4

“Please drink some wine, my lady.”

Eleanor nodded, but her shivering was so severe she could neither speak nor reach out to take any cup. Bending over, she edged her stool closer to the fireplace where the flames snapped and danced, waving orange and golden arms as if greeting her with especial joy.

The older woman, who had led her to the solar, put the yellow earthenware jug down and opened the lid of a large oak chest. Pulling out a thick woolen blanket, she draped it carefully around the prioress.

Eleanor felt the weight, but little heat, and continued to tremble beyond any ability to disguise it.

“Forgive my presumption, for I mean no discourtesy by plain speech, but you must get out of those wet clothes, my lady.”

Although warmth was beginning to seep deeper into her body, Eleanor knew her chattering teeth would belie any significant improvement. Instead of speaking, she smiled and nodded again.

“I can offer a clean shift and a simple robe. The garments are humble things, and far too large, but will bring you warmth enough until your own clothes are dry. If you will allow me to serve you in this, I would be honored.”

“You are kind,” Eleanor stammered, then rose with evident reluctance to leave the crackling fire.

“There is no need to move, my lady. I will bring what is needed.”

In what seemed like an instant, Eleanor was divested of her storm-drenched habit and now sat in dry robes. As the woman had described, they were rough and large enough to wrap around her twice, but that only added to their comfort. She smiled with relief as the icy damp slowly surrendered its hold on her body.

“A sip of wine would chase away the last of that bone chill. Shall I fill your mazer?” When Eleanor agreed, the woman bent to pick up the jug. “My name is Maud, my lady. Do you wish something to eat?”

Tasting the wine, Eleanor noted it was smooth to the tongue and mildly spiced, although she would not have cared had it been vinegar if it warmed her. “I am grateful for your charity and good service, but I have no appetite.”

Maud smiled and a dimple deepened on either side of her upturned mouth, giving her round face a pleasing affability.

Less benumbed in both mind and body, the prioress began polite conversation and studied this woman who had mercifully taken charge in the hall. In Maud’s replies of ritual courtesy, Eleanor found enough wit to suggest a clever person who had learned to speak her mind without giving offense. Was she maid to the mistress, or in service so long that her authority was unquestioned by the younger servants? Her age and modest dress would suggest the latter. Eleanor tried to guess whether Maud was in her fourth decade or fifth.

“This room belongs to the Earl of Lincoln when he is here, which is rare enough,” Maud was saying. “It is the warmest so I did presume to have your young charge brought here.”

The prioress noted that the woman’s body had settled into that square shape of those beyond the birthing years, and her plump breasts sagged, yet her cheeks were still pink and unlined, except at the corners of her mouth and eyes. With that peaked hairline and heavy brows, she might never have been called a beauty by any rank or fashion, but Eleanor suspected she had found suitors enough in her youth. The woman exuded the soft promise of ease in her arms for a man at the end of an arduous day.

“We are preparing another chamber nearby for your stay. Although this is the larger space…”

Yet there is something troubling about her eyes, the prioress thought. Although they were deep-set, that alone would not have suggested such a conclusion. Their color was probably hazel, but the ashen hue encircling them darkened the eyes to a muddy brown in the uneven light. Eleanor felt a prick of concern. Perhaps the woman was only fatigued. Or was she recovering from some illness herself?

Eleanor decided her unease was born more of her own weariness than any real cause, and quickly replied to Maud’s question, now unanswered for just a moment too long. “Do not trouble yourself over another room for me. I agree with whole heart that Mariota needs the bed and the warmth of this fire. I will stay with her and be quite content with a mattress on the floor. In this season the fleas should bite less, and I note the floor is well-strewed with lavender.”

The woman bowed her head but not before the prioress read her relief at Eleanor’s concurrence in the decision.

“I recognize her illness as a grave one,” Eleanor continued. “I do not know this area well, but is the nearby town large enough to have a physician? The weather may be cruel, but I beg that someone with those healing skills be called to attend her as soon as possible.”

“I fear there is no doctor here, my lady.”

Feeling the acid sting of tears, Eleanor closed her eyes and, once again, cursed her folly in not waiting until Sister Anne could accompany her as she usually did. If Mariota did not live, her death would surely rot in Eleanor’s soul like a canker.

A rustling noise pulled the prioress away from these recriminations, and she looked up.

Maud had pulled open the curtains encircling a large bed. Gentle concern now softened those unsettling eyes as she looked back over her shoulder at the prioress. “With your permission, I shall gladly do what I can. My skills are feeble, but, if you pray God for mercy, He might bless me with a talent greater than I now possess.”

“Please do all you can,” Eleanor replied, shaking her head in despair. Any bungling by this woman would be no worse than what she had done by putting the poor child in such jeopardy in the first place. Sighing, she tried to find hope in the knowledge that, despite his modesty, Brother Thomas did possess some healing skills and might be able give this charitable soul guidance. She rose and walked to the woman’s side.

Maud bent over and touched the young woman’s forehead with the back of her hand. “The fever is high,” she said, “and she has fallen into a dangerous sleep. I fear her soul looks more to Heaven than this world.”

