Priscilla Royal: Forsaken Soul

“I do not wish to cast aspersions on Sister Juliana’s virtue, my lady.”

A hope you most ardently pray I shall reject, Prioress Eleanor concluded, noting that Sister Ruth’s complexion had deepened from its usual ruddy hue into that nobler color oft favored by God’s anointed rulers. She willed herself to maintain an expression devoid of all but civil concern.

“Yet I am sure you agree that those virtuous people of the village, who have expressed apprehension in this matter, may not be ignored.”

The effort to retain a suitably grave bearing grew more difficult. The youthful leader of Tyndal, a Fontevraudine priory on the East Anglian coast, nodded with visible impatience.

Sister Ruth stiffened her back. “Without question, an anchoress may accept visitors at her window and dispense humble advice. To do so only at night, when Satan lewdly disports himself with his imps, is distressing. Many say that advice given at such unholy hours must be hissed in Sister Juliana’s ears by the Prince of Darkness, not by God.” Sister Ruth tucked in her chin, hoping to emphasize her stern demeanor, but her effort managed only to double her jowls.

“You were correct to bring this problem to my attention,” Eleanor conceded.

“Nor is that all!”

I feared not, thought the prioress.

“None of the worthy women I have found to serve her can bear to do so.”

“What complaint could these women possibly have?” Eleanor snapped. “A bishop carefully questioned Sister Juliana, when she requested this entombment, and found her calling to be a true one.” She instantly regretted that tone of voice. It suggested she had lost command over this exchange.

The middle-aged nun smiled at her younger leader with naked disdain. “Were our anchoress to levitate in prayer, these women would stand in awe. Had her eyes grown raw with unrelenting tears over mortal sins, they would sing her praises. When she howls at them like a wild beast and screams abuse, they see the handmaid of Satan.”

“Perhaps there is a reason…”

“These good women agree that laments are most suitable for any wicked daughter of Eve and rejoice when the anchoress moans and cries out in prayer. Nevertheless, like any person of reason, they grow frightened when she beats her head against the stones until she bleeds or writhes on the floor like one possessed.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened.

The sub-prioress bent forward as if conveying a confidence. “One woman was certain she glimpsed a dark shadow lurking in a corner of the anchorage. It laughed most wickedly, she said.” Sister Ruth resumed her erect posture. “She is but one witness who fears our anchoress is possessed.”

Eleanor nodded, but her frown suggested that any perceived concurrence was both hesitant and skeptical.

A loud creak broke the palpable tension in the room.

Sister Ruth spun around, her face a chalky white.

The chamber door was opening very slowly. No hand was visible.

Sister Ruth crossed herself with trembling fingers against the onslaught of Evil.

A large, red tabby slid through the small opening and into the room. When he saw the square-bodied sub-prioress, he sneezed, and then shook himself with vigor.

Sister Ruth drew back her robes.

“We should be grateful Arthur did not honor us with a rat from the kitchens,” Eleanor said, smiling down with fondness at the creature now circling her feet.

“Which is where the beast should stay,” Sister Ruth muttered as a most brilliant pink colored her neck and cheeks.

“What other witnesses have complaint against our new anchoress?” Eleanor continued, ignoring the remark. Even though Sister Ruth routinely saw the darkest sin in anything of which she personally disapproved, much to the prioress’ annoyance, the woman’s ideas found company enough in others of like mind. Although Eleanor believed that fear or ignorance were often the basis for such opinions, she also knew how much Satan delighted in the mischief they caused. For that reason, she never ignored what was said, but, in this instance, she found herself troubled as well by the accusations against Sister Juliana.

“What more need you hear? Surely the report that righteous souls fear the anchoress consorts with the Devil and may be possessed is sufficient to take action.”

“Allegations are worthy of consideration, but truth demands details and evidence. As Our Lord has taught us, Sister, what lies inside any vessel may be disguised by its exterior.”

Sister Ruth blinked.

“Be assured that I will investigate these concerns.”

The nun stepped back at the prioress’ implied rebuke, then realized she had just been dismissed. With ill grace and only token respect, Sister Ruth bent her head and turned to leave.

All dignity in retreat was thwarted when she ran straight into the sub-infirmarian standing outside the chamber door.

Sister Anne stepped aside to let her superior pass.

Eleanor wondered if her dear friend had barely stifled an outburst of laughter. As she watched the middle-aged sub-prioress march away, arms and legs pumping with purposeful effort, she herself was reminded of a hungry ox, loosed at last from the plow and aware that the evening feed was but a short distance away. She glanced toward the window. The sun’s position might indicate that the mid-day meal was nigh.

“Your visit was well-timed!” Eleanor gestured for the tall nun to enter.

Anne put a woven basket down on the table. The delicate scent of cut herbs drifted through the room in the soft summer air. “Then the tale I bear has twice-good purpose.”

“What news?”

“According to Brother Beorn, our crowner has returned from court.”

Eleanor’s eyes glowed with undisguised pleasure. “After the crusader was murdered and Ralf left to stay with his brother, the sheriff, I feared our friend would not return. Has he come back to us for good? His sergeant might be as honest as our crowner but never as clever.”

“I believe he has, but I bear sad news as well.”

The prioress’ hand flew to her heart.

“Ralf is well enough,” Anne added quickly, “but the woman he took to wife during that absence died giving birth. Now he is both a widower and a father to a baby girl.”

Eleanor closed her eyes, sending a quick prayer heavenward that God might grant comfort to a good man. “Is the child strong?”

“Brother Beorn confirmed that the child resembled her father in health, although I confess his description was not quite complimentary.” Anne smiled, but a mist of sadness drifted across her face.

Although they rarely spoke of the death of Anne’s own child, Eleanor squeezed her friend’s hand with silent understanding. “Those two men have been like oil and water since boyhood,” she said to distract the sub-infirmarian. “Might I be right in concluding that our lay brother made some reference to oxen?”

The tall nun laughed as she bent to stroke the cat stretching up against her leg and purring for attention.

“What name did Ralf bestow on this wee babe of his?”

“Brother Beorn did not say.”

“We shall learn it.” Eleanor began to pace, her mind racing to consider what this tiny new arrival might need. “I am delighted with this news! Ralf must have brought a wet-nurse back with him, but surely she would not wish to stay so far from the comforts and worldly advantages of the king’s court. The little one will need a nurse from the village as well as a good woman to care for her after weaning.” She gestured at the sub-infirmarian. “If Ralf resumes his work of ferreting out the lawless, he will have little time to seek such a woman, let alone watch over a motherless child. We must find someone reliable to replace the woman he brought.”