“I must serve, my lady. I shall not live on charity.”
“I did not ask you to come to our priory to labor in the fields.”
“I must do something to earn my bread. I have begged in the streets long enough.”
This might be pride, Eleanor thought, but the form was an honorable one, not a sin. “First, you must gain strength, and then I insist you suffer the trials of education.”
Gracia nodded with eagerness.
“When you have lived with us awhile, you may decide whether to continue within the walls or find a life without, but you shall not go forth without skills and the good health to survive.”
“My lady, I have no love for the world. There is too much violence, and I fear it. May I remain as a servant to your nuns?”
“You are too young to decide, my child.”
“But you shall not force me to leave if I do not wish it?”
“I give you my word. When hunger becomes a vague memory and you have gained all that is needed to live in the world, then you, and only you, may decide whether to go or stay.”
“And I shall never again have to see that merchant who raped me?” She began to weep. “My lady, he threatened to strangle me if he ever came upon me while I was sleeping. He believed I would spread the story of what he had done and vowed that I would not live to do so. I could run from Father Vincent’s rocks, but I could not stay awake forever!”
With profound unhappiness, Eleanor watched the girl tremble and cursed those who would cause any child such terror. She squeezed Gracia’s hand and longed for two good arms to hug her. “I swear it. You need not be afraid of him any longer and shall sleep without fear.” In silence, she promised God that she would protect this girl if she had to give up her own life to do so.
“May I ask two last questions, my lady? I do not want to try your patience.”
“I like questions. If I cannot answer them, I shall say so honestly.”
“May I change my name from Gracia to Felicia?” She looked over her shoulder at the door. “Sister Roysia’s friend told me that I was most fortunate when Brother Thomas took responsibility for my care. She said the word in Latin was Felicia.”
“I agree to that, but only if you choose, in time, to take vows. Grace is an attribute of God, and thus Gracia is a sacred name.”
“May I begin my service to those within the walls of the priory very soon?”
“When you are strong enough, you may.” Eleanor’s eyes twinkled. “Do you have some work in mind?”
“Whatever is most needed, my lady.” She straightened her back. “I can run quickly and remember exactly what I am told…”
“Do you like cats, my child?”
The girl looked perplexed. “They taught me much when I watched them in the streets. God made a clever beast when He formed the cat.”
“If you are to serve me, you must be gentle with the great orange creature who shares my quarters. I have named him Arthur, but he is no pampered thing. He keeps the kitchen free of vermin.”
Gracia gasped. “You wish me to serve you, my lady?”
“My maid has just married, and I need a young woman who is discreet, clever, and observant. You own those qualities, and the duties are not hard. Would you mind the task?” In fact, Eleanor thought, this child was only slightly younger than Gytha was at the time she became her maid.
When the girl began to weep, these tears were joyful. Prioress Eleanor slipped from the chair, knelt next to her, and, with one arm, held her fast.
Chapter Thirty-five
The crowd of happy pilgrims traveling back to Norwich was a noisy one. Some sang; others prayed aloud. The day promised to be warm, and a sweet-smelling breeze brought gladness to those souls, recently cleansed at the holy shrines.
Master Durant’s palfrey shared the general eagerness to return home, but its rider was more reluctant. The merchant slowed the pace until he and his mount dropped to the rear of the traveling band. Finally, he turned his horse around to look back at the town of Walsingham.
With an equine snort and shake of the head, his palfrey protested the delay but complied. After all, this master had always been kind.
The outline of the town was softened with a morning mist. Bells from the priories and churches rang the hour of the Office. The sound was haunting. To Durant, it was also bitter. He bowed his head and prayed, once more admitting to God that he did not yet regret all his sins and most especially those committed after his duty to King Edward was done.
The previous night, his last in Walsingham, he had slipped from the inn in the darkest hours to an alley off a narrow street and sought that place he knew well. There he and another man found each other. Each avoided the gaze of the other as they drew close. To see was to remember. To remember might bring madness-or perhaps the contemplation of questions displeasing to kings and bishops.
Their kisses had been hard and brief, the fondling desperate, but for an instant afterward they held each other as mortals do when both wish their act meant love. Then the man had fled, and Durant walked back to the inn, stifled moans from other dark corners echoing in his ears.
In the hazy light of this morning, he shook away the memory and patted his restless horse on the neck, letting the creature trot back to the pilgrims who had not traveled far down the road.
Promising that this would be his last look back, he gazed over his shoulder at Walsingham. His heart felt as if someone was carving bits of flesh from it with a dull knife, but his pain had nothing to do with what he had done last night. The cause was Brother Thomas.
Pressing a hand against his chest, he groaned and rode on, forcing his thoughts to think about what must be done on his return to Norwich and his wife who was waiting for him.
In truth, he loved her. Early in their marriage, they had agreed to lie together only to beget children, as the most pious often did. When their only babe died, his wife suffered more than he, and he had grieved deeply enough. Her dark moods seemed to descend when she was deemed most fertile, and she confessed she could not bear to couple with him for the pain it caused. Unlike most husbands, he had taken this news with gentle concern and never complained about her failure to pay the marriage debt. Over time they grew closer, except for the sadness of having no laughing children. That was a grief they shared.
Then she heard about the reputation of Tyndal Priory for healing. At her urging, they traveled there where she received herbs and a balm that eased her moods and numbed the pain of intercourse. Now she was eager for him to give her a child.
In part he shared her joy, relieved that she no longer suffered and that she might bear children. She was a good woman, competent in the house and business, faithful and dutiful, but he did not yearn to couple with her like other men did beloved wives. He had been happiest when they shared affection but not passion.
He sighed. In the past, he had found it easy enough to return to those necessary deceptions after his missions for the king had ended and he had his night of relief. This time, he dreaded it, in particular the joyful expression on his wife’s face. It would not be easy to lie with her, even to beget the child they both wanted. He would do so, but there was a difference now. Durant of Norwich, wine merchant and spy, had fallen in love with a monk.
He was also terrified. It was one thing to seek the occasional encounter with men he did not know, and even refuse to confess it until he must, but his soul howled at the blasphemy of wanting to lie with a man vowed to God. Yet he also knew that he might be willing to suffer an eternity of hellfire for one night in the arms of that auburn-haired monk. It was that truth which frightened him most.
Tears rolled down his cheeks, and he sobbed quietly, bowing his head to hide his agony. One night? He would prefer it be a lifetime.
A mother in the band of pilgrims heard his sobs and asked what comfort was needed.