Priscilla Royal - Chambers of Death

“You demanded an edifying song. I gave you one. What quarrel could you have with that?” Huet’s expression suggested neither consternation nor remorse.

“Why didn’t you choose another? There are many enough!” The man’s sallow face had turned orange with hot rage.

“Why should I consider myself a prodigal son, brother, and why should you assume your dedication to duty was as self-interested as the son in the tale just told? You know nothing of my reasons for return, and I know little of what you have done to serve our father since I left.”

Ranulf pounded the table. Wine slopped over the rim of his cup. “Father, I demand you admonish Huet for the insult given me!”

“Silence,” the steward now roared. “Both of you! Had Huet sung of Mary and Martha, Ranulf, you would have seen yourself as the beleaguered Martha and claimed insult because Mary won greater favor. As for you,” Stevyn gestured at his younger son, “if you think you are welcomed with no punishment for abandoning your studies, then reconsider.” He picked up a handful of discarded chicken bones. “This is no fatted calf, lad, and I give you no forgiving embrace. We shall speak, when my work allows it, and that will be soon enough. If I were you, I would not unpack that bundle you brought back from your senseless wanderings.”

Ranulf slid back down on the bench.

Constance edged ever so slightly away from him.

Huet bowed to his father and retreated to his place next to Brother Thomas.

“I swear he paid for his way home by entertaining at inns.” Stevyn muttered in such a low voice that he seemed to address neither his wife nor the prioress. “Look how he slinks back to his seat. Isn’t that the way of a wily minstrel, fading out of sight when the performance does not please? ‘S blood, but I have been cursed with these sons!” Briefly, he buried his head in his hands.

Mistress Luce ignored her husband, bent back in her seat to stretch around the monk, and plucked at her stepson’s sleeve. Her hand brushed over Thomas’ shoulder.

Digging her nails into her palms, Eleanor stopped herself from exclaiming in outrage.

Thomas, however, was utterly oblivious to the woman’s closeness. He was far too involved in explaining something to Huet. The younger son was just as engaged with the monk’s conversation and failed to notice his stepmother’s attempt to get his attention.

Chastising herself for reacting so strongly, Eleanor exhaled.

“Huet!” Luce pleaded.

Brushing her fingers away as if they were annoying insects, Huet picked up his lute, and proceeded to demonstrate a technique on the instrument for the monk.

The stepmother gave up and sat forward again with a disgusted snort.

Brooding, Master Stevyn gnawed at a chicken thigh and did not heed his wife’s displeasure.

For a woman whose lover had just been murdered, Mistress Luce seemed remarkably devoid of grief. If I were to conclude anything from her behavior tonight, Eleanor thought, I would say she did not miss the groom at all and was trying rather quickly to seduce some other man as replacement in her bed.

Even her stepson? The prioress shuddered at the idea, then turned her mind away from such a horror and asked herself if Luce had simply wearied of Tobye. If so, might she have had cause to kill him?

In addition, there were Luce’s comments about Constance’s marriage and age. Not only were the remarks odd, but they had a definite sexual undertone. Constance was surely little older than the steward’s second wife, and the statement that she had lured Ranulf into marriage was curious.

Such comments pointed to significant discord, perhaps jealousy, between the two women. Was it competition over a man? Surely Master Stevyn was not the object. Had they both lusted after Tobye? Constance might present herself as sternly religious, but the prioress knew that did not mean the woman was devoid of malign lust.

Eleanor looked over at Ranulf’s wife.

Nibbling at a piece of bread, the woman might have the demeanor of a modest enough spouse, but her eyes were focused on Luce and that gaze was filled with white-hot hate.

Did Ranulf notice this? Eleanor turned to read his expression.

Ranulf, however, had disappeared. His mazer was overturned, and the dark wine had spread across the white tablecloth like a pool of blood.

The late morning light cast shadows in Mariota’s hollowed cheeks. “I have gravely sinned,” she whispered before falling into a fit of coughing.

“How so, my child?” Eleanor took the young woman’s hand and marveled at how quickly Death impressed his skeletal seal on mortals when illness struck. Instinctively, she grasped the girl’s hand more firmly as if telling the dark creature that she would not allow him to take Mariota’s soul just yet.

Although many believed evil was the root cause of illness, Eleanor was inclined to agree with her sub-infirmarian that sickness had a multitude of causes. As she looked down at Mariota, she wondered how filled with wickedness this youthful creature could truly be. Not only was the girl young, but she had comported herself with devout and respectful demeanor during her stay at Tyndal. Shaking her head, the prioress refused to condemn the young woman for falling ill.

Yet Mariota turned her face away, and tears began to weave their way down her sunken cheek.

“Surely your failing is not so heinous.” Taking a soft cloth, Eleanor reached over and patted the dampness away. On the other hand, Sister Christina, the infirmarian at Tyndal, had seen cures when the weight of sin was lessened with confession. Both nuns were probably right, the prioress decided. She would encourage Mariota to talk, and, if the error qualified as a sin, Bother Thomas could assign penance and grant absolution.

“Pride kept me from admitting I suffered a fever until I had endangered all in the fury of that storm. I pray my breath has not proven as malignant as a leper’s and others have not fallen ill or worse.”

“Fear not. No one has.” Actually, she thought, I bear far more blame for exposing all to peril since it was my ill-advised decision to take this journey in the first place.

“I have always suffered from obstinate pride, my lady. My mother often said she had to remind me, far more often than was deemed reasonable, that meek obedience is pleasing to God and is a virtue all good women should possess.”

“Thus we are taught and wisely reminded,” Eleanor answered, “for many of us suffer from willfulness.” As she herself should know, being just such a woman. “Your mother loves you,” she continued aloud, “and desires only to guide her daughter in a path that will best lead to mortal happiness.”

Mariota weakly clutched the prioress’ hand and began to sob.

“Child, what troubles you? Surely the reason is not just this vile fever. You have brought no grief to any!”

“I am wicked!”

“No more, I am sure, than any other.”

“More! More!”

The prioress stroked her hand, trying to soothe and fearing Mariota was too frail to bear such fierce despair. What could this young woman have possibly done to warrant this severe self-condemnation?

Although Eleanor was less than a decade older, each month between them felt tripled in time to her. After her appointment to Tyndal Priory, when she was barely twenty, the prioress had faced evil far more malevolent than most people of so few years on earth could even imagine. Thus she had assumed that Mariota’s guilt must involve some misstep of insignificant wickedness. Yet there was one thing that could trouble the girl, something that the prioress had suffered all too painfully as well.

“You fell in love with a man, did you not?” Fearing the girl would interpret any smile as mockery, she forced her expression to remain politely reserved.