Priscilla Royal - Tyrant of the Mind

Thomas laughed. “For the gift of a raucous frog she would save his life? Most sisters might feel differently.”

“Our prioress is not like most women.”

“Aye,” he sighed, “there is truth to that.”

“Meanwhile,” Anne said, “we have our small hospital here to attend. Let us see how our patients are doing.”

Thomas followed as she pushed her way through the wooden door.

***

“Am I in Heaven?” Anselm’s eyes opened wide as he gazed up at Sister Anne’s smile. “Are you our Holy Mother?”

“Far from either, priest,” Thomas said with a grin as he looked over Anne’s shoulder at the awakened man.

Anselm winced. “I know that you are no angel, and my head would not hurt so if this were Heaven.”

“Nor would you have the breath of an eater of animal carcasses in your nostrils.”

“Be gentle,” Anne scolded back at Thomas. “Our brother is still a very sick man.” She put the back of her hand on the older man’s cheek.

Anselm cringed. “Touch me not, woman! I have taken vows…”

“As have I, brother, and I assure you that I am no more tempted to sin with you than you are to sin with me. I am Sister Anne, sub-infirmarian at Tyndal Priory, and…”

“A man! A man should tend me!”

“Relax, priest,” Thomas said. “This nun has saved your life, and the only man in the castle who might tend you works best with horses and mules. Although you may resemble the latter at this very moment, I doubt you’d prefer his manner of physic.”

Anselm sputtered and his look was still wild, but he let Anne examine his head wound.

She lifted her opened hands when she was done as if to show she had stolen nothing of value from him. “Did that hurt?”

“What have you done to me, daughter of Eve?” the priest growled.

“Tested you for fever. You have none. Checked your bandages and found no foul discharge. Changed your dressings to make sure the strength of the herbs remains potent.”

Thomas sniffed the air. “And someone has bathed you for your scent is now quite sweet.”

Anselm opened his mouth wide at the horror of what Thomas had just said. “I will die of your care, woman! It is ungodly to bathe.”

“Our good brother is jesting with you,” Anne replied as she scowled at Thomas. “We would never do anything ungodly to you. We are as dedicated to holy service as are you.”

Thomas nodded solemnly. He knew full well that Anne believed in the effectiveness of frequent washing and had most likely ordered the reeking priest sponged off before he was placed on this mattress, freshly stuffed with lavender, tansy and sweet woodruff. Nonetheless, he had no desire to upset Anselm. The man needed his strength to heal, not joust verbally with Thomas. “I do jest indeed, priest. Forgive me.”

The priest looked at him balefully. “Do you swear on your hope of Heaven that nothing untoward has been done to me as I lay in the charge of this woman’s unclean hands?”

“I swear it on my hope of Heaven.” At least he could be honest enough about that, Thomas thought with a smile. “You have been attended with all due propriety and have not sinned, however unwittingly, while you lay unconscious.”

“Indeed, Brother Thomas speaks truly for he assists me in my work at Tyndal.”

“A monk who assists a woman?” Anselm tried to frown disapproval but his head hurt too much.

“We are of the Order of Fontevraud,” Thomas replied.

Anselm nodded, then winced. “A strange sect, that,” he mumbled, but overall he seemed more at peace.

“Perhaps rest would be wise,” Anne said. “While you sleep, Brother Thomas will sit with you. After you awaken, some vegetable broth might suit, after which we would like to hear what you remember of your fall.”

Before Anne had even finished her sentence, the priest was snoring with a smile on his face.

***

“Alas, my lady, I remember nothing,” Anselm said. His eyes brightened with the offer of more broth from the manservant.

Eleanor sat with back straight and hands primly folded in her lap, a position she felt gave her the dignity her youth could not. “Perhaps in the telling of what you do remember, there will be something to help. Are you strong enough to tell us that?”

The priest sucked at the broth with noisy appreciation, then took a breath and continued. “I remember having a discussion with Brother Thomas. About the dangers of eating meat, I think. He is quite a bright and promising young priest but suffers the follies and passions of youth. Although his blood still has that youthful heat, I do believe he will be a good religious one day if he would only avoid…”

“Yes, we think he will,” Eleanor said with slow patience.

“Oh. He is one of yours, is he not?”

“I am sure you have advised him well as you have us all at Wynethorpe, Father Anselm.” She hesitated to avoid any appearance of impatience. “After you left him,” she continued, “what do you remember?”

Anselm frowned in concentration. “I left him in the stairwell, I believe. We had agreed to meet in the chapel later for prayers. First, however, I wanted to visit the young Richard. I had heard he loved stories and I had some edifying ones I thought he might enjoy. Saint George and the dragon for one.”

Eleanor coughed and raised one hand so she could hide her smile. The priest was not as insensitive to the interests of little boys as she would have once thought. “Aye, a good tale, that.”

“After a few such sagas, he grew restless and took up the hobbyhorse. Like a flash of lightning he was out the door, and, when I stepped into the passageway, he was riding his hobbyhorse down the corridor at a fierce pace. He had a stick for a lance and was charging at some imaginary target with all the ardor of a true knight. A miracle, it was, his recovery, and I stood watching him in wonder at God’s grace.”

Eleanor blinked as a thought began to take form in her mind. “Indeed, his recovery was a blessing from God, but what happened next?”

Anselm blushed. “I am ashamed to say I became like a boy myself with joy at God’s kindness.”

Eleanor smiled. “We all become innocents at such times, good priest. It is nothing to feel shame over.”

“I confess I lifted my robes and raced after him, joining in his innocent pleasures. I became his dragon and we chased each other up and down the corridor outside the chambers. I wouldn’t let him go down the passage to the tower but, on one turn, he did ride toward the stairwell to the dining hall and disappeared. I feared he might tumble if I cried out for him to stop so I continued in the game and shouted out to him, as I stopped at the entrance to the stairwell: ‘Hi ho, knight, I have seen your deeds but would hear more of them from you! Come here to me!’”

“Richard would have been delighted to entertain you with his exploits against the dragons of the castle,” Eleanor said. “Did he not return to do so?”

“I don’t know, my lady. That is the last thing I remember until I awoke, my head on fire, with your sub-infirmarian and Brother Thomas bending over me as I lay here.”

Eleanor frowned in thought.

“I fear I have not told you anything of merit.” Anselm winced with a sharp pain.

“On the contrary, Father, you may have given me the balm to heal my nephew.”

Sister Anne was spooning a very similar vegetable broth into Richard’s mouth. The boy was sitting upright and had been cooperative with his feeding until this moment. His face, however, was without expression.

“Another sip for you,” she coaxed, putting the spoon up against his now firmly closed lips.

Richard turned his head away, shook it with minimal motion, then slipped back down into the bed and burrowed his head against that of his hobbyhorse. The head of the toy shared his pillow.