Wine of Violence Read Free Page A

court.
     
    After the recent peace settlements, King Henry had had little spare land and even less free coin, thanks to Prince Edward's recent departure on a crusade. Thus the genuinely pious, increasingly ill king had decided that the prayers of many nuns at Eleanor's behest would be of greater benefit to her father than worldly wealth, a conclusion with which the good Baron Adam might have disagreed but which he accepted with appropriate gratitude on his daughters behalf. In short, her appointment had been convenient and the wishes of the priory itself were set aside.
     
    Although it was not uncommon for kings to honor priories by placing their own choices in superior positions, the royal selections usually carried some important benefit besides the kings fickle favor to sweeten the decision. Sweetening was certainly needed here. Each house in the powerful Order of Fontevraud had always had the absolute right to name its own head. Tyndal had been uniquely thwarted.
     
    "Is Sister Christina habitually late to chapter or is there a special reason she is not here?" Eleanor asked the nun at her side. Perhaps by deferring to this older woman's experience and seeking her advice she might begin to dispel her obvious bitterness.
     
    "She is our infirmarian," the elder nun replied after a silence so cold it felt like ice pressed against Eleanor's heart.
     
    Eleanor swallowed a sharp retort. Last night, at her first private dinner in her new chambers, Brother Rupert had told her that Sister Ruth had been elected to succeed Prioress Felicia, albeit not by an overwhelming vote. This sour-faced nun had been in charge of Tyndal from the death of the former prioress until the announcement of Eleanors appointment early in the summer. Of course, the woman's disappointment at being so unexpectedly supplanted had been profound, and the elderly monk had also suggested, with the understandable hesitation of one religious telling tales on a fellow, that Sister Ruth's current thoughts about Eleanor might be less than charitable.
     
    "I am aware of Sister Christina's responsibility to the sick," Eleanor replied. "However, she must often absent herself from them for good and proper reasons. Surely she has some reliable lay sister or brother she can leave in charge when her other duties require her attendance?" Eleanor hoped she had succeeded in keeping her voice devoid of the anger she felt at Sister Ruth's insolent manner.
     
    "She is never late for prayer, my lady."
     
    Eleanor bit the inside of her cheek, regretting that there had been nothing, or at least nothing obvious, offered to sweeten her arrival at Tyndal. Indeed, she could list two more good reasons for her charges not to accept her. Having been raised at Amesbury Priory since the age of six, she lacked the secular world experience required of most Fontevraud prioresses; moreover, she was only twenty, very young compared to most of the other nuns here. Each shortcoming, indeed all three, might mean little to a king giving gifts to a loyal lord, but to the women who were quietly studying her, none were trivial. With sharp pain, she felt each one of her deficiencies. Compared to the woman who might have sat in this prioress' seat, but for the grace of kings, Eleanor knew she fell far short in the eyes of those sitting before her.
     
    "I see," Eleanor, said, though in truth she did not. Nor would she. Although tempted, she would not explain to Sister Ruth the need to balance God's work with prayers to God, nor would she chastise her in public for rude and arrogant behavior to a religious superior. It was Christina who needed counseling on maintaining balance and Ruth who required delicate diplomacy if Eleanor was ever going to win her allegiance. Embarrassing this woman in front of the other nuns, as appealing as that course was now, would not accomplish that.
     
    Eleanor glanced up at the rough beam rafters above her. I may not be your elected choice, she thought as she looked