Priscilla Royal - Covenant With Hell

As Gracia sat cross-legged in the clean straw of the stable loft next to the inn, a tear wiggled down her dirty cheek. Angrily, she swiped it away.

The red-haired monk had given her food again. Of the many who believed it an obligation to offer her charity, he was one of the few who had done so with gentleness robed in courtesy. There was no hint of grim duty in his gift, nor any trace of disdain. Perhaps that was the reason she suffered a growing affection for him, or maybe it was his vague resemblance to one of her dead cousins, but the attachment was a dangerous flaw in one who must survive on the streets. Pilgrims went back to the towns they left. Kin died. She had made this mistake of attachment with Sister Roysia, and should have learned from the error.

She scoffed at herself, trying to eradicate the weakness, but this fondness was stubborn and resisted her efforts, retreating to a smaller corner of her heart where it mocked her attempts to banish it. Sliding onto her stomach and burrowing into the dry straw to remain unseen, she tried distracting herself by watching the men who entered and left the pilgrim’s inn.

This was not an idle pastime. No one living within a finger’s span of death survived without studying the nuances of expression, tone, and actions in those better-fed. And Gracia was a clever student, far more perceptive than her age would suggest. She had survived while others, some older and a few claiming greater wisdom, had died last winter. It was fortunate that she enjoyed observing other mortals. If she missed the games played by children with families that sheltered them, she did not dwell on it.

For her, the inn was a fine school. As she sat at the entrance to beg, she considered various meanings for the interactions she observed. Then she would choose which one she thought was closest to the truth. When the merchant bent forward and clutched his mazer of wine in conversation with a competitor, was he bluffing fellowship to win a good deal, or was this a meeting of childhood friends?

When she was proven wrong, she struggled to discover the flaw in her reasoning. Without giving voice to the knowledge, she was well aware that youth’s tender innocence lured Death like a corpse did carrion crow.

Her stomach growled. It was time to beg for food.

Scrambling down from the loft, she walked to the inn. The innkeeper tolerated her presence there, allowing her to sit near the door as long as no one complained. She rarely spoke to passersby. That was unnecessary. Her skeletal form and filthy rags were expressive enough. The charitable winced as they tossed something in the direction of her hand. Others held a scented cloth closer to their noses, looked to the other side, and walked past. Occasionally, a man found her presence offensive, and the innkeeper was obliged to chase her away. When she deemed it safe, she returned to the inn.

As she approached her spot, she noticed a man standing near the entrance. Her eyes were sharp enough to see that his dark clothing was made of fine wool and the needlework was precise and even. Yet he wore no golden chain, bejeweled cross, or rings crafted to catch the light and dazzle the eye. His grayish brown hair was as fine as down, his face neither handsome nor plain. Looking at his well-cobbled boots, she briefly coveted them. A merchant, she decided. He bore no sign of titled rank, but his unmistakable affluence argued against a lowly status.

Despite being a wealthy man, he was unusually mundane. That intrigued her. Those who strode through crowds, red-faced and with clenched fists, told the world unequivocally what they thought and who they believed they were. Others, bowing their heads to hide the state of their souls shining from their eyes, were equally easy to comprehend, although they hoped otherwise. But this man gazed straight ahead without challenge, exuded neither humility nor pride, and walked with modest purpose.

I think he has secrets, she concluded.

Deciding to watch him longer, she edged closer, lowered her gaze to avoid eye contact, and slipped into her usual spot in the dirt by the inn door. It would be interesting to discover what he wished to keep hidden.

The man did not look away from Gracia as others did. Instead, he smiled at her, reached into a concealed pouch, and bent to drop a coin into her hand.

She snatched the gift before it could hit the ground and slipped the coin into a hidden place inside her robe. The movement was swifter than a falcon plunging to catch its prey.

He nodded, as if acknowledging her skill, then walked into the inn and looked around.

Gracia bent forward to better watch.

Raising his hand to greet an unseen acquaintance, he smiled broadly and slipped onto a bench just inside the doorway.

Without moving closer to the door, Gracia could not see who was across the table from him.

“I was hoping to find you,” the merchant exclaimed and waved at the serving wench. “Do you prefer wine or ale? I have found the inn’s wine to be quite acceptable.”

Gracia dared to inch nearer until she was almost at the entrance. Although she feared the innkeeper might send her away if she got too close, she hoped she could remain unnoticed long enough. This spot let her listen in secret with greater ease, but anyone leaving the inn might have to step around her.

She looked about. Few seemed interested in coming to the inn, or leaving it, but that would change. Huddling up to make herself even smaller, she knew she could not stay here long.

“I am not acquainted with you,” said the man hidden from view. His tone was petulant and also familiar.

“But I know your reputation, Master Larcher,” the fine merchant replied. “Wine, I think,” he said to the hovering serving woman. “Your best. I have spoken to the innkeeper and know what he keeps for those who enjoy a fine vintage.”

Larcher, the craftsman of pilgrimage badges? No wonder she thought she recognized the voice. Gracia did not like the man. Unconsciously, she rubbed her cheek where he had struck her once when she failed to step out of his path quickly enough.

“I still know you not.”

“Durant of Norwich, a merchant of wine, although I invest in other merchandise if I see value in doing so.” He let those words hang in the air for a moment. “I come to this town on occasion to worship at the shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham, and have seen your finely crafted pilgrim badges. The nuns of Ryehill Priory are fortunate that they were given the right to the profits from the sales.”

“I do not offer a lesser price for direct purchases of the items. They are sold at Walsingham Priory for an honest one.”

The merchant indicated understanding. “Yet I think your work might also be sold in Norwich at a profit to you, as well as to me.”

There was a brief silence before Larcher responded. “Why should I be interested?”

Durant smiled. “Many vow to go on pilgrimage, a promise they never fulfill. Remember our beloved King Henry III who took the cross, swearing to go to Outremer and restore Jerusalem before his attention was directed to Gascony? He failed to fulfill his sacred vow, although he must have wished otherwise, but was left with the symbols of his oath. Surely we would not say that his promise was false because he was prevented from honoring it exactly as sworn. Was God not kind to him when He inspired his son to go in his stead? That must have brought peace to King Henry’s soul.”

Durant nodded as the woman put the jug of wine on the table. He pulled it to him, sniffed at the contents, then poured a modest serving for himself and more for the craftsman. “And so we are taught that oaths may be fulfilled in many ways. Should not the honest man have that symbol of intent to comfort him, as our former king did, when circumstances prevent him from doing precisely as he wished?”