by Ann Swinfen
‘Is Rafe coming?’ I asked.
‘Nay,’ Alysoun said. ‘He is taking Rowan over to Jonathan Baker’s.’
‘Then let us be off,’ I said. ‘Where is this side of bacon, Margaret?’
I had not been inside the house in St Mildred Street since the day we had moved the Farringdons in, and I was surprised to see how much like a home it already seemed. The new plaster on the street frontage had dried out in the summer heat, despite the fact that the street was narrow and shaded. Merton must have sent one of their servants to lime wash the whole front of the building early that very morning, for it was still drying out, the wet patches shining, while the dry areas were dull and chalky white.
Inside, Mistress Farringdon had hung a single painted cloth on one wall. It was quite small, but added colour, since the rest of the walls were the same chalk white as the outside of the house. There was also a bright home-woven rug on the floor, which I recognised from Margaret’s bedchamber. With cushions piled up on the stools and coffers, and a posy of pink cranesbills on the table, the room was pretty and welcoming.
When I carried the crock of peas and the side of bacon through to the kitchen, I found Mistress Farringdon taking a batch of pastries out of the bread oven beside the hearth. Like Margaret, she would have baked her bread first, then used the residual heat for any other baking. With her cheeks rosy from the heat, she had lost the drawn and fearful look she had worn before.
‘Where shall I put these, mistress?’ I said.
‘Oh, Master Elyot,’ she cried, ‘you and Margaret have done so much for us, too much. You cannot give away all your store of food!’
‘I am sure we have more than enough,’ I said. ‘I see there’s a hook on that beam. I’ll hang the bacon there.’
‘Aye, thank you. And the crock will fit on the shelf by the window.’
As I was hanging up the bacon, Juliana and Alysoun ran past to the stairs, followed by little Maysant, who seemed determined not to be left out. Beyond them, the door to the garden stood open, to disperse the heat from the cooking, although the air outside was not much cooler. I went to look out of the door.
‘Someone has made a start on the garden,’ I said.
‘Aye,’ Mistress Farringdon said. ‘Master Brinkylsworth and one of his students have been scything it.’
‘Jordain had best take care he does not sever his foot,’ Margaret said dryly, as she unloaded her own basket of kitchen goods on to the table. ‘He is apt to go off into a dream and forget what he is doing.’
‘Oh, come, Margaret,’ I said, ‘Jordain grew up on a farm, just as we did. He knows how to wield a scythe.’
I stepped out into the wilderness behind the house. As well as the path cleared to the well, there was now a another leading toward the far end of the garden, but so far only reaching about halfway. The scythe had been left propped against the back wall of the house, so I took off my cotte, rolled up the sleeves of my shirt, and set to. I could at least clear a few more feet while I waited for Margaret and Alysoun.
I came back into the house perhaps an hour later, hot, tired, and wringing with sweat, to find food laid out on the table, which Mistress Farringdon insisted that we must share. After we had eaten, Alysoun begged to stay sewing with Juliana, while Margaret, Mistress Farringdon, and I walked down to the High Street.
‘I am taking Maud to meet Mary Coomber,’ Margaret said. ‘Mary may have work for her, making cheeses in the dairy.’
I frowned. ‘But Mistress Farringdon,’ I said, ‘you are a gentlewoman. You should not labour in a dairy.’
She laughed. ‘Oh, Master Elyot, although my sister married into the gentry, I am but a yeoman farmer’s wife. I know very well how to make cheese. It is pleasant work. All the more pleasant to be in a cool dairy on such hot days as these! And, if you would be so kind, please call me Maud, as your sister does.’
I bowed my acknowledgement of this. ‘And I am Nicholas, if you please, mistress.’
She smiled. ‘Nicholas, then.’
We had reached the corner where St Mildred Street met the High, with All Saints church on our left and the Mitre on our right. As the women turned left, I hesitated.
‘I think it is not too late to ride out to Godstow today,’ I said. ‘I shall bespeak a horse at the Mitre. I shall be home for supper, Margaret.’
