Wine of Violence

Chapter Fourteen

Eleanor finished her prayers. She opened her eyes and looked toward the high window over her small altar. The early morning sunlight shone down with a damp but welcome warmth, and, as she rose from her prie-dieu, she could hear the sounds of the awakening, hungry livestock from the stables and pens across the southern branch of the priory creek. The light rain had finally stopped and sunshine, weak as it was, lifted her spirit.

Today she had vowed to fast and drink only watered wine. Perhaps that would help quell the unwelcome and distracting emotions the new priest had inspired. Thomas was indeed a handsome man, but she had met his like in earlier days without feeling more than a fleeting interest. And those days had been before she became a bride of Christ. If those longings had been but negligible aches of transient lust, now they surely qualified as the more serious sin of infidelity, in thought at the very least. She had prayed the feelings would pass just as quickly as they had before.

They had not. Like an incubus, his image came to her at night, promising earthly pleasures to match those of Heaven, and when she fled from his illusory caresses into the safety of wakefulness, she found her body wet with the very worldly sweat of passion. Her raw fatigue was hindering her ability to concentrate on the needs of Tyndal, and she had been remiss in dealing with problems that demanded immediate attention, like the accounts. She knew she had to put all this behind her, confess, and seek counsel. But from whom? Once again she longed for Amesbury, the wisdom of her aunt, and the understanding confessor Sister Beatrice had found for her young novices.

“The priest I choose for my own confessor cannot be Brother Thomas,” she said, grinding her fist into the curved wooden railing. “Nor Brother Simeon, that boisterous and arrogant man. And certainly not Prior Theobald. I believe a rock would have more understanding of either God or man than he. In all of Tyndal, surely there is just one priest to whom I can speak freely!” Eleanor rubbed her hand as she closed her prayer book, turned away from the small prie-dieu, and glanced up at the wall hanging covering the stone masonry just in front of her narrow bed.

The tapestry of Saint Mary Magdalene sitting at the feet of Christ fascinated her. A beautiful piece of work, she thought, walking over to touch the fine embroidery as she often had since her arrival. When she was first shown her new quarters, Eleanor had commented on its beauty.

“What is the origin of this piece?” she had asked Sister Ruth.

The older nun hesitated. “I do not know such details, my lady,” she had mumbled with some irritation. “Prioress Felicia commissioned it not many years after coming to Tyndal. Now let me show you where you will receive guests.” With that terse comment, Sister Ruth had quickly led her from the room to the public chambers.

It was a curious luxury, Eleanor thought, looking around at the austere private room with its simply carved prie-dieu and even more spartan bed. The choice of subject for the tapestry was understandable enough. Mary Magdalene was the patron saint of hospitals, and other than maintaining the parish church and providing a hospice for the few travelers to this dank coast, Tyndal’s main purpose was the care of the sick. As she felt the skillful, even stitches and admired the finely dyed yarns, Eleanor now looked at the faces of both Jesus and Mary Magdalene more closely.

It was their expressions that surprised her. Indeed, the saint did sit humbly at the feet of Jesus and her hands were raised in the standard attitude of chaste adoration, but Jesus looked down at her and she at him with a gaze of deep understanding and mutual appreciation. Sister Beatrice had pointed out to Eleanor similar looks in the faces of long-married couples who came to Amesbury to provide for their burial together.

“These know the fullness of love and thus are halfway to Heaven already,” she had said to Eleanor. “They have suffered much together and have grown close in a way quite unimaginable in youth. Without sharing passion, grief, and loss with another, we can never understand the true meaning of love or attain the peace which is its highest manifestation.”

That was one of her aunt’s many teachings that Eleanor had locked away in her heart to think on at a later time.

Yet surely it must be blasphemous to suggest such a thing between the two in the tapestry, Eleanor thought with a shake of her head, and once again wondered why Prioress Felicia had had such a design made.

A rustle at her feet brought her back from her distraction and she looked down. The orange cat, now ennobled with the name of Arthur, stretched first with front legs extended and then the back. Having finished this exercise, he sat down in the rushes, looked up at her with round, green eyes, and began to purr.

“And I suppose you want something to break your fast?”

The volume of purring rose significantly.

Eleanor laughed. She had known of prioresses, indeed abbesses, who had lap dogs. Although the practice of keeping pets was much frowned upon, censure rarely followed the discovery. She herself had never before felt any desire for such a thing.

“Yet I seem to have acquired you, haven’t I?” she said to the eagerly rumbling, young bundle of fur in front of her. “But I’ll have no pampered pet here. You’ll work for your meals. Is that understood?”

Eleanor would have sworn the cat nodded.

“Very well, then. Let’s see if I still have some fish left over from last night.”

