Wine of Violence

Chapter Twenty-One

“What an odd group we make,” Thomas muttered as he glanced at the small cluster of dark-robed religious. They were all assembled outside the thick wooden door of the thatch-roofed house belonging to one Tostig, brother of Gytha.

When Brother Andrew first told Thomas that Prioress Eleanor Wynethorpe of Tyndal Priory had decided to buy herself a braying, gray-bristled donkey for riding forth into the world, he had roared with laughter. Then he remembered the story of one fine bishop, and Thomas changed his mind.

The bishop in question, dressed in richly dyed vestments of soft-woven cloth and seated on a horse of rare breeding, had ridden into a mob of querulous farmers. With the arrogance common to both the aloof and the ignorant, he had assumed that such crude creatures would be suitably awed by his eminence and cease their silly arguments over his increased rents. Instead, they had pelted him with offal, vegetation rotten beyond recognition, and unidentifiable animal parts. Later, his chief clerk, dressed in duller clothes, had walked with impunity into the village and negotiated a compromise that was acceptable to both the lowly farmers and the clerk’s high-minded master.

Even now the story made Thomas smile, and he nodded with respect toward his wisely humble prioress just as the door to the cottage swung open on its leather hinges and Gytha gestured for the assembly to enter. As he approached the door, Thomas sniffed nervously. There was a strong scent of farm animals in the air, but the smell was the fresh, earthy one of healthy beasts. He would not have to wade through aged cow manure. No matter how long he lived on this forsaken coast, Thomas knew he would never quite become a man of the soil.

***

The space inside Tostig’s house was small, but the floor was planked and strewn with sweet-smelling straw and herbs. There was no window to let the daylight in, but a centrally located stone hearth both warmed the damp air and provided enough light to see and move about with ease.

The master of the place stood in front of a dark wooden table near the hearth, his arms folded. Tostig was a straight-backed, muscular man in his early twenties, his hair long, thick, and golden like his sister’s, but there was none of her gentleness showing in his blue eyes. After scanning the faces of the priory visitors with contempt just barely concealed, he looked down at Prioress Eleanor and bowed with an easy grace.

“I am honored, my lady. Your visit brings a blessing to my home. I would offer some refreshment, but I am a simple man and do not have things that you and your attendant monks are accustomed to. There is only a rough ale, not wine, and coarse bread to give you and your companions. The cheese, however, is a goodly one.”

Eleanor noted that his smile at her might have been somewhat genuine, but his words to the party as a whole were spoken in a tone edged with brittle sarcasm. Then Gytha bent over and whispered in her ear. Eleanor burst out laughing.

“Your sister tells me that I should ignore your ale but take your bread, which she has baked herself, and your cheese, which she says is famous in the town.”

“My sister is rightly proud of her baking, but the bread is still unsuited to the tender mouths of noble folk,” Tostig said as he shot Gytha a glance gentled with love and humor.

Brother Simeon shifted from foot to foot, his nose wrinkling in exaggerated disapproval at the smells of the cottage. “Perhaps we needn’t bother with refreshment, my lady. We came only to look at donkeys.”

Brother John’s green eyes sparkled with ill-concealed laughter as he looked at the receiver. “Indeed we have, brother, but I have heard of Tostig’s cheese from our annual fair, as you must have as well.” He turned to Eleanor. “It sells out on market days and is gaining fame abroad, my lady, or so I have heard from travelers who have stayed with us.”

Eleanor looked at Thomas, who was watching the interchange between novice master and receiver with interest, and then she turned to Tostig with a mischievous smile. “Brother Thomas and I are new to this part of England,” she said. “We would be delighted to accept your offer of ale, bread and cheese. Perhaps our good Brother Simeon has vowed to fast today, but I believe the rest of us would be grateful for your hospitality.”

Gytha happily ran off to serve the guests. As Tostig offered Eleanor and the monks seats on the bench behind him, he lowered his head so she could not see his reaction to her acceptance of a hospitality he thought would be rejected. For all his obvious dislike of the priory visitors, however, Eleanor felt a modicum of tolerance, even warmth, exhibited to her.

