Priscilla Royal - Chambers of Death

Why did she not remember her teachings and step away, forgiving Sir Reimund his offense as she should? He could easily solve this crime-if he chose justice over furthering his own ambition. She bit her lip. Of course she doubted he would choose truth over self-interest and thus ached to thwart him. But was her reason based in a desire to render justice or was the motivation born of vanity?

After her successes in similar affairs, she may have grown conceited, believing that only she would be disinterested enough to discover the truth. If so, she must cease her involvement immediately and confess her overfed arrogance.

Yet the more she learned about the circumstances surrounding the groom’s death, the more she feared some innocent would be hanged, and her soul balked at the very thought. Although she had not spoken with the cook, both Huet and Brother Thomas had argued forcefully for her innocence, and the steward had shown frank disbelief when she was arrested.

If the sheriff was finally convinced to release her, would he substitute another innocent victim of low rank? The speedy choice of Hilda suggested he would follow that pattern again and ignore the possible involvement of both the steward and his younger son. Eleanor knew she could not sit back and let that happen.

As the prioress walked through the entry door to the courtyard, she glanced behind her and realized her faithful guard was not in attendance. Then she heard a girlish squeal and saw a child race toward her, skidding to a stop just before she collided with the Prioress of Tyndal.

“My lady, please forgive my daughter! She meant no harm.” The young guard was red-faced as he approached the girl and put a hand gently but firmly on her shoulder.

The child dutifully bobbed but stared round-eyed at the woman before her.

“Now ask politely for what you wanted,” the father bent to whisper.

The girl, surely no more than four, put one finger in her mouth.

Eleanor knelt. A small woman by any measure, her eyes were now on a level with those of the child.

The girl grinned. “Blessing?” she asked without removing the finger.

The guard shifted nervously. “She begged to come with me today and meet you, my lady. She is usually a good child and knows how to behave with her betters. I don’t know what has caused this.”

“Our Lord said we should all be more like children.” Eleanor smiled and made her fingers walk like a playful spider on her palm.

The girl giggled.

The prioress picked the girl up and hugged her. “She is beautiful,” she said, handing her over to the guard. “Am I correct in concluding she favors her mother?”

The young man nodded but moisture rimmed his eyes. “God’s angels required that her mother go into their service over a year ago. We know it was her duty, but we still miss her.”

Her heart ached to learn that news, and Eleanor pressed a hand against her breast. In truth, it mattered little to the wee ones that a mother was now safely with God. A father might try to sooth the absence with gentleness, but a mother’s death was a wound that never quite healed. It was a feeling Eleanor knew well. With especial tenderness, she blessed the child as she had been asked.

“Now that we have your daughter’s company for my honor’s sake, shall we take a walk?” The sheriff had assigned this man to watch her, but the guard had shown only courtesy to her. He seemed a good, well-intended country fellow. His help moving her through the crowd and several other small gestures had demonstrated that a soft heart came with duty.

As they gingerly stepped around puddles and over piles of multi-hued muck, Eleanor smiled at her guard who now held his daughter firmly by the hand. “Have you both eaten yet?”

He nodded. “When she knew we’d be here, Hilda always saved a trencher from the evening meal, or the harder crusts from fresh bread soaked in milk for my child. The kitchen may be in turmoil now with Hilda locked away, but one of the servants was kind enough to feed us.”

“You’ve known the cook long?”

“She and my mother grew up together, and they remained good friends.”

“Then Hilda is of local birth?”

“Aye, and her parents served the manor as did theirs before them.”

“If your mother calls the cook friend , Hilda must be a good woman.”

He started to answer but then hesitated.

Perhaps he fears a reply would be against the sheriff’s wishes, Eleanor realized. “I am not seeking any information about the crime of which she is accused. Master Stevyn said she was talented at her work, and such a woman could easily have earned enough to save for marriage. I wonder that she never found a husband. Or is she a widow? I was not sure.”

The tension went out of his shoulders. “I think a cooper wanted to marry her years ago, but he died when a cart turned over and broke his back. My mother sometimes jested that Hilda liked running a kitchen better than being run by any husband and thus chased all young men away with words as sharp as her carcass cleaver. Yet my mother never quite understood why the cook didn’t marry. She was well-known for her gentle heart and liked by all, especially when she fed us!”

Her impression of Hilda confirmed, Eleanor decided not to pursue any more questions and laughed at the guard’s jest. “Your mother sounds like a most loving friend. Tell me of your family.”

And thus the two chatted companionably as they walked through the manor house gate to the bumpy road and empty fields beyond. The guard let his daughter run free but never so far that he didn’t call her back to a safer distance. Eleanor was touched by how much the young widower loved his child. Although she learned that his sister had taken them in to give his motherless girl a woman’s care, she saw how he delighted in the time he spent with her himself. Indeed, her guard reminded her of a younger Crowner Ralf, a man fierce enough with felons who became soft as lamb’s wool when holding his baby daughter.

The prioress pointed out a low stone wall near a cluster of trees and asked if the way was treacherous. The young man assured her that the grass might be wet but the ground was firm enough, and so they walked toward it.

As they approached the trees, Eleanor noticed with some surprise that a figure was sitting on that fence in the shadow of the grove. It was a woman, bent over with her head buried in her hands.

“Forgive me,” the prioress said, “but I believe that is the steward’s wife. May I speak with her privately? She seems distressed and might be embarrassed, or even frightened, if you were to accompany me. Yet I do beg that you not go too far away should she be ill or otherwise need your assistance.”

When he bowed and stepped back, Eleanor was touched that he so quickly understood a woman’s need to speak only in another woman’s ear and watched him lead his daughter into the grove where he began pointing out things for her to see and learn thereby.

Now drawing closer, the prioress saw that the woman was certainly Luce and that the woman wept. “Mistress?” she said with a gentle tone. “May I bring comfort?”

Luce leapt down to the ground but, when she saw who it was, sank against the rough stone and stared in silence at the dark, sodden earth.

Eleanor reached out with concern. “Are you ill?”

The wife’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “If grief be a sickness, then I am ill. If…oh, what is the use in living?”

“If you can speak to me of your sorrow, we may find an answer together with God’s help.”

Luce made a fist and began to pound the damp rock with increasing force until a sharp pain caused her to cry out.

Eleanor saw a dark stain of blood on the wall. “Please, Mistress, do not let anguish conquer your soul. God weeps when His creatures suffer too much.” She lingered over the choice of her next words before concluding, “And demands that we who serve Him remember that all mortals are sinners, and thus no one may cast stones of condemnation.”