“Then you can do nothing.” Eleanor instantly regretted the biting tone. Her anger was born of frustration and guilt, not the woman’s bluntly spoken truth.

Maud either did not hear the harsh words or graciously chose to ignore them. As she tucked the furred blanket closer around the quiet form, her reply suggested only sadness. “My lady, I cannot promise what I might accomplish. Your prayers may be the best medicine for her. Yet my physician husband, whose soul God took two months ago, trained me to be his apothecary when we first married. If I claim any small skill, I do so only because he kindly trusted me for many years.”

Eleanor felt her face turn hot with embarrassment. This woman was not a servant here, as she had assumed from the simple dress and modest manner. Maud’s unadorned robe befitted a new widow, and her dark look was born of grief over a dead husband. In addition, Eleanor had mistaken humility for ignorance, and she felt shame over her rude presumptions.

“I shall not only pray for God’s mercy on the poor child, Mistress Maud, but that He may also bring balm to your wounded heart. As for your healing skills, I would be grateful if you would apply them to the care of this sick woman.” One more realization now burst upon her. “Yet I fear I ask too much of you. Is there some other illness in the household requiring your care? Has our arrival added to burdens already here?”

“Nay, my lady. I was not summoned to cure fevers but rather as a friend to Master Stevyn’s family.” She then waved her hand as if chasing those words aside. “Or I should say I was often companion to his wife and mother of his children, may God bless her soul.”

“Recently gone to God?” the prioress asked in a whisper, now horrified that her bedraggled party may have been given charitable hospitality by a house darkened by deep mourning. Was Mistress Maud in this remote manor on such a horrible night because of the poor woman’s death throes? At least Brother Thomas could offer consolation, and she might join in the family prayers for comfort.

“My words were ill-chosen, my lady. She died two years ago.”

Silence fell between them as the widow returned to her examination of the feverish girl.

As long as the unexpected arrival of extra company did not add problems to a household suffering enough from illness or death, Eleanor decided she had no need to learn exactly why Mistress Maud was here. Turning her concern back to the immediate crisis, she asked: “Will you be able to find all that Mariota needs here? The weather is too foul to travel abroad for anything.”

“Master Stevyn’s wife always had a fine herbal garden and cared for many of the servants herself with successful concoctions. I will seek out anyone to whom she may have taught her secrets, for no manor is without its healer. Perhaps there is some new and potent remedy for me to learn.” Maud’s expression brightened.

“It was kind of Master Stevyn to grant us a haven,” Eleanor commented as they turned away from Mariota’s bed.

“The steward is away, his return delayed by this storm, but his wife will be pleased to learn that it was done as he would have wished.”

Now completely confused, Eleanor shook her head. “Did you not just say his wife had died?” She eased herself back down on the stool near the fire and braced her back against the stone wall.

“Ah, forgive me! Of course you could not know all this, and I am a poor one for explaining anything. Master Stevyn has since taken another wife, one of many fewer years than he possesses. She is the reason you find me here, for young women often need advice on marital issues from their elders, and her mother is long dead.”

The prioress frowned in bewilderment. What did this woman mean? Pregnancy? The marriage debt? Surely all this would make more sense after she had slept a few hours.

“When your man arrived at the gate,” Maud continued, apparently interpreting Eleanor’s expression to mean displeasure at the failure of the steward’s wife to greet her, “Mistress Luce had taken to her bed. Had she not done so, she would have met you at the door but will most certainly make proper amends when she rises in the morning. I shall explain that it is her husband’s custom to give shelter as Our Lord demanded. She will not quarrel with the decision to do as her husband would have wished.”

Eleanor nodded. None of this was her concern as guest in this house, and normally she would have cast undue inquisitiveness from her mind. But fatigue had dulled her watchfulness over idle curiosity, and Maud’s words raised an odd question. How young and untutored was this wife that she would need direction in common courtesy? Then her eyes began to burn, and she rubbed them until they watered just enough to ease the rawness.

“My lady, shall I have your pack horses unloaded in the morning?”

Eleanor’s head grew so heavy, she knew she was quickly losing her battle with fatigue.

“My lady?” The widow’s voice was gentle.

The prioress snapped awake. “In the morning, if you would be so kind,” she replied. “I fear we may have to beg the steward’s hospitality until Mariota’s illness takes some turn. She cannot travel. The distance to our priory is too great even with a wagon and fair weather, an unlikely enough occurrence in this dark season.”

“Master Stevyn will not expect you to leave until you wish to do so. The only recompense he might beg would be your prayers. He is a good man. Overall.”

That brief hesitation was not lost on Eleanor, but weariness blunted her interest in further reflection.

“I must seek out cures, my lady, but the search will not take me long.” Maud folded her hands in humble supplication. “After I return, I would be honored if you’d allow me to take first watch over this young woman tonight.”

The widow read her weakness well enough, Eleanor thought, and had handled the problem with courtesy. “Thank you,” she managed to say, just before her eyelids shut.