Priscilla Royal - A Killing Season

What illogical creatures we mortals are, she thought, then concluded that a prioress, obliged to strive toward God’s perfection, had no excuse for such irrational and unacceptable failings.

Although a dying sun never meant that all activity ceased, there was little enough to see in the courtyard now to distract her. Torches flickered in the hands of soldiers. One blacksmith beat red-hot iron with a rhythmic clanging, and sparks flew like fireflies. The pungent stench of animals, too long in one spot, rose in the wind and assaulted Eleanor’s nose.

As she well understood, a castle was built to accommodate war, not the comfort of women and children, yet this fortress did seem uniquely grim, even when she tried to exile her bias. She understood how it had earned the name of dur , but what reason was there to ever call it doux?

Melancholy tugged more forcefully at Eleanor’s soul, and she quickly cursed whatever dark spirit resided here that seemed so determined to destroy all gladness in the heart. Thou shalt not win, she swore with fierce determination.

To drive away the morbid feeling, she turned her thoughts away from herself. It was time to draw her friend out and try to heal whatever burdened her. Her first question addressed the most likely problem: “Are you well?”

Anne flinched, but her expression softened with affection. “Did I not ask you much the same question earlier? Maybe we are both infected by some vile fetor hovering about?”

Eleanor stepped away from the window, her cheeks stinging from the sharp wind. “You have been so quiet of late. I feared that the journey may have been too great a hardship and that you had sickened. Knowing your concern for others, I wondered if you refused to confess ill-health lest you cause us difficulty.” She touched her friend’s arm and smiled. “None of us would ever think such a thing, and I speak as both friend and prioress.”

“My mother suffered to give me birth on this coast. Winter presents little that I have not endured before. I suffer no corporal illness, but I do confess that my spirit is uneasy.” The nun folded her hands and pressed them against her heart. “Do you truly think this castle is haunted by some malevolent force?” She turned her head so any expression was hidden by the folds of her wimple.

“Lack of knowledge is like a fertile land where the flowers of evil thrive,” the prioress replied. “When Hugh returns from seeing our host, we shall learn the reason for the baron’s summons. God’s intent shall be made evident, and He will give us the guidance needed to resolve the problem. Then demons may no longer torment us with those unsettling thoughts born of ignorance.”

Anne turned with a smile bright with enthusiasm. “Master Gamel said much the same yesterday about ignorance and evil, although he was referring to a proven treatment for an open wound. Some reject his preferred technique because they believe God has only sanctioned another way.” Suddenly, her face reddened.

The prioress raised an eyebrow.

The sub-infirmarian again hid her face. “He did consult with a priest, who determined there was nothing sinful in the remedy,” she said softly. “As you said, God provides enlightenment when the need exists. Ignorance, so beloved by Satan, soon vanishes.” Anne bent forward, rested her forearms on the stones of the window, and stared down into night.

Rarely had she ever seen Anne discomfited, Eleanor thought. As if listening to the sounds below, Eleanor said nothing and studied her friend out of the corner of her eye. After a moment, she asked: “Is the physician married? If so, this journey must be an especially long and lonely one for him.”

“His wife died a few years ago. He blames himself for that, claiming that his skill was too poor to save her. As I mentioned, there is a son, the only child to thrive of the eight borne, and the young man shall soon marry the daughter of a family friend. Master Gamel is delighted that the match has proven a happy choice for all.”

The two had discussed much more than medicine on the road, Eleanor thought, then become aware that there was no joy in Anne’s words. Although the nun had suffered the death of her only child before she took vows, she always found pleasure in hearing about the offspring of others.

“There should be grandchildren soon to cheer his heart.”

Eleanor nodded. Perhaps Anne’s last remark revealed the source of her pain. With her own babe dead, Anne’s arms must feel even emptier without the hope of grandchildren she could never embrace. “A son’s marriage?” Eleanor eased the subject away from that of children. If she wanted to pursue this cause of her friend’s pain, it should be done in a more private place. “A good enough reason to pray for a swift return home…”

“I hope my company does not offend?” The man’s voice was soft with misgivings and intended courtesy.

The two women spun around.

Sir Leonel bowed.

“Not at all,” Eleanor replied with more fervor than was required. She knew her face must be glowing and that the cause was not attributable to the surprise of his arrival.

“I was in the chapel too. You did not see me.”

Indeed she had not, the prioress thought. God must have blinded her to this man’s presence so she could concentrate on the state of his dead cousin’s soul.

“I did,” Anne replied. “With all you have suffered over the death of your cousin, Gervase, it seemed a kindness to let you pray in peace.”

Eleanor looked into Leonel’s eyes. How many men had eyes that color of a summer flower, she mused, then realized that he was standing so close she could feel his warm breath.

She willed herself to retreat until her back was against the wall. “You were sad witness to his tragic fall,” she said, pleased that her voice did not tremble this time even if her knees did.

“And I grieve deeply, my lady, but his mother suffers far more. Lady Margaret and I were standing at the window in the corridor above when he approached.” Leonel bent his head. “I still cannot understand what caused the accident. Perhaps he was bewitched, yet we had spoken together not long before and shared some wine. At that time, I observed nothing untoward.” He frowned in somber memory.

To keep her mind focused on something other than his musky scent, Eleanor commanded the arrival of cool reason while allowing her curiosity free rein about the circumstances of this death. “I remember the bitter wind when we arrived and how much comfort mulled wine gave us. Might the chill air have caused him to drink more than he ought?”

“I tarried over my cup longer than he, but we did not talk together for long. He had planned to meet with Raoul. His youngest brother had something he wished to discuss, he said. My cousin soon left me.” He tilted his head in thought.

What a fine profile, Eleanor thought then cursed her distraction.

“I remained in the Great Hall and did not seek the company of Lady Margaret until she sent for me.”

“Raoul? Who is…?” She blinked, trying to remember where she had heard the name, then quickly felt very much a fool. “Oh yes! He came to greet my brother and me after our arrival.” She glanced up at the baron’s nephew, carefully avoiding those violet eyes. “You believe your dead cousin was bewitched, not befuddled with drink?”

Leonel frowned. “My aunt might have believed that, and perhaps she has cause. I thought bewitched, yet I truly do not know what caused this tragic accident. My uncle does ask if some spell has been cast, for he has now lost three sons. One death may strike the heart like a sharp mace, but three wound so deeply that any father might long for death himself. He cries out in his sleep for relief.”