Soon their eyes were closed and they seemed to be praying with her. As they did, tears began to flow from the eyes of the two women closest to the nun. Without stopping her prayers, Christina reached out and pulled each of them closer to her in a motherly embrace.
Eleanor continued to watch as the nun wept with them all until the wails of anguish reached a crescendo, then fell to moans of more bearable grief. Soon Christina rose, spoke quietly with each, and comforted the children with hugs and soothing caresses until two lay sisters came for the body. Although sorrow followed the family like a shadow as they trailed in mourning after the corpse, Christina had been able to give them the courage to face what they had been unable to see.
Eleanor shook her head in amazement. Sister Anne was indeed right. The plump little nun had a gift. She could soothe the souls of the grieving. It was a skill she herself did not have. However deep her faith, it would always be a very pragmatic one. Eleanor had long accepted that she would never be a saint. Sister Christina, on the other hand, just might.
As the nun walked back towards her prioress, her gait once again became awkward and her head bobbed nervously. Eleanor reached out and took the young woman’s hands. Christina’s bright blue eyes widened in confusion.
“You have the gift of comfort, sister. I can see why Prioress Felicia made you infirmarian. She was wise in her choice, and I am pleased as well.”
The nun blushed, but it was the first time Eleanor had seen her smile at another mortal.
***
The prioress gestured to Christina to precede her and they began their tour of the hospital.
Near the entrance to the building itself stood a hut. Lay brothers and older lay sisters or nuns with some medical knowledge screened the patients for type and seriousness of ailment. Those most likely to die were often admitted for the good of their souls; home treatment was ordered whenever possible for all others.
Eleanor had a basic understanding of herbs and cures herself. Every woman did, whether she was meant for the convent, a lord’s castle, a merchant’s stall, or a villein’s hut. Healing at home was woman’s work, but some were better trained than others. Tyndal was lucky to have several sisters, as well as some lay brothers, with both talent and knowledge in the healing arts. Being a small establishment, they could not always eliminate those women from care-giving who were still subject to monthly bleedings, women such as the infirmarian herself, but the patients had suffered little from their ministrations despite the common medical opinion that menstruating women were polluting, thus dangerous to the sick. The de facto leader of all caregivers was Sister Anne, whose background Eleanor continued to find intriguing.
Eleanor had heard of women who were trained in the apothecary trade and even of some who were physicians. Hildegard of Bingen’s medical works, as well as those of Trotula of Solerno, were known to her aunt. These days, however, such women were quite rare. According to Sister Beatrice, most of the women physicians in the present day were of the Jewish faith. Although Marie of France had celebrated the medical expertise of a wealthy woman from Solerno in her lai, “Les Deus Amanz,” less than a century ago, Eleanor knew that was just a tale.
But to be familiar with texts from the Holy Land itself? How unusual even for Anne’s physician father. She had finally pressed Sister Anne ever so slightly on this question, and the nun had explained that her father knew physicians in Paris who had shared the works with him. Eleanor wondered how he had been able to read the language in which they were written. Translations from the infidel tongue were even rarer than these texts themselves. Perhaps Sister Anne meant that her father had received training in these skills from mentors who knew the languages he did not. No matter. She was grateful to have such a knowledgeable practitioner of healing arts as Sister Anne in the priory.
“…and we all wash our hands after attending to every patient.” Sister Christina was gesturing down the long room on the women’s side. Each patient not only had a private bed but was protected from curious eyes by wooden screens.
“An interesting practice.”
“Something Sister Anne insists on. Prioress Felicia did not approve. She said it was ungodly and unhealthy, but then Sister Anne asked Brother Rupert to bless the water every day so our hands would be cleansed with holy water.”
“And?”
“It did seem to help the sick, so our prioress allowed us to continue. It was clear that our hands thus washed were imbued with God’s grace. Should you…”
“We shall continue the procedure, of course.” Eleanor glanced into one screened-off area and saw the tall figure of Sister Anne lifting a skeletal woman into a sitting position, then slowly giving her sips of some liquid. The hand washing was not only an unusual thing to do, she thought, but the good sister had also chosen an interesting way of justifying it. None had noticed that no one had replaced Brother Rupert in the blessing of the water, and Sister Anne had certainly not stopped the routine. Perhaps this was yet another practice out of her father’s texts from the Holy Land.
“My lady!”
Eleanor spun around as a breathless nun skidded to a stop in front of her.
“Calm yourself, sister! What has happened?”
“It’s Brother Thomas, my lady. He lies dead in the forest!”
Eleanor could not stop the small cry of anguish that escaped her. “Tell Sister Anne to follow me immediately after this treatment,” she quickly said to Christina, then turned her head away before anyone could see the tears starting up in her eyes.
Chapter Fifteen
“Indeed he’s lucky he is not dead.”
Eleanor realized she had been holding her breath as Sister Anne examined the bloodied but breathing monk.
“Fa!” Thomas spat out the liquid Sister Anne had just given him.
“And he may be yet, if he does that to me again,” Anne said, wiping away the fluid he had just spewed all over the front of her habit.
Thomas groaned.
“Can you understand me?” Sister Anne asked.
“My head hurts.” His voice was a whisper.
“It should. Someone laid a good blow on the back of it. Cut your scalp, but you’ll live. You have a suitably thick Norman skull.”
Thomas turned over and vomited, a little liquid but mostly air.
“Didn’t eat much last night, did we?”
“I don’t suppose you know who did this to you, brother?” Eleanor asked.
Thomas sat up slowly with Sister Anne’s help and shut his eyes. “If I ever find out, the whoreson won’t live long.”
“Not a sentiment I’d expect to hear from a priest. You’ll want to remember that for your next confession.” Eleanor kept her voice stern as she struggled not to laugh in nervous relief at his spirit.
“At least I should get exemption from the next blood-letting.”
“You’re feeling better.” Sister Anne smiled, then looked up at the tall, green-eyed monk standing beside her. “Would you give me that cup? I think I can try again with the medicine.”
“You said you found him?” Eleanor watched the man pass the cup with care to Sister Anne so that their hands did not touch.
The monk nodded and lowered his green eyes with courtesy.
“I do not know your name.”
“Brother John, my lady. I am in charge of both the male novices and monk’s choir at Tyndal. ”
“And what did you see, Brother John?”
“Not much, I fear. I came out this morning after chapter to pick lavender to strew on the floor of the novices’ quarters. They are suffering from a surfeit of fleas, you see. We grow only enough of the plant for medicinal use so I look for the wild herb. It serves the purpose just as well.”
Eleanor nodded with some impatience.