Authors: Priscilla Royal
Many had visibly relaxed after her speech, their burning eyes shutting in weary relief. Those still undecided had nervously looked about them; but seeing others take comfort in her words, they took solace in the general shrinking of the atmosphere of terror. A few, like Sister Anne and Sister Ruth, seemed never to have feared that Armageddon was imminent. Eleanor had expected such of Sister Anne, but seeing the same calm strength in the abrasive Sister Ruth pleasantly surprised her.
Once calmed, a simple certainty that the vile murderer had been from the world outside Tyndal's walls and that he would be captured soon infused most of the priory inhabitants:
"Someone forgot to lock a gate," one had said.
"Not likely to happen again if we have guards," a second nodded.
"Carelessness. A lay brother must have.
Eleanor had encouraged this conclusion, promptly announced her plans for improving the security of all walls and gates, then quite visibly oversaw strict compliance.
"I may not afford myself such blithe assumptions, however," she said to the cat, which was licking his paws. "Murder done by a member of the priory, by a soul committed to God, might be unthinkable to most, but it is an eventuality I have to prepare for. If the culprit is a member of Tyndal, the Church will take him from the secular crowner's hands for ecclesiastical trial. Depending on how that situation is handled, the reputation of Tyndal might be tarnished for years to come."
Eleanor looked back down at her feet. The cat had finished his post-meal scrub and was curling up for a nap. "Nay, sir! Enough woolgathering for me and enough leisure for you. Its back to work for both of us."
She walked to the door of her chamber, carefully letting the cat go first, then firmly shut the door behind them.
Tyndal's hospital could house thirty patients, somewhat evenly divided between the sexes, and treat many more. Not all Fonte-vraud houses were linked to hospitals, but Tyndal had once been a Benedictine house dedicated to the care of the sick, a much needed service in this lonely part of England. When that old priory had fallen into disrepair and eventual abandonment due to inadequate revenues, one affluent nobleman, deeply penitent in his old age for some regretted but undefined sins, had begged Fontevraud to resurrect Tyndal for the good of his soul.
The Abbess of Fontevraud had agreed, with the understanding that he grant the priory some very profitable lands to keep the establishment solvent. Shortly thereafter, the noble's wife,
with his concurrence, begged admission to the Order and became
the first prioress of Tyndal. It was she who had the hospital building repaired, thus allowing Tyndal to continue to care for the sick and dying.
The priory began to acquire some reputation for successful treatments, especially in more recent years. Two special areas of accomplishment were the easing of joint pain and the surprising absence, even cures, of often terminal infections. Although the
local villagers, the fishermen, and their families were the primary
recipients of monastic care, wealthier patients sometimes came
for ease of their mortal aches and donated quite generously when
the treatment proved favorable.
Thus the hospital not only provided a service to the sick but also helped Tyndal remain reasonably solvent, a condition the current prioress wished to maintain in view of the diminishment of other revenues. Eleanor wanted it run efficiently.
"My lady!" Sister Christina bobbed awkwardly.
What age was this young nun, Eleanor wondered, as she reached out and gently touched Sister Christina's shoulder. Life seemed not to have placed the slightest mark of passage on the infirmarian's face. Even the skin on her plump hands was as smooth as a babe's. How could such an innocent be in charge of the sick and dying?
Eleanor looked around at the clusters of suffering people waiting near the door to the hospital. Some were mobile. Some had been carried. Eleanor passed one family who had brought a young woman on a litter. Glancing down, Eleanor had shuddered. The woman's mouth was frozen open in the silent scream of death. The body was beginning to reek. When she looked at the faces of the two older women, two young men, and three children who had brought the body here, however, she saw blind hope as they patiently waited their turn to be seen.
Eleanor gestured in their direction to Sister Christina. "I think Brother Thomas should attend that family. His services would be of great use."
"We have not seen the good brother this morning."
"How odd. Surely he neither forgot nor got lost."
"Perhaps Prior Theobald had need of him?"
Eleanor bit her tongue and nodded. She would have to change
the prior's, nay, Simeon's assumption that his needs took precedence, at least without first requesting her approval or sending an immediate explanation.
"My lady?"
“S
ister.
"If I may, I would tend that family myself since the good brother isn't here. Indeed, I have seen such grief before and believe I can give them some ease of spirit."
"You needn't ask my permission. We are here to give succor. By all means, go. I will wait."
As Eleanor watched the round, ageless nun walk hurriedly over to the huddled group, she saw the normally awkward, dithering woman change into a gentle, calm, and confident figure. Sister Christina lightly touched each person's hand before she gathered them around, then gestured for each to kneel with her next to the corpse of...of whom? Their mother? Their sister? Daughter? Someone's wife?
Soon their eyes were closed and they seemed to be praying with her. As they did, tears began to flow from the eyes of the two women closest to the nun. Without stopping her prayers, Christina reached out and pulled each of them closer to her in a motherly embrace.
