‘Where does she live, sister?’
‘The Sisterne House. Quite a few Romsey women there. I bid you good day, my lady. My way lies yonder.’ She left them so hurriedly that it was obvious she regretted what she’d said and wished to avoid Lady West’s inevitable questioning.
‘Well, dears. What have you been chattering about, eh? Come, you can tell me as we walk, but hurry, it’s starting to rain.’
In their hurry, the conversation mercifully turned to the general instead of the particular yet, in the shelter of Cool Brook House, Lydia could see her mistress’s determination to investigate further.
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Let it lie, love. It’s nothing to do with us, is it?’
‘Not directly, no. But I must know, Lydie.’
‘Why? Why must you?’
‘You know why. Because whoever was responsible got off scot-free, didn’t he? And I want to know who it was could do that to a maid and walk away smiling. She was pregnant, Lydie. She was my age. It broke her mother’s heart. You saw Dame Audrey, wretched and bitter. They’ve all clammed up to protect her, but they’re protecting the monster who did it, too.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘No. Stay here, Lydie. I’ll only be half an hour or so. Lady West’s having a nap, so I’ll be back before she wakes.’
‘It’s raining. You’ll get soaked. Do let me come.’
Felice was adamant about her need to meet Ellen Godden and to go alone. It was Sunday afternoon, she reminded her maid, and few people would be about, especially on a damp day. She dressed in loose comfortable clothes, sensible shoes, dark hooded cloak and a purse of coins to pay the porter of the Sisterne House, once known as the Sustren Spital, the small hospital for former nuns. Her white mare would be an obvious target for thieves and, anyway, it was not far on foot, she said, giving Lydia a last hug and slipping out through the garden door.
The pathway led on to a track through a field bordered by dripping may-blossom and now slippery with wet grass, the fine rain whipping uncomfortably across her, wrapping her skirt around her legs. The town wall was locked at Kingsgate, but the small postern door was opened for her, allowing her access into the southern suburbs where well-built houses were surrounded by plots and orchards. The deeply rutted track was already filling with brown water and the grey sky was low over the town, cutting out the light and obscuring the great tower of the cathedral behind her. But the Sisterne House was further than she thought, and soon she was obliged to stop and look back at the now straggling cottages, sure she must have passed it.
A young lad passed furtively by, carrying two dead rabbits and calling his lurchers to heel, making Felice wish that she had not left Flint and Fen behind at Wheatley. At her enquiry, he pointed away from the town into the distant field where a cluster of whitewashed thatched cottages huddled together in a sweeping cloud of rain.
‘Over there,’ he said, looking her up and down. ‘You in trouble then, lady?’
She was tempted to box his ears, but gave him a groat from her purse instead and thanked him. By the time she reached the muddy courtyard and ramshackle stables the rain had soaked through to her shoulders and legs, numbing her hands and face. The porter at the lodge was unwelcoming but came alive at the sight of a half-crown which Felice had the wit to hold on to until she had his full co-operation. ‘This is to let me in and out,’ she said. ‘Understand? I am Lady Felice Marwelle, staying at Lady West’s residence.’
It had the desired effect; he led her towards a dark passageway and a series of battered wooden doors, one of which had studs and bars across it.
‘Mistress Godden,’ the porter said, pointing. ‘She’ll be able to help you, my lady.’
Felice frowned. ‘It’s not…’ but stopped at the man’s pale stare, realising how it must seem to him. This was, after all, where Audrey Vyttery’s daughter had come to have her child.
Mistress Godden answered the door herself, but cautiously, as if to resent any disturbance, her eyes already sympathetic. ‘Yes?’ she whispered.
‘Lady Felice Marwelle. An acquaintance of Dame Audrey Vyttery. May I speak with you, briefly?’
Instantly, the woman held the door against her visitor, her eyes widening in alarm. ‘Nay, look…m’lady, I’m simply a goodwife. I had nothing to do with…’
‘No, wait, Mistress Godden! I’ve not been sent by her. In fact, she knows nothing of my visit. I have no axe to grind, I assure you. Please, may we not speak? I’ll not take much of your time.’
