Priscilla Royal - Wine of Violence

Eleanor took a sip of ale. The taste was bitter, watery. She grimaced as she looked at the pale color. Had the drink been urine, surely the physician would have expressed concern over the health of his patient. Even urine might have better flavor than this, she thought wryly.

Tostig had not yet responded to her offer to talk about a partnership. Although Gytha said he had thought well of the idea when she first mentioned it, all of that had been discussed before the death of the man with the black beard. With his death, a kind of silence had descended on the village in their commerce with the priory. Business, per se, continued, but only just. The comfortable social commerce which village and priory had enjoyed in the past had waned. The tension was as ill defined as a hidden cancer but, Eleanor thought, just as palpable by all affected by it.

The crowner continued to remark on the lack of cooperation from his regular sources, men who had once cared more for justice and peace than any two-hundred-year-old quarrel between Saxon and Norman. Oh, villagers still came to him when a sheep was stolen or a border marker moved, but there was a grimness in their faces that Crowner Ralf had not seen since the early days of his tenure. Tostig in particular seemed to avoid him, and that hurt Ralf most. According to Sister Anne, the two men had been friends since childhood. And the crowner was still no closer to solving the murders of the monk and the man, a frustration that did not improve his somewhat impatient temperament.

Her trencher empty and her goblet dry, Eleanor looked down on the nuns and saw that they too had finished their evening meal. With this second death in the sanctity of their grounds, the calm she had just managed to achieve had vanished. In the fear-widened eyes of these women, she saw a pleading for strength from her. She had come through for them after the first murder. Would she be adequate to their greater need now?

She rose. It was time to lead her charges to prayer and whatever peace it might bring them all.

***

On the monks’ side of the priory church, Eleanor’s orders for more modest fare were not greeted with unanimous joy, at least amongst some in the higher ranks. Or so Brother Thomas thought as he looked around him at the evening meal.

Prior Theobald was the exception to that. He seemed content enough, picking up odd bits from the half portion he had put on his trencher, but then Thomas doubted food had ever been of major interest to him. He’d probably not notice if horse piss were poured into his cup instead of wine. Indeed, considering the taste of Tyndal’s finest ale, it might have been. Thomas shoved his goblet aside and briefly wondered if even well water might be preferable.

Brother Simeon, on the other hand, looked positively gray. As receiver and sub-prior, he did no work in the fields, and the prioress had directed that heartier food and drink should be given to those who did hard labor, since they needed it most. That included the lay brothers. Thomas saw him wince at the arrival of the vegetable stew and noted that he had gone so far as to rip small pieces from his own trencher, which normally would have been passed on to the poor. However improved and quite savory the simpler meals had become of late, Brother Simeon liked his meat and wine. This would be a hard season for a man of appetite.

Even Brother John looked more somber than he usually did at mealtime. Thomas had noticed that the monk cared little more about his food than did the prior, although he did not fast in excess. His lean body and lonely midnight scourgings might point to a dedicated religious sternness, but there were clear limits to his asceticism. He usually ate what he was given with grateful appreciation, and drank wine in moderation but also with some pleasure. Tonight, however, he seemed troubled and poked absently at the food. If his grim mood was not over the meal, then it surely stemmed from something else.

Thomas was curious.

Eleanor walked slowly up her private stairs from chapel to chambers. The evening communal prayers were complete. Her own hard penance on the stone floor had been performed. The evening air was cool and no man in the moon’s chilly face peeked through the drifting clouds of the evening sky. It would be a black night tonight, she thought, as she stood in her chambers and looked out the window near her narrow cot.

As she prepared for sleep, folding her head veil and wimple neatly before placing them into the chest at the bottom of her bed, something soft brushed up against her leg, causing her to smile.

“Well now,” she said with a gentle tone, looking down at the orange cat. “I suppose you are looking for a warm bed after your hard work in the kitchens today?”

The cat looked up at her with hopeful green eyes.

“I did hear from Sister Matilda that you hunted well. She seems more pleased with your efforts than Sister Edith was. Perhaps you have improved on your presentation.”

The cat reached out with a paw and tapped her leg.

“One of these days I suppose I should ask Brother John whether there is any sin in a cat sleeping with a nun. And a male cat at that.”

The cat jumped up on the cot.

“Perhaps I will just leave the question be. You’ve earned a soft, warm bed after your good work keeping the vermin at bay who set siege to Tyndal.”

And as Eleanor lay down on her back on the cot and crossed her hands over her chest, the orange cat stretched himself out along her side. In a minute, both weary ones were sound asleep.

***

Eleanor sat straight up.

The orange cat had used her body to hurl himself, hissing and snarling, out of the bed.

She cried out, as though from a bad dream, not yet awake, eyes still shut. The brush of something down her back, the yell of pain not her own, and the sound of running feet against the rushes on her chamber floor did not arise from any dream.

She opened her eyes. In the dim light, she could see the cat standing by her open door, back arched, growling angrily. With heart pounding, Eleanor flew out of bed to the chamber door and heard the footsteps running down the stone steps to the cloister below.

“Help!” she shouted. “Someone has been in my chamber. Stop them!”

Sister Anne ran through the prioress’s private entrance to the chapel. “My lady! What has happened?”

Eleanor grasped the nun hard as if her very sanity depended on the human contact. “I don’t know. Someone was in my room. The door is wide open. I heard footsteps running down the stairs.”

“I will alert the monks, then return to you immediately.” With that, Anne dashed from the room.

Suddenly Eleanor felt chilled. She turned back toward the bed to pull a warming blanket from the chest, then stopped. Her hand covered her mouth in horror.

On her bed lay a knife.

***

Thomas couldn’t sleep. He had tossed and turned since Compline and it was still many hours until Prime. Giving up, he put on his shoes and slipped down the stairs from the dormitory to the cloister. Perhaps some exercise, followed by kneeling on the stone slabs of the chapel, would be sufficient penance and God would grant him a few hours of rest.

As he walked along the outside wall of the refectory, he heard a commotion behind him, coming from the area of the passageway to the outer court. It was a moonless night, and he could see nothing, but curiosity piqued his interest. He turned toward the sound. From the passageway under the dormitory, he saw two dark figures racing toward him.

“Stop him. Stop him! He is a murderer!” The voice sounded like Brother Simeon’s.

Thomas did not hesitate. He ran toward the figure coming at him. The man’s face was turned to look behind him as Thomas dived at his feet and brought him down. The man struggled but Thomas held him pinned to the ground.