Chapter Seventeen
Although the usual merriment was well-muted that night, the manor hall was filled for supper. Even if a murder had taken place in the nearby stable, Master Stevyn was determined to honor his guests.
A blazing fire and the stifling warmth from so many bodies weighed down on Eleanor. Her eyes grew heavy. Might she close them for just a moment? But her head dropped, and she started awake. Fortunately, her companions on either side had turned to speak with others. Her discourtesy had gone unnoticed.
A servant bent to pour more wine into her cup, then noted it was still full. In truth, the prioress had drunk but little, nor did she have much appetite.
“Does the meal displease, my lady?” The man beside her turned around, his brow etched with concern as he gestured at her trencher.
“Envy is a sin, Master Stevyn, and I am jealous that you possess such an excellent cook. Her talents are remarkable.” Eleanor’s smile was gracious. “If my appetite seems dulled, the cause lies in my need to do penance for covetous thoughts, nothing more.”
The sound of his rumbling laugh was deep and pleasing, but the frown quickly returned. “I regret that violence has tainted your stay here, my lady.”
“I grieve that this house should suffer it,” she replied, trying to read the expression in his deep-set eyes.
He turned his face away.
“Sir Reimund has provided both protection and his assurance that the guilty one will soon be found. Fear does not disquiet us.”
“Had our sheriff not done so, I would have guaranteed your safety, but he is a very dutiful servant of the king’s justice. His diligence and concern do not surprise me.” The steward studied his folded hands and still did not look the prioress in the eye.
Should she be troubled by an answer that suggested he agreed with Sir Reimund’s methods, ways she found questionable because of their self-serving motivation? Or were his words nothing but the conventional phrases spoken to one who did not reside in the shire? Of course she dared not forget that this steward might be Tobye’s killer and thus his motive in saying anything relative to the crime must be examined.
Caution was due, but she also found Master Stevyn likeable, although she had certainly heard enough about him to suggest he could be a hard man. Yet he reminded her of her father, brusque in manner but equally capable of easy humor, sincere courtesy, and kind acts. The comparison softened her heart further, and she pitied the steward even more for the horns his wife had bestowed upon him.
“Are you sure your cook does not hold a secret desire in her heart to serve God?” Thus she pointedly shifted the subject from the problems of murder and hospitality. Her look spoke only of goodwill. “If so, I would welcome her to Tyndal Priory.”
“I will convey your willingness to have her, but I fear she finds passion primarily in the kitchen where she has served us for many years.” He gestured at a servant to bring the platter of roasted fowl and to replenish nearby trenchers. “She is quite proud of her chicken, swearing she can make the oldest hen pass for a much younger one.”
Eleanor nodded in appreciation but her thoughts stubbornly returned to what she had witnessed between Mistress Luce and the now dead groom.
Although she would not have called Master Stevyn a handsome man, with his pitted skin and angular features, the prioress thought he carried his late middle years with ease, and there was no aged dullness in his gray-streaked, brown hair. He radiated confidence and most certainly knew how to treat high ranking guests with warm hospitality but without extravagance.
These were all good qualities. Had Master Stevyn been her father’s steward, she believed the Wynethorpe family would be well-pleased with his blend of courtesy and prudence, rewarding him accordingly. Although she assumed he had been a younger son, perhaps of some landed knight, he had the competence to gain the attention and favor of good connections. Without question, he was successful and would be a good match for any woman of proper rank like his current wife.
That might be the practical and logical view, but Eleanor knew the heart was rarely either. There was still the matter of a young wife facing the marriage bed with a husband who might disgust her. Thus she asked herself how she would have felt, had her path in life led to such an arranged marriage rather than service to God.
Considering how fiercely she had fought to take religious vows rather than marry, she feared she might not have been as compliant about the choice of groom either. Once married, however, she would have served her husband with more honor than Mistress Luce had and borne the couplings if the spouse was otherwise a worthy man. Of that she felt some certitude. Although she had suffered unbearable lust as a prioress, she had still fought to keep her vows.
Fearing her musing had kept her silent too long, Eleanor hastily added a good-humored question: “Does her secret work for mortal women? If so, I know few on this earth who would not beg for her recipe!”
Mistress Luce, seated on the other side of her husband, suddenly bent forward and laughed. “My stepson’s wife, for one!” Her tone suggested no merry jest.
“If you cannot control injudicious speech, wife, be silent,” Stevyn snapped, his eyes narrowing until their color resembled burnt greenwood.
“After luring your son to the church door, she owes him an heir. I only question if her womb has not shriveled, since she has yet to bear a healthy child, and wonder whether she might not own more years than claimed when all agreed to the marriage contract.”
“Enough said. The matter is between husband and wife, or, as my son would prefer to think, between Man and God.” His tone left no doubt that he would tolerate no further discussion from her.
Failing to gain her husband’s support, she flushed with the public rebuke and turned her attention to Brother Thomas who sat on her other side.
Eleanor glanced down the table at Mistress Constance. Although the woman’s rigid posture and raised chin stayed firm, the sour cherry color rising in her cheeks suggested that Luce’s barb had pricked her otherwise armored skin.
“Please forgive my wife,” the steward muttered. “She is newly with child. Like many women in that condition, I’m told, her humors are often unbalanced and her speech can grow foolish.”
“Then that is the reason Mistress Maud is here.” Eleanor winced in embarrassment for speaking aloud what should have remained private thoughts. “Those words were unfortunate. I have no wish to pry into your private matters.”
The man’s eyebrows collided with barely suppressed anger. “The physician’s widow came at my request to advise my wife, although I fear my spouse betrays her feckless youth by refusing to take proper heed of the guidance given.”
The steward’s outburst was disquieting, and Eleanor tried to find words to cool that fury. “Nonetheless, Mistress Maud’s presence here was fortuitous, and I owe thanks for that both to you and to God. She is a skilled healer and has done much to help my sick companion. If the young woman lives, she will owe that recovery to her.”
“The widow has ever been a good woman,” he replied, his expression softening, “and tried to save my first wife from an untimely death. She failed, but her lack of success had nothing to do with incompetence. God was not willing to let my first wife’s pure soul stay longer amongst the sinful.”
“I have heard that they were friends. Your wife’s death must have been a cruel loss to you both then.”
Stevyn suddenly paled. In contrast, the pits in his face became as inflamed as a child’s pox.
Have I offended? Eleanor wondered, pressing a hand to her heart to calm the pounding.
“Husband!”
The steward swung around in his chair, his expression black as a gale at sea.
“Chase that stormy look from your face, my dearest lord.” Luce sat back and put her hand on her belly as if suggesting such rage would endanger the product of his seed. “Brother Thomas has asked if your younger son would play a song for us. Will you not grant your guest’s wish?”