Priscilla Royal - Valley of Dry Bones

Now that formal courtesies had been observed, the prioress hoped to learn what profit the baron expected to gain from this meeting. She assumed she would not have to wait long to discover it.

“My lady, I am a man burdened with my sins.”

An honest enough beginning, she noted in silence, for the baron had more than his share of faults. Inclining her head, she wisely kept her own counsel and politely suggested that all earthly creatures were flawed.

“I fear my soul shall be found unworthy when God calls me to Him.”

Most likely the Devil, Eleanor thought, and then quickly moderated her unkindness with a firm reminder that God always forgave the truly repentant. Men often found their hearts filled with remorse for wicked deeds when they felt their souls striving to escape over-ripened flesh. Although she had no quarrel with this, she chose to be like the good sailor, who wisely suspects that coastal fog hides treacherous rocks, and remained wary of the man’s expressed atonement.

“I came on this journey with a twofold purpose.”

And so the circling of his real prey grows tighter, the prioress concluded with a nod of encouragement.

“When Queen Eleanor asked me to travel her proposed pilgrimage route, I agreed at once, knowing she values my opinion most highly.” His sigh conveyed the immense responsibility such a regal appeal entailed. “When I first learned she had included a stay at Tyndal, I was quite perplexed until I did realize that this remote priory could be a proper destination for a pilgrim, even one of her rank.”

There is less honey than sour wine in those phrases, the prioress thought.

“I began to hear talk of its saintly infirmarian and an anchoress as well. Now I have learned that you have a blessed hermit nearby.”

Eleanor lowered her gaze, hoping to convey modesty while praying she could hide her anger at such thin courtesy and poor flattery. Not that more skillful praise would have fooled her, even though clever phrasing did entertain, but the baron had offended with his insufficiently veiled disdain. Even if she set her own pride aside, a prioress represented the Queen of Heaven in the Order of Fontevraud, and Eleanor would not so easily dismiss the insult to her office. She chose to counter the offence with a cautious and suitable response. Raising her head, she graced him a look of contrived benevolence to match his false smile.

He had misjudged more than the sharpness of her wits. Although King Edward and his queen favored other Orders, the king’s ancestors had always looked fondly on their Angevin Order, and many were buried in the mother house of Fontevraud Abbey. The king would be displeased should he learn of any insult given to one of its prioresses, and the baron might discover that his alleged status in court had diminished when he returned.

Baron Otes was a fool.

She patiently awaited the full revelation of his intent.

“With so many signs of holiness at Tyndal, I saw possible merit if I offered your priory some gift in return for the nuns’ prayers after my death.” He put a hand to his breast. “As you must know, I am a man whom God has favored with worldly riches.”

Eleanor felt her interest quicken, then reined it in with caution. Without question, her priory suffered an ongoing need for income to feed the religious and care for the suffering as God demanded. Some in her position cared little what a gift cost in sin if it brought better wine to the priory table. Eleanor was not one of them. She believed some offerings came at a price incompatible with the demands of faith.

Nonetheless, she was also a practical woman and prepared to offer guarded appreciation. She waited for Otes to tell her all he expected in return for his proposed beneficence.

“In obedience to our Lord’s command that we perform the charities encompassed in the Seven Comfortable Acts,” he continued, “I thought to give this priory a bit of land. The income from it would provide enough to care for and feed some needy few, but I would also require that the nuns of the priory pray daily for my soul’s swift release from Purgatory.”

“You are most generous, my lord, and I do thank you for this offer. Most of our nuns are sequestered and spend hours in fervent prayer for souls. A gift of profitable land pays for the fare that sustains them. As for the poor, it is our duty to care for them, and your grant …”

“Of course, my lady, but another, who must remain anonymous, has also shown interest in this property and has sworn to put the needs of my soul before the feeding of the poor should the crops fail in any particular year.” Once again, his hand went to his breast. “I fear my many sins demand priority.”

Eleanor stiffened, then decided she could easily devise some plan to continue feeding the poor while also supporting the nuns needed to pray for this man’s spotted soul. “I can promise that our prayers shall be equally devoted to shortening your time in Purgatory.”

He bowed. “Might you also swear to offer pleas on my behalf in perpetuity to God? That provision was not included by the other interested party.”

She agreed without hesitation.

Then he folded his arms, his eyes glittering

Eleanor was reminded of a snake, basking in the sun.

“There is one other matter which must be resolved before I grant title of this generous gift to Tyndal Priory.”

Eleanor silently ran through the usual list of stipulations attached to bequests of this nature and knew she could accept most.

“You have given refuge to a traitor’s kin.”

Stunned, she was rendered speechless.

He stared at her, waiting for a gasp of horror. When his comment was greeted with continued silence, he scowled. “I fear that King Edward might misconstrue any gift I give you as my approval of such betrayal to kingship.”

“I am quite ignorant of your meaning, my lord,” Eleanor said at last. Although she knew she had concealed it, she was shocked by this accusation. Glancing at Sister Ruth’s blank expression, she saw that the sub-prioress was just as unacquainted with the news as she. “What traitor’s kin do you think we harbor?”

Otes looked appalled. “You do not know?”

Most certainly I do not, she thought. Then with great relief she realized that the baron must have heard false rumor about her prior.

Andrew, before he took vows, had fought in Simon de Montfort’s army. When she first arrived as Tyndal’s prioress, the monk had confessed this past to her, knowing her father had remained loyal to King Henry. As they were obliged to do under God’s commandments, they forgave each other for any offenses committed by themselves or kin. Soon thereafter they had learned mutual respect. After Prior Theobald’s death, she had prayed that Andrew would be elected to replace him.

“Surely you do not mean Prior Andrew,” Eleanor replied at last. “He received a pardon after the battle at Evesham on condition he expiate his sins by entering a monastery, as he himself had ardently requested. Perhaps you had not learned that information.”

Sister Ruth gasped.

The prioress bit back a groan. Although Sister Ruth would never spread rumors amongst the nuns, she’d not treat this knowledge with tact or compassion and would make sure Prior Andrew suffered her scorn. Eleanor regretted this had been revealed in her hearing. On the other hand, considering Sister Ruth’s reverent attitude toward any of high rank, a reminder that the present king’s uncle had pardoned Andrew might be sufficient to dull the woman’s sharp tongue.

Eleanor grew ever more eager to conclude this increasingly unpleasant audience.

Baron Otes licked his lips as if savoring the taste of roasted venison. “Although Prior Andrew might have been forgiven, his elder brother was not, and it fell to me to execute him. For my loyal obedience to our anointed king, this prior of yours vowed to murder me.”