“I shall obey, my lady,” Juliana whispered.
“There is one other matter.”
“I beg that you teach me all my sins.”
“The visitors to your window. They are mostly women and come only at night, when they should be safe in their beds. It is the hour the Devil loves most…”
“No one at my window has been attacked by imps, my lady. If God had not taken away what desire I might have for sleep, these mortals would have no one to bring His balm to their battered souls. Show me the possessed, if I speak with the Fiend’s tongue. That is how I answer those critics who wish to cover innocence with the stench of their own filth.”
For a long time, Eleanor studied the bent figure of her old friend, then blessed the woman and left without speaking further.
The door slammed shut. The bolt was drawn.
Sister Juliana remained on her knees, staring in silence at that heavy wooden door which had failed to protect her from the world she hated.
Chapter Eleven
Ivetta grumbled as she focused on the callused heels of the lay brother leading the way. Walking through the nuns’ cloister made her nervous, and she was not at all pleased about coming to the priory. There was something unnatural about all this hush, she concluded, but then she was happiest surrounded by the deep voices of men and the soaring laughter of women.
Her bad-temper had begun even before Brother Beorn arrived at her hovel. Ivetta had just awakened, a time of day not reckoned her most cheerful, and then vomited. She felt as sour as her mouth tasted when the lay brother informed her that Prioress Eleanor had some questions about the cooper’s death. Would she come with him to the prioress’ chambers?
As if she had had any choice!
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched two nuns pass her in the walkway. The elder was short and square. The younger still possessed a soft, youthful roundness. “And that blank stare of holiness,” Ivetta muttered, not quite under her breath.
The older nun glared, twitching her nose as if she had smelled the smoke of Hell emanating from the whore’s robe.
Brother Beorn turned around. “Did you ask a question?”
Ivetta shook her head, and the unlikely pair continued on. At least the dark frown with which he had graced her was no different from the glare he gave everyone else. In all the time she had known him, Brother Beorn had never suffered from hypocrisy. Other than children, to whom he showed a saintly patience, he disliked all mortals equally.
When they reached the stairs that led to the prioress’ chambers, Ivetta grimaced. The very thought of climbing them exhausted her. Nor did she want to talk about Martin Cooper’s death. Who would, under the circumstances? Just as he had gotten into bed with her, he had begun his death throes. Ivetta dry-retched as the memory returned. Sweat began to drip down her cheeks.
These holy virgins would never understand what she had suffered that night. What did they care about a woman’s passions? Martin had been different from her other men. When he took her in that open field the summer she turned thirteen, she forgot the weeds that scratched her back and remembered only the sweet scent of flowers. Since that day, she did whatever he wished, opening her legs for a price and giving him the coin. None of that mattered. Other men might ride her, but they all remained faceless and transitory. Martin had possessed her.
Brother Beorn cleared his throat.
Ivetta began to climb the stairs.
***
“Thank you for coming here, Mistress,” the Prioress of Tyndal said.
Mistress, was it? Ivetta spat out the bitten-off nail she had been worrying about with her tongue.
With a courteous manner but inscrutable tone, the prioress began to introduce her companions.
Gytha smiled, a look completely lacking in condescension.
Tostig’s sister and a decent enough sort, Ivetta had always heard. The brother had never sought her services, and he was polite enough when he passed her on the road.
“Sister Anne, our sub-infirmarian.”
So this was the famous healer? Ivetta had never met her. The only time she had ever needed potions and herbs was when she missed her courses. In her profession, that meant one thing, and she knew well enough how to handle the problem. A priory hospital would not serve her there.
“I am called Eleanor, Prioress of Tyndal.”
A woman reputed to see any evil that skulked behind men’s eyes. Ivetta quickly lowered hers and bobbed an awkward obeisance. But surely this prioress was too far removed from earthly concerns to recognize all the imps that squirmed in her soul? Most of her sins were common enough and well-known anyway. As for the uncommon ones, what did she have to fear from a woman who had rejected the world?
Ivetta’s brief impudence withered the moment she looked up. She most certainly had much to fear, and those grey eyes now studying her did hold a scorching heat. Unless some priest came fast enough to forgive her on her deathbed, she knew she would instantly fall into the deepest regions of Hell. But she had little choice, did she? She could not afford to repent just yet.
“You have nothing to be frightened of here,” the prioress said. “Our only purpose is to hear details of Martin’s death.”
Ivetta realized how tense her muscles had been. She shrugged her shoulders to ease the tightness.
“The crowner can be harsh…”
“He wants to hang me.”
“He is a fair man. You grew up in this village so must know him well…”
“With respect, my lady, you were not there last night. He wants to hang me because I am a harlot.”
“As was the sainted Magdalene. Our Lord did not turn his back on her, nor do we. Will you have some refreshment?”
The Prioress of Tyndal rose, carried a mazer of wine to Ivetta, and offered both bread and cheese.
The woman snatched the wine and gulped it down.
The prioress carefully refilled her cup, then placed the platter near enough for Ivetta to reach. “Should you be hungry,” Eleanor said with a nod as she settled herself back into her chair.
Ivetta stuffed some cheese into her mouth. Hungry or not, she could no longer afford to turn down any offer of food.
“Please answer honestly. We are not here to condemn, indeed we wish you no harm. Anything you remember of the cooper’s murder might be helpful in finding the one who killed him.”
“I know nothing of murder, my lady.”
“But Sister Anne does. You may mention something, no matter how small, that would help her piece together what killed the man. I do not expect you to know how it happened, only to relate the events of that night. Will you answer the questions I must ask?”
Ivetta nodded, snagged another hunk of cheese and reached back to tear off a large piece of bread. Taking a bite, she discovered that the heavy loaf was no lordly one. Instead it was rough with bits of broken grain. She looked at the prioress holding a similar dark-colored bit in her hand. Contrary to tales she had heard from some of the men she served, these religious were neither fat nor arrogant. Not only had this prioress personally served her, but the monks and nuns of Tyndal must eat no better than villeins.
“Do not fear plain speech,” the prioress said. “As for your trade, who amongst us is not a sinner?”
Her smile is not the haughty look with which one of her station might greet one of mine, Ivetta noted.
“Nothing you say will cause offense. Our desire may be for the chaste and sequestered life, but that does not mean we are less mortal than you or do not suffer from human error. The world is no stranger to us and even less to Sister Anne who was an apothecary with her husband before she joined the Order.”
Ivetta tossed her head in the maid’s direction.
Eleanor nodded. “You may go, Gytha. Should we need anything more, I will send for you.”