Justice for the Damned

Justice
for the Damned

Priscilla
Royal

Chapter
One

This
early May morning in 1272, near the feast of Saint Melor, dawned with such
sweetness that the Fontevraudine monks and nuns of Amesbury Priory rushed from
Chapter with far more eagerness to their assigned tasks than they had felt
heretofore.

Although
a few were laggard, those for whom early rising would always be akin to the
wearing of hair shirts, none regretted this coming of soft spring. The fog from
the River Avon swirled like thick smoke through their cloister garth, but it
came with a pleasing scent, suggestive of tender, bright flowers and the coming
warmth of lengthening days.

Indeed,
there was such happiness amongst the monastics of the ancient priory that some
began to sing, their voices so filled with reverent joy that the force of their
fervent celebration must have breached the surrounding stone walls and surged
into the secular land beyond.

As
Prioress Eleanor of Tyndal walked slowly out of the Chapter House and into the
tranquility of the nuns' cloister, the cheerful voices of her fellow religious
began to grow faint in her ears. She hesitated, leaned against a pillar, and
glanced up at the wooden roof over the walkway. Although the stone felt cold
through her woolen habit, she found comfort in the familiarity of its gouged
and pitted surface. She shut her eyes and slowly breathed in the sharp river
scent that clung to the twisting wisps of fog drifting through the shrubs and
walkways of the gardens before her.

"Home,"
she sighed and lowered herself with unsteady care onto a bench so worn that the
stone looked polished in the soft light.

Although
she had been head of her own priory for almost two years, learning to love the
storm-battered East Anglian coast where she now lived, Eleanor had spent most
of her twenty-two years in the midst of this gentle place of rolling fields, a
land enriched as much by ancient myths and rumors as it was from the silt left
by the meandering Avon. It was here at Amesbury Priory that a six-year-old
Eleanor had arrived, grieving with the silence of those whose mothers have died
too soon.

She
glanced down at the cloister walk itself. The sight of the hollowed-out paving
stones brought back the memory of the day she had joined other little girls who
were hopping from one worn depression to another and making a game of it. She
smiled, acknowledging the spot with a nod. Was it not just there that she had
balanced herself on one foot, surrounded by her new friends, and laughed for
the first time since her mother's death?

Fragments
of other memories began to march through her mind like some liturgical play
performed on a holy day. There were images that brought sadness: a friend's
eyes turning dull as she died from some mortal fever; another waving before
leaving the priory forever, taken away by her family for an arranged and
profitable marriage.

Grief
there was, but there was far more joy in these unvoiced thoughts. Hadn't they
loved frightening each other with stories about the pagan spirits which surely
haunted the ancient fort across the river? Some claimed it was Roman, others
that King Arthur had built it as a defense to the lands of Camelot. Whatever
the truth, the place was rife with mystery enough to spark their young
imaginations like flint.

And
there was the time she had tumbled from that tree, age-gnarled even then, and
had found comfort in the arms of the novice mistress. Sister Beatrice, her
father's elder sister who had dedicated herself to God, had folded her close
that day and kissed the bruises to make them well, kisses that never failed to
ease whatever pain she felt.

It
was here at Amesbury that Eleanor had begun her woman's courses and found her
own religious vocation. No matter how fond she might grow of Tyndal, this would
remain that irreplaceable spot where the world had been mostly joyous, safe,
and full of love.

Women's
courses? Eleanor winced as a severe cramp stabbed her lower belly. She shifted
to ease her aching back. Why must she suffer the return of this affliction
brought to women by their Mother Eve? Had she not endured enough with that
near-fatal ague she contracted in late winter?

"Apparently
not," Eleanor groaned. "I should have known my monthly bleeding would
arrive now." This must have been her particular torment, inherited from
the mother of all women, for her courses always seemed to come whenever she
undertook a long journey. Despite the short remission granted from this pain
after her illness, she had come at least prepared for the return of her
bleedings. After all, she concluded with wry amusement, curses only gained in
power when they were unexpected.

Another
sharp spasm hit her with such force that she bent forward. As the cramp eased,
she remembered that she and her aunt were in agreement on this matter. Neither
of them doubted that Eve's grave sin was cause enough for God to scourge women
with painful courses, but they did conclude that Eve herself would never have
passed this down to her daughters if she had had her say about it. In fact,
Sister Beatrice had once added that God had surely exempted the Virgin Mary
from this monthly woe. In spite of her pain, Eleanor smiled.

Slowly
the prioress straightened. The potion brewed from willow bark that Sister Anne
had given her was beginning to take effect, but the cramps had exhausted what
little strength she had possessed upon rising for prayer earlier this morning.
She closed her eyes again, the need for sleep rushing through her with almost
irresistible force. Clutching the rough edge of the cold stone bench, she
forced herself to look at the earth around her.

Delicate
but determined shoots of young flowers, some with tiny blue buds or
lovage-green leaves, were escaping the freezing prison winter had made of the
earth. "My spirit must take courage from this sight," she said, but
her body was unmoved by her determined pronouncement.

Whether
or not her soul greeted this eager life with joy, a deep weariness had taken
residence within her, an indifference that suggested God might be easing her
toward death. Was she ready for her soul to part from its casing of dust? Did
it even matter whether or not she was? Her eyelids heavy with fatigue, Eleanor
bent her head, and her spirit began to slip into a pool of black humor as if
weighted with an iron chain.

Before
it had sunk far, however, her ears caught the sound of familiar and cherished
voices. Her spirit brightened.

Two
women, deep in conversation, were coming toward her. Both were unusually tall
for their gender, but it was the younger that looked up at the elder. The
former, Sister Anne, was a most talented healer as well as Eleanor's dearest
friend at Tyndal. The latter might hold no higher title than novice mistress at
Amesbury Priory, but all who knew Sister Beatrice had learned that she was
servant only to God.

