Priscilla Royal - Chambers of Death

Luce shuddered, but the wind was not the cause. How often had she played the harlot to force her husband’s mind from the dull business of estate management to bedding a wife? And how rarely had it worked?

When her humors turned sluggish and black, a young midwife told her that she suffered from congestion in her womb, a common affliction of women without husbands. The woman’s treatment gave her relief enough, but Luce still lacked a babe.

As she approached the low building, she saw the light flickering in the cracks between the wooden slats. The narrow door opened.

“You’re late,” he complained.

“And you are the better man for it,” she teased, running her hand lightly down his tight belly to his swollen sex.

As he pulled her inside and shut the door, she caught herself thinking that her prudent husband should be grateful. He no longer had to pay the midwife for her treatments, and she might well give him a boy-one disinclined to monkish ways, like his other two sons, because this lad would be bred in good, hot lust.

“No tasting ‘til it’s done!” The red-faced cook raised her wooden spoon with exaggerated ferocity as if threatening to strike, but her broad grin belied any such intent.

Folding his hands most prayerfully, Brother Thomas bowed. “But the aroma already tempts. Even a saint would weaken, and I am only a sinful mortal.”

“’Tis but a simple pottage of winter roots, Brother. Nothing that a monk of your high rank would find pleasing.”

“Rank, Mistress? In God’s kingdom, there is no greater title than servant , and I am honored to bear nothing else on earth.”

“Fa! I have been in my lord’s service for enough years and cooked for men who have spoken to the king himself. Your speech does not belong to any man of common birth.” Turning her broad back to him, she resumed stirring the soup in the iron cauldron, which was attached to a sturdy but adjustable pot hook over the fire. The contents bubbled with hearty vigor.

Thomas’ nose twitched at the piquant scent. “You are wrong! The smell from that pot is so ennobling that it would free a villein and raise a king to sainthood!” He might have broken his fast an hour before, but his mouth was truly watering. “What spices do you use? The nuns in our priory kitchen would add your name to their daily prayer if you would share the secret.”

The cook laughed with joy like a young girl and was about to reply when a woman’s voice, brittle with disapproval, rang out.

“You spend too much time in idle chatter, Hilda. Last night, supper was cold and late. Get back to work!” The source of the complaint stood at the kitchen entrance, rigid as a stick, arms tightly folded across her breasts.

The cook turned away and gripped the wooden spoon with both hands. Her sole response was to flush a far darker red than the heat of the kitchen might justify.

Thomas studied the angular, sallow-faced woman in the doorway. His instant impression of her was not favorable. “I beg pardon, Mistress, and ask that you blame me alone if there has been any failure worthy of rebuke.”

Her tiny eyes narrowed as they swept over the monk from tonsure to foot and back again, but somewhere in between her expression softened. “I am Mistress Constance. My husband is the eldest son of Master Stevyn, steward to Henry de Lacy of high rank and renown.” She began to lick her lips. “And who are you?”

Thomas wondered if he had somehow been transformed into a sizzling chunk of roasted venison.

A young man slipped quietly out of the shadows behind her and bent to her ear. “The monk is no wandering mendicant, Mistress.”

Startled, the heir’s wife yelped, her thin arms flailing wildly as she lost her balance.

The man laughed but quickly caught her before she fell. “He is Brother Thomas, and his prioress occupies the earl’s chambers.”

Shaking herself free of his grasp, she hissed at the young man. Although her exact words were incomprehensible, they were uttered with the vehemence of a curse.

“As I heard the tale, the late meal was your fault. Had you not been fluttering around Prioress Eleanor like some oversized moth, instead of getting her to a warm fire, she might have been less chilled and you might have had the supper when it was still hot.”

Her look hard as granite and her yellowish complexion reddening to a dark orange, Mistress Constance grimaced as if she had just smelled sulfur from Hell. Then she directed a more honeyed gaze at Thomas. “Oh,” she murmured, “it is your prioress who has sought shelter with us?”

“That is true.”

“God has answered my prayers twice over! This house of sin has long needed a cleansing presence.” She shot a malevolent glance at the young man behind her. “And now the evil has increased enough to require the intercession of more than one virtuous soul to save us.”

With exaggerated caution, the young man eased his way around Ranulf’s wife.

She drew back, flattening her back against the door frame as if the mere touch of his robe would defile her virtue.

“There is some bread and a piece of cheese over there, Master Huet.” The cook pointed to the table at the far end of the kitchen. Confirming that Mistress Constance could not see her do so, she winked broadly at him.

“Beware, Brother, for my elder brother’s beloved spouse weighs every mortal on her own scale of holiness. Prioress Eleanor’s reputation has proven her to be most worthy, but you may have to spend many hours enduring her scrutiny before she deems you equal in respect.

“I honor my betters, something you might learn to do yourself,” Constance barked.

Huet glanced heavenward and tore off some fresh bread, which he began to munch with unmistakable contentment.

“And my husband shall hear of your impertinence to me,” Constance spat. “As for you, Hilda, attend your duties or you may find we no longer need your poor service.” With that, she spun around and marched back to the manor house.

Huet dropped the bread and stretched his hand out to the cook. “I did not mean to cause trouble,” he said, his voice soft with concern.

With a smile akin to that of an adoring mother, Hilda shook her head. “She’s threatened to push me out the gate almost daily since she married your brother. Hasn’t yet done so, as you can see.” She turned to Thomas with a sheepish look. “I suffer from sinful pride, Brother, and believe there are few who do as well at my task with as much of an eye to cost. Master Stevyn and his first wife were kind enough to say so, and their guests often expressed satisfaction with the meals.”

“Pride is sinful only when it exceeds merit,” Thomas replied. “I would say that soup proves you are innocent of any excess.”

The young man laughed. “If you be a priest, Brother, you must take my confession. Methinks any penance you’d require would be as gentle as your speech.”

“And I would guess that you have some experience of priests?” Thomas replied, gazing with pointed interest at the man’s head.

Huet instinctively stretched a hand over a slight indentation in his hair and flushed in silence.

The cook sat down on the bench and clutched the young man’s arm with protective affection. “Whatever has happened, I cannot think he is at fault. A mischief, he might be, but he’s a good lad at heart,” she protested.

“I did not mean to suggest otherwise.”

“The good monk knows no one in this place, Hilda.” The man patted her hand. “There is no need to defend before any accusation has been made.”

Jerking her head toward the kitchen door, the cook frowned. “Your sister-in-law suggested enough, lad, and others might also speak harshly of you with just as little cause. Softer words in a stranger’s ear first are never amiss.”