by Leah Fleming
Without visits to her cousin she would have fallen deep into despair so it was worth any punishment just to hear the latest gossip: who was fined for fornication at the Longhall court sessions, who was carrying whose child, town gossip from the pedlars and journeymen, which was mostly about some terrible sickness in the southern shires where a man could break fast with his family in the morning and sup with his forefathers in the other world, such was its power to lay low. Agnes did not like the sound of this at all but they were strict in the Priory about letting in strangers from afar. It was the other night-time visitors to the dormitories no one ever bothered to report. Local men – the Reeve, the Steward, sometimes a friar or priest – often managed to pass a night under the Priory roof undetected, but they were not the type to bring in the pestilence.
Not that she was supposed to share any of these secrets. No one spoke to her if they could help it and she was all but invisible to the other novices, born as they had been in genteel manor houses. They had not had to endure a three-storey city tenement house in Baker’s Lane with an open sewer running down the street, sharing the upstairs lodgings with her family and the apprentice bakers. The smell of warm bread still made her stomach heave, she hated it so much.
At least being ignored meant no one wanted to bed with her in her cubicle but neither was she allowed one of the boarders to warm her toes on at night. Agnes hated it when they whispered and tittered in front of her. Sometimes they left muck in her bed or dead mice or bloody rags and made her change it before them. Dame Iseult, niece of Dame Serena de Saulte, was the worst tease and seemed to take delight in sneering at her rough speech and homespun manners, calling her low-browed, coarse-skinned and freckled. The haughty nun in her silk veiling and fine linen had the power to wound or reward with a look or a smile. The other young nuns bleated after her like stupid sheep.
When no one was around Iseult would catch Agnes alone and spitefully pinch her breast or under her arm where the flesh was thin. Agnes would never flinch which only seemed to make matters worse.
After three months her resolve was weakening. She felt such a sick sadness wash over her that she envied the nuns lying under the turf warmed by the evening sun in the orchard cemetery; their life’s struggle was over while hers was neverending. She would take herself off to the little cluster of graves close to the shrine of the venerable Ambrosine de Saultain, founder of the Priory, who had lived just to see the day when the church was consecrated before being buried close to the stone walls with many of her family. Only here did Agnes allow herself to break down and weep.
It just was not fair that she was made to be the chosen one given to God while her sister Margery got the dowry and Hamon the apprentice when he became a master baker. ‘It should have been me!’ How often she had cried herself to sleep with that thought. She hated the Priory, Dame Juliane and Dame Iseult – but not as much as she loathed her twin sister, Margery Bagshott. She could rot in hell and Agnes would never say a Mass for her relief. Never in this world.
There’d been twoers in the Bagshott family for generations, as far back as anyone could remember, certainly as far as Edric the Miller of Longhall and his seed corn. Some poor soul always got two for the price of one, an extra mouth to feed and two dowries to find, so it was nothing unusual when Agnes and Margery were born within minutes of each other.
As she scraped more dung from the stone floor, Agnes brooded on her own misfortune. Hamon had belonged to her, not to Margery. It was her at whom he first winked and smiled. The sight of his fair locks curling down his neck, broad shoulders and fine physique, made her swoon in anticipation of their coupling. She was the elder twin and, although they were almost as alike as two peas in a pod, the taller by a thumb measure. But crafty Margery sensed the way the wind was blowing, caught the scent of handfasting on the air. She guessed that as the youngest the nunnery would be her fate if she did not act quickly to escape.
Margery knew all about trickery, already having a string of faithful swains hanging around the market square hoping to catch a glimpse of her proud bearing, lustrous corn-gold braids and green eyes fringed with amber lashes. So it was easy to call herself Agnes, dress in her sister’s gown, curl her finger at poor Hamon and ascend to the attic to prove her love for him, hooking him like worm on the bait. The stupid dolt didn’t realise he’d been duped until the bun was in the oven and a betrothal must be announced. Agnes fled in tears from the celebrations and the hasty wedding. It was the oldest deception and so easy to accomplish. Neither needed a looking glass to see a reflection of herself but under the skin the sisters were very different. Margery was sly and lazy, mean-hearted and confident of her power. She was evil and Agnes hated her with every fibre of her being for this final treachery.
