“Oh, I may be a stranger here, my lady, but my late husband always said that the wise must keep ears open for any news. One never knows when there may be value in it.” Her expression grew suitably solemn. “Of course I would never spread this tale to others, but you are a woman devoted to God. Telling you can be no sin.”
That was a new concept to Eleanor, but she did not want to discourage this important confidence. She was eager to hear what Mistress Emelyne had to say, yet still feared the woman would think she welcomed such stories. Deciding the widow was inclined to believe she welcomed them no matter what she did, the prioress told her conscience that any virtue in rejecting gossip had long been lost.
“Surely this is but idle tale-telling on the part of the unkind,” the prioress said. Realizing her tone suggested censure, she quickly smiled to prove her interest in learning more.
“I heard it from several sources as I wandered through the shops today.” Emelyne took a deep breath, girding herself for a longer exposition. “It grieved most that Sister Roysia had been bringing such shame to her priory.” For a moment she hesitated, studying the prioress’ face for any clue that she had taken offense. “From the way the story was told, I believed that the tellers were God-fearing and well-meaning folk.”
“How could Prioress Ursell knowingly tolerate a nun in her flock to remain unchaste and unrepentant?” Eleanor returned the steady gaze.
“As I heard the story, she could do little about it.”
Eleanor raised an eyebrow. This conversation was proving to be very interesting.
“The nun’s lover may be Master Larcher, a man who contributes to the priory income by making pilgrimage badges sold by Ryehill. Without the income from his work, the priory would become impoverished beyond any hope of recovery.” With a troubled expression, she lowered her voice and confessed, “I did buy one.”
“May be is not proof of anything.” Eleanor scowled. Prioress Ursell had the right to punish Sister Roysia’s unchaste behavior, and the craftsman should fear Hell for coupling with a nun. If anything, Master Larcher ought to donate badges to the priory as penance for his terrible wickedness.
“Or,” the widow continued as if the prioress had said nothing, “her lover is the priest, Father Vincent.” She bowed her head. “The priest’s name was spoken in a whisper, my lady, but both men were mentioned with equal certainty.”
Eleanor stiffened, then calmed herself. When two rumors are of equal weight, the likelihood is that neither is accurate, she thought. Yet these stories proved that Prioress Ursell’s fear of scandal had greater cause than she and Brother Thomas first thought. If there was a lover, this detail would also add strength to Brother Thomas’ suspicion that Sister Roysia’s death was not accidental and that someone was with the nun in the tower.
“You seem perplexed, my lady. Had you heard none of this, apart from the death?”
“I would not have heard that much if Brother Thomas had not found the nun’s corpse under the bell tower. It was he who alerted Father Vincent, and the priest took the news to Prioress Ursell.”
Mistress Emelyne’s face glowed with delight.
Presumably he was happy at the prospect of being able to add a detail to the gossip already spreading, Eleanor thought. She regretted abetting the widow like this, but the information given would soon be learned by others anyway. Surely Prioress Ursell would have no justification for outrage at this confirmation of a harmless fact.
The widow’s expression became solemn, and her lips lost all suggestion of worldly merriment. “But we are here for a higher purpose, are we not? And I should refrain from prattling on about mortal frailties.”
Eleanor was surprised by the sudden change. Trying not to betray this, she nodded gravely. “We should.”
The widow sighed and put a hand to her heart as if suffering profound remorse. “Will you join me in a walk to the healing wells on the great priory’s grounds? Have you visited them already? If so, perhaps you would like to visit the chapel containing the knuckle bone of St. Peter?”
Eleanor admitted she had not seen either.
“If I could see the miraculous wells at your side, I would be honored.” Mistress Emelyne motioned hopefully toward the door leading into the priory. “According to what I have heard from other pilgrims, the wells are noted for curing stomach ailments, an affliction from which I suffer, but drinking the chill water helps those suffering headaches as well. I wanted to buy a small container of the water to take back to Norwich.”
Finding no good excuse to avoid this woman’s company, Eleanor agreed. Perhaps a sip of the blessed water would cure her headaches. Sister Anne’s feverfew remedy had helped for a long time, but the headaches were growing more virulent. Last summer they had caused her to see something that many called a vision. For her, the story had become a curse, not a blessing, and had been one reason for traveling here to the shrines of Our Lady of Walsingham.
“I’ve been told that the wells are perfectly round and always filled with pure water, even when the earth becomes dry,” the widow said, her voice rising with fervor. “It was Our Lady of Walsingham who struck the ground and brought the water forth! Of course, nothing earthly could…”
But Eleanor had ceased listening. Following Mistress Emelyne out of the gardens, she prepared herself for the holy sites by reflecting on the goodness of the Queen of Heaven. Before all thoughts moved heavenward, however, Eleanor concluded she had been wise to suffer one more tale from the irritating widow. The information was important and must be passed on to Brother Thomas.
Chapter Ten
A light mist fell as Thomas trudged back to the chapel. After he had accompanied his prioress to the shrine containing the Virgin’s milk and back to Ryehill, he sought Gracia but failed to find her. Hoping she had found shelter from this weather, he pulled the hood over his head and buried his hands in his sleeves for warmth. The rain itself was soft and sweet, but the chill air stung his flesh.
A man passed him in the road, then suddenly spun around to face him, a surprised but delighted expression on his face.
Perplexed, the monk stopped and waited for the stranger to speak.
“Are you Brother Thomas of Tyndal Priory?”
The monk did not remember having met him, although he felt he should. A boyish charm belied the gray dusting in the stranger’s brown wavy locks. His hazel eyes glowed with comforting warmth on this cold day. But the man’s features overall were not memorable. Were he to walk by him later in the day, Thomas wondered if he would recognize the man again, unless he saw his eyes. Concluding he had forgotten a prior meeting, something for which no blame was due, he opted for honesty. “Do we know each other?”
“Nay, we do not,” the man replied with a pleasant smile, “but I know your reputation. I visited the hospital at Tyndal Priory and stayed in the guest quarters there while my sick wife sought treatment. Men know me as Durant of Norwich, a wine merchant in that town.” The crisp air was turning his smooth cheeks a bright pink.
Despite the smile, Thomas thought he saw a hint of sadness in the man’s eyes. “I grieve if we were unsuccessful in curing her,” he said gently.
Master Durant blinked, then instantly brightened. “On the contrary! She returned home with renewed health and remains vigorous. Her cure is the reason for my current pilgrimage here. She wanted to accompany me, but when I am absent, our business only flourishes if she remains to tend it.” He laughed with evident fondness. “I told her I would bring her a badge. Even if she is not by my side, her heart most assuredly journeyed with me.”
“I am grateful that God was kind to you both. He has blessed Sister Anne, and those she has trained, with skill and knowledge. Being mortal, however, we cannot always prevail if God wishes a soul to come to judgment.”