Eleanor looked back at Mistress Emelyne with what she hoped was an innocent expression. “I know nothing about that,” she said. “Where did you hear this news?”
The widow’s eyes widened with surprise. “The rumors are rife in Norwich, my lady. Since I heard that your brother stood at the king’s right hand, I assumed he told you all.” Her lips puckered as if she had bitten a sour cherry. “It is time the Welsh barbarians were taught a lesson about their rebellious ways!”
“Sir Hugh would never tell me any details about such an endeavor.” Eleanor lowered her eyes with feminine meekness. Her reply was truthful. Her brother had said nothing. It was her father, but she would remain silent about anything he had told her.
Mistress Emelyne nodded and then gazed back at the holy wells. “I care little about wars, battles, and the other affairs of men, events often deemed great, unless the actions are taken against heretics and unbelievers. Even the Welsh are Christians, I’ve been told. Yet it speaks well of our noble king that he might travel to these holy places so favored by his father. Surely God will now favor him on this solemn endeavor.” She nodded gravely. “Like King Henry, our present king is a most Christian prince! Did he not go on pilgrimage to wrest Jerusalem back from the bloody hands of the Infidel?”
Certainly his father had been imbued with great faith, Eleanor thought. Although she had not known King Henry III until after he had begun to fail in health and mental strength, her father had told favorable tales of him. Yet Baron Adam, quick-witted though he remained, was still a man who looked wistfully over his shoulder to a time before his beloved wife died in childbirth and his heir returned from Outremer divested of joy. Eleanor suspected that his views of the dead king were deeply colored by those things they shared in more youthful and happier days.
As she considered this further, she wondered if she, too, would have preferred that less bellicose king to the current ruler, no matter how devout Edward was and in spite of King Henry’s many faults.
“His father did spend much time here and donated to the upkeep of many shrines,” the prioress said at last. “This was one, I believe.”
“Then our current king will most certainly visit Walsingham!” The widow’s hands fluttered with excitement. “I wonder when he is expected. I did not see any preparations in the town for his arrival. Usually the streets are cleansed until the very earth shines, so that the hooves of his steed may remain unsullied by the excrement of common beasts.” Suddenly, she stretched her hand out as if to beg something of the prioress. “I would like to remain if he is to come. Do you not long to do so as well?”
The prioress bowed her head, allowing Mistress Emelyne to conclude that she had responded in any way the widow wished.
Had she to choose, she would prefer not to remain here for any royal visit. Although King Edward and her brother remained friends, Queen Eleanor did not favor the prioress’ eldest brother quite so highly. Sir Hugh was inclined to an unseemly reluctance when it came to doing all the queen wished of her husband’s courtiers. The most glaring example was Sir Hugh’s recent refusal to marry one of her ladies-in-waiting. This refusal by Sir Hugh to comply had caused a quarrel between king and queen, and the king did not like such upsets. Were he to meet with Eleanor, she was sure he would firmly urge her to persuade her brother to honor the queen’s desire. That was a request she ardently wished to avoid.
“Oh, do say that you are planning to stay!” The widow’s voice intruded on the prioress’ thoughts. “I would consider it an honor to serve you if you did.”
Whatever your talents, they do not include subtlety, Eleanor thought with annoyance. “You are most kind, Mistress Emelyne, and I am grateful for your offer, but I do not know when King Edward plans to arrive. As you noted, his visit does not seem imminent if Walsingham has prepared nothing in expectation of it. I shall leave as soon as my penance is done. There is much demanding my attention at Tyndal Priory.”
The widow grasped her hands together with evident regret. “I grieve to hear that, my lady. May I ask how much longer I may enjoy your edifying company? I feel so fortunate to have met you on this pilgrimage.”
Eleanor was stung by a spark of outrage. This woman’s tenacity bordered on the perverse, and she resented the way this woman treated her. I am not a saint, whose company gives the devout a taste of Heaven, the prioress thought, nor am I a conduit to the powerful of this realm. If the widow hopes for a meeting with the king as an attendant to this prioress of Tyndal, she will be sadly disappointed.
Eleanor glanced heavenward and hoped God would agree that she ought not encourage this woman with false and worldly hopes. And, she prayed with fervor, I should not remain in her company if, in so doing, she turns her thoughts so quickly to less devout matters.
The prioress cleared her throat. “I do not know the date of my departure. That is up to Brother Thomas and my sub-prioress, who is under instruction to send word if my presence is needed.” Eleanor bit her tongue over the last remark which bordered on a lie. Sister Ruth had been given that directive, but the sub-prioress would do anything, short of selling her soul to the Prince of Darkness, to avoid sending for the prioress who had replaced her years ago as head of the priory.
The look on Mistress Emelyne’s face suddenly became unreadable. “I beg forgiveness if I have offended, my lady. It was not my intent to pry,” she said in a tone that, for her, was strangely calm.
Eleanor assured her that she was not offended in any way, and after the usual courtesies the two women parted.
Watching Mistress Emelyne leave the shrines, Eleanor frowned in thought. This widow had just revealed a sharper perception than the prioress believed she owned.
Then gazing back at the chill waters of the holy wells glittering with promise in the pale light, she felt troubled by that discovery but was uncertain why she ought to be.
Chapter Thirteen
As Gracia sat cross-legged in the clean straw of the stable loft next to the inn, a tear wiggled down her dirty cheek. Angrily, she swiped it away.
The red-haired monk had given her food again. Of the many who believed it an obligation to offer her charity, he was one of the few who had done so with gentleness robed in courtesy. There was no hint of grim duty in his gift, nor any trace of disdain. Perhaps that was the reason she suffered a growing affection for him, or maybe it was his vague resemblance to one of her dead cousins, but the attachment was a dangerous flaw in one who must survive on the streets. Pilgrims went back to the towns they left. Kin died. She had made this mistake of attachment with Sister Roysia, and should have learned from the error.
She scoffed at herself, trying to eradicate the weakness, but this fondness was stubborn and resisted her efforts, retreating to a smaller corner of her heart where it mocked her attempts to banish it. Sliding onto her stomach and burrowing into the dry straw to remain unseen, she tried distracting herself by watching the men who entered and left the pilgrim’s inn.
This was not an idle pastime. No one living within a finger’s span of death survived without studying the nuances of expression, tone, and actions in those better-fed. And Gracia was a clever student, far more perceptive than her age would suggest. She had survived while others, some older and a few claiming greater wisdom, had died last winter. It was fortunate that she enjoyed observing other mortals. If she missed the games played by children with families that sheltered them, she did not dwell on it.
For her, the inn was a fine school. As she sat at the entrance to beg, she considered various meanings for the interactions she observed. Then she would choose which one she thought was closest to the truth. When the merchant bent forward and clutched his mazer of wine in conversation with a competitor, was he bluffing fellowship to win a good deal, or was this a meeting of childhood friends?