Now here she was, mucking out a dovecote in the darkness, weeding the physick garden, collecting herbs and drying them in bunches to be stored, like any yard woman. All the other plots were tended by women from the village. The food was prepared by cooks and the Prioress had her own servants. Yet where was the life of embroidery and needlework Agnes had been promised, the chance to learn to read and sing offices? Her hands were coarsened now by grit not flour, her brow darkened and freckled by the sunshine. No fine tunics of silk for her, only the Guild gift of a black woollen habit, and now she was forbidden to wear a shift underneath as another penance for sneaking through the garden gate out on to the mead banks by the stream and so missing Compline.
Few of the other nuns wore a habit. There was always fierce competition to see who was wearing the brightest coloured summer gown, the fanciest of embroidered girdles and purses, and who showed the palest forehead and the softest hair under their veils.
The new Prioress, Dame Serena, had set a much more elegant and light tone among the Priory’s occupants.
The Prioress drifted in and out as she pleased, trailed by two little hounds and a pretty child of about five to whom she chattered in French, referring to her as her little protégée Amicia, or Amy for short. Amy looked like a fairy, dressed in fine flowing dresses with a cascade of blonde curls down to her waist. She wore a garland of fresh flowers round her hair, freshly picked from the Prioress’s private garden every morning. She slept in the Prioress’s chamber and did not mix with the other boarders, being a house guest. No one knew how she came to be living with Dame Serena and who but Dame Iseult was in a position to question her presence? She remained silent on the matter.
In the four months since her arrival, Agnes had seen the Prioress no more than six times in all. Dame Iseult let it be known that Dame Serena was far too busy entertaining guests of great importance to attend the humdrum daily routine of their offices and chapter meetings. She had her own chaplain and a private chapel in which to receive Mass when it fitted in with her plans. Dame Serena gave fine dinners and feasts and had a constant stream of visitors.
Aggie was sure any guest must get better food than was dished up to her. She longed for the trenchers of broth and boiled beef, the pies and stews, which Mother had prepared. Here she was always starving. In a few months she had descended to little more than a field peasant with nut brown arms and hollow cheeks. No one had bothered to visit her and had they bothered she would have been unrecognisable to them all, except perhaps Hamon. Soon he would be bringing his new bride to Longhall to set up a bakery and oven alongside his uncle in the village. That would wipe the smile off Mags’s face, being sent up here out of the city smoke and bustle!
Agnes had gleaned as much news as she could from Kit on her stolen visits but lately she had her own fresh source of supply – Hamon himself! How she had missed their talks, and the way they had danced when the shop was shuttered. He’d always gone red in the face when she’d smiled at him and she’d known he still desired her despite being wed to her sister so it was no surprise when she caught a glimpse of him over the wall, peering up from the mill ponds where he called with his cart on a roundabout route to Longhall to visit his kin. Agnes had waved and whistled shamelessly an
d signalled a tryst down by the brook.
At first it was awkward, they hardly dared look at each other, but finally he held out his arms to her and she knew he loved her. It had been so easy just to let him do whatever he pleased with her there and then in the bushes with darkness as their cover. She lay with legs open like a harlot, waiting for the touch of flesh on flesh. His tongue was rough in her mouth but gentle on her breasts, arousing such a fever in her groin that she screamed out for him to end this torment. The explosion of pleasure she felt then had taken her out of her body and into a new world.
After this it was easy to repeat the trysts each week. Agnes knew of a track through the boundary hedge, well trodden for just such occasions, and they would meet by the stream to satisfy their mutual craving. But soon she began to resent how little time they could enjoy together, and when Margery arrived in Longhall it was not going to be so easy for him to escape at night. Hamon said his wife was in no hurry to leave Baker’s Lane and that she was no longer with child. It was all a mistake, apparently.
What a surprise! I bet she never was, thought Agnes grimly.
