This time the grunt was warmer.
“You would lose nothing. Any unsold badges will be returned to you, and these could be purchased here as always. Let us say that you should receive three-quarters of the profit and I a quarter. I have a booth, and I would happily take them back to Norwich with me when I leave.” He waited. “You would receive an agreed-upon surety lest I fail to return the unsold.”
Larcher began to blink, as if he had just awakened from a dream, and cleared his throat. “You said that more would be sold before the king visits, but do you know when he will arrive in Walsingham?” He looked down at his mazer and gulped the remainder of the wine. “I do not.”
“Surely you must. Are you not resident here? I have heard only rumors.”
Gracia was surprised to see the Norwich man frown. Was he not close to gaining his wish? What difference did it make if the king’s exact arrival date was unknown?
“I fear you have come at the wrong time, Master Durant.” The craftsman’s voice trembled. “I have no news at all.”
Pushing his barely touched mazer aside, Durant rose. “Then I leave you. I shall remain here a few days as I came to visit the wells and Holy House. Should you learn more about the king’s proposed visit, leave a message with the innkeeper. When you do, we shall meet to discuss our proposed arrangement further at a place convenient to us both. As you must understand, any agreement depends upon how quickly you learn the date.”
Gracia crawled back to her usual spot. She had sensed tension between the men when the issue of the king’s arrival was mentioned. She was accustomed to overhearing merchants making deals, and the language used between the Norwich man and Larcher was familiar, but she felt uncomfortable as well as curious about what she had witnessed. Had this discussion been solely about badges, or was something else involved?
Bowing her head to suggest sleep, she opened her eyelids just enough to watch the wine merchant leave the inn. A swift glance as he passed by told her that his expression was devoid of meaning, but his teeth were clenched. As he strode down the street toward Walsingham Priory, his pace suggested anger, an anomaly in one she had concluded was careful about betraying thoughts.
Gracia was perplexed. As far as she could tell, the proposed business transaction between the merchants was a trivial one. The man from Norwich surely had more important matters to interest him or he would not be as affluent as his dress suggested. Why did he care so much about selling a few Walsingham badges in Norwich?
With increasing curiosity, she slipped closer to the door and peeked into the inn. What she saw confirmed her belief that more was involved than the overheard words would suggest.
Master Larcher sat, head buried in his hands, as if he had just learned that a loved one had died. Suddenly, he looked up, reached for the wine jug, poured a quantity of red wine into his mazer, and gulped it down. For a moment, he stared at the empty cup, his eyes narrowing, then slammed it on the table and leapt to his feet with enough force to turn the bench on its side.
Gracia had just enough warning to slide out of his way before he ran from the inn. Without a doubt, this meeting involved a matter of greater import than small profits from pilgrim badges sold elsewhere to soothe men’s guilt.
As she considered all she had witnessed, she remembered something else, a detail she had briefly noted. Slipping her hand into the secret place in her robe where she hid gifted coins, she drew out the one given to her by the wine merchant. It was so freshly minted, the edges were smooth and she could feel the details of the king’s face. This man either had permission to mint coins or he had gotten these from one who did. Few owned coins with so little wear. This merchant from Norwich, as he had told Larcher, did have interests other than wine.
Deciding to see where this stranger went, she rose and slowly walked down the road. The gift of another coin was possible, but it was curiosity that drove her. She might have misjudged the nature of what she had overheard between the two men, for she was wise enough to know her knowledge had limits, but another possibility occurred to her. Might this be the man whom Sister Roysia had feared would soon come to Walsingham?
Instinctively, she took care not to follow him too closely.
Chapter Fourteen
Prioress Eleanor and Brother Thomas knelt before the Shrine of the Virgin’s Lock. The sharp mist had been transformed into a light snow and dusted the town as if the changing season had turned its face back to winter, withdrawing the hand stretched out to a warmer time. Even the pious were disheartened by the weather. No other pilgrims had crept into the chapel, either for prayer or shelter.
Since her last encounter with Mistress Emelyne, Eleanor had felt uneasy, and the chill air in the chapel added to her discomfort. Concentrating on her prayers distracted her but had failed to quiet her spirit. As she rose from her knees, the prioress glanced at her companion and was surprised to see that he seemed distressed as well. There was an unusual scowl on his face.
“What troubles you, Brother?”
He looked up with the guilty expression of a boy caught with his hand in a neighbor’s apple tree. “On occasion we have all knelt to God with anger burning inside us,” he said as he stood, “but prayer should quench those flames. May God forgive me, but my orisons just now felt as heavy as stones. I could not set aside my fury, and any words I tried to utter sounded like blasphemy even to my flawed soul.”
She motioned for him to follow her into the quiet of nearby shadows, and then asked him to explain.
“I find no kindness at Ryehill Priory.” His eyes glittered in the gray light.
“We have already agreed that we found little of it there.” She waited for him to continue, but he said nothing more. “What has happened since we last spoke?”
“I have had another conversation with Father Vincent.”
Although she had seen him driven by anger, she had rarely seen him so furious. One of the reasons she both admired and loved this man was his uncommon gentleness to others, a quality many others had praised.
He struck his hand on the stone wall. “I do not know whether to weep over this man’s cruelty or ask God how an imp had so easily taken on the form of a priest.”
“Strong words.” Eleanor spoke softly and struggled not to touch him with a comforting gesture as she longed to do.
He took a deep breath. “Only a thing without a heart could so stubbornly refuse food and shelter to a child.”
“I agree and also fail to understand how he cannot see that we must first feed a child’s hungry body and then seek ways to give succor to her soul.”
“With your permission, I continue to bring food to this girl while remaining silent in the face of Father Vincent’s rebukes.” His face flushed as his indignation rekindled.
What more could this priest have done to anger Brother Thomas so? Eleanor wondered. She urged him to say more.
“When I last asked the cook in the priory kitchen for a soaked trencher and bits of cheese, she refused to give me as much as an eggshell. I was shocked, and then saw tears flowing down her cheeks. When I asked her the reason, she said that Prioress Ursell had forbidden any in the kitchen to give me food, no matter why I claimed to need it. Clearly the cook would have chosen otherwise, but she was bound to obey her superior. I did not argue.”
“What a strange command for the prioress to give. We knew Father Vincent had condemned the child, but I wonder what cause Prioress Ursell has to sentence Gracia to death?”
“The tale grows darker. Next I went to the innkeeper for scraps. He also refused me and explained that Father Vincent had threatened him with hellfire if he gave me the food I asked. Unlike the nun from the Ryehill kitchen, he was more perplexed than grieved. I was tempted to explain that the priest was stricken with a hellish obsession, one he should have rejected, but I silenced myself in time. Dare I cast blame on anyone who bends to the command of one who claims to speak for God?”