by Ann Swinfen
She bent over her work again, but her hand was too unsteady to form the letters with the meticulous care she demanded of herself. Instead she picked up the paper Nicholas had left and unfolded it. It was ridiculous that her heart beat a little faster as she did so. When he had laid it on the desk, their hands had touched, and the paper had been warm. Now it was merely a sheet of paper, containing a list of the additions the Lady Amilia wished to have included in her book of hours.
So he had written this. It was excellent penmanship. She smiled. He could even earn his living as a scrivener, if he wished. Although she, being a mere woman, could not. She would have enjoyed completing this book of hours, even with all the unnecessary additions, but she knew that she could not. What she had told Nicholas Elyot was true. It would be impossible to finish it before the date set for her admission as a professed nun, therefore she must leave the work incomplete. She felt a pang of regret at the thought that someone else would finish the book, for it would have been some of her best work. Sister Mildred had a beautiful hand, but her drawings were tentative, as though she was shy of allowing herself too much freedom in a holy book. Sister Aegytha, the only other sister who sometimes worked in the scriptorium, mainly copying service books, was competent but dull.
After reading through the list of additions, she folded the paper again and tucked it into the breast of her habit, where it gave her a sudden spasm of delight. Then she bent to her task again. Her hand was steady now. She must make the best of the light.
Nicholas Elyot had said he would return in two days, and would speak to a lawyer before then, to discover whether it would be possible to delay her vows until the case might be taken to court, but Emma herself held out little hope of such an outcome. She was sure that she understood better than any outsider just how powerful the Church was in controlling its members, particularly the women. They would be unlikely to allow the secular authority, even a royal court, to interfere with its internal affairs. Abbess Agnes de Streteley came of a great aristocratic family. She was accustomed to exercising power and would not be intimidated by the intervention of some provincial lawyer from Oxford.
Before Nicholas’s visit Emma had known she had less than two weeks to effect her escape. Now she knew she must leave before the two days were up. For if Nicholas and his lawyer arrived with his proposal of delay, she would be watched all the more carefully. Why had she not told him that he should not come? She had not been thinking clearly. She must think clearly and carefully now.
The cotte and hose remained concealed under the lavender hedge. Fortunately there had been no rain. But she still lacked some kind of covering for her head. And it would be wise to carry food with her, for she had no idea how long it would take to reach Oxford on foot, nor was she clear about the route, although she knew that the river led to the city. If she followed the river it might not be the shortest way, but it must bring her there in the end.
All these thoughts swarmed in her head like bees while her hand continued automatically to copy the prayers for Ash Wednesday. A day of lamentation. Appropriate for one who was about to defy Holy Church. Abandoning her place as a novice in this quiet abbey was a kind of defiance, a rejection of God Himself. For a moment she caught her breath and her hand froze on the page. Jesu, forgive me, that is not my intention. She closed her eyes and breathed in and out slowly. The thought was terrifying. Was she condemning herself to eternal hellfire for her sins?
When she opened her eyes again, she saw that a drop of ink was about to fall from her quill and ruin the nearly completed page. Carefully she wiped the tip of the quill on the lip of the ink well. It was fortunate that Sister Mildred was still busy in the library and had noticed nothing.
It would be necessary to make her escape at night, for there would be no opportunity by day, when the whole enclave was full of people, religious and secular, about their daily business. And there were only two ways out, for she could not climb over the wall. Standing as it did on an island, Godstow was nearly as impregnable as a fortified manor, and as difficult to leave as to enter. The usual entrances and exits were through the gatehouse, which would be locked at night, when John Barnes retired to bed in his rooms in its upper storey.
There was another possible way. The meadow beyond the abbey gardens lay in a loop of one of the branches of the river which encircled the abbey. Normally the river was as formidable a barrier as the walls, but the continual hot dry weather had caused it to shrink. Emma had no way of knowing how deep it might be. The day she had walked into the river and been beaten for it, the river had been flowing fast, but, when she had waded perhaps a quarter of the way across, the water had only reached a little above her knees. It was certain to be deeper in the middle and she could not swim. Did she dare venture that way? She might risk drowning.
She had thought of trying to hide in one of the carts or boats which brought supplies to the abbey, but rejected the idea. As they returned empty, she would have nowhere to hide. She had offered to run errands for the chambress to the home farm, which lay across the bridge, on land near the village of Wolvercote, but had been refused. It was as though Sister Piety suspected that her intentions were not without some hidden purpose. Or else all the sisters had been instructed not to allow her outside the walls. This was not the case with all the novices. Sister Ursula frequently went to the farm, and had once accompanied Sister Piety to Oxford to order supplies. It was clear Ursula was hoping that, once she had taken her vows, she might find a place as assistant to one of the obedientiaries, the first step on a remorseless climb up the abbey hierarchy.
Emma realised that she had been copying the prayer and had even begun a new page without being aware of what she was doing. She stopped writing and read what she had written, but there seemed to be no mistakes.
It must needs be tonight. Despite the continued heat, clouds were gathering. If she was any judge, they threatened a heavy storm and that meant the river would rise. The way across the river was the only possibility, and she could not risk any delay. If it should prove that the river was too deep to wade across, she might drown, but she no longer cared. Better a quick death now than the long slow death of a lifetime imprisoned here against her will.
