Priscilla Royal - Chambers of Death

Thomas’ horse snorted. “My lady,” the monk shouted. “I hear horsemen!”

A dripping rider, followed by a small company, now rounded the bend. “Lodging has been found, my lady,” the man shouted through the wind gusts. “Henry de Lacy, Earl of Lincoln, has land here. His steward begs you honor him by taking shelter at the manor.”

Eleanor tenderly released Mariota into the outstretched arms of waiting servants. “Carry her gently. She is so very weak,” she whispered as she watched them lift their light burden up the rain-slick steps toward the brightness of the open door.

“They will take her to a fire’s comfort, my lady,” another servant assured her, raising a hand to help the prioress from her donkey. “The mistress was told of the illness and ordered preparations for her care.”

Murmuring her gratitude, Eleanor stood for a moment in the cascading rain until her legs regained enough feeling to walk. Had she ever felt so numb? The dark, rough exterior of this manor house might look forbidding to unwelcome strangers in the night, but stone walls meant there would be fireplaces enough inside to add warmth to the sweetness of charity. When she herself stepped across the threshold, Eleanor closed her weary eyes and thanked God for granting her party this dry sanctuary from the storm.

“My lady!”

Eleanor blinked at the intensity of the greeting.

A woman rushed forward, hands open as if to seize her.

The prioress jumped back from the assault.

The dark-clad woman fell to her knees in front of the dripping prioress.

“Bless me!”

All Eleanor could do was nod. Fatigue, added to the shock of this peculiar welcome, had chased all speech away.

The woman’s narrow-set eyes glittered like small beads of jet in the flickering firelight. “Are you not the Prioress of Tyndal?”

Eleanor took a deep breath and found voice enough to confirm her identity.

“God, in His mercy, has blessed us by sending you when we need you most!”

Although she was owed reverent courtesy based on her rank as a baron’s daughter and as head of Tyndal Priory, Eleanor had never been greeted as if she were one of God’s own angels. As she looked down at this sharp-angled face and unblinking eyes, she wondered if the woman were suffering from some great distress-or might she be quite simply mad?

Quelling her apprehension, the prioress replied: “He has granted us mercy. We were in dire need of shelter from this dreadful storm.” To herself, she expressed hope that this woman’s strange greeting was born of that awkward nervousness found in many pious folk when faced with another mortal who has dedicated her life to God’s service. “Are you the mistress of this manor, the one who has obeyed Our Lord’s commandment to offer a safe haven to those in need?”

“The famous Prioress of Tyndal!” was the woman’s sole and muttered reply.

Eleanor tried another approach. “May I ask your name?”

“She is Mistress Constance.”

Startled by this new voice, the prioress spun around.

A square-bodied woman, perhaps no taller than the prioress herself, stood in an open doorway some feet to the right of the fireplace. When the prioress saw her, the woman offered the obeisance due Eleanor’s rank before continuing. “She is daughter-in-law to Master Stevyn, the steward in residence here. Am I correct in believing that at least one member of your company is grievously ill?”

Eleanor glanced down at the now-identified woman still kneeling at her feet. Unmoving, Mistress Constance stared up at her, mouth open and eyes wide as if she had fallen into a trance.

“The poor shivering child near the fire suffers from a high fever and has lost all reason,” the prioress replied, gesturing. Although she feared she must address the cause behind Mistress Constance’s extreme reaction to her arrival, Mariota’s grave condition demanded immediate attention.

The older woman hurried toward the fireplace where Mariota lay on a thick straw pallet. Eleanor was close behind. Servants might have loosely wrapped Mariota in a heavy blanket but she was still lying in wet clothing. A fine mist of steam rose from her shivering body. “Wine!” the woman ordered, and a servant instantly disappeared behind a screen at the back of the hall.

“I now believe she has been ill since morning at the start of our journey but said nothing of it. When we stopped to let the horses rest and take refreshment ourselves, she refused all but a bite of food. I noticed her pallor, but she claimed to be well when I asked. At midday, Brother Thomas caught her as she began to slide from her mount. It was then we discovered that she suffered a very high fever. Now she has been severely chilled by this storm. I fear for her life.”

“We must pray for God’s mercy on this young soul, my lady.” The woman shook her head.

If Mariota dies, I am much to blame, Eleanor thought. Is there penance enough…? She knelt at the side of her charge and rested the back of her hand against the young woman’s burning cheek. Suddenly there was an abrupt tug at the back of her robe, and Eleanor turned her head, annoyance coloring her cheeks.

“This house is full of sin, my lady! As Prioress of Tyndal, you have the power to keep it from me. I must have your blessing!” Mistress Constance was still on her knees but now knelt behind the prioress and was clutching her soaked garment.

Eleanor’s patience cracked. Filled with worry over Mariota and shivering herself from the storm’s drenching rain, Eleanor grew angry at the rude handling and opened her mouth to admonish the woman. But the servant arrived with the wine, and the prioress’ attention was drawn back to her sick charge.

“I shall make sure the poor child is settled in a warm bed and receives all the care we have available here, my lady,” the older woman said, her voice soft as she took the wine from the servant’s hands and raised Mariota’s head so she might sip it.

The calm authority in the woman’s voice cooled Eleanor’s temper. At least Mariota would be cared for even if she herself must remain here, drenched and chilled to the bone, because Mistress Constance was either awe-struck or obsessed. She turned back to the impertinent woman.

“You are in error if you think I have any special power against evil, Mistress. I am not a saint…” she began.

Constance shook her head so violently, her very teeth seemed to rattle-until Eleanor realized that the sound came from the ring of keys the woman clutched in one hand. Reaching out with the other to seize Eleanor’s hands, she hissed: “I’ll pay for the blessing. As for the evil here, you must find a way to purge…”

“Mistress, I beg you to let me attend my sick charge this night. In the morning, we shall speak more on this. As for a blessing, I give that freely enough, but you must talk to your priest if you believe the Devil is in residence.”

“Bless me now!”

Knowing that blessings were never amiss, Eleanor granted the request, although she doubted the plea was born of any need for peace in a longing soul. Sadly, she suspected a more worldly purpose, such as pride in obtaining such a thing from a religious of some rank.

Once the requested act had been done, Mistress Constance stared at Eleanor’s hands for some time, then pulled herself to her feet and scurried away without uttering any word, even of thanks.

Eleanor suffered another flash of anger. Did the woman hope to find signs of the stigmata so she could gain even greater admiration from any companions? When the irritation faded, however, she felt the full power of deep fatigue and longed for sleep. Forcing her eyes to remain open, she turned back to the fireplace where the sick woman lay.