A Twisted Vengeance

Across the hedgerow, up in the solar, Eleanor lay in bed, rubbing a salve into the scratches on her face. Her tears had washed away what she had earlier applied and the salt burned on the open wounds.

Why do you forsake me, my Lord? Why do you reject my offering? Am I not sufficiently humbled? Is my Martha House an abomination to you? How may I serve you? How may I make amends? Is there no path of grace for me?

She had so wanted the peace she’d found in the company of the beguines. To forgive. To forget. To begin again. Perhaps that had been too selfish. The blame she saw in Katherine’s eyes was fair. Eleanor was to blame for Walter’s death, her last surviving son, her eldest. Encouraging him to seek out his child, Petra, never thinking how that might reignite all the hate between her family and that of Petra’s dead mother, the Cavertons. She would do anything to take back that letter. Too much blood had been spilt between the Cavertons and the Cliffords for the families to ever come together in peace. Their enmity had long ago gone beyond that between the Scots and the English, the border raids. For Eleanor Petra was both a precious gift and a painful reminder of Katherine’s childhood, of her three sons – all killed by the Cavertons, and of her husband, whom she had betrayed. The pain is too much, Holy Mother. It comes out in angry words.

And now she might lose the house in which the beguines had begun to make their home. How brave and selfless Sister Clara was, to suggest returning to the maison dieu, living for the nonce under Magistra Matilda’s rules, which meant, among other changes, that they might be forbidden to work for pay, depending only upon the largess of Thomas Holme and other benefactors. They would lose income, their independence further from reach than ever.

I pray for grace, my Lord. Am I so unworthy of your gift? Why does everything I touch turn to ashes?

Or is your quarrel with my beguines and their message of love, compassion, finding you within themselves? Is it possible you forsake them? That those who condemn the beguines for their message of love as arrogance speak for you?

She could not believe that. Would not believe that. Did not God say, “I am the light of the world, and whoever follows me will no longer walk in the dark, and he will find and have the light of life”? Surely the gospels did not lie.

Breathing slowly and deeply, Eleanor tried to quiet her mind. She’d begun to drift off when she heard two sounds, one here in the room, one down in the hall. In the near darkness, one of the women rose from the pallets near her door, stumbling with a soft thud. A muttered curse. Nan. Rose never cursed. And someone was down below in the hall, Eleanor was certain of it. Griffin? He would enter only if he had cause, to follow an intruder. Eleanor lay still, moving her attention back and forth between the near sounds of Nan dressing and the far sounds of someone moving about in the hall. What to do? Let Nan discover the intruder? Or was she expecting him? Eleanor held her breath, waiting for Nan to step through the doorway. Then she would follow.

The wait was agony, her heart pounding, hands and feet going so cold they ached, but she dared not move. She wanted to catch Nan in the act. She was certain now, Nan had risen almost at once when the door opened down below. She must have been lying awake, alert, waiting. For whom? Eleanor meant to find out. Perhaps this was why she could not sleep, this was God’s will, that she was awake to discover Nan’s betrayal.

No, she was judging before she knew the truth. Quiet, Eleanor, empty yourself. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathed.

The door creaked open. The leather hinges were old, dry, causing the wooden door to rub against the doorway. Someone had lit a candle or lamp down below, and Eleanor could just make out Nan’s outline in the doorway.

When the maidservant was out of sight, Eleanor rose, rubbing her hands and stepping from foot to foot to bring life back to them, listening at the open door. Rose stirred. Eleanor whispered that it was nothing.

Down below, Nan called softly, “Robin? Is that you?”

“No, Nan. Not Robin.”

Katherine. It was Katherine down below. God bless her. Eleanor rose, threw on a light mantle, and slipped out to the landing.

Though Kate would have preferred the dark, she was too unfamiliar with her mother’s hall to move about blindly, so she’d brought a lantern from home, opening the shutter just enough to find a sheltered spot and settle. She was about to close the shutter when the floorboards creaked directly overhead. Stealthy movements. Someone dressing? She held her breath, waiting. A door groaned open. Bare feet on the creaky steps.

“Robin? Is that you?” Nan’s voice.

Rising from her corner, Kate shone her light on the young woman.

“No, Nan. Not Robin.”

The young woman gasped. “I– I thought–” Nan’s fair hair hung loose round her shoulders. She carried shoes in her hands, and a scarf.