Priscilla Royal - Covenant With Hell

The rumor that he might have been a nun’s lover remained unspoken in the silence of the chapel.

She looked toward the door of the shrine. “I must meet this child, Gracia, who is surrounded by such controversy before she has even reached womanhood. Do you know where to find her so that I may pose questions and determine why she has been so condemned? Like you, I doubt her part in the coupling was willful. Even if it were, God is always merciful if the heart longs for it, but if the sin was forced upon her, we must offer great comfort.”

Now understanding her intent, Thomas was relieved. “We can find her, my lady. She often begs near the inn close by and in quieter places when she must avoid those who wish her ill.”

“Then Father Vincent shall denounce us both for seeking the company of one he deems beyond salvation. Let him go to Rome, if he is so unwise. There he will be revealed as the heartless fool he is. I stand by our founder’s teaching and example. All manner of mortals must be offered God’s love, but most especially children.” She looked up at him and smiled. “As for my ability to recognize wise counsel, Brother, I am firm in choosing yours over that of this feckless priest. Have no doubt about it.”

Murmuring gratitude, he bowed.

Prioress Eleanor then walked toward a cluster of women who had braved the muddy road to pray here. They now rose and stood, hands clasped and eyes lowered, before the altar.

With affectionate pride, Thomas watched his prioress approach the women. Pride might be a sin, but he suspected this was one of the few times God would not condemn it.

When he had first arrived at Tyndal Priory, unmanned by abuse and mad with sorrow, he concluded that the decision to put him under a woman’s rule was meant to continue his humiliation. He might have found an older woman with knowledge of the world more acceptable, having been raised by such a person, but this tiny prioress was young and convent-reared.

Wretched though he was, but having no choice in the place of his exile, he had managed to retain enough wit to obey her as required. And so he had learned how wrong he had been to doubt her. Some men, both secular and religious, might often look askance at the hierarchy within the Order of Fontevraud, but Thomas had found the blessing of calm in the curse of women’s rule.

The prioress was speaking softly to one woman with a solemn expression and sobering years. Then the woman bowed, pleasure briefly sparkling in her eyes, and she accompanied Eleanor back to where Thomas stood.

Now that the Prioress of Tyndal had the attendance proper for both her vocation and rank, the three walked into the street and sought the girl accused of greater sin than any child ought to own.

Gracia, however, proved too elusive to find.

Master Durant was not pleased. His visit to a lay brother at Walsingham Priory had proven no more useful for his purpose than the discussion with Master Larcher. As he approached the inn, he was met with a sight that troubled him even more.

Prioress Eleanor and Brother Thomas were engaged in earnest conversations with several men and women, both townspeople and strangers on pilgrimage. How odd for a monk and prioress to be so occupied, he thought.

Although he knew he should discover their purpose, he concluded it would be unwise to openly sate his curiosity. Inquisitiveness was a failing common to all mortals, and satisfying his would not bring him undue attention, but he did not want to be questioned himself, lest their interests touch upon things he had no wish to discuss.

Circling the outside of the crowd, he entered the inn as quickly as possible to avoid notice. His decision proved wise, for he soon learned much from the innkeeper without endangering himself.

Most of the inn’s patrons had gone to the shrines. The remaining few stood in the doorway and watched the activity in the road. Durant sat on a bench some distance from the door and ordered wine. He was hungry, and the serving woman went to the innkeeper to ask if the Lenten meal was ready.

The innkeeper walked over to the wine merchant. “I can offer you a root vegetable stew now,” he said with an apologetic tone, “but the fish is not yet roasted. I don’t like to serve it cold or overcooked, and the midday meal is some time off for most, in particular those who are worshipping at the Holy House.”

Durant smiled and accepted the kind offer of stew, then expressed his appreciation of the man’s concern over the quality of the fare he offered. Gesturing at the wine, one of the innkeeper’s best, the merchant asked if he would join him in a cup.

The man agreed with enthusiasm. Finding a mazer, he slid onto the bench opposite, poured himself a generous amount, and asked, “Did you learn any news from those outside?” Sipping the vintage, he briefly closed his eyes with pleasure.

The steaming bowl arrived. With a sigh of satisfaction, Durant breathed in the warm scent of spices. “I was curious but confess I was too eager for some of your good fare to tarry long enough to find out.” Taking a bite of the fragrant root vegetable stew, he nodded with unfeigned delight. “Someone knows a good spice merchant,” he said with a grin, then asked, “What started this commotion in the street?”

“The prioress and monk from Tyndal Priory near the North Sea seek the child named Gracia who often begs outside the inn door.”

Durant widened his eyes in amazement, then summoned the serving woman to bring another small jug of the same wine. When she did, he poured more into the innkeeper’s cup. “Are they hoping to rescue her soul?” He asked the question with a pilgrim’s eagerness.

The man’s eyes were sparkling from the wine, and he took another long, appreciative swallow. “I can think of no other reason they would want to speak with her.” He shook his head sadly. “It is well if they do, for they seem like gentle folk. Our Father Vincent hurls curses at her as well as stones.”

“A child, you say? What evil has she done to warrant such harshness?”

The innkeeper shrugged. “The priest calls her a whore. There are rumors she has paid for food with her body, and perhaps that is true. I never saw her lure men but do not follow her when she leaves here. To my knowledge, all she does is sit quietly outside my inn with her hand outstretched. I pity her and let the girl be, most of the time.”

“Has she no kin or does she beg for them as well?” The wine merchant took another bite and savored it with a sip of wine.

“Her family was poor, but not beggars, and all but the girl died with last summer’s tragic fever. She has no one to take her in. The nuns of Ryehill struggle enough to feed themselves, and they hire no servants. The monks of Walsingham Priory are occupied with pilgrims and the tending of the sacred sites. They have no place for a girl.”

“No one cares for orphans in Walsingham? That is most unusual.”

“That fever killed many. The merchants have given shelter to their own so their charity is stretched thin. The religious have few scraps to offer compared to the number of mouths open for bread. Some poor boys with strong backs were taken in by Walsingham Priory to work, but most of the poor children became beggars and many of those died in the last winter.”

Durant sipped his wine. “Yet she lived. Does she do so well at begging?”

“She’s clever and must find places to stay warm.” He bent his head toward the stables. “I suspect the groom lets her sleep in the straw. He thinks I do not know, and I let him believe it. But she won’t live much longer even if she has gone as feral as a cat.” His expression darkened. “Most girls in her situation do sell themselves to men. I might have found some place for her here, but I have hired all I can of others whose families have died. Now that she has been accused of whoredom, I dare not or I would lose custom from pilgrims.” He bent his head toward Ryehill. “The nuns know I do not countenance the vice, and they send travelers here with that understanding.”