Priscilla Royal - Chambers of Death

Tobye jabbed the fork tines several times into the earth to clean them. “My tongue has a keener edge to it than is wise for a man of my low status. I beg pardon for any offense, Brother.”

Thomas grinned. “Candor is a trait I may value, but I gather you have made enemies with it?”

“Not so much for that, Brother.” He winked.

Opting to ignore the lewd inference, Thomas turned down his sleeves and put up the pitchfork. “As long as you do not offend your master.”

Tobye fell silent, his face darkening.

“A good master?” Thomas asked, sensing the change in the man’s mood.

“As good as some,” was the enigmatic reply.

“I am a guest here and did not mean to pry.”

The groom shrugged. “Your help was welcome, Brother, but I won’t count on it tomorrow. Surely your prioress will have need of her priest.”

The monk was confused by the rude dismissal but decided to let the matter be and quickly left the stable.

Watching Thomas walk away, the groom’s eyes narrowed. When the monk had disappeared around the stone wall of the manor, Tobye spat into the mud.

“My lady!”

Startled by the screech, rather akin in volume and pitch to the cries of mating cats, Eleanor spun around.

Mistress Constance stood but a few feet behind, her fists knotted against her chest, and her expression suggestive of either rapture or apoplexy.

Taking a deep breath, the prioress willed herself to remain calm and nodded. Speech, she decided, might be ill-advised considering her dislike of the woman.

“Mistress Constance. Wife of Master Stevyn’s eldest son, Ranulf. When you first arrived, I met you at the door…”

Eleanor took pity and interrupted the gasping recitation. “I remember you well, Mistress.” An honest enough statement, she thought, and continued in the same innocuous vein. “The shelter we were offered was an act of mercy. I shall not forget the kindness.”

“Ah!”

How sad, the prioress thought, as compassion now demanded entry to her heart. This woman might be wearisome, but she also lacked all joy, even in her faith. When mortals faltered with decaying age, terror over their sins often shimmered in their gaze, but surely Mistress Constance was only a few years older than Eleanor herself. Did merriment never dance in those eyes or laughter soften the angular features of her face? Faith might demand a healthy fear of doing evil to others, but, when Jesus turned water into wine at Cana wedding feast, he had shown that God allowed joy to reign equally in moral souls.

Joy? Now that she thought more on it, she realized that she had heard no child’s laughter in the manor house. Perhaps this woman’s sallow face and nervous manner were born of barrenness-or the death of too many babes, let alone so many other possible sorrows. A more gentle charity might be due this poor creature, Eleanor thought, and struggled to banish her annoyance. “We are well-met, Mistress. I seek the steward’s wife. Perhaps you might direct me to her?”

The woman waved a hand in front of her face as if a plague of flies had just descended. “Mistress Luce could be anywhere, my lady. Like many youthful creatures, she has little patience with duty and often lacks firm purpose. Fortunately, she has me to direct the servants in the work God made them to do.” She pointed her nose upward, a feature that matched her chin in sharpness. “As you must know yourself, servants are like children. They require close supervision if they are to do their duty and not steal the plate.”

Eleanor shut her eyes. Her charitable resolve now began a determined retreat. “I defer to your superior knowledge.”

Constance had the grace to blush.

“Taking on such arduous duty is most praiseworthy, Mistress, and I am aware that our unexpected arrival has added to your already significant burden,” Eleanor continued, biting her lip to remind herself that a civil tone was required. “As you surely understand, however, I owe due courtesy to the mistress of this manor, Master Stevyn’s wife.”

Mistress Constance nodded, then must have realized how propitious an opportunity this was to talk further with the Prioress of Tyndal. Her face brightened. “I shall help you find her!” she said, and gestured for the prioress to follow.

As the woman took Eleanor to several places where Mistress Luce might be found, Constance chattered breathlessly about her own many duties, before explaining in yet more detail why the mistress of the manor was rarely at any of locations visited.

After seeing the linen storage, buttery, kitchen, and even where furs were kept in the garderobe to keep them safe from moths, Eleanor had had enough and found a way to extricate herself. Taking advantage of a momentary intake of breath, Eleanor quickly thanked Constance for her trouble and hurried away, climbing the steps to the solar and the room where Mariota lay. It was there she actually found Mistress Luce, in the company of Mistress Maud.

***

When she pushed open the wooden door, however, both women cried out, alarmed by the unexpected arrival.

Maud was the first to bow her head in greeting when she saw the prioress. Luce remained rigidly still, face pale and eyes narrowed as if resentful over the intrusion.

What have I interrupted? Eleanor asked herself, noticing the pallor in each woman’s face.

Maud begged leave from the prioress to depart, then disappeared without any word to Mistress Luce.

Walking to the edge of the bed, Eleanor decided the wisest course would be to ignore any tension between the two women. “How does the patient fare?” she asked mildly.

Mistress Luce raised her eyebrows as if surprised at the question, then followed the prioress to the bedside.

Mariota still lay on her back, eyes shut, covers tucked up around her chin. When Eleanor touched her forehead, however, she realized the fever had eased. “God be praised!” she whispered. “She is better.”

“The widow does have some skill with the sick,” Luce replied, her tone mocking. “Moreover, she has decided which of my servants should sit by this girl’s side when you need respite.”

The prioress stepped back and silently studied Master Stevyn’s wife.

Luce’s expression was both defiant and scornful. Her lips twisted into a thin smile.

Although Mistress Constance had described this woman as a young and flighty creature, Eleanor saw only anger, perhaps resentment, but no immature petulance. In addition, Mistress Luce was as possessed of as much passion as Ranulf’s wife was devoid of it. “I am happy to have found you, Mistress,” she said aloud. “Expression of my gratitude for your charity is long overdue. I fear our arrival has settled a great burden on your household.”

“I had little to do with giving you shelter, my lady. My daughter-in-law may have been of service, although she usually succeeds only when others with greater ability grow impatient with her incompetence and do the tasks themselves. The woman who just left often forgets her place here, but she is probably more worthy of your thanks. As mistress of this manor, however, I must take the blame when things go ill, so perhaps I should take credit as well in balance.” There was no warmth and little grace in her smile. “You are most welcome to our poor hospitality until your charge is strong enough to travel. My husband would have it no other way.”

Eleanor replied with due courtesy, all the while amazed at how different Mistress Constance and Mistress Luce were. If she had cause to wonder at the rigidity and lack of any joy in Mistress Constance, she was equally surprised at Mistress Luce’s angry soul-and the dangerous passion she had shown for a man not her husband.