silent, his face darkening.
“A good master?” Thomas asked, sensing the change in the man’s mood.
“As good as some,” was the enigmatic reply.
“I am a guest here and did not mean to pry.”
The groom shrugged. “Your help was welcome, Brother, but I won’t count on it tomorrow. Surely your prioress will have need of her priest.”
The monk was confused by the rude dismissal but decided to let the matter be and quickly left the stable.
Watching Thomas walk away, the groom’s eyes narrowed. When the monk had disappeared around the stone wall of the manor, Tobye spat into the mud.
Chapter Nine
“My lady!”
Startled by the screech, rather akin in volume and pitch to the cries of mating cats, Eleanor spun around.
Mistress Constance stood but a few feet behind, her fists knotted against her chest, and her expression suggestive of either rapture or apoplexy.
Taking a deep breath, the prioress willed herself to remain calm and nodded. Speech, she decided, might be ill-advised considering her dislike of the woman.
“Mistress Constance. Wife of Master Stevyn’s eldest son, Ranulf. When you first arrived, I met you at the door…”
Eleanor took pity and interrupted the gasping recitation. “I remember you well, Mistress.” An honest enough statement, she thought, and continued in the same innocuous vein. “The shelter we were offered was an act of mercy. I shall not forget the kindness.”
“Ah!”
How sad, the prioress thought, as compassion now demanded entry to her heart. This woman might be wearisome, but she also lacked all joy, even in her faith. When mortals faltered with decaying age, terror over their sins often shimmered in their gaze, but surely Mistress Constance was only a few years older than Eleanor herself. Did merriment never dance in those eyes or laughter soften the angular features of her face? Faith might demand a healthy fear of doing evil to others, but, when Jesus turned water into wine at Cana wedding feast, he had shown that God allowed joy to reign equally in moral souls.
Joy? Now that she thought more on it, she realized that she had heard no child’s laughter in the manor house. Perhaps this woman’s sallow face and nervous manner were born of barrenness—or the death of too many babes, let alone so many other possible sorrows. A more gentle charity might be due this poor creature, Eleanor thought, and struggled to banish her annoyance. “We are well-met, Mistress. I seek the steward’s wife. Perhaps you might direct me to her?”
The woman waved a hand in front of her face as if a plague of flies had just descended. “Mistress Luce could be anywhere, my lady. Like many youthful creatures, she has little patience with duty and often lacks firm purpose. Fortunately, she has me to direct the servants in the work God made them to do.” She pointed her nose upward, a feature that matched her chin in sharpness. “As you must know yourself, servants are like children. They require close supervision if they are to do their duty and not steal the plate.”
Eleanor shut her eyes. Her charitable resolve now began a determined retreat. “I defer to your superior knowledge.”
Constance had the grace to blush.
“Taking on such arduous duty is most praiseworthy, Mistress, and I am aware that our unexpected arrival has added to your already significant burden,” Eleanor continued, biting her lip to remind herself that a civil tone was required. “As you surely understand, however, I owe due courtesy to the mistress of this manor, Master Stevyn’s wife.”
Mistress Constance nodded, then must have realized how propitious an opportunity this was to talk further with the Prioress of Tyndal. Her face brightened. “I shall help you find her!” she said, and gestured for the prioress to follow.
As the woman took Eleanor to several places where Mistress Luce might be found, Constance chattered breathlessly about her own many duties, before explaining in yet more detail
“A good master?” Thomas asked, sensing the change in the man’s mood.
“As good as some,” was the enigmatic reply.
“I am a guest here and did not mean to pry.”
The groom shrugged. “Your help was welcome, Brother, but I won’t count on it tomorrow. Surely your prioress will have need of her priest.”
The monk was confused by the rude dismissal but decided to let the matter be and quickly left the stable.
Watching Thomas walk away, the groom’s eyes narrowed. When the monk had disappeared around the stone wall of the manor, Tobye spat into the mud.
Chapter Nine
“My lady!”
Startled by the screech, rather akin in volume and pitch to the cries of mating cats, Eleanor spun around.
Mistress Constance stood but a few feet behind, her fists knotted against her chest, and her expression suggestive of either rapture or apoplexy.
Taking a deep breath, the prioress willed herself to remain calm and nodded. Speech, she decided, might be ill-advised considering her dislike of the woman.
“Mistress Constance. Wife of Master Stevyn’s eldest son, Ranulf. When you first arrived, I met you at the door…”
Eleanor took pity and interrupted the gasping recitation. “I remember you well, Mistress.” An honest enough statement, she thought, and continued in the same innocuous vein. “The shelter we were offered was an act of mercy. I shall not forget the kindness.”
“Ah!”
How sad, the prioress thought, as compassion now demanded entry to her heart. This woman might be wearisome, but she also lacked all joy, even in her faith. When mortals faltered with decaying age, terror over their sins often shimmered in their gaze, but surely Mistress Constance was only a few years older than Eleanor herself. Did merriment never dance in those eyes or laughter soften the angular features of her face? Faith might demand a healthy fear of doing evil to others, but, when Jesus turned water into wine at Cana wedding feast, he had shown that God allowed joy to reign equally in moral souls.
Joy? Now that she thought more on it, she realized that she had heard no child’s laughter in the manor house. Perhaps this woman’s sallow face and nervous manner were born of barrenness—or the death of too many babes, let alone so many other possible sorrows. A more gentle charity might be due this poor creature, Eleanor thought, and struggled to banish her annoyance. “We are well-met, Mistress. I seek the steward’s wife. Perhaps you might direct me to her?”
The woman waved a hand in front of her face as if a plague of flies had just descended. “Mistress Luce could be anywhere, my lady. Like many youthful creatures, she has little patience with duty and often lacks firm purpose. Fortunately, she has me to direct the servants in the work God made them to do.” She pointed her nose upward, a feature that matched her chin in sharpness. “As you must know yourself, servants are like children. They require close supervision if they are to do their duty and not steal the plate.”
Eleanor shut her eyes. Her charitable resolve now began a determined retreat. “I defer to your superior knowledge.”
Constance had the grace to blush.
“Taking on such arduous duty is most praiseworthy, Mistress, and I am aware that our unexpected arrival has added to your already significant burden,” Eleanor continued, biting her lip to remind herself that a civil tone was required. “As you surely understand, however, I owe due courtesy to the mistress of this manor, Master Stevyn’s wife.”
Mistress Constance nodded, then must have realized how propitious an opportunity this was to talk further with the Prioress of Tyndal. Her face brightened. “I shall help you find her!” she said, and gestured for the prioress to follow.
As the woman took Eleanor to several places where Mistress Luce might be found, Constance chattered breathlessly about her own many duties, before explaining in yet more detail
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