Priscilla Royal - Justice for the Damned

"For the same reason King Edgar's spouse might have. You see, my husband told me that Sayer had seduced Master Herbert's wife." A spasm began to throb in Jhone's cheek. "I never accepted that Eda would have sinned with him, but my husband believed she did. Thus he added his voice to those who said she must have committed suicide from the pain of her tumor, although he thought she had done so out of adulterous shame."

"He proclaimed her adultery at the crowner's inquest?" Eleanor asked, noting this one difference of opinion between the woolmonger and his meek spouse. She wondered at what price Jhone had held it or if she had even voiced the thought until now.

"Nay. He said self-murder was a sin, whatever the reason for it, and refused to put public horns on Master Herbert, a man he called friend."

"Was your husband a witness to the adultery?" As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Eleanor knew she had erred. Lulled by the widow's brief show of independence over Eda's virtue, she had forgotten how effectively this husband had used terror to rule Jhone for so many years. The widow had been well-trained to defend him. Casting doubt on his word so soon after his death was most ill-advised.

As expected, Mistress Jhone's back straightened like a stone pillar. "I would never have questioned him on such a matter. I was ever a dutiful wife, my lady." Her voice snapped with outrage.

Scornful laughter shattered the brief silence between prioress and widow.

Startled, Eleanor turned around.

Alys stood in the doorway.

"How dare you repeat such a loathsome tale, Mother? Have you forgotten how Mistress Eda bathed your wounds after my father beat you until you almost died and the babe you carried did? You may choose to set aside her benevolent acts, but I will not forget the food she brought for me or the broth she helped you sip when my father disappeared for days, drinking himself senseless at the inn. As for my cousin Sayer, he would never have touched her any more than she would have bedded with him!"

"Unnatural child!" Jhone shouted at her. "Satan has bought your tongue and put lies in your mouth about your dear father."

The two women stared at each other with such great anger that they lost all power of speech. Then Mistress Jhone wilted like a flower deprived of water and turned away.

Alys stepped back, shaking from the war of words with her mother. "I beg forgiveness, my lady," she said to Eleanor. "After suffering the shock of finding my uncle's body, I was blinded by my grief and failed to recognize or honor you as the Prioress of Tyndal."

"There is never disrespect in calling me sister, z. title all women share in God's world."

"Even if this holy lady forgives you for that rudeness, Alys, you have more wickedness to repent. No child has the right to speak as you have just done either to or about a parent." Jhone's words hissed like flames struck with water.

Alys slipped to her knees. "I have sinned, Mother. Strike me but forgive as well. My heart honors you despite my harsh speech."

Jhone raised her hand. The first slap snapped her daughter's head to the right, the second to the left.

Eleanor winced with each blow but dared not intervene.

Turning from the sight of the red marks she had left on her daughter's cheeks, Jhone grabbed the plate abandoned on the table and waved it around at arm's length as if the offering would keep some malevolence at bay.

Eleanor accepted a slice of fruit she did not want.

Alys bent her head and said nothing.

"I forgive you, daughter," Jhone whispered, now pulling the plate to her breast as if it were a babe. The food fell to the floor. A small dog leapt up from one corner of the room and chased after a rolling bit of cheese.

Alys remained on her knees. "My lady, I beg admission to the priory as a novice in your Order."

Jhone slammed the plate down on the table with such force that it might have cracked had it not been pewter. "You most certainly do not!"

"I do!"

"And you will fall into mortal sin just like your aunt after she claimed she had a true and holy vocation!" Jhone's voice rose with contempt. "That randy youtb you want in your bed is no different from Wulfstan. Bernard will mount you in the shadow of those holy walls and, like Drifa, you will lose all calling to chastity…"

"That is not true!"

"Did Wulfstan not get my sister with child? Ask her, if you refuse to believe your own mother. Only one full moon shone between the time they came to the church door and the day she bore Sayer in much pain, a most worthy reminder of her carnal sin." Jhone reached out to grasp her daughter's hand. "Listen to me, child, please!"

Alys rose and turned her back on the two women. "Bernard is not like my uncle and would marry me first," she muttered, "although I see less sin in conceiving a child in joy than out of loveless duty."

"Had your aunt married as our parents wished, she would have been the wife of a prosperous man. Instead, look at her! Is her face not lined with cares and have you not seen her fingers bleed from hard work? Now that Wulfstan is dead, who will earn the bread to feed her family? An eldest son, who may one day hang for his evil ways, or the younger ones who have no skills except begging? If your eyes are not blinded by the very Devil, you cannot deny the truth of what I say. Honor the greater wisdom of your parents and you will prosper. Follow your lust and you shall end up like my poor sister."

"My aunt is a good woman," Alys replied. "You have never, until now, said otherwise."

"I love Drifa," Jhone said to Eleanor. "As my daughter says, she has been a faithful wife and a blameless mother. Nonetheless, she went contrary to the wishes of our parents and has paid in suffering for that offense."

Eleanor nodded. "Perhaps your sister did not have a true calling, but your daughter might…" She looked over at Alys with sympathy.

"My lady, I long to keep my only remaining child nearby to comfort me in old age and to close my eyes at death. I want grandchildren, and I want a secure future for my family." Tears blanketed her cheeks as Jhone gestured weakly at Eleanor. "Is that so much to ask of a daughter?"

Alys put her arms around her mother. "Bernard and I would give you such a home and, if God so blessed us, grandchildren enough." Then stubbornness once again set her features, and she stepped back. "I cannot marry Master Herbert."

If I cannot stop this quarrel between these two, Eleanor decided, I might as well attempt to guide it. "And this young man of whom you speak? Is he so unacceptable?" The prioress put a soothing hand on the mother's arm. "I only ask to better understand."

Jhone shook her head. "He is like a fledgling, my lady, with but twenty years on this earth…" She reached out and touched her child's hand.

"Twenty-one, Mother," Alys replied but did not resist the widow's touch.

"And a glover," Jhone sniffed. "He has nothing and will starve if God destroys the crops or sends other plagues for our sins. At such times, men give their spare coin to God, not glovers."

"And Master Herbert?" Eleanor asked, observing that both mother and daughter looked much alike when arguing.

"A vintner, a man successful in his trade, and now a widower with whom my husband became friends."

"At the inn," Alys said in a low voice, "where, it seems, they serve friendship along with ale."

Her mother ignored her daughter's words. "My husband knew his health was failing. You see, the strain of becoming such a successful woolmonger had aged him much." The widow's pride in the achievements of her merchant husband gave brightness to her tone.

Alys rolled her eyes but said nothing.

Jhone glared at the girl before continuing. "Since I failed to give him the son he needed, my husband decided that the vintner should marry our only living child and learn the wool trade from him. After which, Master Herbert could take over the business. That plan suited the interests of them both."