Indeed, the fare served would be considered too plain for a manor house, Eleanor thought, as she ate what Gytha had put before her. Nonetheless, the flavors of the ale, cheese, and bread when eaten together were wonderful, especially after the flavorless meals she had suffered since her arrival from Amesbury. As to ale, she had rarely drunk it. Her family and those she had been raised with at Amesbury much preferred wine to this very English beverage. After the initial shock of its bitter taste, however, Eleanor found she rather liked it. It was lighter than wine, yet warmed the stomach well, and it suited the nutty bread and the robust, marbled cheese served with it.

She looked up to see Gytha and Brother John studying her with smiles twitching at the corners of their mouths. Turning to Gytha first, she pulled her eyebrows together in a slight frown.

“You were wrong, my child.”

“About what, my lady?” The girl looked worried.

“I must either stop teasing you, Gytha, or you must learn when I am.” She put her hand on the girl’s arm. “Everything is all right. I only meant that you were wrong about the ale. It is delicious. Indeed, whoever brewed this is superior in the craft.”

Brother John pounded the table lightly in evident delight. “My lady, not only is Master Tostig’s cheese famous, so is his ale. The local ale-wives praise his even above their own.”

“It is made in competition with the priory’s ale,” Brother Simeon said, his deep voice lowered to a growl. He had tasted nothing offered.

“Indeed? Do we lose income as a consequence of this?” Eleanor asked, pointing to the sweating crock in front of her and glancing at Tostig’s expressionless face.

“We make far more but sell less as a result of this, this…” Simeon waved his hand dismissively in the direction of the aforementioned jug.

“Then perhaps we should cease trying to compete in such a profitless area,” Eleanor said.

Tostig’s eyes widened slightly.

“You have just seen our accounts. We cannot lose more revenue just because this…” Simeon waved his hand in the direction of Tostig as if Gytha’s brother were no more than a piece of pottery.

Eleanor raised her hand to silence the receiver before he finished his sentence and before Gytha’s brother could react to the suggested insult. “Master Tostig, I have an idea which may be of benefit to both you and the priory. Perhaps you could come to Tyndal to discuss the possibilities of a partnership in this ale venture?”

Tostig glanced at his sister, who nodded imperceptibly.

“I would be honored, my lady.”

Brother Simeon rose to his feet, his eyes narrowed in rage.

“And what did you have in mind? Surely, as your receiver, I have a right to know what sort of scheme…”

Thomas, who was sitting next to Simeon, reached over and tugged at the monk’s sleeve. “Brother,” he whispered. “Calm yourself. They are speaking of ale. Mere ale.”

Simeon looked down at Thomas. The receiver’s eyes looked dead, so glazed were they with the white heat of his anger. Then his body shuddered almost imperceptibly as he regained control. He smiled, but his eyes remained narrowed.

“Of course. My apologies, my lady, and I beg forgiveness. I have fallen prey to the sin of anger today. Perhaps Satan tempted me in my weakness from fasting. I succumbed and shall seek penance.”

Thomas thumped the monk on the back.

Eleanor said nothing.

“Donkeys, my lady? You came to see my donkeys.” Tostig broke the silence and gestured toward the door to his cottage.

Both a prudent and a proud man, Eleanor thought as she rose and walked to the door. She glanced back at him. His face showed no emotion as he waited for her to pass first through the low door. Then she smiled and winked at him.

Tostig’s eyes grew round, his head moving a fraction backward in surprise. Then he too smiled. And winked back.

You are a quick judge of character, my fine Saxon, Eleanor thought. I will remember that.

As she stepped outside to the slightly muddy and gouged earthen path between the two rows of village huts and hovels, Eleanor stopped. She trembled as if a cold wind had struck her, and she looked quickly to one side.

A man was staring at her. His black beard and brackish colored clothing were unkempt, ragged.

Eleanor blinked. He was the man she had seen in the forest.

He turned and sped through the space between two huts.

“That man!” she cried to Tostig, who was just behind her. “Who is he?”

Tostig looked around him very slowly, his expression once again blank. “What man, my lady? I see no one.”

“Did anyone see that man?” Eleanor asked the monks as they emerged from the doorway.

“No, my lady,” they said in near unison, standing aside to let Gytha come out behind them.

Perhaps they had not, but Eleanor saw a fleeting frown on Tostig’s face as he gazed in the direction the strange man had disappeared.