She nodded. ‘You had best change your shirt before you go,’ she said. ‘It is stained from the garden.’
I looked down and saw that she was right. It would not do to address the abbess in a shirt besmirched with green stains from carrying bundles of nettles and thistles to the heap Jordain had started. My hands, too, were far from clean.
‘I shall not disgrace you,’ I said lightly. ‘I shall make myself respectable.’
Indeed it took me the best part of an hour, I should judge, to wash thoroughly after my strenuous labour in the heat, and then to don not only a clean shirt but also clean hose (the ones I had been wearing were likewise stained, and one knee previously darned). I was reluctant to wear a cotte, having carried mine home with me slung over my shoulder, but I decided that to appear before the holy sisters in shirt and hose might be considered tantamount to undress. I found the thinnest cotte I possessed, made of a fine linsey-woolsey, cooler than pure wool.
As the afternoon was wearing on, I urged Rufus along St Giles and the Woodstock road more swiftly than on our previous visit to the abbey, so that we were both glad when we reached the shady tunnel through the trees on the trackway to Wolvercote. I saw that the inn perched on the nearside bank of the river was busy dispensing ale to a large group of villeins, reddened from the sun. Haymaking must be finished.
At Godstow, John Barnes greeted me cheerfully.
‘Dost wish to see the Reverend Mother again, Master Elyot?’ he said as I tethered Rufus to the same ring as before. ‘I do believe she is working with Sister Clemence over the monthly accounts.’ He winked at me. ‘Not the best time to visit. Short tempers all round, when the figures do not add up right.’
‘Oh.’ My face fell. ‘I have really come about the new book of hours which is being made for me. It is to be for Lady Amilia Stanhope, and she has certain special requirements. I was hoping to pass these on before the book has progressed too far.’
‘I’ll tell you what will be best, sir,’ he said. ‘’Tis Sister Mildred the precentrix who looks after everything to do with books. You wait here and I will see whether she is in the scriptorium or the library.’
This was better than I had hoped. If I could bypass the abbess and Sister Clemence, I might even be able to see Emma Thorgold herself. I sat down on the porter’s stool, placed outside in the shade of the gatehouse and waited impatiently. It seemed a long while before he returned, but perhaps he had not found the precentrix at once.
‘If you will follow me, Master Elyot,’ he said, ‘Sister Mildred is in the scriptorium with the novice who is making the book. You will know her, of course, Sister Benedicta, whose cousin was murdered.’
I nodded and sprang to my feet. So I would be able to speak to Emma, if the two women were together. The porter led me across the wide outer court of the enclave, past the guest house where I had met Emma before, and into the cloisters.
The scriptorium lay at one end of the south facing cloister, occupying two adjacent carrels, so that two nuns might work at copying and illuminating, but it was clear than only one was in use at the moment, where one black clad figure was bowed over the desk, and another, standing behind her, was examining the work.
‘Sister Mildred,’ Barnes said, ‘here is Master Elyot, to see you about the new book.’
I made my reverence to the nun, who must have been about sixty. She had a tranquil face, marked only with creases about the eyes and mouth, betokening a lifetime of smiling. If this was the nun who supervised Emma’s work, she was indeed fortunate. I tried to keep my eyes averted from the girl herself, whose head was bent in concentration over her work, but I noticed that the hand holding the qui
ll had begun to tremble. She laid down the quill in a groove at the back of the desk, for fear – I suspected – of spoiling the page.
Barnes leaned over to examine it.
‘Very pretty, Sister Benedicta. Is that Daniel with the lions, there in the capital?’
I was surprised that he spoke so freely to the sisters, but they did not appear to mind. It seemed the porter had an assured place here, at least amongst the more tolerant nuns. Perhaps he would be more deferential to the abbess and Sister Clemence. Which of the nuns, I wondered, had carried out the beating of Emma that Barnes had mentioned on my previous visit? Not this Sister Mildred, I was certain. And it must have been authorised by the abbess, though I would not have thought her a cruel woman.
