Priscilla Royal - Valley of Dry Bones

The late afternoon heat settled heavily on Prioress Eleanor. Sweat wiggled down her spine, making her itch as if some impudent crawling thing were caught beneath her habit. Now her arm grew numb from holding her staff of office.

Surely it should not take this long for the party from Edward’s queen to enter the priory gates. Their messenger had arrived just after the last Office. Was it not almost time for the bells to announce the next?

Beside her, Prior Andrew eased his weight to his other foot.

Her glance caught his brief grimace. “Does your leg trouble you?”

“It is nothing more than a man’s impatience to be busy, my lady. I am not accustomed to standing still this long.”

She nodded in response, knowing he had lied but letting him keep his pride. Her prior was a good man. His attempt at deception was innocent enough.

“Queen Eleanor honors Tyndal Priory by suggesting she might stop here on her pilgrimage route.” The prior clasped his hands in a prayerful gesture. The whiteness of his knuckles betrayed the pain he was suffering.

“We received the news of her great favor with much joy.” Eleanor chose to reply as if this visit were a certainty, although she knew there was a possibility that the event might never come to pass. Even if it did, Edward’s wife could have some troubling reason for coming here. Honor never came without cost. Since the prioress could think of no reason why Tyndal might already have earned the boon, she concluded that any price must be paid in the future.

A shout from a lay brother, standing at the open gates, interrupted her worries before they became weightier.

Great clouds of tan dust billowed above the grey stones of the priory walls. The neighing of horses and rumble of carts on the rutted road from the west were unmistakable.

At last, Eleanor thought, and gripped her crosier more firmly. Her hand slipped, and she almost dropped the staff.

That was not a good omen. She clenched her teeth, and her heart pounded with apprehension. Then she looked at those clustered nearby. From their expressions, she suspected any misgivings were hers alone.

Standing to her left, Sister Ruth was red-faced and sweating from the heat while her square face bore an especially beatific expression. Such a worshipful look would be greeted with favor by those accustomed to the ways of a king’s court. Although the sub-prioress often tried Eleanor’s patience, the woman was far more capable than she of conveying heart-felt flattery, a skill that sometimes allowed the prioress to avoid attempting her own, less convincing performance.

Next to the sub-prioress stood Sister Christina, infirmarian of Tyndal’s well-regarded hospital. The nun had prayerfully bowed her head, a sincere gesture as well as wise since her weak eyes often made her seem oblivious to anything around her. Even those of high secular rank, who might otherwise demand rapt attention, would never dare to find insult in such splendid faith.

“The envoys arrive,” Eleanor said. With grim resolve, she tried to emulate the calm of those surrounding her.

The religious grew quiet with anticipation.

“They are accompanied by a large armed guard.” Prior Andrew shaded his eyes and stared at the dust clouds.

“Let us hope they are not too numerous to accommodate.” The prioress glanced at his tensed features and hoped she might find cause to release him from further attendance. During this very long wait, they had all suffered from the oppressive summer heat. When the ritual courtesies were finished, Eleanor planned to dismiss the majority so they could find refuge in the relative cool of the priory buildings.

“I have prepared for that likelihood,” Sister Ruth hissed.

“Nor did I doubt that you had,” Eleanor replied. Whatever faults her sub-prioress possessed, the failure to plan carefully for the comfort of high-ranking guests was not one of them.

The prioress looked again at her prior and regretfully concluded that he must stay a while longer than the others. Although she was the unquestioned leader of both monks and nuns in this Fontevraudine priory, the presence of masculine authority was expected and more reassuring to those outside the Order.

Nonetheless, Eleanor was solely responsible for assuring hospitality balanced between the monastic simplicity appropriate to a pilgrimage and the comfort to which a king’s wife was accustomed. It was also the prioress who must convince these courtiers that Tyndal was prepared in all respects to welcome a queen.

Eleanor closed her eyes and prayed that Edward’s wife would quite soon forget she had ever mentioned making this journey. Should God grant this plea, the prioress vowed she would not resent all the wasted effort put into planning. At least Tyndal would be ready for the burden of such an honor if the queen did arrive at the priory gates.

The first of the armed escort rode through the gates.

Eleanor squinted through the dirty haze, anxious to catch sight of the man she had learned would be leading the party.

Although she had never met Sir Fulke, she knew he was the eldest brother of Crowner Ralf, a man she called friend. The courtier was sheriff for this region but rarely appeared, preferring Winchester to any land populated with flickering lights known as corpse candles, stinking fens, and screeching mews.

Ralf had assured her that she had little to fear from Fulke who would be as eager to leave Tyndal as she would be to see him go. And she had no reason to believe any member of this party had a quarrel with her family or with this remote and insignificant priory.

Her apprehension diminished.

After the long journey, they surely would be grateful enough for a cool drink, a decent meal, and rest. Perhaps they all would prove as keen as she to confirm without delay that the queen’s needs would be met here. Then they could make swift return to the comforts of court, and Eleanor could go back to balancing accounting rolls and estimating the wool profit from priory sheep.

She stifled a hopeful sigh.

The horsemen now drew to a halt, parted, and the lead rider approached. At last she would meet Sir Fulke.

Furtively drying her sweating hand on her robe, Eleanor clutched the crosier with determination, arranged her features into an expression of serene dignity, and reminded herself that Tyndal might gain land or some other fine gift if she handled this matter of the queen’s visit with skill.

Then she recognized the priest riding behind the sheriff.

All hope of tranquility fled.

Baron Otes was a very happy man.

As he rode with the sheriff through the gates of Tyndal Priory, he raised his eyes heavenward and, with an abrupt nod, thanked God for the satisfactory way in which He had answered all his prayers on this journey. Otes was wise enough to show gratitude when He did as requested, not that God often failed to grant his wishes.

The baron’s only grievance today was the unrelenting heat. As he had grown older, he had gained weight in direct proportion to his increasing affluence. Now he suffered more in summer and found traveling in warmer seasons difficult. For this reason, he chose well-tempered horses large enough to comfortably carry a man of his girth without complaint over long journeys. Or so he had always done.