Gytha fought off those grim thoughts. Sister Anne would use all her skill and knowledge to keep her from Death’s clutches. Despite her unease, Gytha knew she had every reason to be confident. She prayed she was not being sinfully so.
Without warning, a shiver coursed through her like a malevolent premonition of evil. Had she been so very unkind in her thoughts about Sub-Prioress Ruth? She had not intended malice, only humor, and truly did not wish the woman ill.
Gytha looked heavenward and swore she would seek Brother Thomas on the morrow to confess her sins and seek absolution. No woman entering the perils of birth dared face the trial without cleansing her soul. Perhaps this uneasy feeling was His way of telling her that she had unwittingly erred of late or been insufficiently contrite.
As for her remarks about the sub-prioress, had she not turned her cheek many times when the woman hurled invectives at her or unfairly cursed her? Yet she had just disparaged Ruth to her husband, and that was unkind. If such was her sin, Gytha would perform any penance due. But why not tell God in advance of a proper confession that she recognized her failing?
Sighing, she thought of the walk to Tyndal Priory to see Brother Thomas. Of course she could summon him to the manor house, but Gytha gained no more pride with her elevation in rank than her husband owned in his birthright. And Brother Thomas had always been as much a brother to her in her heart as Tostig was in blood. Although the journey to the priory seemed interminable with her belly so huge and her feet so swollen, she would walk the distance to find the kind monk.
Looking down at her resting husband, she felt more at ease. After confession, and until she had safely delivered this babe, she vowed to avoid the grave errors committed by her foremother Eve.
Her last thought, before she let herself float into a doze, was that she would henceforth let her husband pick his own apples.
Chapter Three
“Abbess Isabeau, my beloved sister, sends her blessing from the mother house at Fontevraud. I know your heart gladdens at my coming, for I am eager to expose the imperfections at Tyndal Priory. Rejoice, my daughter, as well you ought! When your dedication to Him falls short, your prayers reek in His nostrils like rotten meat. But if the errors are corrected, the scent grows sweet, and you please Him once again.”
The priest’s two attendants mumbled “Amen.”
Something in the manner of these dark-robed men filled the room with foreboding. Prioress Eleanor had always been fond of crows with their sailors’ walk and raucous cries. But gazing at the man who sat before her, with his young attendants standing on either side of him, she was reminded that the black-feathered birds were considered harbingers of doom for a reason. She was grateful her abbess had sent her blessing. She was in need of it.
“Please be assured that I welcome your inspection,” she replied calmly. That the abbess had sent her youngest brother, a priest so favored by the French royal court of Philip the Bold that he would soon be invested with a bishop’s miter, was a gesture of respect appropriate for the prioress’ status. Not only was Eleanor’s own eldest brother a valued companion of the English king, but she was the daughter of a baron. Nonetheless, this man’s presence was unsettling.
Father Etienne Davoir smiled but said nothing. He watched her as if waiting for something to happen which inexplicably had not.
Was he expecting to see fear, she wondered. If so, she would not satisfy his longing. Pride might be one of her failings, but she refused to tremble over vague hints.
Although Eleanor knew there had to be a specific purpose for this investigation, she was ignorant of the precise intent. Other religious houses, under the authority of a local bishop, might expect these comprehensive reviews often, but the Order of Fontevraud served only Rome. Because there was no intermediary between the abbess and the papacy, Abbess Isabeau enjoyed an authority over her daughter houses that others of equal ecclesiastical rank in other Orders did not. That included the right to send a representative of her own choosing to examine any house she deemed in need of some correction. In practice, she rarely did this. Eleanor was not pleased that her abbess had decided to make Tyndal Priory the exception.
Davoir remained silent. One of his clerks, thin and of medium height, stared at the ceiling and stifled a yawn. The other, a short and plump youth, glanced with a pained expression in the direction of the priory’s garderobe.
When Eleanor received word that Father Etienne Davoir was coming and the approximate date of his arrival, she had talked to Prior Andrew about what might have generated such scrutiny. Neither could come up with a cause. She knew of no moral lapse. Tyndal Priory was financially sound. Soon after her arrival several years ago, she had reinstituted the Rule regarding diet and prayer. There were repairs needed to various buildings, but a few cracks were not worth risking the life of a high-ranking priest by sending him on the dangerous voyage between France and England. An admonitory letter would have sufficed.
The bored young clerk to Davoir’s left twitched with ill-disguised impatience. The other also twitched, but, Eleanor suspected, his bowels were the motivation, not apathy.
She ignored the youths and continued to gaze back at Davoir with benign expectation. Of course, she could ask this man why he had been sent, but a flash of anger stopped her. Was she not a competent prioress? Had she not pulled Tyndal back from financial devastation and cleansed its reputation from the taint of dishonor? The abbess owed her the courtesy of greater detail in her missive. Since she had failed to do so, Eleanor resolved that she would not grovel to Abbess Isabeau’s younger brother and beg for what she ought to have been given freely.
“I hope your journey was a pleasant one,” she said.
“The weather was favorable during the voyage. We thought God had smiled on us.” Father Etienne cleared his throat. “When we landed and were met by the armed escort sent by your gracious king to keep us safe on the journey here, we were pleased.” He glanced over at the pale clerk on his right. “Yet I fear the ride from the port to your priory was difficult. Jean is unwell.”
When Eleanor saw the gentleness with which Davoir put a hand on the plump clerk’s arm, she softened. “I grieve that you have been distressed.” She looked at the youth more carefully. His soft features had the gray-green pallor of a corpse.
“The world is filled with Satan’s minions,” Davoir said, turning back to her. “Those who have chosen to serve God outside the walls of religious houses are never far removed from sinful violence.” He bent to the young clerk and murmured a question.
Jean swallowed, then shook his head.
Eleanor wondered what might have so shaken the youth that he had taken ill.
Davoir brightened with pride. “But Jean has always found the greatest strength in God.”
“What occurred?” The question was not idly asked. Eleanor wanted to establish whether the clerk needed prayer, one of Sister Anne’s cures, or both. Fortunately, she thought, this priest will assume I suffer from the wanton curiosity deemed common in women. In fact, it was advantageous for others to assume she was infected with this feminine vice. If it was only curiosity needing satisfaction, mortals were inclined to give details. Crowner Ralf, because he hunted those guilty of crime, had a harder time prying information from the innocent, let alone the guilty.
“I shall be brief. One of the soldiers in our escort quickly became a congenial companion for my clerk. The man was a fine storyteller and entertained Jean on the long journey from the sea. For one disinclined to admire earthly beauty,” Davoir smiled at his clerk, “the journey would feel endless.” He looked down and twisted the bejeweled ring on his finger. In the sunbeam coming through the window, one of the larger gems flickered with a murky light.