Priscilla Royal - Chambers of Death

“Yet she has had some success…”

“Oh, you are too much a sinner yourself to see it all, husband. If a mortal does not die, the cause is God’s mercy. Her concoctions have no merit.”

“I would never argue that the Devil’s art is stronger than God’s grace.”

“Just how much she worships Satan you do not know,” Constance muttered and fell silent, her brow creasing with dark furrows.

Ranulf licked his lips as he watched her lost in thought, then sat down on the bed and edged closer to his wife, tentatively reaching out with an encircling arm.

She drew back and crossed herself. “How dare you! Have you learned nothing?”

He bowed his head and rose. “My bowels are troubled, wife, and I must seek relief in the garderobe. Afterwards I shall go to the chapel to pray again. There will be time for your servant to prepare you for a chaste rest. When I return, I will be careful not to waken you.”

After closing the door to their chamber, Ranulf walked a short distance before becoming aware he had forgotten a candle. He reached out for the wall, then leaned against the stone and began rubbing his back against the roughness. Crossing his arms across his chest, he moaned with the sharp, yet sweet, pain.

Dare he seek the garderobe tonight? Satan often sent a succubus to meet him there, and his weak flesh now swelled with aching anticipation. At least that was one sin his wife had not yet rooted out. For that he was most grateful. Her righteous wrath could be terrible, making him tremble in the winds of her fury.

If he prayed hard enough, he might conquer his weakness this time. If not, surely God understood. Mortal women were whores enough, enflaming lust in otherwise godly men, but the female imps sent by the Prince of Darkness were skilled in practices beyond any man’s endurance to resist.

Pushing himself away from the wall, he stumbled onward along the familiar route to the garderobe. If he failed again to triumph over this temptation, he would spend hours in the chapel, praying for mercy as his heart cursed the day God had made Eve.

“Please drink some wine, my lady.”

Eleanor nodded, but her shivering was so severe she could neither speak nor reach out to take any cup. Bending over, she edged her stool closer to the fireplace where the flames snapped and danced, waving orange and golden arms as if greeting her with especial joy.

The older woman, who had led her to the solar, put the yellow earthenware jug down and opened the lid of a large oak chest. Pulling out a thick woolen blanket, she draped it carefully around the prioress.

Eleanor felt the weight, but little heat, and continued to tremble beyond any ability to disguise it.

“Forgive my presumption, for I mean no discourtesy by plain speech, but you must get out of those wet clothes, my lady.”

Although warmth was beginning to seep deeper into her body, Eleanor knew her chattering teeth would belie any significant improvement. Instead of speaking, she smiled and nodded again.

“I can offer a clean shift and a simple robe. The garments are humble things, and far too large, but will bring you warmth enough until your own clothes are dry. If you will allow me to serve you in this, I would be honored.”

“You are kind,” Eleanor stammered, then rose with evident reluctance to leave the crackling fire.

“There is no need to move, my lady. I will bring what is needed.”

In what seemed like an instant, Eleanor was divested of her storm-drenched habit and now sat in dry robes. As the woman had described, they were rough and large enough to wrap around her twice, but that only added to their comfort. She smiled with relief as the icy damp slowly surrendered its hold on her body.

“A sip of wine would chase away the last of that bone chill. Shall I fill your mazer?” When Eleanor agreed, the woman bent to pick up the jug. “My name is Maud, my lady. Do you wish something to eat?”

Tasting the wine, Eleanor noted it was smooth to the tongue and mildly spiced, although she would not have cared had it been vinegar if it warmed her. “I am grateful for your charity and good service, but I have no appetite.”

Maud smiled and a dimple deepened on either side of her upturned mouth, giving her round face a pleasing affability.

Less benumbed in both mind and body, the prioress began polite conversation and studied this woman who had mercifully taken charge in the hall. In Maud’s replies of ritual courtesy, Eleanor found enough wit to suggest a clever person who had learned to speak her mind without giving offense. Was she maid to the mistress, or in service so long that her authority was unquestioned by the younger servants? Her age and modest dress would suggest the latter. Eleanor tried to guess whether Maud was in her fourth decade or fifth.

“This room belongs to the Earl of Lincoln when he is here, which is rare enough,” Maud was saying. “It is the warmest so I did presume to have your young charge brought here.”

The prioress noted that the woman’s body had settled into that square shape of those beyond the birthing years, and her plump breasts sagged, yet her cheeks were still pink and unlined, except at the corners of her mouth and eyes. With that peaked hairline and heavy brows, she might never have been called a beauty by any rank or fashion, but Eleanor suspected she had found suitors enough in her youth. The woman exuded the soft promise of ease in her arms for a man at the end of an arduous day.

“We are preparing another chamber nearby for your stay. Although this is the larger space…”

Yet there is something troubling about her eyes, the prioress thought. Although they were deep-set, that alone would not have suggested such a conclusion. Their color was probably hazel, but the ashen hue encircling them darkened the eyes to a muddy brown in the uneven light. Eleanor felt a prick of concern. Perhaps the woman was only fatigued. Or was she recovering from some illness herself?

Eleanor decided her unease was born more of her own weariness than any real cause, and quickly replied to Maud’s question, now unanswered for just a moment too long. “Do not trouble yourself over another room for me. I agree with whole heart that Mariota needs the bed and the warmth of this fire. I will stay with her and be quite content with a mattress on the floor. In this season the fleas should bite less, and I note the floor is well-strewed with lavender.”

The woman bowed her head but not before the prioress read her relief at Eleanor’s concurrence in the decision.

“I recognize her illness as a grave one,” Eleanor continued. “I do not know this area well, but is the nearby town large enough to have a physician? The weather may be cruel, but I beg that someone with those healing skills be called to attend her as soon as possible.”

“I fear there is no doctor here, my lady.”

Feeling the acid sting of tears, Eleanor closed her eyes and, once again, cursed her folly in not waiting until Sister Anne could accompany her as she usually did. If Mariota did not live, her death would surely rot in Eleanor’s soul like a canker.

A rustling noise pulled the prioress away from these recriminations, and she looked up.

Maud had pulled open the curtains encircling a large bed. Gentle concern now softened those unsettling eyes as she looked back over her shoulder at the prioress. “With your permission, I shall gladly do what I can. My skills are feeble, but, if you pray God for mercy, He might bless me with a talent greater than I now possess.”

“Please do all you can,” Eleanor replied, shaking her head in despair. Any bungling by this woman would be no worse than what she had done by putting the poor child in such jeopardy in the first place. Sighing, she tried to find hope in the knowledge that, despite his modesty, Brother Thomas did possess some healing skills and might be able give this charitable soul guidance. She rose and walked to the woman’s side.