Priscilla Royal - Chambers of Death

“Who told you of this?”

“No one did, but as women we are fellow creatures and understand such things. Adam was one of God’s most delightful creations, and we often find his sons irresistible.” This time she risked a sympathetic upturn of the corners of her lips.

“Were you ever in love, my lady?” Her eyes then widened in horror. “Forgive me! I meant no insult! Love of God is the greatest…”

“Few escape mortal passions, but we enter the religious life because heavenly joys are greater than earthly ones,” the prioress replied with deliberate ambiguity.

“I lied to you and my mother.”

Eleanor nodded encouragement.

“I said I had a vocation.”

“And now you doubt that?”

“I don’t know what I believe.”

“You are not the first to ask for time to discover if the contemplative life is suitable. Sometimes we believe it is, only to discover that we are more able to do good in the world. There is no sin in changing your mind.”

“When my father lay dying, I promised God I would dedicate my life to His service.”

“Did your father know of this vow?”

Mariota nodded. “He heard me and, concluding this was my intent, said he had always hoped I would become a nun.”

“Did you mean to take vows?”

The young woman closed her eyes. “I was begging God to heal my father and promised to become a better person if He did. I thought to give more alms to the poor.”

“Were there other witnesses to your words and your father’s response?”

“My mother and brother.”

“Did you explain your true intention to them?”

With a sob, the young woman nodded again. “They said I must do as my father had prayed and wished.”

Eleanor squeezed the hand she tenderly held and tried to find words that would both comfort and wisely direct. “Is your mother truly convinced you have a vocation?”

“She now turns to my elder brother for advice.”

This young man had accompanied their mother and Mariota to Tyndal. Perhaps two years older than his sister, he was a somberly dressed lad and displayed more gravitas than anyone of his few years or experience should reasonably possess.

“And what is his opinion?”

“I must honor my promise.”

This was not a happy situation. Strict obedience to a perceived deathbed promise would be hard to set aside, yet an unwilling vocation was an open wound that often festered. Of course there were many upon whom vows had been forced, religious who possessed common faith but no zeal. Sometimes the lack was benign and a more ardent faith was even born in time. In other instances, however, corruption and sin resulted.

If Eleanor could come up with a reasonable alternative, both Mariota and Tyndal might be better served. Should she do so, she hoped the girl’s brother was still enough of a boy to prove malleable in the face of an elder’s advice. And Prior Andrew would be the one to counsel him in this different but still virtuous path.

“Who is the man you love?” Eleanor trusted her question was asked kindly enough to encourage more confidence from the girl.

Mariota flushed.

At least the cause is not fever, Eleanor concluded with relief. “A friend of your family?”

“And one who has grown up with my brother.”

“Did your brother know of your attachment?”

“Nay, my lady, and I had no right to add another burden on him so soon after our father’s death.”

“Burden? I fail to understand that, unless this man did not return your affections or had insufficient means to support a wife, or was even, perhaps, vowed to another?”

“My lady, there was no impediment to our marriage. We loved each other, but my father fell ill before we could ask his permission to wed. Then my father read my words as a holy vow, and my beloved wept at the news but swore he would do nothing to offend my brother’s wish to honor our father.”

Eleanor heard the bitterness in Mariota’s voice and wondered if she had hoped the young man would confront her family on her behalf. If so, disappointment at his refusal might explain the brief flash of anger she also saw in the woman’s eyes.

There was yet one more detail, even two, that might preclude entry to the priory. “When you two talked of love, did you perchance vow marriage to each other in the present tense? Or did he bed you?” If they had taken such a vow, they were wed in God’s eyes as well as in the laws of the secular world. If the girl was not a virgin, she could still become a nun, yet Eleanor might be able to argue…

“Neither, my lady.”

And thus you must take on a vocation you do not wish because you were an obedient daughter and a virtuous woman, Eleanor concluded. All arguments I might have made on your behalf have been crushed.

She turned her face away so Mariota could not read her surrender.

The young woman sighed and closed her eyes as if understanding the futility of her situation whether or not it was voiced.

You may still find joy in the cloister, the prioress said to herself, and decide that love of God was ardent yet soothing to the spirit like water on a fever. Yet how could she serve as mentor when she had failed to banish her own longing for Brother Thomas?

“We shall speak more of this later, my child,” Eleanor said, then realized Mariota had fallen back into a deep sleep. Eleanor stroked the girl’s thin hand. If God denied Death’s wish to take the young woman as his own bride, there would be time enough to discuss the future.

For several moments, Eleanor remained by the girl’s side, praying that God grant Mariota peace whatever the days ahead brought. Then she summoned a nearby servant to keep watch and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Her devoted guard stood just outside the chambers. He turned and bowed.

Wordlessly acknowledging that courtesy, the prioress modestly tucked her hands into her sleeves.

From the courtyard, a piercing shriek shattered the silence.

The cook groveled in the rank mud, then clambered to her knees and seized the sheriff’s wrist.

“I am innocent!”

“Take the vile creature away,” Sir Reimund shouted. He stared down at Hilda with loathing and tore his hand from her tremulous grasp.

Two men rushed to obey.

“She offends all honest souls.”

A man gave the sheriff a cloth.

Snatching it, he rubbed at the muck soiling his hand as if he were scouring a pot.

Stunned by the scene before them, Eleanor and her guard halted just outside the manor house entrance. The prioress gazed at the muttering, pushing crowd and wondered what she should do next. Had every servant gathered to watch the spectacle?

Somewhere dogs barked, and several chickens burst from the crowd, clucking with avian displeasure. Two men stood at the edge of the group, heads together, as if conferring over some significant thing. One straightened and roared with laughter. Nearby, a woman heavy with child cried out, a stain darkening her skirt. An older companion took her by the arm and eased her away.

From the vicinity of the stable, Master Stevyn shouted something incomprehensible. Eleanor could see his head as he began to shove his way to the center. Mistress Maud followed close behind him, effectively using sharp elbows to keep the path open even after they had passed through.

Seeing the pair, Eleanor assumed Mistress Luce was also here but could not identify the wife anywhere in the throng.

“What are you doing with my cook, Sheriff?” the steward roared.

“She killed your groom. I’m taking her to the castle jail until her trial and hanging.”

The cook screamed once, began beating her breast, and then raised her eyes to the sky and howled like a terrified dog.