Darkness was the best part of the day for her. It held no fears. She would put a bolster under the meagre counterpane to hide her absence, sneak down the staircase and run to the cloister gate which was always left ajar for the comings and goings of other night visitors. Then she would speed across the orchard field to the back gate, out along Frideswelle stream and down to Black Brook, hoping her lover would not be late.
Afterwards it was hard to raise herself for the two o’clock bell which started the day, and the patter of cold feet along the cloister walk, hardly opening her eyes. She knew the bags under them were as heavy as an apothecary’s pouches. But Hamon’s visits were the elixir of life to her.
If only they could escape together and start afresh, far away from this wretched place. But try as she might she could not believe that Hamon the baker was strong enough to leave the bakehouse and his new wife and face the shame of living tally. So for them there could only be the dangerous stolen meetings for which Agnes lived and breathed.
She prayed the wearisome high-born bunch would be far too busy enjoying themselves ever to notice one more adulteress in their midst, especially a sixteen-year-old charity case, low-born and coarse. ‘Common as muck’ she was called often enough, but dove muck was precious it seemed. She should be safe so long as she kept her hands on the wheelbarrow, eyes meekly on the path, and her thoughts a secret from everyone but God.
‘In the name of the venerable Ambrosine de Saultain, first Prioress and founder of this House, who at the calling of the Lord went the way of all flesh and paid to the earth the debt of human kind in the year of Our Lord 1120, who being potent in so many virtues, shining with many graces, restraining herself from all movement of carnal lust, by Divine urging withdrawing herself and escaping the embraces of men to be honoured in perpetuity by the prayers of this House, I do solemnly greet the Dames of Saint Mary of the Frideswelle and hereby announce my intention to make visitation to the above House four weeks hence, where as is custom I will celebrate Divine office…’
‘Botheration… Hell’s teeth! A visitation and inspection of the accounts. That’s all I need!’ screamed Serena de Saulte as she flung the parchment across the chamber floor. The child darted nimbly under the oak table board to shelter from this outburst. The Prioress dipped her fingers in the finger bowl, wiped them down her gown and picked up the parchment, bending to bestow a smile on the frightened little girl who crawled out and crept on to her knee, sucking her thumb.
‘Do that again, Amy, and I’ll put wormwood on your fingers. You know it will spoil your teeth. Why does the naughty man always write to us in Latin when we parlons français… See, he seeks to shame me again, ma petite.’
Amy snuggled into her. ‘Le jardin, Maman, toute ’suite? We play with Frou Frou…’
‘Not now, darling. When Maman has done her nasty work. Be patient. See, I have a comfit for you. Now sit quietly, there’s a good girl.’
There was no one to overhear this conversation, thank goodness. The child was growing like grass in springtime and every day Serena thought her more like herself and her kin. It was hard not to indulge in the fancy that Amicia was her very own baby, not a foundling left at the door, wet nursed by Kit the Miller’s wife and brought back to her chambers when Serena realised that all she needed to complete her happiness was a little damozel to dress up and play with like a toy. Brushing the child’s flaxen hair, soft as silk, always soothed her troubled spirits, and sleeping beside that little warm body smelling of rose petals and lavender was bliss. Whoever her kin were, one at least was high-born, judging by the height of her brow, her swan’s neck and proud bearing. She was no cottar’s child – unless seeded by one of Serena’s own kin perhaps.
Becoming Prioress was always the prerogative of the de Saulte women but no one had warned her about all the tiresome duties and obligations which went with the privilege, such as regular meetings with Robert the Steward, a dour-faced lump who was always giving her bad news and insisting she sell off bits of land here and there to pay their mounting debts. He would stand there reeling off how many of their tenants were overdue with their rents, their fines, their days of obligation to work in the fields. How the Miller was holding back grain for himself, blaming the poor yields on the weather, the blight, the storms. She was sick of him, bringing doom and gloom with his muddy boots, smelly hose and grubby tunic. Then there was the cleric who dealt with the church tithes, which were so much down from last year that she wondered if he was cheating her. He dealt with payments on the deaths of tenants, and burial fees and Masses afterwards. The Church’s own land close by needed better tenants and tools, and repairs to a leaking thatch on the barn and the withy fences. There was always something to be spent, accounted for, paid out. It made her head spin for she barely understood it all. No wonder her account books were a shambles of crossings out and blotches.