‘The light is beginning to fade, Sister Benedicta.’ The precentrix had emerged from the library and was looking down at Emma’s work. ‘You have done well today. These additions that the lady requires, will they be difficult?’
‘Nay, sister,’ Emma said. She wiped her quill clean on a rag, and flexed her fingers. ‘They are quite simple, really, although I am not sure about the perpetual calendar.’
‘There is one in the library. Come, I will show you.’
They went together into the library, Emma carrying with her the half finished sheets of her book of hours. Sister Mildred lifted down a large volume and opened it on the slope of the reading desk.
‘This is a most useful work, though somewhat disorganised. You must read it when you have time. Maps, terrestrial and celestial, a copy of the Reverend Bede’s History, explanations of how the date of Easter is to be calculated, and even some advice on the use of medicinal herbs. All put together some hundred years ago and given to the abbey, but a little haphazardly. Ah, here we are. The perpetual calendar.’
It was a kind of grid of letters and numbers, with notes below it on how it was to be used, the whole ornamented with suns and moons, and some lively cherubs blowing winds from each corner.
Emma frowned. ‘It looks very complicated. Do you suppose the Lady Amilia will understand how to use it?’
Sister Mildred chuckled. ‘That need not worry you, child. I do not suppose she will attempt it. I suspect she asked Master Elyot to include it because she had heard of such a thing, and thought it would add to the importance of the book and its owner.’
Emma smiled. Sister Mildred might have lived all her life in the abbey, but that had not prevented her from becoming a shrewd judge of human nature.
‘I will leave the book open he
re for you,’ the precentrix said. ‘Then you will know where to find it when you need it.’
Emma felt herself flush with guilt, for she knew she would never use it, and regretted that she must deceive one of her few friends here at Godstow.
‘Come, it is nearly time for Vespers,’ Sister Mildred said.
They left the library together, the precentrix heading toward the church to ensure that all was ready for the service, one of the duties of her post, while Emma took Jocosa up to the dortoir, to wait there while she herself attended Vespers. It was only when she reached her cubicle that she realised she was still carrying the sheaf of parchment. What should she do? There would be no chance to return it to the library this evening, with all that she must do. She needs must leave it on her bed when she left. In the meantime she slipped the pages under her mattress.
It seemed that Fortune, or perhaps some kindly saint, had laid a protective hand over her that evening. When she went to fetch food for Jocosa from the kitchen before supper, she was able to slip half a loaf and a piece of cheese into the wide sleeve of her habit. On the way out, she noticed some oiled cloths stacked up in one of the pantries. These were used for wrapping certain food stuffs to keep them from developing mould, and were fairly waterproof. She had been worried about setting off with her clothes soaking from the river, but if she made the crossing in her habit, she could wrap the stolen garments in one of these cloths. It would keep them fairly dry, and she could change into them once she was safely on the far bank. Glancing quickly behind her, she made sure that all the kitchen servants were occupied, then grabbed the largest of the oiled cloths and slipped it down the front of her habit. It made a noticeable bulge, but she hurried across the enclave to the dortoir, and hoped no one would notice.
During supper she closed her ears to the passage from the testament of Matthew being read aloud for the nuns’ improvement while they ate, and concentrated on what she must do. It would be necessary to leave during the hours of darkness, but she could not do so before the midnight services of Matins and Lauds, or her absence would be noticed at once. She must wait until everyone had returned to the dortoir to sleep, then creep out once it was safe to do so. That would give her until the service of Prime at dawn. It was unfortunate that dawn was early in midsummer, but she would have been on her way for a few hours by then.
If only she had something to cover her shorn head! She could not wear her monastic headgear. All through the meal she fretted about this. When the final grace was said and the nuns dismissed for their brief leisure time before Compline, she made up her mind to run a necessary risk.
Leaving the frater after supper, she collected Jocosa, then walked confidently to the gatehouse. There was nothing unusual in this, for John Barnes often looked after Jocosa, and everyone was accustomed to seeing her at the gatehouse with the dog. As she had hoped, he was sitting outside, enjoying the cool of the evening, the plate that had contained his supper – brought to him by one of the scullions – on the ground beside him.
‘Evening, Sister Benedicta,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You’ll not be needing me to mind the dog this late in the day?’
‘Nay, but she needed a walk.’ Emma drew a deep breath. ‘John, I have a favour to ask of you. Will you lend me a cap? Nay, will you give me a cap? Like the one you are wearing?’
He stared at her, puzzled, and touched the cap of coarse brown cloth atop his thick head of wiry dark curls. ‘A cap like this, Sister? Why would you want an ugly old thing like this? Is it for one of your drawings?’
‘Best you don’t know, John.’
He gave her another sharp look, then got to his feet. ‘Wait you a moment.’
He went into the gatehouse and returned a few minutes later with a rather better cap, of blue woollen cloth. ‘Would this suit?’
‘That is your best.’
‘Only the best for you, Sister Benedicta.’ He held it out and she took it, hesitated a moment, then folded it and slipped it into her pocket.
