Sorrow Without End (4 page)

Chapter Seven

Eleanor hastened across the cloister garth, through the gate kept locked to protect her nuns from intrusion, and into the public grounds. She often hurried, for that was her nature, but the passion of anger now drove her.

“When will it please God to free me from this sinful affliction?” she muttered. Her confessor had urged patience on her, warning that lust was often a stubborn thing. Being of an admittedly determined nature herself, she understood the nature of obstinacy, but the comprehension gave her little comfort.

The rain had stopped, but the air remained cold and heavy with dampness. She slowed her pace and glanced around her, clasping the hood of her robe more tightly around her neck. The lush flowers that gave her joy in summer were gone, leaving only thorns and twisted branches that had turned black with this never-ending seacoast rain. Even the snows of winter had a soft beauty, almost like the entrance into Heaven, but this season reminded her of the act of dying, not its rewards. She hated autumn.

“I am a poor one to lead this community of faithful,” she said, her feet crunching loudly as she continued on her way along the gravel path. “Honored though I was by King Henry’s choice, I fear my appointment was not a wise one. Tyndal might well have been better served by Sister Ruth, a woman with little carnal inclination if I am any judge.”

The prioress of Tyndal marched on through the thick mist toward the hospital. Once a day, she went there as a service to the suffering. Her prayers were not really needed. Sister Christina’s, with her gentle faith, offered more kindness. Indeed, few could equal the infirmarian’s ability to paint so sweet a picture of Heaven that those who were healing sometimes envied the dying. Nonetheless, Eleanor could perform one critical service. She knew how to write, and that skill was of increasing value.

Many knights who now came to Tyndal were from distant parts of the realm and were either too ill to travel farther or dying. For the former, she could sometimes send families hopeful news. On behalf of the latter, she would send their last words, their prayers to children and parents, wives or betrothed. That message might well be the only thing left of their loved one that they could clasp to their hearts. If nothing else, knowing that a loved one had died in God’s grace was better than knowing nothing at all.

Eleanor wished these acts were pure and selfless gifts, but she was rarely blind to her own mortal frailties. The solace she provided gave her comfort and hope as well. For more months than she cared to count, no one in her family had heard from her eldest brother, Hugh. Each day she hoped some soldier might have news. She tried not to think about these things, but she feared he had died of some fever or festering wound in Outremer. Although she prayed for his safety, God had remained as silent as her brother.

When she entered the hospital courtyard, she reckoned how many were waiting for care. The growing numbers concerned her. As she gazed on those who twisted and moaned, endured in silent pain, or lay dying but longed for reassuring words from one of the religious, she clenched her fist with renewed determination. There were relics enough for the faithful in East Anglia, but only Tyndal had Sister Anne’s skills with herbs and the caring prayers of Sister Christina.

“My longing to love-joust with a handsome monk shall not distract me from the coming fight,” she muttered, “and, when Brother Thomas returns, Brother Matthew must not see any wavering of my gaze nor telltale blushes that might betray me. My authority at Tyndal shall remain as strong as the walls of Wynethorpe Castle,” she continued. “I may be a woman, but I am also my father’s daughter.”

***

“Sister?”

The voice jolted Eleanor back to the moment, and she looked for the speaker.

Two men sat on their haunches but a short distance from her. It was the older man who had spoken. “I beg pardon, Sister, but…” His head was bowed.

“How may I serve you, good sir?” Eleanor glanced around to see if anyone was coming to help them, then turned again just as the older man adjusted the hood over his younger companion’s face so the rain did not fall into his eyes. The tenderness touched her. “Has anyone attended you?”

The older man now faced her, and she saw that he was missing one eye. The hollow was inflamed as if angry at the loss. His other eye was so deep in its socket that she could not tell if the color was brown or black.

“Nay, good sister, they have not.”

Eleanor glanced quickly at the younger man, and her heart beat with fear. He was of her brother’s age with almost the same coloring. Across his face, from forehead to chin, ran a deep and horrible scar. Of course it was not Hugh, she realized, but tears nonetheless burned at the corners of her eyes.

The young man ignored her and stared up at the gray, shifting heavens. When he did look at her, the anguish in his eyes was palpable, and his sigh was a sound so tortured that Eleanor wondered if he had other, more mortal, wounds.

“Are you in pain?” She moved nearer.