That was a rhetorical statement. There was far more than a scrap of fish left. Eleanor had been unable to eat the undercooked fish brought to her, setting it aside with rarely felt disgust. In fact, she now wondered if her vow to fast today wasn’t more a wish to avoid unusually unpalatable meals than a true penance for her sins. True penance might be to eat what was placed before her, she thought, but after a questioning glance heavenward, quickly decided otherwise.

Arthur, however, had no such problems with the spurned fish. Eleanor watched with affection as he devoured his morning meal with little growls and joyful feline snorts.

Although the cat might have no problem devouring the results of Sister Edith’s kitchen leadership, Eleanor knew she had to find a way to improve the fare. Simple meals in the priory were to be expected, but inedible ones were a waste and an insult to God-given bounty. And then there was the state of what little bounty Sister Matilda had wrested from the priory gardens under her less than tender stewardship. Here lay another problem to address before the growing season was completely gone and Eleanor was forced to purchase food for the coming winter.

Thus her thoughts came round to the accounts she must review with Prior Theobald and Brother Simeon before even more time had passed. Her discussions with the nuns about what they might have seen on the day of Brother Rupert’s death had been fruitless, although her attempts to calm each about the threat suggested by such a horror had been more successful. The economic disarray at the priory demanded immediate attention. She would send a message this morning that she wished to meet with both men tomorrow afternoon on the subject. And should her fast today fail her and the naked incubus in the shape of Brother Thomas appear tonight to destroy her rest, she would will herself to bore the vision into an impotent state with a detailed discussion of tithes, hides, and grain production.

She shut her eyes tight and forced herself to think upon Prior Theobald. What had he been like as a young man, she wondered. It was hard to picture him as other than an old man who hadn’t had a thought of his own in years behind those bushy eyebrows. Had he always hidden behind others more competent or stronger than he? How sad that a man should grow old with nothing better to recommend him than his skill at speaking the words and thoughts of others.

Theobald might be dismissed. Simeon could not. Now there was a conceited boor for cert. First impressions were hardly fair judgements, as she well knew, and she had been far too distracted by the arrival of Brother Thomas to deal at once with the receiver’s rudeness, as she should have. She would not invite Thomas to the review of priory finances tomorrow, she decided. She did not need the distraction, and his presence was not critical. A long meeting where she could study Simeon with care and listen to his reasons for decisions made was too important. She must decide whether Simeon was still a competent receiver or whether he was to blame for the current financial crisis. Perhaps his value to Tyndal lay in some other position. Her mind must remain alert and agile so that her decisions would be, above all else, practical.

Today, however, she would visit the hospital and had sent a message to Sister Christina that she wanted to meet with her. Despite Anne’s assurances that Christina was a good choice to head the hospital, Eleanor still had her doubts and had yet to see how the young infirmarian performed her task. Although she agreed that prayer was critical to the wellbeing of souls, she wondered if the young nun spent too much time in chapel to be an effective administrator.

Even Sister Ruth might be a better choice, Eleanor thought. Despite her rigidity, the dour nun had shown flashes of compassion with Sister Christina and at Brother Rupert’s burial. She had also gained sufficient respect amongst the nuns to be elected prioress before Eleanor’s arrival. That suggested the nun had demonstrated some competence and leadership to her fellows. She shook her head in frustration. How best to handle that particular and stubborn adversary of hers continued to elude her.

The unfortunate experience Christina had had with Crowner Ralf in the chapel reminded Eleanor that she needed to assure the young woman that she would not have to face the rough invader again. “Peace of mind is tenuous enough at Tyndal these days with all my charges,” she said with a sigh. “May there be a quick solution to the crime!”

The death, nay, murder of Brother Rupert had not only grieved the nuns, it had understandably terrified them. Death was never a stranger to any of them, but murder in a house of God was unthinkable, an abomination, a violation that permeated each soul with a feeling of uncleanness as well as personal dread.

If Eleanor had been greeted with skepticism and contempt at her first chapter, the mood of her charges had changed by her second. When she had called them together the afternoon of Brother Rupert’s death to announce that their beloved priest had been hideously slaughtered, she could see growing hysteria in the pale faces and unblinking eyes staring back at her. Then they had looked to her for wisdom and calm leadership. Again and more fervently, Eleanor had prayed to be equal to their needs.

“Armageddon is surely coming,” she had heard some mutter. “Why else would our sanctified ground be so befouled?”

“Satan is an assassin and has surely killed our priest,” others suggested. “Only the Prince of Darkness could have breached our walls.”

She had not shied away from telling them the truth of what had happened that day, but just as quickly she had turned their thoughts from that horror to the story of Cain and Abel. It was a comforting tale of the inevitability of justice, of Good prevailing over Evil even in a sinful world. God had not only seen Cain in the unimaginable act of killing his brother but had also justly punished him for it, she emphasized, and, with an unwavering voice, she announced she had certain confidence that God would lead the crowner to the perpetrator quickly. Justice would prevail.

