Priscilla Royal - Covenant With Hell

“God must have alerted him.” Durant took a moment to drink more ale, but his eyes never left Thomas. “There are rumors about the nun’s death. Have you heard them?”

Thomas shook his head. He wanted to hear the tales but did not want to appear too eager.

“The story is that Satan pushed the nun from the tower.” The man’s hazel eyes took on a green cast as he put his jack down on the table.

The changing color of the merchant’s eyes disquieted Thomas, and he shivered. Concealing his discomfort with a shrug, he said, “I saw no evidence of the Evil One. The ground was moist, and the exposed floor of the tower must have been as well. As I was told, she was in the bell tower for a good purpose. The cause of this tragedy remains a simple thing. She fell by accident.”

“I am most grateful to you for telling me that, Brother. If I hear this slander again, I shall counter it. More ale?” He looked over his shoulder and waved to the serving girl.

“A kind offer, but I must refuse.” Thomas rose. “Prioress Eleanor wished me to accompany her to another of the shrines. I must not keep her waiting any longer.” A forgivable lie, he hoped, since he intended to visit the priory kitchen and beg food for the street child.

Master Durant thanked the monk for his company, then asked a blessing.

As the man slipped off the bench and knelt before him, Thomas gave him both a blessing and a prayer for the continued health of his wife. They parted after a few courteous words and just as the girl arrived with a small pitcher of ale.

Thomas had only gone a little distance from the inn when he suddenly realized that he and the merchant never once discussed God. Durant of Norwich was interested only in Sister Roysia’s death.

How strange, the monk thought, and frowned.

He walked back and looked inside the door at the bench he had shared with the merchant.

The pitcher remained.

The man had vanished.

“They must leave Walsingham.” Prioress Ursell glowered like an avenging angel aiming a spear at a snaggletoothed demon.

Father Vincent rubbed his dripping nose. “Prioress Eleanor said she was disinclined to rush the cleansing of her soul and insisted that only Brother Thomas may decide when her penance is done.”

“That means little. Her mind can be changed.”

“My lady, he is a willful man and yet his prioress did select him to guide her. Perhaps a bishop or other cleric would have chosen more wisely for her, but the Order of Fontevraud is unique in the authority it gives women.”

She waved this aside. “Speak firmly with him. As I have heard, he owns no rank in his own priory. As a common monk, he should seek guidance and direction from a priest owning higher merit in God’s eyes.” She waited, her expression suggesting that the response should be obvious.

He blinked repeatedly.

The silence grew tedious.

“You!” She thumped her hand on the arm of her chair. “Were you not found worthy by a penitent to take possession of a holy relic? Men do not give such precious gifts without asking for a boon in return. Since the man who gave you the sacred hairs from the Virgin’s head did not even mention his name, you, with great humility, wondered if it was an angel who blessed you with the gift.” She looked up at her staff of office, shut her eyes, and mumbled a prayer.

Father Vincent flushed and bowed his head. “Brother Thomas troubles me.” The priest’s eyes narrowed with disapproval. “We are all obliged to grieve over our many sins, but I have seen little evidence that he does. The monk does not behave as a penitent ought. When I ask him to join me in prayer, he walks away. For a tonsured man, I have observed little piety and far too much inclination to wander in the streets.”

“Stroll amongst the wicked sons of Adam? This is the man that Prioress Eleanor relies upon for guidance?” Ursell’s eyes bulged in horror. “Her reputation would suggest better judgment, and her religious rank more prudence. I have heard only high praise when her name is spoken.” She hesitated, then thumped her staff on the floor for emphasis. “Yet the high praise of mortal men often polishes the truth so well that deep flaws are hidden.” She smiled, tilted her head as if listening to the echo of her words, and then nodded, quite pleased with her phrasing.

“As for Prioress Eleanor, I do not question her piety in coming to Walsingham. To leave her priory for any pilgrimage, she had to seek permission from her abbess and convince her that the journey met a great spiritual need. Once here, she has proved her sincerity. None of her rank has ever walked a mile down the pilgrim road in bare feet as she did.” He coughed, and his cheeks became red. “Other than you, my lady! I remember well when you walked along that same path before assuming the rule of this priory. Does that not prove my point that few are so pious?” To judge her reaction, he glanced at her, and then quickly turned his gaze, replete with reverence, heavenward.

She lowered her head with suitable modesty. Neither of them mentioned that she had walked on well-shod feet and only the distance between the Walsingham Priory gate and that of Ryehill.

“As I also learned, she rode a simple donkey, not a good horse, the entire way from Tyndal Priory. All these things point to a penitential humility far exceeding that possessed by the usual pilgrim, let alone one of her noble birth.” He cleared his throat and murmured, “Of course there can be no comparison to your own exceptional piety.”

“The walk was another ill-considered decision. I have seen her hobble about in pain.” The prioress grimaced. “There is such a thing as virtue befouled by the sin of pride.”

“I, too, have witnessed that failing in her, yet I must convey a rumor I heard from a pilgrim who resides just west of Norwich. As he told the story, some in the village near her priory claim she was granted a vision of the Virgin last summer. Prioress Eleanor has replied that she is too unworthy for such a gift. Since only Walsingham has been blessed by a visit from Our Lord’s mother in our realm, this prioress seems to have come here to humbly beg forgiveness-”

“She doubts visions?”

“It is not lack of faith in visions but rather the location and recipient in this instance. Our site was uniquely favored when the Virgin not only told Richelde of Fervaques that she should build an exact copy of the house where the Annunciation occurred, but even moved the building when it was not put in the proper place. I share Prioress Eleanor’s doubt the Queen of Heaven would appear to her as well and that the Virgin would do so in such a remote place as Tyndal village. That worry suggests humility resides in her soul.”

Prioress Ursell frowned as she considered this.

“I have seen her praying before the Shrine of the Virgin’s Lock more than most pilgrims. Her sorrow is profound, and she has not only donated a candle to our shrine, but coin.” He looked very pleased.

“Even if her motive for pilgrimage is worthy, and I do not doubt your conclusions, it is still best that she and Brother Thomas leave us.”

Father Vincent twitched with evident discomfort.

“Surely you do not disagree, Father! You know their reputation. If a suspicious death occurs near them, whether or not there is any true wrongdoing, they grow inquisitive. Like dogs, they eagerly sniff about.” She curled her hand and bounced it around to suggest a leaping hound. “And like those beasts, they show little concern over the consequences of their unwelcome interest. Sister Roysia’s fall from our bell tower is just such a death.”

The priest nodded in agreement.

“You do not want them jabbing sticks of idle curiosity into this matter anymore than I.” She clenched her fist, winced, and rubbed at a swollen knuckle with her finger. “It took me far too long to reclaim our reputation after the last prioress allowed a nun to flee Ryehill with a chapman.” She glared at him. “I have trusted your judgment in these matters, but you know as well as I that we cannot afford any more hint of scandal. Surely it must be simple enough to find a way to make them leave.”