‘Aye, John,’ Emma said quietly. ‘It will be Daniel. But of course at the moment I have only outlined it. It will be better when I have applied the colours.’
‘A rich tawny gold for the lions,’ Sister Mildred said. ‘We may need to make it up specially.’
‘I believe I may have the very colour you need,’ I said. ‘I can bring you a bottle.’
All this time, Emma had kept her back to me, but I sensed that she was very aware of my presence just behind her.
John Barnes returned to his gatehouse and Sister Mildred smiled at me.
‘I understand that you have some particular instructions for this book, Master Elyot, is that right?’
‘It is,’ I said. ‘Lady Amilia Stanhope wishes to purchase it, and has requested certain special features to be included, if I might explain them to your scribe?’
‘Certainly. I will leave you to discuss them with Sister Benedicta. I shall be in the library if you should need me.’
She withdrew through the door into the adjacent room, which I saw contained shelves for a collection of books and scrolls. Quite a respectable collection for a nunnery, but Godstow was long established and wealthy. She left the door open between us, so that we were in a sense chaperoned, but only mildly. I sat down on the scribe’s bench, but took care to keep to the far end, so that I did not touch even the edge of Emma’s habit.
‘How are you?’ I asked softly. ‘John Barnes told me you were beaten.’
For the first time she looked at me. I thought she seemed tired and drawn.
‘The injuries are healing,’ she said dully. ‘A friend – one of the schoolgirls – salved them for me, else they might have festered.’
I felt myself flushing with anger. ‘That is monstrous!’ I said. I wanted to shout it, but managed to keep my voice down.
She shrugged. ‘I was disobedient. I took off my sandals and waded in the river, out by the meadow, where we are not permitted to go. The punishment was justified. But the pleasure Sister Mercy took in it was not.’
‘Sister Mercy?’
‘The mistress of the novices. You had best tell me what Lady Amilia requires. We will not have long.’
‘I have it all written here.’ I drew a folded paper from the breast of my shirt. It was warm from contact with my chest. ‘I could have sent it with one of my scriveners, I suppose, but I wanted to see you.’
I had not meant to say that, but the words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. In confusion, I laid the paper on the desk, and our hands touched briefly. She flinched, or so I thought, until she turned her head and looked me full in the face. I caught my breath. She was flushed and her eyes were full of appeal.
‘Can you help me?’ she whispered. ‘My stepfather has handed me over as a gift to the abbey, an oblate, but I cannot, I will not, take the vows. I must escape.’
‘When?’ I too was whispering now, though I cast a sidelong glance at the open door to the library. ‘When are you to take your vows?’
‘Less than two weeks from today.’
‘Did you know that your aunt is now in Oxford? My friend Jordain and I have been helping her settle, with the two girls.’
‘John Barnes told me she was coming, but he did not know where she would be living.’
‘I have been there this morning,’ I said. ‘It is a small house, but pleasant, two doors south of St Mildred’s Church, in St Mildred Street. Do you know Oxford?’
She shook her head. ‘Nay, I do not. And I cannot be a burden to my aunt, she has nothing. If I can escape this place, I must find work, but how to escape is my greatest worry.’
I opened my mouth to tell her what I had learned about her grandfather, then closed it again. No need to confuse matters now.
‘Have you any plan?’ I said. ‘I do not know how strictly you are confined within the enclave.’
‘Very strictly,’ she said, with a wry smile. ‘I may not set foot outside the walls.’
‘So little time. Otherwise I might have found you a lawyer, but you could not take your case to court within the next two weeks.’
‘I should not know how to go about it.’
‘Nor I,’ I admitted. ‘I believe such a case would be heard in the Court of Chancery, in London, although that might be disputed by the Church. They might claim that it is an ecclesiastical matter.’
We looked at each other helplessly.
‘I can hardly kidnap you,’ I said ruefully.
‘If I came to Oxford, could I become a scrivener?’
I hated to disappoint her, but I must be honest. ‘Women are never employed as scriveners. Not in the world outside. Only within a nunnery.’
