This chapel was close to the one where her father’s corpse lay, but Prioress Eleanor needed that small distance from the inescapable evidence of death. As she knelt before the altar, however, she found she could not pray for her father’s soul. Perhaps I am too worldly and selfish, she thought, but she was certain that God understood the frailties of His creatures and would guide her back to His path soon enough.
So she turned her pleas from mercy for her father’s spirit to her longing for comfort. Looking down at her hands, she frowned. “They are not a child’s,” she acknowledged to God. “My age, vocation, and rank give me the status of a woman, but tonight I am a babe.”
Death was a familiar visitor to all and stopped near Eleanor neither more nor less than anyone else. When she was six, her mother had died in childbirth, her body torn by a child too big for her to bear and one who fled the earth with her. The prioress also had friends who fell victim to fevers and accidents. But she had been a child then and could seek the comforting arms of the aunt who raised her in Amesbury Priory.
Tonight, her aunt was far away, frail and edging toward Heaven herself, and her father was dead. Soon she would have no one older than she to hold and counsel her. Although she had a strong faith, she was struggling to accept that loss and learn to look only to God.
When she left Amesbury to lead Tyndal Priory, God had chosen to add violence against others to her especial burdens and demanded that she render His justice in these crimes that so angered Him. The reason He had done so was one of His many mysteries, but her faith led her to obey without question—or at least to argue only briefly.
This was a rare time when she drew back from the obligation and begged for mercy. The struggle to obey God in this matter of Mistress Hawis’ death while watching her own father die had been more than she could endure. Covering her face with her hands, she moaned with agony but soon understood that the bitter draught would not be removed from her lips. She must find a way to obey despite her grievous sorrow.
“Let me seek comfort now for my personal grief,” she murmured to God. “Then I shall have the strength to seek justice for the dead woman.” She hesitated as the image of ben David’s young daughters passed before her eyes. “And do whatever else You wish done on Your behalf.”
Within the silence of the chapel, Prioress Eleanor heard no reply, but a soft breath of air brushed her cheek. That, she decided, must be her answer.
“I am not ready for the duties passed on to me with my lord father’s death and the loss of his guidance,” she whispered. “I could have faced my own death better than his.” Sighing, she sat back on her heels. There were so many set prayers that gave others comfort in these times of sorrow, but they offered nothing to ease her heart and little to address her fear. “I mean no ill, Lord, but I need wisdom and must ask for it more directly than may be meet.” She stared at the altar, and then bowed her head. “Forgive me, for I do not mean to offend.”
In that chapel filled with guttering candles and twisting shadows, Eleanor stretched herself out on the cold stone floor and wept, pleading and arguing with God like any child unable to understand why a parent would desert her even if it was for Heaven.
***
Eleanor opened her eyes. Where was she? Her body was chilled, and her cheek bore the uneven imprint of the stones against which she had lain. Then she remembered that she had come to this chapel to pray.
Rising to her feet, she felt drained. Had she fallen asleep or had God sent her soul on a journey to gain greater wisdom than her mind could comprehend? Whatever had occurred here, she found her spirit at peace, although her body ached. She turned to the altar and offered wordless gratitude.
Now I am ready to seek a murderer, she thought.
The death of Mistress Hawis gnawed at her. She might be thankful that Brother Thomas said he would take on the task of freeing her nephew from all charges, but she had taken into her care those deemed by many to be the most likely suspects in murder. That trio, she realized, were her particular responsibility.
Mistress Chera and her granddaughters had behaved with great courtesy while sharing her rooms, asking nothing and honoring her sorrow as well as her need for quiet reflection and prayer. At the beginning of their confinement, ben David’s mother told Eleanor that she would pray on her behalf as well. Eleanor thanked her, but then her heart froze. Was it a sin to accept the prayers of a Jewish woman?
Eleanor shook her head. She might have asked Brother Thomas for his opinion, but she knew him well enough to believe he would say that all prayers to their mutual God were no sin.
The Church often taught contradictory things in this matter of the Jews. From one source, she was told that they were a stiff-necked people who had killed the Messiah. From another, she was taught that they must be treated mercifully and protected because the end of the world could not occur without them.
And now the current king, whose ancestors had promised protection for these families, was turning his back on a people who had been loyal subjects from the day King William had invited them to his conquered England. Usury was a sin, yet Christians from merchants to kings found it necessary and thus allowed the practice. Why persuade a people to sin, offer them protection to do so, and then cast them aside as King Edward was doing?
“I am only a frail woman,” she whispered to the silence of the chapel. “I do not understand.”
Who were the sinners and who were the innocents when men could not agree on whether usury should be encouraged, whether it might even be wicked to borrow when interest must be paid, and how to treat those who had not accepted the Christian Messiah?
“Instruct me,” she asked.
In the meantime, her heart believed that the answer must lie in the teaching that all must love one another. It should not be completely wrong to obey the wisdom preached by one far greater than mortal priests and bishops. Until otherwise enlightened, Eleanor decided to follow that precept when dealing with the women who shared her rooms.
The prioress walked quietly toward the chapel entrance. The candles had gone out, but a weak moon cast enough light through one of the high windows to guide her footsteps. She longed for her bed and hoped sleep would bring her strength. In the morning, she would pray beside her father before his corpse was prepared for the final journey to the family sepulcher.
A figure passed the doorway.
She took in a breath and grew still. Most mortals were asleep at this hour. Even those waiting upon the recovering queen had found a place to rest. Of course this could be someone, a servant perhaps, with an honest reason to be hurrying down the hall during Satan’s hour, but something made her suspect this was not the case.
She stepped closer to the doorway and carefully peered into the hall. Although she could not identify the person, and had no logical reason to do this, she chose to follow at a distance.
It is the curse of Eve, she thought, to pursue a path because curiosity tempts. The lesson of the apple should have stopped her but failed. If this was a man racing to the bed of his lover, she would continue on and offer a prayer for their souls. If not…
The man stopped and looked over his shoulder.
Eleanor pushed herself against the wall. As a small, thin woman, she hoped she might remain invisible.
Apparently seeing nothing, he scurried on and disappeared around a corner.
She pursued but hesitated when she reached the place he had vanished.
Were those voices?
Her heart pounded too loudly to hear anything for certain, and she was afraid to reveal her presence. Not daring to look around the corner, she tried to listen and prayed no one would come back this way and find her here.
“Eliduc,” someone clearly said and then muttered a few more words.
“The document,” was the only reply.
Suddenly, she heard a cry. Something heavy fell. After that, the only sounds she heard were those of departing footsteps.
Now Eleanor did look around the corner and saw a body on the ground. Down the hall, a figure rapidly became another shadow.
She ran to the fallen man and dropped to her knees beside him. Turning his head to the moonlight, she gasped. She may have only seen him briefly, but she knew it was Maynard.
He groaned. A knife hilt protruded from one side of his spine. Blood flowed rapidly from the wound and pooled on the floor.
“I shall bring help,” she said, bending to speak in his ear. He was surely dying, but she wanted to give comfort. “Who did this to you?”
He mumbled.
She put her ear close to his mouth.
“The Jews,” he whispered before blood burst out of his mouth.
Eleanor knew he was dead.
Her robe and face stained with blood, she ran to get FitzRoald, Brother Thomas, and Sister Anne.