“Very well, then,” she said, looking at each man until he shifted uncomfortably. “Let us see this young priest who will serve my sisters and succor the dying at our hospital.”
Chapter Seven
Simeon thumped Thomas’ shoulder with such enthusiasm that the young man staggered. The older monk’s face might have beamed with jovial greeting, but his dark eyes studied the younger with grim intensity. “You have just arrived from Grovebury then, brother?”
“Yes, my lord.” Thomas wanted to rub his aching shoulder, but he had been through such silent examinations before and knew when he was being appraised. This might be a world dedicated to God, but the unspoken rules were no different from the secular one. Acceptance at Tyndal was crucial to his success with this first assignment given by his grim new master, and he knew better than to show weakness of any kind. The ache in his shoulder receded.
A flicker of approval passed over Simeon’s face, and then he nodded to the porter. “Brother Andrew, bring some wine to wash the dust from our new brother’s throat.”
“I would be most grateful for it, my lord,” Thomas replied with calculated courtesy. As he smiled in thanks, he would have sworn the short, bald monk winked at him before dropping his eyes modestly and limping dutifully toward the wine pitcher. Brother Andrew slopped some deep red liquid from the ewer into a gold goblet and handed it to Thomas.
He gazed down at the object in his hand. It was an unusually opulent thing to find in such a remote house, Thomas thought. The priory’s uncharacteristic financial downturn had tweaked the interest of some high churchman, at least enough to use it to test Thomas’ investigative skills, yet clearly its members had not felt sufficient distress to sell any of its valuable plate. Despite its plain design, the goblet was still gold and well-crafted. Then he glanced at the table and noted four similar goblets. Odd too that such rich possessions would be brought out for daily use, and by the prior, who was not even responsible for the entertainment of important guests under normal circumstances. He wondered what quality of plate the prioress had in her lodgings.
Thomas sipped the smooth and mellow wine. It was of superior quality as well. If Tyndal had a generous patron who guaranteed a good supply of fine wine to make diminished wealth more palatable, Thomas’ human raven had failed to mention it. Or perhaps he didn’t know about such a benefactor. Or perhaps he was misinformed about the entire situation. Ignorance of what really happened in places or amid people deemed to be of minor or no importance was not unusual amongst those at the pinnacles of power. Thomas remembered some of his former masters with mild derision and enjoyed another sip of the wine.
“You elevated me beyond my station, however.” Simeon’s words were humble, but as Thomas looked up at the tall monk’s expression, he knew he had quite pleased the man.
“I am Brother Simeon, receiver and sub-prior of Tyndal.”
Thomas bowed graciously.
Simeon gestured to the man at the head of the table. “Prior Theobald leads us.”
“My lord.” As Thomas humbled himself once again, he noted the prior’s blinking eyes and aimlessly fumbling hands. A pathetic and ineffectual old man, he decided, and hardly the real center of power here. That, he concluded, was Brother Simeon, whose formidable size and vitality overwhelmed the room.
With a sharp stab of pain, Thomas once again missed Giles. In the old days, they would have made Theobald into prime fodder for parody. Now there was no one with whom he could later mock such a feeble, aged master in the time-honored tradition of young clerks. Then with some surprise Thomas realized he felt sorry for the old prior. Maybe the days were past when he could find joy in mocking men whose manhood existed only in memory. He snorted quietly. Was he much different himself from this impotent prior? Thomas lowered his head to keep his moist eyes from public gaze.
“Excuse me, brother, but I did not hear your name?”
Thomas started. The voice was distinctly feminine and quite melodic.
Simeon stepped aside.
Sitting at the table behind the receiver were two nuns. One was a woman of middle years, stout about the hips and waist. The other was youthful and quite diminutive. The first must be the prioress, Thomas thought. She looked sour enough, her forehead deeply ridged in what must be a perpetual frown, and, although her eyes were lowered, he could sense their look of constant disapproval. The young one, however, looked directly at him, her gray eyes alert with curiosity and her complexion flushed a healthy pink. Too tiny all over for my taste, Thomas thought with irreverent amusement.
Simeon cleared his throat. “Forgive me,” he said, rudely pointing his finger at the young nun. “Prioress Eleanor of Wynethorpe has just arrived from Amesbury but a day or so ago.” With far greater courtesy and warmth, he gestured toward the elder. “This is Sister Ruth, our esteemed porteress for the nuns.”
Thomas blinked in surprise. He watched as Prioress Eleanor’s eyes briefly narrowed in what he suspected was carefully controlled anger, then quickly cleared and began to appraise him. Perhaps, he thought, it might not be wise to dismiss this young woman, as Simeon appeared to be doing. Had the person in front of him been a man who could control his emotions with such iron will, he would have accorded him more respect.
Thomas bowed. “My lady, I am Brother Thomas. Here to serve your will.”
“And what skills do you bring me, brother?”
“Humble ones. I have come lately to the priesthood.”
“Indeed, but previously a clerk, I see. What brought you to choose a cloistered vocation over the earthly rewards at a king’s court?”
Thomas paled. Surely this prioress could not know his real background. His black-clad liberator had promised him anonymity in exchange for his oath of fealty.
“Do not be so surprised, brother. With such soft hands, you are surely no man of arms, although I wonder why not with your height and that breadth of shoulders.” She smiled warmly, then laughed with a straightforward heartiness.
Sister Ruth pressed her lips together into a rigid white line.
Thomas smiled in return with more warmth than he felt. You, my lady prioress, are more observant that I would expect from a woman of your youth and vocation, he thought, and more than makes me comfortable.
“Indeed,” he said aloud, “I was a clerk, thus I have some knowledge of Latin and law. As for my choice of the cloister, my shoulders may be broad but my soul cried out to serve God in a more contemplative setting, not on the field of battle or in the courts of kings.”
“Well said, brother. I think our sisters will be lucky to have such a priest as their spiritual guide.”
Her phrasing was smooth as river rock. As he bowed his head in humble thanks at her courtesy, Thomas knew by her amused smile that she was not deceived in the slightest by his fine and empty words.
***
When Eleanor first looked at Brother Thomas, as he walked into the prior’s chambers, and saw blue eyes the color of the summer sea and hair the shade of burnished copper, she felt heat, then shuddered as if chilled. He had all the legendary beauty of Satan’s own angels.
The suddenness, no, the strength of her attraction to the young monk startled her. This was not just a playful, almost innocent tickling of pleasure to be enjoyed for a moment, confessed, then forgotten. She felt as if a bonfire had been set alight in her entrails. This was no easily ignored and set aside desire. This was lust. And why had God chosen now of all times to give her the added burden of conquering such a passion? Didn’t she have problems enough?
Yet God had not completely abandoned her. Even as she felt her face flush, she had struggled, then regained control of her reason and calmly questioned the man. He had seemed oddly taken aback at her observation that he must have been a clerk. Perhaps he had been insulted, assumed she thought he was of a rank too low to be trained in the knightly arts of war, or had not thought him man enough. Nevertheless, he had quickly recovered and shown the smooth tongue of one at ease with courtly manners. A younger son of someone of rank sent to make his way in the Church with or without any calling to it, she thought. Or else a by-blow. If the latter, she might be better off. Her aunt had said that those born to the mighty without the benefit of legitimacy often understood the ephemeral nature of worldly rank and comforts better than a younger son who had grown up in the ease of it.