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Authors: Priscilla Royal
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anyway. Surely Prioress Ursell would have no justification for outrage at this confirmation of a harmless fact.
The widow’s expression became solemn, and her lips lost all suggestion of worldly merriment. “But we are here for a higher purpose, are we not? And I should refrain from prattling on about mortal frailties.”
Eleanor was surprised by the sudden change. Trying not to betray this, she nodded gravely. “We should.”
The widow sighed and put a hand to her heart as if suffering profound remorse. “Will you join me in a walk to the healing wells on the great priory’s grounds? Have you visited them already? If so, perhaps you would like to visit the chapel containing the knuckle bone of St. Peter?”
Eleanor admitted she had not seen either.
“If I could see the miraculous wells at your side, I would be honored.” Mistress Emelyne motioned hopefully toward the door leading into the priory. “According to what I have heard from other pilgrims, the wells are noted for curing stomach ailments, an affliction from which I suffer, but drinking the chill water helps those suffering headaches as well. I wanted to buy a small container of the water to take back to Norwich.”
Finding no good excuse to avoid this woman’s company, Eleanor agreed. Perhaps a sip of the blessed water would cure her headaches. Sister Anne’s feverfew remedy had helped for a long time, but the headaches were growing more virulent. Last summer they had caused her to see something that many called a vision. For her, the story had become a curse, not a blessing, and had been one reason for traveling here to the shrines of Our Lady of Walsingham.
“I’ve been told that the wells are perfectly round and always filled with pure water, even when the earth becomes dry,” the widow said, her voice rising with fervor. “It was Our Lady of Walsingham who struck the ground and brought the water forth! Of course, nothing earthly could…”
But Eleanor had ceased listening. Following Mistress Emelyne out of the gardens, she prepared herself for the holy sites by reflecting on the goodness of the Queen of Heaven. Before all thoughts moved heavenward, however, Eleanor concluded she had been wise to suffer one more tale from the irritating widow. The information was important and must be passed on to Brother Thomas.
Chapter Ten
A light mist fell as Thomas trudged back to the chapel. After he had accompanied his prioress to the shrine containing the Virgin’s milk and back to Ryehill, he sought Gracia but failed to find her. Hoping she had found shelter from this weather, he pulled the hood over his head and buried his hands in his sleeves for warmth. The rain itself was soft and sweet, but the chill air stung his flesh.
A man passed him in the road, then suddenly spun around to face him, a surprised but delighted expression on his face.
Perplexed, the monk stopped and waited for the stranger to speak.
“Are you Brother Thomas of Tyndal Priory?”
The monk did not remember having met him, although he felt he should. A boyish charm belied the gray dusting in the stranger’s brown wavy locks. His hazel eyes glowed with comforting warmth on this cold day. But the man’s features overall were not memorable. Were he to walk by him later in the day, Thomas wondered if he would recognize the man again, unless he saw his eyes. Concluding he had forgotten a prior meeting, something for which no blame was due, he opted for honesty. “Do we know each other?”
“Nay, we do not,” the man replied with a pleasant smile, “but I know your reputation. I visited the hospital at Tyndal Priory and stayed in the guest quarters there while my sick wife sought treatment. Men know me as Durant of Norwich, a wine merchant in that town.” The crisp air was turning his smooth cheeks a bright pink.
Despite the smile, Thomas thought he saw a hint of sadness in the man’s eyes. “I grieve if we were unsuccessful in curing her,” he said gently.
Master
The widow’s expression became solemn, and her lips lost all suggestion of worldly merriment. “But we are here for a higher purpose, are we not? And I should refrain from prattling on about mortal frailties.”
Eleanor was surprised by the sudden change. Trying not to betray this, she nodded gravely. “We should.”
The widow sighed and put a hand to her heart as if suffering profound remorse. “Will you join me in a walk to the healing wells on the great priory’s grounds? Have you visited them already? If so, perhaps you would like to visit the chapel containing the knuckle bone of St. Peter?”
Eleanor admitted she had not seen either.
“If I could see the miraculous wells at your side, I would be honored.” Mistress Emelyne motioned hopefully toward the door leading into the priory. “According to what I have heard from other pilgrims, the wells are noted for curing stomach ailments, an affliction from which I suffer, but drinking the chill water helps those suffering headaches as well. I wanted to buy a small container of the water to take back to Norwich.”
Finding no good excuse to avoid this woman’s company, Eleanor agreed. Perhaps a sip of the blessed water would cure her headaches. Sister Anne’s feverfew remedy had helped for a long time, but the headaches were growing more virulent. Last summer they had caused her to see something that many called a vision. For her, the story had become a curse, not a blessing, and had been one reason for traveling here to the shrines of Our Lady of Walsingham.
“I’ve been told that the wells are perfectly round and always filled with pure water, even when the earth becomes dry,” the widow said, her voice rising with fervor. “It was Our Lady of Walsingham who struck the ground and brought the water forth! Of course, nothing earthly could…”
But Eleanor had ceased listening. Following Mistress Emelyne out of the gardens, she prepared herself for the holy sites by reflecting on the goodness of the Queen of Heaven. Before all thoughts moved heavenward, however, Eleanor concluded she had been wise to suffer one more tale from the irritating widow. The information was important and must be passed on to Brother Thomas.
Chapter Ten
A light mist fell as Thomas trudged back to the chapel. After he had accompanied his prioress to the shrine containing the Virgin’s milk and back to Ryehill, he sought Gracia but failed to find her. Hoping she had found shelter from this weather, he pulled the hood over his head and buried his hands in his sleeves for warmth. The rain itself was soft and sweet, but the chill air stung his flesh.
A man passed him in the road, then suddenly spun around to face him, a surprised but delighted expression on his face.
Perplexed, the monk stopped and waited for the stranger to speak.
“Are you Brother Thomas of Tyndal Priory?”
The monk did not remember having met him, although he felt he should. A boyish charm belied the gray dusting in the stranger’s brown wavy locks. His hazel eyes glowed with comforting warmth on this cold day. But the man’s features overall were not memorable. Were he to walk by him later in the day, Thomas wondered if he would recognize the man again, unless he saw his eyes. Concluding he had forgotten a prior meeting, something for which no blame was due, he opted for honesty. “Do we know each other?”
“Nay, we do not,” the man replied with a pleasant smile, “but I know your reputation. I visited the hospital at Tyndal Priory and stayed in the guest quarters there while my sick wife sought treatment. Men know me as Durant of Norwich, a wine merchant in that town.” The crisp air was turning his smooth cheeks a bright pink.
Despite the smile, Thomas thought he saw a hint of sadness in the man’s eyes. “I grieve if we were unsuccessful in curing her,” he said gently.
Master
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