Many had visibly relaxed after her speech, their burning eyes shutting in weary relief. Those still undecided had nervously looked about them; but seeing others take comfort in her words, they took solace in the general shrinking of the atmosphere of terror. A few, like Sister Anne and Sister Ruth, seemed never to have feared that Armageddon was imminent. Eleanor had expected such of Sister Anne, but seeing the same calm strength in the abrasive Sister Ruth pleasantly surprised her.

Once calmed, a simple certainty that the vile murderer had been from the world outside Tyndal’s walls and that he would be captured soon infused most of the priory inhabitants:

“Someone forgot to lock a gate,” one had said.

“Not likely to happen again if we have guards,” a second nodded.

“Carelessness. A lay brother must have…”

Eleanor had encouraged this conclusion, promptly announced her plans for improving the security of all walls and gates, then quite visibly oversaw strict compliance.

“I may not afford myself such blithe assumptions, however,” she said to the cat, which was licking his paws. “Murder done by a member of the priory, by a soul committed to God, might be unthinkable to most, but it is an eventuality I have to prepare for. If the culprit is a member of Tyndal, the Church will take him from the secular crowner’s hands for ecclesiastical trial. Depending on how that situation is handled, the reputation of Tyndal might be tarnished for years to come.”

Eleanor looked back down at her feet. The cat had finished his post-meal scrub and was curling up for a nap. “Nay, sir! Enough woolgathering for me and enough leisure for you. It’s back to work for both of us.”

She walked to the door of her chamber, carefully letting the cat go first, then firmly shut the door behind them.

***

Tyndal’s hospital could house thirty patients, somewhat evenly divided between the sexes, and treat many more. Not all Fontevraud houses were linked to hospitals, but Tyndal had once been a Benedictine house dedicated to the care of the sick, a much needed service in this lonely part of England. When that old priory had fallen into disrepair and eventual abandonment due to inadequate revenues, one affluent nobleman, deeply penitent in his old age for some regretted but undefined sins, had begged Fontevraud to resurrect Tyndal for the good of his soul.

The Abbess of Fontevraud had agreed, with the understanding that he grant the priory some very profitable lands to keep the establishment solvent. Shortly thereafter, the noble’s wife, with his concurrence, begged admission to the Order and became the first prioress of Tyndal. It was she who had the hospital building repaired, thus allowing Tyndal to continue to care for the sick and dying.

The priory began to acquire some reputation for successful treatments, especially in more recent years. Two special areas of accomplishment were the easing of joint pain and the surprising absence, even cures, of often terminal infections. Although the local villagers, the fishermen, and their families were the primary recipients of monastic care, wealthier patients sometimes came for ease of their mortal aches and donated quite generously when the treatment proved favorable.

Thus the hospital not only provided a service to the sick but also helped Tyndal remain reasonably solvent, a condition the current prioress wished to maintain in view of the diminishment of other revenues. Eleanor wanted it run efficiently.

***

“My lady!” Sister Christina bobbed awkwardly.

What age was this young nun, Eleanor wondered, as she reached out and gently touched Sister Christina’s shoulder. Life seemed not to have placed the slightest mark of passage on the infirmarian’s face. Even the skin on her plump hands was as smooth as a babe’s. How could such an innocent be in charge of the sick and dying?

Eleanor looked around at the clusters of suffering people waiting near the door to the hospital. Some were mobile. Some had been carried. Eleanor passed one family who had brought a young woman on a litter. Glancing down, Eleanor had shuddered. The woman’s mouth was frozen open in the silent scream of death. The body was beginning to reek. When she looked at the faces of the two older women, two young men, and three children who had brought the body here, however, she saw blind hope as they patiently waited their turn to be seen.

Eleanor gestured in their direction to Sister Christina. “I think Brother Thomas should attend that family. His services would be of great use.”

“We have not seen the good brother this morning.”

“How odd. Surely he neither forgot nor got lost.”

“Perhaps Prior Theobald had need of him?”

Eleanor bit her tongue and nodded. She would have to change the prior’s, nay, Simeon’s assumption that his needs took precedence, at least without first requesting her approval or sending an immediate explanation.

“My lady?”

“Sister.”

“If I may, I would tend that family myself since the good brother isn’t here. Indeed, I have seen such grief before and believe I can give them some ease of spirit.”

“You needn’t ask my permission. We are here to give succor. By all means, go. I will wait.”

As Eleanor watched the round, ageless nun walk hurriedly over to the huddled group, she saw the normally awkward, dithering woman change into a gentle, calm, and confident figure. Sister Christina lightly touched each person’s hand before she gathered them around, then gestured for each to kneel with her next to the corpse of…of whom? Their mother? Their sister? Daughter? Someone’s wife?

