Priscilla Royal - Tyrant of the Mind

“Wearied? Perhaps. Once I reveled like a child in earthly pleasures. Now they stink in my nostrils like night soil in the summer sun. Once I believed that anyone with a good and faithful heart could remain pure. Now I know that all mortals are tainted with violence and evil. Should I stay in this world, I fear I would try, time and time again, to reclaim the lost Eden, something no mortal will do. Thus my desire to leave a world that rots under my hand may be as much due to fear of my own sinful nature as it is to weariness. I long to seek God’s wisdom and all-forgiving love, something I can only find in the solitary life.”

“A solitary life is possible in a monastic setting. You would be shut away enough from the rest of the world. Why ask for the more severe life of an anchoress, closeted in a isolated cell and separated even from the comfort of other nuns?”

“Because the company of women would be a burden to me. I seek a place where I will hear only the sound of God’s voice singing in my ears. I cannot bear the voices of the children of Adam and Eve.”

“People may come to beg wisdom from you. Many anchorites and anchoresses are judged to be closer to God than most religious.”

Juliana’s eyes sparkled in brief amusement. “Fear of the strange woman in the glade will frighten most away, I trust, and Tyndal will protect me should that not be sufficient. In the meantime, I promise that your visits to shrive me will be welcomed, and Eleanor’s voice will never intrude on my contemplations. Your voices I shall bear.”

“What caused you to so turn against the world?”

“God.”

Thomas sat back and stared at her. “God does not hate His creation.”

“God has willed this.”

“His voice? A vision?”

“If you will.”

“Could it not be Satan who spoke to you, not God?”

“Satan loves his comforts, brother. He would be happier with me if I followed the lusts of my body rather than the harsher ones of my soul.”

“You have been candid with me, my lady, but now I must be blunt with you in return.”

“You may be as forthright with me as need be. It will make your task and mine easier.”

In spite of himself, Thomas smiled. “Might not your weariness with the world be grounded more in disappointment than in a true belief that mortal joys are shallow ones?”

“That was not plain enough speech! If you mean to ask whether I am jealous because my dearest friend married before I did, then the answer is no . I must differ with my father on this.”

“Nonetheless, you and the Lady Isabelle have quarreled much since she married with your father.”

“We have fought less than my father has suggested. She and I are not suited to the roles of stepmother and stepdaughter. That is true, but the memory of our youth together remains strong in our hearts.”

“Yet I have seen your sorrow and silence in her presence. You did quarrel. Why?”

She sat back in her chair and sighed. “Do you not remember when the innocence of childhood fled? Each of us is doomed to repeat that bite of apple given by the serpent in Eden, I think. One day we laugh together in play; the next we look at each other and raise our hands to strike those very loved ones. Is there a reason or is it the nature of our mortal sin?”

“I am a simple man, my lady, and have no easy answer to that…”

“You are neither simple nor prone to facile answers, brother. One day, perhaps in the peace of my forest chapel, we will speak further on that subject, and you will share your own experiences with me.” She shook her head as Thomas was about to respond. “Forgive me. We were talking of my calling, not yours. Yours was a direct question that should be answered in an honest fashion. No, I am not running away because my dearest friend married before me. I do not, as has been suggested, fear marriage and its pains, although I confess I feel unsuited to that state. Yes, I wish to escape the world, but my reason is a longing to fold myself completely into God’s love and forgiveness much as a child does into her mother’s arms. Compared to that, all worldly joys are flawed and feeble things to me. Does that satisfy you, brother?”

Thomas looked at the woman sitting peacefully across from him and felt the sharp stab of regret. If only he had her clear-eyed vocation, perhaps he would rest with contentment. “You speak convincingly, my lady.”

Juliana reached out her hand. “Then let us try to become friends, for I do believe we share a special kinship found only amongst those who reject earthly things.”

Although he did not understand why, Thomas felt peace at her touch. It was not until after she left the dining hall, however, that he realized she had never answered his question about the specific reason for the quarrel with the Lady Isabelle.

Dinner that night was a sour affair, both in taste and in mood. The storm had prevented anyone from bringing fresh meat from the hunt; thus the stew was cooked with salted-down venison and tasted too strongly of the garlic used to mask the flavor of meat past its prime. Although the cheese was a good one and the bread fresh enough, neither could make up for the ice-cold stew, congealed after a trip from kitchen hut to dining hall through the snowy mist of evening.

Adam took a deep swallow of the wine and winced. It was his second best and had already turned sour. He scowled, then looked up and his expression grew even grimmer. The Lady Isabelle approached and slipped into her chair, all too near his. She was quite late to table.

“My apologies for my tardiness, my lord. I was waiting on my husband.”

“Did your husband give you no reason for missing this fine meal, my lady?”

Her hands traced vague circles in the air. “I have not spoken to him since midday. He said nothing to me at the time about any plans to cause such delay, which is why I waited for him to bring me in to table.”

“I wonder how he can speak to you at all,” Adam muttered, not softly enough to avoid being overheard.

The lady reached for her wine, and a servant promptly filled her goblet. Either this wine had come from a different barrel or Isabelle was less fussy than the baron about taste. She downed her cup in one and held it out for more.

Other than the sound of scuffling feet, as servants brought or retrieved platters and replenished wine, and the weak attempts of a less than talented musician at the further end of the hall, silence reigned amongst the rather cheerless diners.

Surely the poetic abilities of the Welsh have been vastly overrated, Thomas thought, as he listened with pain to the off-tune ballad now being sung. He tried to make a bread ball from the thick, grainy slice on his trencher, but it would not hold and he tossed it down next to the half-eaten cheese. He, too, was infected with a dismal mood.

How could any of them not be? Two men lay dead by misadventure. Richard had taken ill once again. Robert, accused of murder, was locked away in a bleak room until the sheriff could take him away for hanging, and Anselm was still unconscious and in mortal danger of dying. His new nephew and companions from an earlier meal had not fared well, Thomas thought, and he had accomplished nothing in finding either cause or the guilty ones.

He glanced around at those currently picking at their food. The prioress was staring into the distance, a small piece of cheese raised halfway to her mouth, then forgotten as her thoughts took precedence over eating. Sister Anne was sitting with her hands resting on either side of her trencher, her eyes lowered as if in prayer. The faces of both women showed the weariness of caring for a silent boy and an even more silent Anselm. The baron was audibly grinding his teeth on the tough stew meat. The Lady Isabelle had refused all solid food and was now into her third cup of wine. Juliana had touched nothing.