"You
look pale, child," the elder woman said as she stopped in front of her
niece. "You must eat meat to regain your strength. Sister Anne
agrees."

Although
Sister Beatrice had spent six decades on earth, her soft skin retained an
almost youthful hint of rose. The creases of age might be shallow in her high
forehead, around her sea-blue eyes and the corners of her thin mouth;
nonetheless, two dark furrows formed a deep V between her gray eyebrows, lines
that had been there since infancy. While the frown warned lesser mortals that
she was possessed of a mind whetted by reason, it also hid her very warm heart,
a mixed blessing to a woman who understood the nature of love more than most
and considered rational thought a weapon to be used only against fear or evil.

"I
took a vow," Eleanor replied. "Meat overheats the blood."

Beatrice
raised one eyebrow. "Overheats the blood, you say? Neither Sister Anne nor
I think so. After all these weeks, you are still too frail. Meat should bring
the warmth you need and restore balance to your humors."

Years
ago, the Baron Adam had jested that God must have branded his elder sister with
her perpetual scowl because she showed ill grace by frowning at their suffering
mother who had just given her birth. This remark aside, he valued his sister
and taught Eleanor that the wise rightly knew they should fear her aunt and
fools would soon learn the price of thwarting her. As the niece now noted her
aunt's deepening frown, she reminded herself that her father had rarely been
proven wrong.

"With
respect, dearest Aunt, I must decline." While others might see this woman
as both frightening and formidable, Eleanor found only warmth in her. Beatrice
had reared her niece with as much sweet love as if she had been the child of
her own body, yet neither had ever pretended that the devotion of an aunt could
replace that of a dead mother. Nevertheless, the love between them was
profound.

"Meat
is allowed under The Rule," Beatrice replied. Her tone suggested that
further argument would be pointless.

"Might
you not compromise with a beef broth, my lady?" Sister Anne interjected,
her
eyes
twinkling with a mischievous look. "Should you choose not
to do so, I believe you and your donkey would be of the same mind."

The
two women, who had been looking at each other with a certain familial
stubbornness, blinked and turned wide-eyed toward the sub-infirmarian of
Tyndal.

Eleanor
laughed with a merriment few had heard since her illness.

Beatrice's
expression changed into one of confusion. "Donkey?" she asked.
"An ass that speaks? Or, if such a miracle did occur, how could the beast
talk with any reason?"

With
affection, Eleanor squeezed her aunt's hand. "I'm afraid I have disobeyed
one of the Commandments and shown disrespect toward a parent. I named my fine
mount after my father. When Sister Anne wishes to tell me that I am being
obstinate beyond reason, she reminds me that the donkey would agree with the
position I have taken."

The
novice mistress put a hand over her mouth.

It
was a gesture Sister Anne had seen her own prioress use, but one that rarely
succeeded in disguising the underlying laughter.

"Irreverence,"
Beatrice said, "but not disrespect. I know how much you love your
father." She turned to Anne. "There is truth in the donkey's naming.
As you may have noticed the winter you were at Wynethorpe Castle, my brother
possesses a fair share of mortal obstinacy, a quality which I most certainly
lack!" The sparkle in her eyes betrayed the jest hiding in her words, but
her look now shifted to concern as she looked down at Eleanor. "You will
agree to the broth?"

"I
shall willingly concede on that but would not eat meat otherwise."

The
sub-infirmarian of Tyndal and the novice mistress of Amesbury looked at each
other in silent conference, and then replied in unison: "Agreed."

"Your
failure to eat much of anything since your arrival has troubled me, child. I
fear you have not recovered any of the health you lost."

"Health
is difficult to regain after such a hard fever, my lady," Anne replied.
The words may have been intended as an explanation, but the tone expressed her
own ongoing worry.

"Not
my lady,
rather
sister.
I hold no high rank at Amesbury,"
Beatrice said absently, still scrutinizing her niece.

"You
are the temporary head of this priory now," Eleanor replied, nodding
approval of Anne's courteous use of title.

"Only
because our sub-prioress died just before Prioress Ida was obliged to travel
abroad for some weeks on priory business." The novice mistress flicked her
hand, as if the responsibility had landed on her like a pesky fly, and continued
the study of her niece.

Eleanor
shifted uneasily. Under Sister Beatrice's careful examination, she felt like a
little girl again, one who could hide nothing from this aunt. Of course, she
had felt as weak as a babe after her illness and needed her aunt's strength and
comfort. Why else had she returned to Amesbury Priory if not to be pampered
like a child, regain her woman's strength, and seek advice on a sin that deeply
troubled her?

"Prioress
Ida will name a successor when she returns," Beatrice was saying to Anne.

"Might
you not..." Anne's gesture suggested an advancement in position.

"Never.
I was quite clear that I would only take on these duties because there was no
other reasonable choice. When our leader returns, someone else must be named sub-prioress,
and I shall remain novice mistress, a position I have held for more years that
our prioress has stood upright upon this earth." Beatrice's thin lips
twitched with amusement at some private thought.

Her
aunt's words suggested an admirable monastic humility, but whatever she willed
had the force of a king's edict. Perhaps more so, Eleanor thought, now that the
current occupant of the throne was rumored to be dying. In any case, her aunt
had not grown meeker since Eleanor had left for Tyndal. For all she knew,
Sister Beatrice had arranged for the election of the current prioress to head
Amesbury after the death of Prioress Joan. That would not surprise her at all.

"Enough
said on temporal matters." Beatrice caressed her niece's cheek.
"Sister Anne and I have decided that your diet should not only include
this broth to restore your humors to their accustomed balance but also a tonic.
Your sub-infirmarian has mixed a most interesting one with lichens.