“Who is the man you love?” Eleanor trusted her question was asked kindly enough to encourage more confidence from the girl.
Mariota flushed.
At least the cause is not fever, Eleanor concluded with relief. “A friend of your family?”
“And one who has grown up with my brother.”
“Did your brother know of your attachment?”
“Nay, my lady, and I had no right to add another burden on him so soon after our father’s death.”
“Burden? I fail to understand that, unless this man did not return your affections or had insufficient means to support a wife, or was even, perhaps, vowed to another?”
“My lady, there was no impediment to our marriage. We loved each other, but my father fell ill before we could ask his permission to wed. Then my father read my words as a holy vow, and my beloved wept at the news but swore he would do nothing to offend my brother’s wish to honor our father.”
Eleanor heard the bitterness in Mariota’s voice and wondered if she had hoped the young man would confront her family on her behalf. If so, disappointment at his refusal might explain the brief flash of anger she also saw in the woman’s eyes.
There was yet one more detail, even two, that might preclude entry to the priory. “When you two talked of love, did you perchance vow marriage to each other in the present tense? Or did he bed you?” If they had taken such a vow, they were wed in God’s eyes as well as in the laws of the secular world. If the girl was not a virgin, she could still become a nun, yet Eleanor might be able to argue…
“Neither, my lady.”
And thus you must take on a vocation you do not wish because you were an obedient daughter and a virtuous woman, Eleanor concluded. All arguments I might have made on your behalf have been crushed.
She turned her face away so Mariota could not read her surrender.
The young woman sighed and closed her eyes as if understanding the futility of her situation whether or not it was voiced.
You may still find joy in the cloister, the prioress said to herself, and decide that love of God was ardent yet soothing to the spirit like water on a fever. Yet how could she serve as mentor when she had failed to banish her own longing for Brother Thomas?
“We shall speak more of this later, my child,” Eleanor said, then realized Mariota had fallen back into a deep sleep. Eleanor stroked the girl’s thin hand. If God denied Death’s wish to take the young woman as his own bride, there would be time enough to discuss the future.
For several moments, Eleanor remained by the girl’s side, praying that God grant Mariota peace whatever the days ahead brought. Then she summoned a nearby servant to keep watch and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
Her devoted guard stood just outside the chambers. He turned and bowed.
Wordlessly acknowledging that courtesy, the prioress modestly tucked her hands into her sleeves.
From the courtyard, a piercing shriek shattered the silence.
Chapter Nineteen
The cook groveled in the rank mud, then clambered to her knees and seized the sheriff’s wrist.
“I am innocent!”
“Take the vile creature away,” Sir Reimund shouted. He stared down at Hilda with loathing and tore his hand from her tremulous grasp.
Two men rushed to obey.
“She offends all honest souls.”
A man gave the sheriff a cloth.
Snatching it, he rubbed at the muck soiling his hand as if he were scouring a pot.
Stunned by the scene before them, Eleanor and her guard halted just outside the manor house entrance. The prioress gazed at the muttering, pushing crowd and wondered what she should do next. Had every servant gathered to watch the spectacle?
Somewhere dogs barked, and several chickens burst from the crowd, clucking with avian displeasure. Two men stood at the edge of the group, heads together, as if conferring over some significant thing. One straightened and roared with laughter. Nearby, a woman heavy with child cried out, a stain darkening her skirt. An older companion took her by the arm and eased her away.
From the vicinity of the stable, Master Stevyn shouted something incomprehensible. Eleanor could see his head as he began to shove his way to the center. Mistress Maud followed close behind him, effectively using sharp elbows to keep the path open even after they had passed through.
Seeing the pair, Eleanor assumed Mistress Luce was also here but could not identify the wife anywhere in the throng.
“What are you doing with my cook, Sheriff?” the steward roared.
“She killed your groom. I’m taking her to the castle jail until her trial and hanging.”
The cook screamed once, began beating her breast, and then raised her eyes to the sky and howled like a terrified dog.
“Hilda?” The steward stared in amazement at the mud-stained servant. “You think she killed Tobye?”
Mistress Maud put her hands on her hips as fury stiffened her square body. “She’s shown violence only to chickens and pigs, my lord. What proof have you to find her guilty of a more heinous act?”
Eleanor decided to push her way through the crowd, but so enthralled were they by the spectacle, they refused to budge.
“If I may, my lady?” her guard whispered, then stepped in front of her. “Stand aside for the Prioress of Tyndal,” he snarled as he thrust people out of the way. Like awkward statues, they tilted this way and that but did shift position enough to allow her space to walk.
The sheriff strode over to meet the steward. “She’s guilty enough,” he said, replying to Stevyn rather than the widow who had asked the specific question. “A woman past child-bearing who lusted after a young man and was mocked by him, probably rejected for one better suited to his taste in bed. She cut his throat in revenge, an act not unusual for women like that.”
“Even if she did want to lie in his arms,” Maud shouted, “there was nothing more between them than her dreams.”
The cook was still on her knees, her body steaming from the reeking mud and animal dung that stained her clothes. “I give you my word that I did not kill him, Master Stevyn,” she whimpered. “On God’s mercy and my soul’s hope of heaven…”
“Don’t blaspheme!” a man yelled, and Ranulf shoved two people out of his way to rush to his father’s side.
“God knows I bear no blame in this murder,” Hilda wailed. “When I swear my innocence on His name, I commit no sin.”
“Sir Reimund,” Eleanor called out in a tone that carried with authority over the heads of the crowd, “you have been asked a reasonable question. Since you have yet to respond, I must conclude that you did not hear it. Thus I shall repeat the query.”
The crowd hushed and turned to hear what the Prioress of Tyndal had to say.
“What evidence do you have of this woman’s guilt?” Eleanor asked. “Does she not deserve to hear the accusations in order to better answer them? Gentle King Henry was known for his mercy to sinners. Surely you do not dare to believe that his son, now our noble lord, would demand a less perfect justice?”
The sheriff’ brow furrowed with dark fury and the assault on his authority. “With all due respect, my lady, I do not think this matter is any of your concern.”
A loud voice from behind Eleanor replied: “God demands justice, Sir Sheriff, and no earthly king’s man could ever speak for Him as truly as the Prioress of Tyndal. I, on the other hand, have more worldly cares. We shall be without dinner if you arrest our cook. Has the Earl of Lincoln or his steward so offended you that you wish to get revenge by making us suffer so?”
When Eleanor turned around, she saw Huet close by. His tone may have been tinged with merriment, but his demeanor was devoid of it.
“Our honored guest has requested no more than fairness demands,” the steward replied. “In that, my younger son has argued well. What is your proof of guilt?”