The elder man jumped up, barring the way. “Come no closer, Sister!”

Eleanor stopped.

He shook his head. “I mean no discourtesy, but he grows quite agitated with those he does not know.”

The young man’s eyes had widened with that look of a deer facing an archer. As Eleanor backed away, his expression grew more peaceful and his breathing quieted.

“On his face you see an old wound,” the older said, noting the direction of her gaze. “That one may be healed, but his soul is crushed. Therein lies his mortal pain.” He gestured for her to move back still more. “I mean no insult, Sister, but please stand farther away still.”

Eleanor inclined her head in silent question as she watched the young man’s eyes flit back and forth at the milling crowd, then close as if he longed to shut the world away.

“You frighten him,” was the only answer given.

She retreated several steps. “I have no wish to do that, nor am I offended. We are here to heal what we can of body and soul, with God’s grace. If a woman disturbs him, a lay brother can…”

“I must demand the assistance of a lay brother, Sister, a gentle man who will take my direction. As long as that is done and I remain by his side,” he said, gesturing to his companion, “he will have some peace. I regret the trouble this causes.”

“Good sir, we serve a merciful God here at Tyndal and no mortal soul in need causes any problem for us. Since strangers agitate his spirit, I will direct my sub-infirmarian, Sister Anne, to speak to you alone. Although our lay brothers are most competent, I have learned to trust her skill above any in this priory. She can best direct others in whatever treatment might be of benefit.”

The older man blinked, then bowed. “My lady, I fear that I mistook you for…”

“My soul rejoices that you thought my rank one more worthy of entering the Kingdom of Heaven. Sadly, it is not. I am Prioress Eleanor of Tyndal.”

“This, my lady, is Sir Maurice, my master and a knight from the far north. I am called Walter, if a name is required.”

That tale did not quite ring like true coin, Eleanor thought as she held the man’s boldly fixed gaze. Few servants, no matter how concerned with the health of a master, would behave in so arrogant a manner to a nun whose profession, and most likely birth, demanded more courtesy. His master’s name should be sufficient to gain whatever assistance was needed. Nor had he spoken with the tone or the accent of one born to serve. She considered the quality of his dress. Although he did not wear a cloak against the rain, the cloth of Walter’s robe seemed no less fine than that of the man he called
master
.

What was their relationship, she wondered, if not servant and master? From the tenderness Walter had shown Maurice, they might be father and son, although the age difference between them did not seem quite great enough. Perhaps they were cousins, Walter springing from a younger branch of the family? She did not see any great resemblance in features between the men, although the loss of an eye in one and that terrible scar on the other might make a similarity hard to see. Surely Walter would have said if he and the young man were related.

Nor did either bear the crusader cross. How odd, she thought. Not all warriors did, but the omission was rare, and the visible wounds on both were unusual for men of obvious rank not coming from battle. Why not wear their badge of honor if they were coming from Outremer? And why lie about their relationship? What a very odd pair, she concluded, then looked toward the hospital. A lay brother was approaching.

“This is the man I shall assign to you,” she said as Brother Beorn reached her side. “In the meantime, I will seek out Sister Anne. You may explain what is needed to her, and she will arrange for proper care.” She turned to the lay brother and continued. “Gentleness is required, and you should take direction from this man in all matters pertaining to the care of his master. If there is any other immediate need…”

“Nothing, my lady. You are most kind.”

“God is kind. We are but His instruments,” Eleanor replied, then turned away, still perplexed. However courteous you make your words, she thought, your tone is still that of a man more accustomed to command.

Chapter Eight

From the shadows of the courtyard entrance, Ralf cupped his hands over his mouth as if he would shout at the prioress disappearing into the darkness of the hospital interior.

Brother Andrew grasped his wrist. “I fear she will neither hear nor see us.” He opened his mouth, perhaps to rebuke the crowner for his intended rudeness, then shut it as if deciding he should forgive the crowner his lack of manners. After all, what man cheerfully brought a corpse-bearing horse to any woman, including a prioress?

“Satan’s tits,” the crowner muttered with irritation and shook off the monk’s hand.

The porter shrugged. “Come now, Crowner! Our lady was on the other side of the courtyard. Even your roaring could not reach her ears in this noisy crowd.”

