He smiled. “Since I am in her holy service, perhaps I need not rebuke myself too much,” he said, lowering his gaze to the muddy steps, “yet I should assume the baron’s son fell by accident and be prepared to offer what consolation I can to the family. Surely, this is what my prioress will send me to do.”
Holding firmly to that thought, he entered the keep and climbed the steep, curved stairway to his small room. Once the chamber of the family priest, recently deceased, it was near the small chapel where the current heir cowered for protection near the altar. Knowing the frightened Umfrey would appreciate soothing words, Thomas decided to go to the man after the next Office.
As he opened the door to his guest quarters, Thomas looked back over his shoulder and down the dark, narrow corridor that led to the family chapel. Despite good intentions to set thoughts of murder aside, he could not easily shake his doubts that any man could have fallen from those windows without assistance.
Chapter Five
Prioress Eleanor stood in the doorway of Lady Margaret’s chambers.
The shutters had been opened for light, letting in the brisk sea air, and a fire crackled in the small fireplace. Although the burning wood struggled valiantly, it only just succeeded in blunting the chill. As for the welcomed light, that was a pallid guest.
“Please,” Lady Margaret said and, with courtesy, invited her visitor to a place near the hearth. “There is Ypocras to drink for warmth and health.” While the white-haired servant heated the proffered mulled wine, Herbert’s wife fell silent and turned with an absent gaze to the window.
The lady has a hardened face, Eleanor decided as she accepted the cup. A sparkling glance or merry laugh might have softened the sharp bones and hollow cheeks, thin nose and narrow mouth, but there was no evidence that joy was common, at least not in recent times.
Yet the high forehead, silken skin, and blue eyes suggested Lady Margaret had once possessed beauty enough. Eleanor wondered when it had vanished. As Sister Beatrice once told her, youth wraps most young women with beguiling loveliness, which then flees after the first babe is born. Since Lady Margaret had borne her husband many sons, the allure must have faded only with the baron’s departure for Outremer. Try as she might, Eleanor could not name any by-blows sired by him, at least none known in England.
Eleanor winced at the injustice of her observation. The day after a son’s sudden death was not the time to seek joy or beauty in any mother’s face. Grief equally scarred hearts and brows with scouring ash. Recalling Raoul’s callous indifference to his brother’s death, the prioress found herself relieved that sorrow had at least touched the mother.
Lady Margaret turned back to face her guest, her eyes unfocused. She blinked as if surprised to see this stranger so near, then cleared her throat with embarrassment. “Forgive my discourtesy. I was distracted.”
The aged maid offered her mistress a cup of mulled wine. The lady accepted it, cradled the cup in her hands, and stared at the steaming liquid as if demanding the drink dispel her living nightmare. When it surely refused, her brow furrowed.
“Our arrival was sadly ill-timed,” Eleanor said. “If speaking of your grief would bring ease, my ears are your servants. I bear God’s comfort.”
Shutting her eyes, the lady bit her lips as she fought against emotion, but tears defied her will.
The prioress bowed her head in sympathy and waited for Margaret to speak.
“Then tell me the reason God has chosen to curse me. I bore all my sons in agony. That is a woman’s affliction, and I never complained of it. Instead, I rejoiced that I had given my husband so many strong boys. Most women are not so fortunate.”
Eleanor nodded and sipped her wine.
“Why now must I watch my sons die? God burdens me with more pain than Eve ever suffered, and she committed the greatest sin.” Margaret raised her reddened eyes and stared at the wood-beamed ceiling.
Eleanor said nothing, knowing the lady was not finished.
“Our five sons stood at my side when my lord knelt at the bishop’s feet and took the cross.” She gestured toward the chamber window. “We stood on those very walls and watched him ride away with his banners and his knights, proud to precede the Lord Edward in Outremer.”
Eleanor glanced at the elderly maid and noted a glimmer of sympathy before the woman quickly turned away. If this aged one has served the baron’s wife for many years, the prioress thought, the Lady Margaret may be a kind mistress who inspires affection. Now quite dismayed by her initial, unsympathetic impression, her heart softened with greater compassion.
“When our eldest died of a fever, the priest reminded me that one child’s death was an expected sorrow, more were common enough. At least we had had joy of him until he was old enough to take on a man’s burdens, the man of God said.” Her lips curled with contempt. “Must this bring us comfort, even happiness?”
Eleanor bit her lip and refused to concur with such icy consolation as the baron’s wife seemed to expect from her. Instead, she tilted her head in a gesture of commiseration.
“After much prayer, I softened my stubborn despair, although the memory of my boy refuses to fade.” She shot a glance at the prioress. Her look now held more anguish than ire. “Is that my sin? Does God punish me for refusing to rejoice in my lad’s release from wicked mortal flesh?”
“If God marks the fall of a sparrow, He surely mourns the death of any mother’s child.” Eleanor grieved that a woman might conclude that God deemed her maternal sorrow to be without reason.
The baron’s wife blinked, then her lips twisted with renewed bitterness. “When my husband arrived home, four sons still greeted him.”
Hearing the pitch of the woman’s voice rise, Eleanor was alarmed at the force of her enmity.
Lady Margaret spun around and threw her cup of Ypocras against the rough wall. The metal clanged in discordant protest. Splattered wine painted the stones crimson.
As if Death had just entered the room, Eleanor trembled.
The servant bent to retrieve the cup, then fell to her knees and took a cloth to the dark puddles of liquid.
Covering her eyes, Margaret gasped for breath. “Forgive me, Prioress Eleanor! I have never before railed against God, even while my lord fought the Infidel and I endured bitter chastity in an icy bed. When my eldest died, I did not curse Him but learned to pray that my son would find favor amongst the angels. I may be a flawed and sinful woman, but neither am I more wicked than others of my sex.”
Eleanor murmured sympathy, words she knew to be inadequate in the face of so much pain.
“I came to my lord with an unbroken maidenhead, bore sons, and sated my lust only with my husband. Tell me where I have sinned so grievously that I deserve more anguish than any mother ought to suffer!”
“Remember the story of Job, whom God first blessed above all other men and then burdened with more curses than any shameless sinner. This man also suffered the death of all his children. Afterward, God touched his flesh until there was not a spot on his body where a festering boil did not weep. Yet Job cursed God not and was rewarded with even greater wealth and more children for his faith.”
“Job was a saint,” Margaret hissed. “And his wife remained fruitful and bore other children because he slept with her. My sons are dying. My lord refuses to share our marriage bed. Now my courses begin to fail me.” She turned away. “Our old midwife says this is a sure sign that my womb grows barren and shall soon fail to provide the nourishment needed for a man’s seed.” A thick tear wove a torturous route down her cheek. “She has given me fennel but…”
“Are you not still blessed with two living sons?”