Priscilla Royal - A Killing Season

With evident affection, Hugh put a hand over his heart as he looked back at her. “Such words are like the balm of honey to your unworthy kinsman, my lady.”

Eleanor was about to reply when she heard footsteps. Bending to look around her brother, she stared down the shadowy corridor.

Hugh spun around.

A tall man greeted the pair with a deep bow. “You would be justified in feeling anger over how this family has ignored your arrival,” he said. “On behalf of Baron Herbert, I wish to apologize for our lack of hospitality and beg your forgiveness. The circumstances may be unusual, but we still owe our invited guests courtesy.”

The prioress was struck dumb by the man’s beauty. His eyes were the color of violets, shoulders broad, and his golden hair was cut short in the fashion of most fighting men. There was one deep scar along his left cheek, but that did nothing to mar his appearance. A battle wound was a mark of honor and courage, she thought, and found she quite liked it.

“You have no need to apologize,” Hugh said. He embraced the man, then introduced Sir Leonel, the baron’s nephew, to his sister.

Eleanor realized she was staring and quickly bowed her head when the man smiled at her.

“You have been most kind to my aunt.” His soft words were like a caress. “She told me that your counsel and prayers were deeply comforting.”

Feeling her cheeks grow hot, she hoped the bright color would be mistaken for modesty. “You were at her side when your cousin fell to his death,” she replied, willing her thoughts to a loftier purpose. “If you have not yet done so, I implore you to seek God’s comfort with your priest. Grief over Gervase’s death must be sharp indeed.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw.

She briefly wondered what that meant before logic abandoned her, vanquished by her wayward passions. Even her eyes burned. She shut them.

“We no longer have one. Our family priest died just before you arrived, my lady. It seems that God demands many souls from this place. Although my wish may be wicked, I do pray He is satisfied at last with the number He has gathered.”

She looked up at him.

His mouth twisted with a hint of bitterness.

“Brother Thomas is here with us,” she murmured. “God understands anguish when too many of our beloved ones die. He would want you to find solace.” Sir Leonel’s lips were full, she noticed. In another, that might be considered feminine but not in this very masculine nephew. “I urge you to seek our priest’s counsel.”

Without warning, Leonel fell to his knees in front of her, his hands folded prayerfully.

Her heart pounded so hard she feared both he and her brother would hear it.

“Bless me,” he begged.

Eleanor did not remember what phrases she spoke but knew how her voice trembled.

Jumping to his feet, his eyes glowed.

She stepped back as quickly as if he had been flames leaping from the hearth.

Then Leonel abruptly turned grave, thanked her for the grace, and turned all his attention to her brother.

“We came at your uncle’s behest,” Hugh said, although no question had been asked.

“And I have also come at his. He asks that you attend him.”

“I shall come whenever he wishes.”

“Now, if you would be so kind.”

This is welcome news, Eleanor thought, and was relieved that her reason was returning. She turned to her brother. “Before you leave, Sister Anne must be summoned to my side for propriety. I may not linger here alone.” She was also much in need of the steady, comforting companionship of her friend and fellow religious after this unsettling encounter with the baron’s nephew.

A servant was dispatched to bring the nun from the chapel. Within a few moments, the sub-infirmarian arrived, and the two men left.

Eleanor willed herself not to watch Sir Leonel walk away. He is a man of decided charm, she concluded as she forced her gaze in the other direction.

As prioress and nun walked back to the briskly dancing fire in the hall, Anne leaned close to her friend’s ear. “I sense something amiss,” she murmured. “Have you cause to be troubled?”

Aye, Eleanor thought, then firmly cast aside all thoughts of Sir Leonel. “These deaths. They have multiplied,” she said. “When my brother asked me to accompany him here, he confessed that Baron Herbert had said little about the reason for his plea. I understood that one son’s death must have caused deep melancholy, but I was perplexed by the request to bring healers of both body and soul. Nonetheless, I took Hugh’s word that the baron would never have begged the favor without cause.”

“Brother Thomas’ spiritual consolation added to my experience as an apothecary would serve the baron’s need, as you reasonably assumed. Have you learned something that proves your conclusion erroneous?”

“I should have questioned my brother further. I fear that you may have suffered this long journey without cause.”

“I confess I was startled to see a physician riding with Sir Hugh’s company of soldiers.”

Eleanor rubbed her hands to enhance the fire’s warmth.

Aware that the servants were still about, Anne bent closer for more private conversation. “You have no cause for regret. I am always pleased to come with you on your travels, whether or not my humble skills are needed. On this journey, however, I have learned so much. Master Gamel has generously shared some of his knowledge with me on the road. The time I have spent learning from him will bring great benefit to our hospital at Tyndal.”

Eleanor suspected that her sub-infirmarian had taught this fur-cloaked London man more than he had her, but she did not speak her thoughts. “With those words, you exemplify the meekness required of us all.”

“I did ask Master Gamel what your brother told him about the baron’s concerns.” Anne’s eyes twinkled.

“And how did he respond?” As always, her friend had guessed what the prioress might want to know.

“The baron specifically asked for a skilled doctor, one with particular experience in treating soldiers returning from Outremer.”

The prioress raised an eyebrow. Hugh had not mentioned this to her. Perhaps the request was of no significance to him, but it aroused her curiosity. “What reason was given for this?”

Anne shook her head.

Might this physician be interested in a particular injury or malady, an affliction found primarily amongst those coming home from the holy wars? “I am surprised that Master Gamel agreed to leave his patients. Something about this request must have sparked an interest.”

“Sir Hugh has done him many favors, he said, including the opportunity to consult with this man in your brother’s service.” She hesitated. “The one from Acre?”

“Lucas,” Eleanor replied.

“I was not quite sure how he served your brother.”

Eleanor was uncomfortable with the question. “He is a convert from Islam, a physician in his own land,” she said. “I know little more than that.” Rarely did she lie to Anne, but now was not the time to reveal the rumors surrounding her brother’s companion.

“ Lucas? That is an unusual name for an infidel.”

“He took the name at baptism,” Eleanor said. “My brother explained the name change was to honor Saint Luke, the physician, companion to the sainted Paul.” And that was all she wished to say about the man. Quickly she changed the subject: “Even if he did wish to repay my brother for past kindness, surely Master Gamel has many patients who will suffer in his absence.”

“He has a son, one who followed him in the study of healing arts. The physician is proud of his son’s talents so had little hesitation about leaving the suffering with him.” Anne smiled. “His only concern was that many might learn to prefer the younger man to the father. He told me that he is not so old that his only desire is to sit by the fire and play with his grandchildren.”