Ralf turned his head away to hide his embarrassment. He had played the fool once already in front of Andrew when he voiced his ill-considered suspicion that an Assassin might be hiding at Tyndal. Now he had behaved like some rough boor.

He had meant no discourtesy by yelling at the prioress, but he also had no wish to lead this horse, with its bloody burden, through a courtyard filled with sick people. He shook his head. Nay, that was not the reason for his behavior. He was never at ease when he came to Tyndal where he might see Sister Anne and was even less happy when he had to seek the sub-infirmarian’s advice about a corpse.

Wise though the consultation might be, he preferred to avoid the good nun entirely. It was the only way he could handle his painful longing for her. Now that he was here and must see her, he had grown impatient to get the unpleasant task over with, a situation that tended to chase away what little regard he had ever had for fine manners. “Get thee behind me, you daft devil,” the crowner muttered, hoping that Satan might decide Ralf’s bad temper was not to be taken lightly even by the Prince of Darkness.

“Are you troubled by something, Crowner?”

Not willing to give Andrew yet a third reason to think him a fool, this time for talking aloud to himself, Ralf quickly searched the courtyard for a distraction. “Aye, I am. That man.” He pointed. “The one over there. Has he just arrived today?”

Andrew frowned as he followed the direction of the crowner’s gesture. The man thus indicated did stand out. Skeletally thin, his robe hung on him like an adult garment on a little boy. His face was the mottled purplish-red of one who might have enjoyed much wine during his indefinable life span, and his rough, undyed robe was so stained it resembled a sad copy of Joseph’s coat of many colors. Tufts of pale hair spiked at uneven angles around what was either an oddly shaped bald spot or a tonsure of unusual pattern.

“I do not remember him passing the gate either today or yesterday.” Andrew hesitated. “Although I have been called to meet with our prioress several times and might have missed seeing him. Still, he is a man I should recall and do not. I will ask others who might have seen him pass.”

“He’s just the sort who is either a total innocent or a wily criminal,” Ralf said. He might have picked the man out to shift the monk’s attention away from his outburst, but now that he thought on it, the man did have a dishonest look about him.

Before Brother Andrew could reply, the man, who heretofore had been standing quietly with arms crossed, began to scream. Those surrounding him were startled, their eyes widening with fear. People drew back as the man began to jerk in a strange dance. Raising his hands heavenward, he waved them as if greeting a friend who stood at some distance.

“Get thee hence!” he sang, repeating the words like a chant at the top of his lungs.

An old woman, with her back to Ralf, crossed herself several times. “He’s possessed,” she hissed, loose skin wobbling under her chin as she looked to her left, then right. “And wouldn’t you know it? Not a priest in sight. I swear by all that’s holy, you can never find a man of God when you most need one!”

“He’s seen the Devil! He’s fighting with him!” a young man leaning on a crutch began to shout. “I see it all too. It is…” But words failed him and he gestured in circular motions as he struggled futilely to come up with details of what he was sure he had seen.

The attention of the crowd shifted away from him.

Ralf looked around quickly for a lay brother or monk, but Brother Andrew had anticipated him and was hurrying toward the jerking, chanting man. As soon as the porter laid a gentle hand on him, the dancer stopped twitching, dropped his head into his hands, and appeared to be praying. Andrew whispered something in the man’s ear. Without protest, the man let the monk lift him to his feet, then pull him toward the hospital.

The excitement over, the crowd gave a collective sigh and began to drift about as they had before. The young man sagged back on his crutch, his features once more pinched with the pain of his affliction. The woman with many chins had grasped the arm of her nearest neighbor and was continuing to complain about how badly priests protected good Christians when the Evil One and his imps attacked.

Ralf watched the hospital door, waiting for Brother Andrew to return. On his trips to Norwich, he had seen too many who earned a fine living by faking similar afflictions at the shrine of the sainted William; thus the crowner was not convinced the rough-robed man was either possessed or insane. At least this one did a rather entertaining dance for his supper, Ralf thought. Most just foamed at the mouth and rolled around.

“You missed a fine spectacle,” Ralf said to his sergeant as the man returned from stabling his horse. Then, deciding that Brother Andrew might not come back any time soon to take him to the sub-infirmarian, the crowner passed the reins of the corpse-bearing horse to Cuthbert. “Wait for me here,” he said. Perhaps he had best find Sister Anne himself and get this over with. He began to grind his teeth.