‘I’ll not ask,’ he reassured her.
‘I thank you, John, for this and for . . . for everything. You never gave me a cap, if you don’t mind.’
‘What cap?’
She smiled. ‘Good night, John.’
‘Good night.’ As she turned away, he whispered, ‘Fare you well, my maid, and may God go with you.’
‘And with you, John,’ she murmured, without turning round.
The nuns were supposed to sleep between Compline and Matins, but once Emma could hear soft breathing around her, she made her preparations as quietly as she could. Before Compline she had fetched the stolen clothes, which she now wrapped, along with the cap and the food, in the oiled cloth from the kitchen. At the last minute, she added the manuscript pages to the bundle, for she realised that leaving them openly on the bed would simply advertise that she had gone. She hoped that at first they would search the enclave, which would give her a little more time, before they sought her further afield. Taking the manuscript was stealing, she supposed, but a trivial crime compared with the greater one she was committing.
When she came to cross the river, she would tie the bundle to her waist with her rope girdle, for she would need both hands to hold on to Jocosa. She was not at all sure how the little dog would react to being carried across the river. She might be quite unmoved, or she might panic and struggle. When all her preparations were done, she lay down on her hard bed with Jocosa curled up beside her. The nuns did not sleep on bare boards, but the straw mattresses were so thin that the bed was never comfortable, so Emma was sure that she would have no difficulty in staying awake after the midnight services.
There was always a curious quality about the services of Matins and Lauds, the second following immediately upon the heels of the other. Nuns and novices descended the night stairs into the church by the light of a single candle, leaving the schoolgirls at the far end of the dortoir to their sleep. The church was a cave of mysterious shadows, even the great east window nothing but darkness, except where, here and there, the glass caught a reflected gleam from the altar candles. The women filed into the choir stalls in silence but for the shuffling of sandals on stone. Some seemed hardly to wake, but to move and sing in their sleep. They sang without choir books, and without candles, the simple plainsong of the night services. The abbess stood remote at the altar, the prioress beside her partly concealing one of the great altar candles, seen from where Emma stood, so that she seemed to wear an areole of lambent light, yet melted into dark nothingness herself.
This is the last time I shall sing here, Emma thought, raising her voice in praise and glory to God. I wish I might have been at one with these women, many of whom are good and admirable. Perhaps, had I not been forced . . .
The slow procession mounted the night stairs again to the dortoir and in silence each moved to her own cubicle. The ritual was engrained, so accustomed that most slept at once, bodies relaxed into the few hours of sleep before the dawn service.
Emma lay rigid, suddenly afraid that the slumberous air would betray her into sleep. If she slept, her bundle would be discovered in the morning, and all would be lost. Someone coughed, further along the dortoir. It was the elderly Sister Aegytha. She had been coughing earlier, during Compline, and now it had begun again. It would keep her awake, and she lay between Emma and the outside stairs.
Gingerly, willing the straw of her mattress not to rustle, Emma swung her legs round to the floor and sat up on the edge of the bed. Jocosa was immediately alert. Emma stroked her. If the dog made a noise now, she was lost. She groped under the bed for her bundle, and picked up her sandals with her other hand. Going barefoot, she could move more silently.
Sister Aegytha coughed again.
Emma felt sweat break out around her neck and back. What if the old nun never fell asleep, but lay awake and coughing all night? Time crawled by. She heard the creak of the bed as the nun turned over, then she was silent. Still silent. She would have to risk it. She lifted Jocosa and tucked h
er under the arm holding the sandals, for she dared not let the dog run across the floor, her claws were so noisy on the bare boards.
She had almost reached the head of the stairs, when Sister Aegytha coughed again. Then she murmured sleepily, ‘Sister?’
Emma did not wait, but hurried on. Blessedly the door at the top of the outside stairs was left open on these hot nights, for the hinges squealed loudly.
Down the stairs, struggling to hold Jocosa, who was wriggling delightedly at this unexpected walk. Nearly, Emma dropped her. The foot of the stairs now, and the open court, a woven pattern of greys and black, under an almost moonless sky. It was something she had forgotten to allow for, just how dark it would be.
She set Jocosa down and began to feel her way toward the gate into the abbey garden. There were sharp stones underfoot, but she dared not stop to put on her sandals.
The garden, being more open, seemed less dark, or perhaps her eyes were becoming accustomed to the night. Jocosa ran joyfully ahead, untroubled by the dark and heading for the meadow. Once through the gate into the meadow, Emma stopped. Her heart was pounding in her throat, and she felt sick, but she must remember just what she needed to do. Sitting on the ground, she put on her sandals and untied her rope girdle. It was quite long, normally hanging nearly to the ground, but even so there was only just enough to tie round her bundle and then around her waist. She tugged at it. It seemed firm enough.
Suddenly there was a yelp and an indignant bleat from a goat. Emma sprang to her feet. For once Jocosa must have ventured near the goats and the encounter had not been pleasant. Would anyone have heard, inside the abbey? A furry shape pressed itself against her legs, and she scooped the dog up, hiding her face against the soft fur.