‘I’ve got a lass here. Well, she’ll be a while yet, and you’re soaked. Come on in.’ She opened the door just wide enough for Felice to squeeze through, shooting heavy bolts into position with a cracking sound. ‘You in trouble yourself, then?’ she said, searching Felice’s trim figure.
Mistress Ellen Godden was probably of Dame Audrey’s age, and her years at the nunnery in Romsey were now, like hers, only a distant memory. Apart from being clothed entirely in black, except for a grubby brown-stained apron, there was nothing to reveal her former vocation, not even her manner, which was confident and openly curious. Wisps of grey hair lay across her forehead, and these she continually pushed away, showing nails caked with grime. Quickly, she untied her apron and threw it into a corner.
The room was small and would have been ill lit even without the day’s heavy cloud, and it took a moment or two for Felice to see that one wall was a woollen curtain where the end of a pallet and a pair of bare feet could be seen. A groan came from behind the curtain.
Mistress Godden turned towards the sound. ‘Pant!’ she called, motioning Felice to sit. She gave a wry smile. ‘First one,’ she said. ‘Always takes longest.’
Felice took a stool, horrified by the squalid place where spiders’ webs hung like lace across the steamed-up window, and a table was piled high with grey towels, linen bundles and soiled clothes, bowls and a pair of rusting shears, a wooden bucket and a large tabby cat eating the remains of a mouse.
‘No,’ she said, holding back a sudden urge to be sick. ‘No, I’m not in any trouble, mistress. Sister Winifred told me where I might find you.’
‘Then it must be urgent, m’lady, for you to come on a day like this. And if it’s information you want about Audrey’s lass, I can’t help you. I’m not supposed to be doing this, you know. It’s a man’s job, according to them, that is. They’ll have me for a witch if word gets round.’
‘From what I’ve heard already, mistress, it doesn’t appear to be much of a secret, but I can understand your need for caution. Perhaps a small contribution will make things easier?’ She brought her purse forward and delved, showing the midwife two gold coins.
‘What is it you wish to know, lady? About Audrey’s lass, is it?’
‘If you please.’
‘Tch!’ Mistress Godden turned irritably towards the curtain again. ‘Pant!’ she called. ‘Go on, keep panting. You’ve got hours to go yet, lass! Well,’ she said to Felice, ‘I suppose if she’d wanted to go on living, she would have. But she didn’t see? The babe was dead inside her. Had a terrible time getting it out, and she didn’t help much.’
Felice had begun to shiver. ‘Wasn’t her mother here to help?’
‘Heavens, no. I managed alone, as I always do.’
‘I knew that Frances Vyttery died, mistress, but what I need to know is the identity of the father. Can you help me there?’
The woman looked away, clearly uncomfortable with the turn of the interrogation. ‘Ah…now…look. I’m just involved with the mother and child, not the father. If they wanted him to be known, they’d not be coming to me, would they? None of my business, that end of things, m’lady. Why not ask Dame Audrey herself, eh?’ She stood up, disturbing another cat as she did so. It sniffed at the apron on the floor and began to lick it.
The gorge rose in Felice’s throat, tempting her to give up and go. The two gold crowns pressed into her hand, and she delved for yet another one, holding them out to Mistress Godden. ‘Please,’
she whispered. ‘I believe you can tell me. Am I correct?’
The midwife studied them and sighed. ‘You’ll not be revenged,’ she said, indulgently. ‘Whatever your reason for wanting to know, you’ll never be glad for knowing. They’ll never change, m’lady. No amount of knowing will ever make a difference to them and they’ll never pay for it like women do. Ask her,’ she said, tipping her head towards the curtain.
‘All the same, I need to know. Was it her employer, Hakon Paynefleete? Is that why no one will say anything?’ She believed she had hit the mark when Mistress Godden sat down again rather quickly, making both cats look up in alarm, but the woman shook her head, searching Felice’s eyes for an alternative way round the truth.
‘Nay,’ she said. ‘She and her mother both got caught in the same net, didn’t they? Audrey with her priest and Frances with hers.’
‘What? Her priest?’
