Then he leapt to his feet and ran for help.
Chapter Nineteen
Prioress Eleanor followed the servant through the narrow passageways of the castle keep. Perhaps the sea breeze cooled this place in summer, she thought, but the wind from the winter sea, howling through the windows, pierced her to the very bone this night. She ached so painfully from the cold that she longed for the moment when it numbed her.
With the unexplained deaths of the baron’s sons, there had been much talk of Satan residing here, but now she doubted it. The Prince of Darkness might be foul; he was not witless. Preferring heat, he resided near Hell’s flames and would therefore eschew this place, leaving the castle to those disgraced imps he had banished to realms of eternal ice. Would she ever be warm again?
The servant stopped at a wooden door and knocked.
A voice from within gave permission to enter.
Opening the door, the servant bowed and gestured for Eleanor to proceed inside.
The chambers were brightened by flickering candles impaled on two tall iron candlesticks which rested on minutely detailed lion’s feet. A raging fireplace provided heat. Despite the chill she suffered, the intensity of the dancing fire struck the prioress with uncomfortable strength. She turned away and sought her hostess.
The remaining shadows struggled against the light and teased cruelly with the gaunt face of the woman sitting in a deeply carved chair.
“You are kind to see me.” Margaret’s words were devoid of warmth.
“I was told your plea was urgent.” Eleanor replied with gentleness, hoping to soften the wife’s clearly troubled spirit.
“Come closer to me. I would speak in confidence.”
Eleanor walked to the lady’s side. Some might say those words were haughty, she thought, but she heard profound suffering hidden within the command.
Lady Margaret began to weep. The jagged sound of her sobs confirmed she was a woman unaccustomed to emotion breaking through her resolve. “I have sinned most grievously.” She spat out the words.
Eleanor took the lady’s hand and cradled it gently in her own. “You are not alone in this. Be comforted, for God brings solace to those who wish it.”
The woman showed no sign of being soothed, yet neither did she flinch from the soft touch. Her unblinking eyes stared at the prioress.
For a moment, Eleanor wondered if she was looking into two black holes leading to Hell.
“I long to die.”
“Why?” Although she ought now to call for Brother Thomas, and urge the lady to seek penance for such a desire, Eleanor had learned from the anchoress at Tyndal that a woman’s hardest confessions often flowed more easily into repentance when she could speak first to another daughter of Eve.
“Look at me! I am a woman beset with lust, unfaithful in spirit to her husband, and the lowest of all God’s creation. This wickedness must be why God is slaying the sons of my womb!” Tearing her hand away, she pressed both palms against her eyes and wailed.
Eleanor saw a servant hovering near the fireplace. It was not the lady’s usual maid. “Leave us,” she commanded. The despair of their mistress should not become the subject of gossip.
As soon as the girl slipped away and had shut the door, the prioress found the pitcher of wine and poured a small measure into a cup. Returning to the baron’s wife, Eleanor lightly touched the woman’s arm. “Drink,” she said, leaving no doubt she expected obedience.
Lady Margaret’s face reddened, and then she nodded. With a swift gesture she brushed the moisture from her cheeks and took the proffered drink, sipping at it until the mazer was empty.
Eleanor refilled it and handed the cup back. “We all suffer lust. It is one of several curses with which God burdened the first woman. Yet you told me earlier that you came to your husband a virgin and did refuse all temptations while he was gone. Did you speak the truth?”
Margaret looked away. “I’ll not deny temptation, but I fled from it. Now that my lord is home, I have lost all strength to resist.” She glanced back at the prioress. “I saw your expression at supper. You recognized my wickedness, and I do confess that I longed to lure Sir Hugh into my bed.”
“Did my brother join you there for sport?”
“He is more virtuous than I.”
Eleanor said nothing. Many proclaimed that a woman so lacking in virtue must be denied all sympathy. God forgave, however, and so would she. As for her brother, men were often called the victims of woman’s rampant lust. It was conventional wisdom she had cause to doubt, and she hoped he had been kind in his refusal. The shame Lady Margaret suffered from such public longing was humiliation enough without a man treating her like a common whore.
As for her own right to condemn, Eleanor owned none. She herself had itched with lust for Sir Leonel and had coupled often enough with incubi disguised as Brother Thomas in her dreams.
“My brother is not a saint,” she said, “and may well have been tempted, but your virtue is renowned and he would have assumed that tonight was God’s test of his own. Being a soldier, not a poet, he cannot transform lust into verse, praising your beauty like Solomon did. His only recourse is to turn his back and walk away. Knowing my brother, he would choose to suffer rather than insult your honor by approaching your chambers. He was well aware that your door would have been barred to him had he tried.”
Margaret hid her reaction by drinking more wine.
“There is another matter at issue here. You said your husband has refused to honor his responsibility to the marriage bed. Even though the Church might long for us all to remain celibate, it recognizes that it is better to marry when we are incapable of choosing the higher virtue. Thus it is the obligation of both husband and wife to embrace each other in mutual satisfaction. His failure to honor this obligation encourages sin.” She raised a questioning eyebrow. “Might he have decided to take vows?”
Margaret shook her head. “He has not said so.” Her lips twisted into a sour smile. “That means nothing for he has refused to speak to me since his return.”
“Even so, if entrance into a monastic life was his wish, he would surely have sent a message informing you of those intentions.” At least he should have done so if he felt any affection or a scrap of kindness toward his wife. Eleanor tried not to betray her disapproval of the baron, but Brother John, a man of unquestioned faith, had wept bitterly over the pain he was inflicting when he told his wife of his longing for the cloister. “Was your marriage a happy one in the past?”
“Before my lord took the cross, it was.” Margaret’s eyes became unfocused with wistful memory. “We found deep joy in each other and were blessed with many sons…” She began again to weep, but these sobs were muted.
“How long was Baron Herbert gone?” Eleanor asked the question as much out of mercy as curiosity.
“He left England before King Edward and set sail from Outremer in advance of our lord’s return. He did not travel directly home. He first stopped in Solerno, and then Rome before going to Paris.”
An interesting journey, Eleanor thought. The stop in Rome was understandable for anyone of Christian faith. Solerno was a more curious choice. Paris suggested troubling reasons of a more secular nature.
As for the stay in Solerno, the renowned medical school was a likely cause. The possibility that he had become impotent did occur to her, but surely the excellent physicians there would have told him whether or not his condition was hopeless. He would not have needed to seek medical advice elsewhere, especially in Paris. Since Baron Herbert had not shared a bed with the Lady Margaret since his return, however, there was no reason to ask her if he was still virile.
After Rome and Solerno, he could have sailed from Italy, a much faster route to England. If he did not need the services of doctors in Paris, there was one other reason men went there. That was to sell their loyalty to the French king.