“You speak of hours, Prioress Ursell. I thought to be here for several days.”
“From the tales I have heard told, I am sure you do not own enough sins for such a long penance! Please confer with Father Vincent. He can advise you.”
“Brother Thomas, and he alone, directs my penance,” Eleanor replied, her smile turned frosty. With those words, she abruptly nodded to her fellow prioress and the priest, then glided with great dignity out of the audience chamber.
The nun near the door almost tripped as she rushed to open it in time for the prioress to depart.
Brother Thomas, hands tucked into his sleeves, swiftly followed.
Except for the hissing flames from the dying fire, Prioress Ursell of Ryehill Priory and Father Vincent were left with silence and an uneasy sense of defeat.
Chapter Seven
Father Vincent scurried down the road to the chapel where Prioress Eleanor and her monk had preceded him. Prayer would have been his chosen goal, but the reputation of both priory and shrine demanded he follow another.
In no particular order, he asked God to curse Sister Roysia for the sins that caused her death, Brother Thomas for finding her body, and Prioress Eleanor for betraying a most unwomanly determination to do as she alone willed. At least Ryehill’s prioress remembered her place in creation often enough.
As he drew within sight of the inn, responsible for disturbing his sleep and prayer with unholy merriment, he stopped to catch his breath. The accursed place was quiet at the moment, and for that he thanked God. Revelers from the night before must be sleeping off their indulgence in rich food and strong wines, neither of which ought to be in the diet of any pilgrim. Recently, he had overheard two men comment on the innkeeper’s Lenten fare, claiming it was delicious. If true, eating it must be a sin in these weeks dedicated to renunciation.
Much to Father Vincent’s disgust, he suspected that some families actually came here less for true repentance than to escape the drudgery of their labor for a few days. Yet they did buy badges to prove their piety and thus fed the monks and nuns of Walsingham. And most did confess a few sins, perform a little penance, and contribute to his own sacred shrine.
A troubling question smote him, causing him to take in a sharp breath. Did God disdain gifts from the insufficiently repentant? Did He care about the source of the offering and the motive for giving it?
The priest bit at his knuckle.
Then came the flash of revelation, and he realized with relief that any gift given to God must be instantly cleansed of all foulness. He raised his hands to the skies in gratitude for this gift of understanding. He need not spurn coin for the Shrine of the Virgin’s Lock just because it might have come from the fingers of those, foreign or local, who were wicked. His conscience grew easy about accepting all gifts for his holy site.
Walking on, he still cast a contemptuous look at the offending inn. As he did, his gaze fell upon a man watching him from the entrance.
Something about the figure caused the priest to stop. He looked familiar. Was this a pilgrim with whom he had previous dealings? He blinked, trying hard to remember.
The man began walking toward him, raising his hand in friendly greeting.
Father Vincent struggled to bring some name to mind. With a swift assessment of the man’s finely made attire, he concluded he was an affluent merchant despite the modest lack of ornamentation in his dress. Surely he had spoken to this man before, but the priest could not recall either time or occasion. Unfortunately, it was too late to pretend he had not seen the merchant and avoid embarrassment by quickly passing on.
“What a fortunate meeting, Father Vincent!”
The priest was still struggling to find an excuse to escape when he saw the bright flash of a coin in the man’s fingers. His impatience forgotten, Vincent smiled with benevolence on this supposed pilgrim and even prior acquaintance. With hope and discretion, he also opened his hand.
“I remember you well,” the man said. “That I was given this opportunity to speak with you suggests that God has truly smiled on my pilgrimage here.”
The priest bowed his head with expected modesty, and the coin was softly dropped into his moist palm.
The merchant knelt. “I beg a blessing.”
The boon was quickly granted.
The merchant rose, his lips moving with the final words of some silent prayer.
Rubbing his fingers around the edges of the coin, the priest noted with delight that it was newly minted. Some pilgrims tried to pass off severely worn or even clipped ones of much reduced value. Suspecting that a blessing was not all this man wanted, Vincent waited to hear what was expected in exchange for the fine coin given.
But the merchant seemed more inclined to casual conversation as he took the priest by the elbow and suggested they walk on. “I am grateful to see Walsingham so peaceful during this visit. I have been here before when the crowds have been thick and the lines to get into the shrines very long.”
“It is still the season of Lent. We pray that the weather will soon grow warm and more pilgrims will arrive,” Father Vincent said, feeling relieved when the man ceased to direct him quite so firmly onward.
“During my early supper at the inn last night, I overheard mention of a visit from the king. As it was time for my prayers, I could not question the speaker further and thus remain ignorant of whether he has already been here or not. Have I missed him?”
“King Edward had not yet come to Walsingham,” the priest said, “but we pray that he will honor all the shrines with his presence soon.”
The man sighed. “Now I am truly perplexed. Shall I stay or must I leave? There will be so many who want to welcome our earthly lord. They and his attendants will demand comfortable lodgings.” He shook his head. “My room is small, but the bed lacks fleas. Were I to stay, one of his men might toss me out of the chamber and claim it for himself.” He laughed, a sound that lacked both mockery and cheerfulness. “What then should I do?”
Father Vincent again ran his finger over the clean edge of the coin and dared to hope there might be more of these if his reply was cleverly phrased. “I beg pardon, but my memory fails me on occasion. Your name, Master?”
“Durant, a merchant of fine wines.” The man lowered his gaze as if discomfited by possessing such a worldly occupation.
“Of course! I do recall your other visits here.” That was not true, but the name did sound familiar. “If you wish to stay longer, I could arrange plain but clean quarters so you need not fear if the king’s men required your present room at the inn. King Edward himself will be given lodging at Walsingham Priory, but I can offer you my own chambers attached to the chapel next to Ryehill Priory. Perhaps this transformation had not yet taken place when you were last here, but that chapel has become the glorious Shrine of the Virgin’s Lock. I have the honor of caring for it.”
The Augustinian priory and Prior William would be obliged to find a spot for him to sleep if he had to give up his small room, Vincent thought, and this pilgrim seemed inclined to a generosity that should compensate him for that temporary discomfort. Staying at Walsingham Priory might also give him the opportunity to direct the attention of one of the king’s courtiers, or even the king himself, to Ryehill’s small shrine. Trying not to smile, the priest grew quite pleased with the merits of his idea.
Master Durant’s expression blended gratitude with pleasure. “Your charity to this lowly pilgrim is admirable, Father, and God demands that such kindness not go unrewarded.” He discreetly ran his hand over a bulging pouch near his waist.
The priest licked his damp lips and hoped this man did not habitually go into the streets with so much obvious wealth. Coins like the one he had just received were better given to God than some unholy thief. He opened his mouth to advise caution, but words failed to come forth. His eyes were fixed on that pouch.