‘Aye. Paynefleetes had a young chaplain at that time. They got rid of him, quietly, of course. No fuss. Sent him packing, but it was too late, even for herbs. Frances was well gone. I reckon he should have married her but they wouldn’t have that, the Paynefleetes. They weren’t supposed to be having a chaplain, let alone a married one, and by the time the young lass came here she’d tried several times to get rid of it. I reckon that’s why she was in such a state.’
Shivering and nauseous, and heartily wishing she had taken Lydia’s advice, she stood up to go, holding the coins towards the woman.
‘That’s a lot of money,’ the woman said, suddenly reticent.
‘Yes, it is. Who was this cowardly chaplain? Where did he go?’
‘Ah, as to that, m’lady, I can only tell you half. He had an Italian sounding name. Monte-something?’
Felice swayed and clutched at the filthy cluttered court-cupboard. ‘Montefiore?’ she whispered.
‘That’s it!’ the midwife’s face lit up in recognition. ‘Father Timon, the lass called him. Been lovers for the best part of a year, from what I could gather.’ She held out a hand and took the coins. ‘You know him, then? My, but you’ve gone white as a sheet, m’lady. Here, sit down and—’
‘Unbolt the door! Let me out of here!’
But the howl from behind the curtain rose to a scream and Felice had just enough time to wrestle with the bolts, wrench the door open and slam it shut again before lurching blindly down the darkened passageway and out into the pouring rain. Gasping with shock and seeing nothing she recognised, she blundered across a yard and through a flock of preening geese, splashing through deep puddles and into marshy ground that ripped off her shoes, one after the other, throwing her like an unshod horse on to her hands and knees.
Time and again she fell, sobbing dry rasping moans, whipped by the rain and lashed by a new unrelenting wind. A clap of thunder cracked above her, and she ran through sheets of lightning that showed her only mile upon mile of water-meadow and, far off in the distance, a solid square tower that some reasoning told her must be the cathedral. The point that the cathedral was not situated within water-meadows entirely escaped her.
Headlong she stumbled, blind and uncaring, towards a wooden thatched building that in the semi-darkness she took to be a house. Then, almost screaming with frustration, she found that it had only one door. She lifted the wooden bar that held it shut, pushed at the heavy panels and fell face-downwards on to a dry floor scattered with clover-hay and there, as the storm in her heart matched the one outside, she gave in to torrents of blackest despair.
Less concerned by Sir Leon’s obvious anger than for her mistress’s safety, Lydia squared up to him with commendable courage. ‘She wouldn’t let me go with her, sir. I pleaded, but she insisted on going alone.’
‘Two hours, you say?’
‘More than that, sir. It was just after the mid-day meal, and she said it was not far, but I fear she must be soaked, if not lost.’
Sir Leon was very wet, his hair stuck down like black leather, his face as grim as anything Lydia had seen at Wheatley. With his valet, he had arrived at Cool Brook House to escort Felice to his home, only to find that he was too late to prevent her from doing what he had prayed she would not do. It had been the main reason for his vigilance, and now he had only himself to blame. ‘Little fool,’ he muttered. ‘Come, Adam. I know where this place is. We’ll find her, mistress.’
Lady West collided with them at the door. ‘Ah, Sir Leon. What a pleasant…oh! You’re not staying?’ she called after them.
The Sisterne House was no place for men, so it was hardly surprising when their imperious demands met with a disappointing response. Mistress Godden was in the middle of a difficult ‘illness’ and could not be disturbed, not even by money, which said something for her commitment. Sir Leon and Adam rode on, picking their way through deep mud and belting rain to the roar of thunder, their way lit by blue-white flashes that made the horses dance in alarm. It was during one such illumination that Adam spotted Felice’s shoes.
‘Right. That’s it!’ said Sir Leon. ‘She’s gone ahead. You go back, Adam, and tell Lady West I’ve found her. Tell them she’s safe.’
‘But, sir…’ Adam yelled above the din.
‘Tell them, Adam. There’s only one place she can shelter round here and that’s either at St Cross or in one of the barns. I’ll soon find out. Go!’