Another headache were the fees and dowries for child boarders and novices. Their numbers were down again and that was not good news for the income of the Priory. Anxious parents entrusting their little ones needed reassurance that St Mary’s was the best school in the district and worthy of their patronage. The last visitation in 1331 received no ‘omnia bene’ but a list of recommendations and criticisms on every front. Her poor Aunt Sabillia had been quite embarrassed at the furore and promptly resigned. The Sub Prioress did her best but was never really up to the task, having no head for numbers or brain for Latin and French. So the revenues fell and now Serena de Saulte was faced with a peasant’s dilemma: how to eat within her tether. And de Saultes were not trained to make do with what was on hand.
‘Maman… vite! Play hide and seek with Frou Frou,’ called Amy as they descended to the garden.
‘In a minute. And please be careful, Amy. It’s dirty in the garden, all these mucky plants to soil our clothes.’
‘Can I paddle in the stream?’
‘Only if you lift up your skirts and save your hem.’
And there was the blessed garden to see to. What a nuisance! And the yard girls were so stupid. As she walked down the wide path, her train brushing the stones, all around her was as near to perfection as Serena could make it. Gone were the straggly borders and drooping plantings of the old infirmary beds, the wanton peonies and dreary lilies. She found lilies so waxen and depressing, reminding her that death must come to all. Serena had ripped out every plant and started again, instructing the Hortolana and the yard girls to lift the soil into neat raised beds edged with stones and to cover the ground over with soft grass neatly shaved, with a tuffet of camomile placed on top to form a cool seat in the shade under a trellis arbour covered with Rosa alba and eglantine. She preferred only soft colours on the eye, nothing brash or bright to spoil the neat effect. No weed must poke its head out of the earth to shame their husbandry; no floppy gillyflowers or wandering plants were allowed to stray out of their allotted space in t
he kitchen yard. Her private pleasance was laced tightly, corseted, staked and controlled, and Serena would brook no thorn or prickle to harm the child as she played with her hoop and hobby horse there.
The flowers were past their best now, flopping and rotting, and the roses were covered in a powdery mildew. It must all be hacked down for it offended the eye and Serena must look only to the ivy-clad walls and winter evergreens to refresh the coming greyness.
It was always a relief to turn indoors away from the bare winter drabness. There was so much to do. Amy needed warmer gowns and she must take herself down to the city market and the cloth merchant to examine the latest fabrics. She would have to order bolts of russets, white veiling, kerseys, friezes, hollands, fur and ribbons to trim up the child’s outfits. Dame Dorothea the Sacrist would fashion her some lovely garments.
It gave Serena such pleasure to see the little one twirling and skipping down the wide paths towards the woodland walk, close to the forest wall.
‘Mind the water, Amy, the stew pond is hidden…’
She worried about the Bishop’s visit. He would expect hospitality and bring a whole retinue of officials and scribes. Inspectors would interview every blessed nun and novice, write reports, consume their meat and expect extra dried fruit and nuts, good ale and sweetmeats, before they left. If only she could think of an excuse to put him off. She did not want strangers to visit, especially now that there were rumours of pestilence in the shire. She was glad that she had her own separate apartments at the end of the buildings where she had rearranged all the services to suit her need for privacy with a supply of fresh water from the well before it was diverted all over the Priory to ponds, latrines and the mill, though lately there was trouble even there.
Everyone knew that pestilence was spread by the foul air from the south, it was carried on the wind and the dust. That was why she liked to be clean and keep any filth from her hands. Dame Maud the Sub Prioress was very lax with the House, letting them eat with fingers undipped. Serena’s fingers were raw with the number of times she dipped her hands in pure water tinctured with Hungary rose oil. She had fresh squares of linen to pat them dry.