Eleanor continued to watch as the nun wept with them all
until the wails of anguish reached a crescendo, then fell to moans
of more bearable grief. Soon Christina rose, spoke quietly with
each, and comforted the children with hugs and soothing caresses
until two lay sisters came for the body. Although sorrow followed
the family like a shadow as they trailed in mourning after the corpse, Christina had been able to give them the courage to face what they had been unable to see.
Eleanor shook her head in amazement. Sister Anne was indeed right. The plump little nun had a gift. She could soothe the souls of the grieving. It was a skill she herself did not have. However deep her faith, it would always be a very pragmatic one. Eleanor had long accepted that she would never be a saint. Sister Christina, on the other hand, just might.
As the nun walked back towards her prioress, her gait once again became awkward and her head bobbed nervously. Eleanor reached out and took the young woman's hands. Christina's bright blue eyes widened in confusion.
"You have the gift of comfort, sister. I can see why Prioress Felicia made you infirmarian. She was wise in her choice, and I am pleased as well."
The nun blushed, but it was the first time Eleanor had seen her smile at another mortal.
The prioress gestured to Christina to precede her and they began their tour of the hospital.
Near the entrance to the building itself stood a hut. Lay broth
ers and older lay sisters or nuns with some medical knowledge screened the patients for type and seriousness of ailment. Those
most likely to die were often admitted for the good of their souls;
home treatment was ordered whenever possible for all others.
Eleanor had a basic understanding of herbs and cures herself. Every woman did, whether she was meant for the convent, a lord's castle, a merchant's stall, or a villain’s hut. Healing at home was woman's work, but some were better trained than others. Tyndal was lucky to have several sisters, as well as some lay brothers, with both talent and knowledge in the healing arts. Being a small establishment, they could not always eliminate those women from care-giving who were still subject to monthly bleedings, women such as the infirmarian herself, but the patients had suffered little from their ministrations despite the common medical opinion that menstruating women were polluting, thus dangerous to the sick. The de facto leader of all
caregivers was Sister Anne, whose background Eleanor continued
to find intriguing.
Eleanor had heard of women who were trained in the apothecary trade and even of some who were physicians. Hildegard of Bingen's medical works, as well as those of Trotula of Solerno, were known to her aunt. These days, however, such women
were quite rare. According to Sister Beatrice, most of the women
physicians in the present day were of the Jewish faith. Although
Marie of France had celebrated the medical expertise of a wealthy
woman from Solerno in her lai, "Les Deus Amanz," less than a century ago, Eleanor knew that was just a tale.
But to be familiar with texts from the Holy Land itself? How
unusual even for Anne's physician father. She had finally pressed
Sister Anne ever so slightly on this question, and the nun had
explained that her father knew physicians in Paris who had shared
the works with him. Eleanor wondered how he had been able to read the language in which they were written. Translations from the infidel tongue were even rarer than these texts themselves. Perhaps Sister Anne meant that her father had received training in these skills from mentors who knew the languages he did not. No matter. She was grateful to have such a knowledgeable practitioner of healing arts as Sister Anne in the priory.
"... and we all wash our hands after attendi ng to every patient."
Sister Christina was gesturing down the long room on the women's side. Each patient not only had a private bed but was protected from curious eyes by wooden screens.
"An interesting practice."
"Something Sister Anne insists on. Prioress Felicia did not approve. She said it was ungodly and unhealthy, but then Sister Anne asked Brother Rupert to bless the water every day so our hands would be cleansed with holy water."
"And?"
"It did seem to help the sick, so our prioress allowed us to continue. It was clear that our hands thus washed were imbued with God's grace. Should you.
"We shall continue the procedure, of course." Eleanor glanced
into one screened-off area and saw the tall figure of Sister Anne lifting a skeletal woman into a sitting position, then slowly giving her sips of some liquid. The hand washing was not only an unusual thing to do, she thought, but the good sister had also chosen an interesting way of justifying it. None had noticed that no one had replaced Brother Rupert in the blessing of the water, and Sister Anne had certainly not stopped the routine. Perhaps this was yet another practice out of her father's texts from the Holy Land.
"My lady!"
Eleanor spun around as a breathless nun skidded to a stop in front of her.
"Calm yourself, sister! What has happened?"
"It's Brother Thomas, my lady. He lies dead in the forest!"
Eleanor could not stop the small cry of anguish that escaped her. "Tell Sister Anne to follow me immediately after this treatment," she quickly said to Christina, then turned her head away before anyone could see the tears starting up in her eyes.
Chapter Fifteen
"Indeed he's lucky he is not dead."
Eleanor realized she had been holding her breath as Sister Anne examined the bloodied but breathing monk.
"Fa!" Thomas spat out the liquid Sister Anne had just given him.
"And he may be yet, if he does that to me again," Anne said, wiping away the fluid he had just spewed all over the front of her habit.
Thomas groaned.
"Can you understand me?" Sister Anne asked.
"My head hurts." His voice was a whisper.
"It should. Someone laid a good blow on the back of it. Cut your scalp, but you'll live. You have a suitably thick Norman skull-Thomas turned over and vomited, a little liquid but mostly air.