She sighed. ‘It does not matter. I will do anything. I can cook, a little, do laundry. We learn many useful skills here, besides singing and praying.’ Her tone was ironic. Then she spoke more earnestly. ‘I should be happy to be a servant in some decent family’s house, if only I can be free!’
I thought she did not understand how little freedom a servant maid would have, but such matters could be decided later.
‘My sister Margaret could probably help you. She is trying to find work for your aunt.’
‘You have a sister?’
‘An older sister, widowed. She keeps house for me.’
‘You are fortunate. My parents are dead and I have neither sister nor brother.’
I realised I could not linger here much longer, or it would arouse suspicions. ‘When do you think you will complete the book? I would then have reason to collect it, to take it to the binder. Perhaps we could contrive some means for you to go with me.’
She shook her head. ‘It cannot be finished. Not before the time appointed for Sister Ursula and me to take our vows. I can only work on it when the light is good and I am not required to attend services. Even though I have been excused lessons, it cannot be finished in time.’
She was right, of course. Work as fine as hers took time. She would not rush it. I was beginning to realise that Lady Amilia’s book might never be completed.
I was thinking frantically. I had come hoping merely to see her again, and yet I knew that at the back of my mind had always been the thought: What if she could avoid taking her vows?
‘There can be no hope of taking your plea to court before then, but I will speak to a lawyer – Oxford is well provided with lawyers! I am sure I can find someone to act as your man of law. It might be possible to delay your admission as a nun until the matter had been settled in court. I think that is your best hope. That way all may be resolved without offense to the abbey. Surely they have no wish to have a forced nun living amongst them?’
She shrugged again, and I saw that I had disappointed her. ‘Whatever you wish.’ She picked up her quill. ‘Do you need to explain the wishes of the lady about her book?’
She was dismissing me. I rose to my feet. As I did so, the little dog Jocosa peeped out from beneath the bench, where she had been hidden by the skirts of Emma’s habit.
‘They are all set out clearly in the paper.’ I felt ashamed that I could not offer more positive action, but to carry her off from the abbey could bring us both nothing but grave danger. It was surely best to use the weapon of the law.
‘I will bring you the tawny gold i
nk,’ I said, in a voice loud enough to be heard by Sister Mildred in the library. ‘Probably in two days’ time.’ I lowered my voice and added. ‘By then, I shall have spoken to a lawyer. Be of good courage.’
I stepped through the door to the library and bade farewell to the precentrix, then made my way out of the cloisters and across the enclave to the gatehouse.
‘Very talented artist, isn’t she?’ John Barnes said, as I unhitched Rufus and prepared to mount. ‘Not happy here, though.’
I paused, with my left foot in the stirrup. ‘I am sure you are a good friend to her.’
He smiled. ‘Not much help a lay servant can be to one of the ladies, Master Elyot. Nor you neither.’
He was no fool, John Barnes.
I swung my right leg over the horse’s back and gathered up the reins. ‘I shall be back in a few days, with the ink for the lions,’ I said.
‘Aye,’ he said, and winked.
* * *
Emma turned her head cautiously and watched him stride away across the cloister garth. It was unreasonable to have expected him to help her. If he should be caught trying to smuggle her out of the abbey, he might be accused of any number of serious crimes. Abduction of a nun – even if she was only a novice – probably carried the death penalty. They would accuse him of rape, and no matter how violently she claimed that it was at her own instigation, she would be ignored, being a mere woman, and unfit to give evidence in such a case.
For a moment it had seemed possible. An ally, a man from outside the abbey, who had already shown her kindness over the matter of William’s death. And who seemed, unless she was imagining it, to care more for her than merely as a well-disposed stranger. She shivered. Her own feelings were confused. But she must keep her head clear. Nothing mattered now but escape from the abbey. Afterwards – if there should be an afterwards – in the world outside, then she would let herself think about Nicholas Elyot. As for now, she was alone, and she must take action alone and for herself.
