooperation to the woman who had displaced her. The moment of human weakness Ruth had shown at the burial had passed, and the nun’s expression hardened into a mask. Eleanor knew she would get nothing more from her.

“Very well, sister. I will not keep you longer.”

As the prioress watched Ruth walk hurriedly through the cloister toward the Chapel of St. Mary Magdalene, she could not help wondering if her haste was due to something other than an urgent need to pray.