When the shrine keeper opened the door and beckoned a certain number to follow him, she was humbled by the anticipation of what she would soon see. He led them at a slow but steady pace past the small wooden statue of the crowned Virgin with a lily scepter, holding her child, and through the upper story of the simple wooden house. Even during this season, when pilgrims traveled less, there were so many longing to view the sacred place that no one was allowed to stop during the passage through.
Compared to the usual bejeweled caskets and relics encased in gold or crystal, this site was as humble as a peasant’s hut. The Holy House was meant to be a crude structure, a two-story building created by local carpenters under the direction of Richelde of Fervaques, a woman to whom the Virgin had appeared many lifetimes ago.
According to the legend, the Queen of Heaven came to the widow in a dream and took her spirit to the place in Nazareth where the Annunciation had occurred. During this vision, the Virgin made sure the widow learned the exact appearance and dimensions of the house so well that Richelde could instruct the craftsmen on how to duplicate it. And when the Walsingham carpenters failed to place the structure exactly where the Virgin wished it, they awoke one morning to discover that the completed house had been moved to a different location.
This last detail delighted Eleanor, but it was the plainness of the copy that made the shrine so important to her. This was the home of a simple young woman, a girl chosen to give birth to one who would offer the balm of compassion and peace to a world replete with violence, greed, and hate.
Now that the brief tour was over and she knelt in this nearby chapel, she imagined the Archangel Gabriel with his fearsome expanse of wings. He must have terrified the young Mary, Eleanor thought. Perhaps he was gentler at the Annunciation, hiding his blinding glory that reflected his nearness to God, because he knew the profound grief she would face in the future.
A sharp pain stabbed her heart. Although Eleanor had never borne children, she knew women whose infants had died in their arms. It was a sorrow like no other, and one for which there was little solace. Again the prioress wept, this time for the woman who stood at the foot of the cross and helplessly watched as her son in his agony cried out to God, asking why he had been forsaken. No matter how strong her faith, Mary was still a woman, a mother, and Eleanor knew of nothing that said she had found that moment less than horrible.
Realizing that the chapel was growing crowded, Eleanor rose to her feet and surrendered her place to another pilgrim. As she looked around, she failed to see Mistress Emelyne anywhere. Perhaps the merchant’s widow had not yet gone through the shrine, or maybe she was at the springs she had wished to visit.
Walking outside toward the holy wells, Eleanor immediately saw the woman kneeling on the stones in front of the perfectly round pools of water. After her experience at the Holy House, she was disinclined to revive her aversion for this widow. The sentiment had so little cause, she decided, and she tried to understand why she had felt such a thing.
When she and Brother Thomas had joined the company of pilgrims from Norwich, she immediately noticed the widow. In a crowd of humbler penitents, no one could miss the finely dressed woman or her exceptionally well-bred palfrey. The moment the prioress set eyes on Mistress Emelyne, she wanted to avoid her. The woman herself caused no offense, but each thread she wore, every bauble she dangled, and her merry tales of men’s foibles bellowed of worldly matters.
Eleanor longed to escape from earthly concerns on this pilgrimage. Not only was she uneasy about the vision some claimed she had seen, but her successful stewardship of Tyndal Priory, deemed admirable and pious by bishop and abbess alike, demanded that she spend more time with accounting rolls than in prayer. This pilgrimage was her time to concentrate on matters of the spirit. The company of this merchant’s widow, with her fur-trimmed robe bedecked with a glittering jewel or two, distracted her.
None of this was the widow’s fault, and Eleanor was bound by courtesy to speak with Mistress Emelyne when the widow approached her for company. Perhaps, the prioress thought, the woman’s companionship had had been forced upon her by God to teach her patience and humility as well as to give her a message about condescending pride. If this was true, Eleanor feared she had not been the quickest of students to understand the lesson.
But soon after they arrived at Ryehill Priory, Mistress Emelyne had shed her thick cloak and fine robe, set aside all jewelry, and draped herself in a plain linen smock. The stitching might have been done with a skilled hand, a bit of embroidery around the square neck, but the garment’s cut was simple. From this deed, Eleanor should have concluded that the widow had come to Walsingham bearing a true pilgrim’s heart, but she still found the woman too verbose for her taste. Despite the often troubling passion Eleanor felt for her monk, she found greater peace in the quiet company of the gentle Brother Thomas.
For a long moment, Eleanor watched the widow kneeling by the sacred wells, hands clasped over her face and head bowed in ardent prayer. Mistress Emelyne had spoken of an ailment she hoped to heal by drinking the waters. The prioress prayed she had found the cure she sought.
Feeling more compassion, Eleanor joined the widow, lowering herself to the hard stones that were rendered smooth and shiny from the many who had knelt there for years beyond reckoning.
The keeper of the wells came up to her with a cup of the healing water. She accepted it and drank deeply, the icy water chilling her throat. Quickly, she slipped back into prayer. She might have asked that the waters cure her of the often blinding headaches she endured. Instead she begged that the child, Gracia, be granted a dwelling place where loving arms would hold her and there was enough food to sustain her in health.
As she prayed, Eleanor grew more ashamed of her uncharitable feelings toward Mistress Emelyne, whose only sins were worldly wealth and an abundance of friendliness. Ashamed, she squeezed her eyes shut. How great was her need to purge herself of arrogance and unkind judgments!
The widow now slowly rose, her gaze still lowered. Her hands remained folded.
The prioress stood as well and faced the woman with a more sincere smile than she had been previously wont to grant.
Mistress Emelyne looked over her shoulder, and then leaned closer to the prioress. “Is it true,” she whispered, “that our beloved king plans to visit Walsingham soon before he, himself, invades Wales?”
Eleanor turned her face away so the widow would not see her disappointment. Did this woman really have a more devout nature, or was she so bound by worldly interests that news of kings and wars could distract her even in these sacred places?
But the woman’s question pricked at Eleanor. Her father, Baron Adam, had said nothing of this in his last missive from the Welsh border, but, unaware that his daughter planned a journey to Walsingham, he might have omitted the news. On the other hand, she had received no message that the king would visit Tyndal Priory as part of any tour of East Anglian religious sites. If King Edward was planning to visit a shrine so close to her own priory, and she remained ignorant of it, his main purpose was likely quite secular. A stop at any holy site would be brief.
Of course she knew that King Edward had sent an army across the Welsh border. Her eldest brother, Sir Hugh, was currently with Mortimer’s troops at Llywelyn’s new castle at Dolforwyn. In charge of supplies, Baron Adam was worried about having adequate crossbow bolts, war horses, and carts.