Soon their eyes were closed and they seemed to be praying with her. As they did, tears began to flow from the eyes of the two women closest to the nun. Without stopping her prayers, Christina reached out and pulled each of them closer to her in a motherly embrace.

Eleanor continued to watch as the nun wept with them all until the wails of anguish reached a crescendo, then fell to moans of more bearable grief. Soon Christina rose, spoke quietly with each, and comforted the children with hugs and soothing caresses until two lay sisters came for the body. Although sorrow followed the family like a shadow as they trailed in mourning after the corpse, Christina had been able to give them the courage to face what they had been unable to see.

Eleanor shook her head in amazement. Sister Anne was indeed right. The plump little nun had a gift. She could soothe the souls of the grieving. It was a skill she herself did not have. However deep her faith, it would always be a very pragmatic one. Eleanor had long accepted that she would never be a saint. Sister Christina, on the other hand, just might.

As the nun walked back towards her prioress, her gait once again became awkward and her head bobbed nervously. Eleanor reached out and took the young woman’s hands. Christina’s bright blue eyes widened in confusion.

“You have the gift of comfort, sister. I can see why Prioress Felicia made you infirmarian. She was wise in her choice, and I am pleased as well.”

The nun blushed, but it was the first time Eleanor had seen her smile at another mortal.

***

The prioress gestured to Christina to precede her and they began their tour of the hospital.

Near the entrance to the building itself stood a hut. Lay brothers and older lay sisters or nuns with some medical knowledge screened the patients for type and seriousness of ailment. Those most likely to die were often admitted for the good of their souls; home treatment was ordered whenever possible for all others.

Eleanor had a basic understanding of herbs and cures herself. Every woman did, whether she was meant for the convent, a lord’s castle, a merchant’s stall, or a villein’s hut. Healing at home was woman’s work, but some were better trained than others. Tyndal was lucky to have several sisters, as well as some lay brothers, with both talent and knowledge in the healing arts. Being a small establishment, they could not always eliminate those women from care-giving who were still subject to monthly bleedings, women such as the infirmarian herself, but the patients had suffered little from their ministrations despite the common medical opinion that menstruating women were polluting, thus dangerous to the sick. The de facto leader of all caregivers was Sister Anne, whose background Eleanor continued to find intriguing.

Eleanor had heard of women who were trained in the apothecary trade and even of some who were physicians. Hildegard of Bingen’s medical works, as well as those of Trotula of Solerno, were known to her aunt. These days, however, such women were quite rare. According to Sister Beatrice, most of the women physicians in the present day were of the Jewish faith. Although Marie of France had celebrated the medical expertise of a wealthy woman from Solerno in her lai, “Les Deus Amanz,” less than a century ago, Eleanor knew that was just a tale.

But to be familiar with texts from the Holy Land itself? How unusual even for Anne’s physician father. She had finally pressed Sister Anne ever so slightly on this question, and the nun had explained that her father knew physicians in Paris who had shared the works with him. Eleanor wondered how he had been able to read the language in which they were written. Translations from the infidel tongue were even rarer than these texts themselves. Perhaps Sister Anne meant that her father had received training in these skills from mentors who knew the languages he did not. No matter. She was grateful to have such a knowledgeable practitioner of healing arts as Sister Anne in the priory.

“…and we all wash our hands after attending to every patient.” Sister Christina was gesturing down the long room on the women’s side. Each patient not only had a private bed but was protected from curious eyes by wooden screens.

“An interesting practice.”

“Something Sister Anne insists on. Prioress Felicia did not approve. She said it was ungodly and unhealthy, but then Sister Anne asked Brother Rupert to bless the water every day so our hands would be cleansed with holy water.”

“And?”

“It did seem to help the sick, so our prioress allowed us to continue. It was clear that our hands thus washed were imbued with God’s grace. Should you…”

“We shall continue the procedure, of course.” Eleanor glanced into one screened-off area and saw the tall figure of Sister Anne lifting a skeletal woman into a sitting position, then slowly giving her sips of some liquid. The hand washing was not only an unusual thing to do, she thought, but the good sister had also chosen an interesting way of justifying it. None had noticed that no one had replaced Brother Rupert in the blessing of the water, and Sister Anne had certainly not stopped the routine. Perhaps this was yet another practice out of her father’s texts from the Holy Land.

“My lady!”

Eleanor spun around as a breathless nun skidded to a stop in front of her.

“Calm yourself, sister! What has happened?”

“It’s Brother Thomas, my lady. He lies dead in the forest!”

Eleanor could not stop the small cry of anguish that escaped her. “Tell Sister Anne to follow me immediately after this treatment,” she quickly said to Christina, then turned her head away before anyone could see the tears starting up in her eyes.