The wooden bar of the door was still swinging loosely in the wind as he pushed and led the big bay stallion inside, almost tripping over a woman’s wet cloak covered with hay. The air was warm and sweet-smelling, and even in the darkness Sir Leon had no difficulty unsaddling the horse and leading him over to a pile of loose hay.
‘There you are, my lad,’ he said, softly. ‘Try some of that while I have a look round. And don’t let anybody in. Or out.’
Chapter Eight
Through swollen eyelids, Felice saw the door open and, from her hiding place at the back of an empty byre, knew that it was a man and horse who, like herself, probably sought shelter from the rain. She had piled hay into a dense mound and, in the safety of the darkness, had stripped off most of her wet outer clothing and laid it over the wooden partitions to dry. Now, she began to wish she had not.
Silently, she wormed herself even further down into the prickling warmth, willing herself to be invisible as flashes of lightning lit up the intricate network of rafters above her. The man waited, watching, and then began a leisurely removal of his wet clothes and boots, laying them as she had done over the nearest partition. By this time his identity was clear and her outrage was doubled. Her teeth chattered with fury at his intrusion.
The thunder drowned out all other sounds, but she knew his search had begun as he moved from stall to stall, stopping as he came across her wet clothes, waiting again for the next terrifying flash to show him her whereabouts. Suddenly, the tension was too much. Like a hare, she leapt aside and over the partition into the next stall, then the next, crashing into the black shadowy form of his horse and away to the other side of the great barn where empty sacks were piled high like a wall. She snatched one and threw it in his direction, not waiting to see him catch it but dodging his closeness in a mad, irrational, frenzied panic, fleeing his outstretched hand and feeling his warm laugh on her back.
Her chemise was still damp, hampering her legs, so she pulled it between them and ran blindly across the stone floor, feeling the hay thicken underfoot and hold her like heavy water. She fell, rolled away, and was stopped by the bulk of him landing on top of her, pushing her deep down and giving her no leverage. As in a recurring dream, she knew that something similar had happened before, that she had fought and escaped, and that she and her attacker were unknown to each other. Yet this time, knowing seemed to make no difference, for she refused to acknowledge him, plead with him, or remind him of that time when neither of them had claimed a victory. This time, her anger was greater than her fear, and the damage she had every intention of inflicting upon him would be little to the damage her pride had suffered within the last hour.
&nbs
p; Unable to budge him, she used tooth and claw savagely and without a shred of mercy, biting hard into his arm and raking his bare chest with her nails, kneeing him when he rolled away in surprise and hearing with satisfaction the grunt of pain. But he was tough, and quick, and she was not allowed to get away as she had believed she might in the face of such unmitigated aggression.
Again, he threw her backwards and found her wrists, holding them in a cruel grip above her head that left her no means of retaliation. As if she had been in water, she felt herself drowning, awash with hair, hay and the restricting weight of his body. Mercifully, she felt him rise and drag her upwards, lift her out of the suffocating deepness into his arms, holding her close against his body, still powerless to move but free of the stifling, seething bog of hay. She sat across him, unable to do more than pant, gasping at the air in raucous mouthfuls, already aware that her intentions were now even more confused against the enclosing safety of his arms.
‘No…no!’ she sobbed. ‘Not you.’
‘Shh!’ he whispered, rocking her. ‘This is no time for talking.’
‘Let me go!’
‘No. Not this time.’ As if wading through foam, he carried her easily to where the stallion stood quietly munching in one of the stalls, and there she was deposited, in front of the horse’s nose, on the hay. He spoke to the stallion, not to her. ‘Keep her there, lad.’ He patted his neck and disappeared, leaving Felice to wait with only the horse’s massive head before her, lit by the occasional flash of lightning. The dull roar of rain came to her like the sound of a waterfall, and the crack of thunder muffled his return.
She felt his wet hair against her cheek and forehead as he carried her to the byre where she had first hid and where he had now spread a layer of empty sacks over the hay to make a smooth deep-filled bed. Enclosed by partitions on three sides and by the floor of the hay-loft above, the new imposition of his caring and the closeness of his body emphasised her own change of direction.
A Most Unseemly Summer Page 15
