The late morning light cast shadows in Mariota’s hollowed cheeks. “I have gravely sinned,” she whispered before falling into a fit of coughing.
“How so, my child?” Eleanor took the young woman’s hand and marveled at how quickly Death impressed his skeletal seal on mortals when illness struck. Instinctively, she grasped the girl’s hand more firmly as if telling the dark creature that she would not allow him to take Mariota’s soul just yet.
Although many believed evil was the root cause of illness, Eleanor was inclined to agree with her sub-infirmarian that sickness had a multitude of causes. As she looked down at Mariota, she wondered how filled with wickedness this youthful creature could truly be. Not only was the girl young, but she had comported herself with devout and respectful demeanor during her stay at Tyndal. Shaking her head, the prioress refused to condemn the young woman for falling ill.
Yet Mariota turned her face away, and tears began to weave their way down her sunken cheek.
“Surely your failing is not so heinous.” Taking a soft cloth, Eleanor reached over and patted the dampness away. On the other hand, Sister Christina, the infirmarian at Tyndal, had seen cures when the weight of sin was lessened with confession. Both nuns were probably right, the prioress decided. She would encourage Mariota to talk, and, if the error qualified as a sin, Bother Thomas could assign penance and grant absolution.
“Pride kept me from admitting I suffered a fever until I had endangered all in the fury of that storm. I pray my breath has not proven as malignant as a leper’s and others have not fallen ill or worse.”
“Fear not. No one has.” Actually, she thought, I bear far more blame for exposing all to peril since it was my ill-advised decision to take this journey in the first place.
“I have always suffered from obstinate pride, my lady. My mother often said she had to remind me, far more often than was deemed reasonable, that meek obedience is pleasing to God and is a virtue all good women should possess.”
“Thus we are taught and wisely reminded,” Eleanor answered, “for many of us suffer from willfulness.” As she herself should know, being just such a woman. “Your mother loves you,” she continued aloud, “and desires only to guide her daughter in a path that will best lead to mortal happiness.”
Mariota weakly clutched the prioress’ hand and began to sob.
“Child, what troubles you? Surely the reason is not just this vile fever. You have brought no grief to any!”
“I am wicked!”
“No more, I am sure, than any other.”
“More! More!”
The prioress stroked her hand, trying to soothe and fearing Mariota was too frail to bear such fierce despair. What could this young woman have possibly done to warrant this severe self-condemnation?
Although Eleanor was less than a decade older, each month between them felt tripled in time to her. After her appointment to Tyndal Priory, when she was barely twenty, the prioress had faced evil far more malevolent than most people of so few years on earth could even imagine. Thus she had assumed that Mariota’s guilt must involve some misstep of insignificant wickedness. Yet there was one thing that could trouble the girl, something that the prioress had suffered all too painfully as well.
“You fell in love with a man, did you not?” Fearing the girl would interpret any smile as mockery, she forced her expression to remain politely reserved.
“Who told you of this?”
“No one did, but as women we are fellow creatures and understand such things. Adam was one of God’s most delightful creations, and we often find his sons irresistible.” This time she risked a sympathetic upturn of the corners of her lips.
“Were you ever in love, my lady?” Her eyes then widened in horror. “Forgive me! I meant no insult! Love of God is the greatest…”
“Few escape mortal passions, but we enter the religious life because heavenly joys are greater than earthly ones,” the prioress replied with deliberate ambiguity.
“I lied to you and my mother.”
Eleanor nodded encouragement.
“I said I had a vocation.”
“And now you doubt that?”
“I don’t know what I believe.”
“You are not the first to ask for time to discover if the contemplative life is suitable. Sometimes we believe it is, only to discover that we are more able to do good in the world. There is no sin in changing your mind.”
“When my father lay dying, I promised God I would dedicate my life to His service.”
“Did your father know of this vow?”
Mariota nodded. “He heard me and, concluding this was my intent, said he had always hoped I would become a nun.”
“Did you mean to take vows?”
The young woman closed her eyes. “I was begging God to heal my father and promised to become a better person if He did. I thought to give more alms to the poor.”
“Were there other witnesses to your words and your father’s response?”
“My mother and brother.”
“Did you explain your true intention to them?”
With a sob, the young woman nodded again. “They said I must do as my father had prayed and wished.”
Eleanor squeezed the hand she tenderly held and tried to find words that would both comfort and wisely direct. “Is your mother truly convinced you have a vocation?”
“She now turns to my elder brother for advice.”
This young man had accompanied their mother and Mariota to Tyndal. Perhaps two years older than his sister, he was a somberly dressed lad and displayed more gravitas than anyone of his few years or experience should reasonably possess.
“And what is his opinion?”
“I must honor my promise.”
This was not a happy situation. Strict obedience to a perceived deathbed promise would be hard to set aside, yet an unwilling vocation was an open wound that often festered. Of course there were many upon whom vows had been forced, religious who possessed common faith but no zeal. Sometimes the lack was benign and a more ardent faith was even born in time. In other instances, however, corruption and sin resulted.
If Eleanor could come up with a reasonable alternative, both Mariota and Tyndal might be better served. Should she do so, she hoped the girl’s brother was still enough of a boy to prove malleable in the face of an elder’s advice. And Prior Andrew would be the one to counsel him in this different but still virtuous path.
“Who is the man you love?” Eleanor trusted her question was asked kindly enough to encourage more confidence from the girl.
Mariota flushed.
At least the cause is not fever, Eleanor concluded with relief. “A friend of your family?”
“And one who has grown up with my brother.”
“Did your brother know of your attachment?”
“Nay, my lady, and I had no right to add another burden on him so soon after our father’s death.”
“Burden? I fail to understand that, unless this man did not return your affections or had insufficient means to support a wife, or was even, perhaps, vowed to another?”
“My lady, there was no impediment to our marriage. We loved each other, but my father fell ill before we could ask his permission to wed. Then my father read my words as a holy vow, and my beloved wept at the news but swore he would do nothing to offend my brother’s wish to honor our father.”
Eleanor heard the bitterness in Mariota’s voice and wondered if she had hoped the young man would confront her family on her behalf. If so, disappointment at his refusal might explain the brief flash of anger she also saw in the woman’s eyes.
There was yet one more detail, even two, that might preclude entry to the priory. “When you two talked of love, did you perchance vow marriage to each other in the present tense? Or did he bed you?” If they had taken such a vow, they were wed in God’s eyes as well as in the laws of the secular world. If the girl was not a virgin, she could still become a nun, yet Eleanor might be able to argue…
“Neither, my lady.”
And thus you must take on a vocation you do not wish because you were an obedient daughter and a virtuous woman, Eleanor concluded. All arguments I might have made on your behalf have been crushed.
She turned her face away so Mariota could not read her surrender.
The young woman sighed and closed her eyes as if understanding the futility of her situation whether or not it was voiced.
You may still find joy in the cloister, the prioress said to herself, and decide that love of God was ardent yet soothing to the spirit like water on a fever. Yet how could she serve as mentor when she had failed to banish her own longing for Brother Thomas?
“We shall speak more of this later, my child,” Eleanor said, then realized Mariota had fallen back into a deep sleep. Eleanor stroked the girl’s thin hand. If God denied Death’s wish to take the young woman as his own bride, there would be time enough to discuss the future.
For several moments, Eleanor remained by the girl’s side, praying that God grant Mariota peace whatever the days ahead brought. Then she summoned a nearby servant to keep watch and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
Her devoted guard stood just outside the chambers. He turned and bowed.
Wordlessly acknowledging that courtesy, the prioress modestly tucked her hands into her sleeves.
From the courtyard, a piercing shriek shattered the silence.