Eleanor folded her hands and patiently waited.
“Last night, there was no religious house to give us beds. We stopped at an inn. This morning, Jean went to the stable to seek his companion.” Davoir chewed on his lip. “He found the man’s corpse. Someone had cut his throat.”
Jean gagged and looked away.
The prioress’ eyes opened wide with shock.
Davoir’s expression softened with concern over Jean. “When my clerk cried out, the innkeeper ran to his aid as did the captain of the soldiers. The local crowner might have been called, but the captain said there was no need.”
Eleanor was surprised, then chose not to interrupt and to let this priest finish his tale.
“The captain swore he knew the cause for the death. Since the soldiers were under his command, he was responsible for rendering the required justice. He gave me his solemn oath, his hand on a crucifix, that we had nothing to fear and were safe from all harm.”
“The crowner was not summoned?”
Davoir shook his head.
Perhaps Ralf should be told anyway, Eleanor thought, but saw no purpose in saying anything to the priest. He had made his decision about the matter. She would make her own. “I shall pray for the poor man’s soul and that His comfort will ease the pain his death brought you,” she said, directing the last words to the clerk.
The lad nodded, but his expression suggested he was not comforted in the slightest.
“It was cruelty born in sin and executed by wicked men,” Davoir said. “You may thank God that you will never suffer this kind of violence within the safety of your priory walls.”
Eleanor had seen far worse deaths and many more of them since entering the gates of Tyndal Priory but chose not to enlighten the abbess’ brother. Instead, she murmured the expected words and changed the subject.
“Your sermon to the nuns was most instructive,” she said. The topic had been worldly temptations. She wondered if he preached the same message to the monks and lay brothers. Did the subject hold any clue to the reason he had been sent?
“When we vow ourselves to God’s service, much is demanded from our imperfect flesh. It grows weak and eagerly reaches out for the false joys promised in Satan’s lullabies. The Devil strikes hardest at those who choose the path to Heaven, and he rejoices most in those he wins back from God.”
Eleanor might have been offended at the suggestion that her monastics were lax in honoring their vows, but, as she studied the man seated before her, she felt he meant his words more as commentary than criticism.
Her opinion of this priest remained ill-formed. Had he come dressed in chain mail with a sword by his side, he would not have looked out of place as the warrior son of a French nobleman. That he chose to fight the Prince of Darkness, not the English, was a decision she respected. Yet she had learned from her brother, a returned crusader, that God’s knights could be indistinguishable from those who longed less for Heaven and more for land and castles. Each maimed, killed, and tortured with equal ferocity. Did this man follow the gentler God she had discovered in her particular prayers?
As she listened to Davoir elaborate on the theme of his earlier sermon, she noted that he was missing a few teeth but that his hair was still dark blond. If neither young nor old, she wondered if he was in that middle time, one she longed to achieve, when neither the passions of youth nor the fears of age fully ruled. His face bore furrows, which could suggest either worry or humor. His brown eyes were bright with intelligence, perhaps curiosity, maybe zeal. Davoir might be a man inclined to fairness, Eleanor thought, but she had already noted signs that he could harbor a rigid view of human frailty. Uncertain over which had most shaped his reasoning, she prayed it was the kinder mold.
He had paused to take a breath.
“The wisdom you gave us today in your sermon was received by eager souls,” she said. “The sisters of Tyndal Priory will benefit greatly from your insights, as will our brothers.” She smiled with a hopeful expression. Now, surely, was the time when he would give her the specific message from Abbess Isabeau that would explain the point behind this unusual investigation.
It was in that moment of expectation that Jean turned scarlet and began to cough until he could barely catch his breath.
The other clerk jumped back as if fearing contagion.
Rising quickly, Davoir put his arm around the youth. “I would speak further with you, Prioress Eleanor, but this young man needs prompt care. I insist that the monk in charge of the hospital come immediately and examine him. Jean needs some remedy. I shall offer prayers.”
The lad’s face was scarlet as he gasped for air.
“Our hospital is run by Sister Christina and her sub-infirmarian, Sister Anne,” she replied.
He looked surprised. “No monk is trained in healing?”
“Sister Anne is a physician’s daughter. He trained her so well that she became an apothecary with her husband when they were both in the world.”
“The husband is nearby, or is he dead?”
“He came first to Tyndal and is now known as Brother John. She followed and also took vows here.”
“Then I would have my clerk seen by this brother who is an apothecary.”
“He has become a hermit and sees no one, nor has he treated any man since his arrival here. I may assure you that Sister Anne’s reputation as a healer is known throughout England.”
He twisted his hands with displeased impatience. “No other monk? That is most unusual.”
Sensing a criticism of the priory hospital, Eleanor swallowed her indignation. “Brother Thomas has been trained by her in some areas of treatment,” she replied with icy calm.
Father Etienne waved that aside. “I will not have Brother Thomas. Send Prior Andrew and this sub-infirmarian to the guest quarters, but she must be properly accompanied and may not touch my clerk. Should an examination of Jean’s body be required, including his urine, Prior Andrew must do all that is needed.”
“As you will.” Eleanor wondered why he had first insisted on a man treating his clerk and then rejected the offer of Brother Thomas’ help.
“This shall be done before the next Office.” Davoir rose. “I will have the evening meal sent to us in our quarters tonight. Tomorrow, I will discuss my plans for all reviews with you.”
Bowing her head with modest concurrence, Eleanor’s unexpressed reaction to his commanding tone was less humble.
After Gracia had ushered the men out and firmly shut the chamber door, Eleanor uttered a sigh of relief. “Please go the hospital and bring Sister Anne,” she said to her maid. “Then find Prior Andrew and ask him to join us. I pray we will not need a veritable army of monastics to accompany our sub-infirmarian, lest the good priest find some impropriety.”
Gracia knew her mistress well enough to chuckle at those words but then chose gravity and a swift departure to carry out the prioress’ wishes.
Chapter Four
The lay brother wrapped yellow flowers of arnica around the man’s ankle, and then bound it as tightly as he could. Despite the patient’s groans, he doubted the injury was serious and bit his tongue to keep from saying so.
He glanced at the ankle again. Even with the wrapping, it didn’t look swollen.
If the complaint had been blisters on tender heels, he might have sympathized. These feet, despite the man’s claim that he was a poor pilgrim who had walked from London, were as soft as a baby’s skin.
“I beg the kindness of a roof and sustenance,” the pilgrim said, his accent suggesting he was not of English birth.
The lay brother looked back at the sole of the foot he held. Very tender indeed. “We have no guest accommodations, if that is what you require, nor have we a bed in the monks’ dormitory.”