by Ann Swinfen
No woman is permitted to be a scrivener, except in a nunnery.
If she completed the book, it would be her last one.
As sleep began to steal over her, she began to pray again, not a desperate appeal for help, but a prayer of thanks. Thanks that Jocosa had survived. Thanks that she herself had not drowned in the river. Thanks that, so far at least, she had escaped the cloistered life.
Holy Mary, Mother of God . . .
Chapter Seven
The storm broke in earnest during the night. A roof of thatch has a number of advantages – it is cheap to replace, even though it provides a refuge for birds and mice and is at risk of fire – but one advantage less commonly realised is its ability to absorb noise. As the downpour hammered on our slate roof for most of the night, I found it difficult to sleep, even when I pulled the feather bed over my head, then threw it aside again, stifled. I suppose it was not entirely the noise which kept me awake.
Ever since I had seen Emma at the abbey I had been acting impetuously, allowing my heart to rule my head. The affairs of the Thorgold and Farringdon families were in truth no affair of mine. What did I think I was about, planning to seek out the dying Sir Anthony Thorgold with a request to sign a legal document, releasing his granddaughter from a religious life to which her legal guardian had promised her? Assuming, that is, that he was her legal guardian, this unknown stepfather. Why should I think ill of him? He might be a most worthy gentleman, who wished only the best for the girl. I knew that Mistress Farringdon did not like him, but that might arise from the fact that her sister had died of his child. Perhaps Emma’s mother had wanted the baby. Perhaps we were all maligning the man.
Emma’s frantic desire to leave the nunnery might be no more than a young girl’s panic after being chastised. Beaten for disobedience. Though she herself had said it was justified. Yet I could not ignore the memory of my first meeting with her, back in the spring. She had been calm, apart from her understandable distress at her cousin’s death, but even then she had declared her determination not to take her final vows. This was not a new notion. And young as she was, she was intelligent and clearly had no vocation for the religious life. How many of the women who entered the monastic orders did have such a vocation? I suspected many chose it as a peaceful and safe alternative to being bought and sold in the marriage market, useful commodities with inherited estates attached. For most nuns came of good families. I had heard that the conditions for entering a nunnery were sometimes abused, a substantial price being demanded for the privilege. Few women of lower rank ever became nuns.
How much had the stepfather paid Godstow to take Emma off his hands?
What was he called, the stepfather? Mistress Farringdon had mentioned his name. Falkes Malaliver, that was it. An ugly name. Perhaps it was his name alone which made him loom large as a villain.
And now I was committed to action, having drawn Philip Olney in. I had sought him out meaning merely to clarify a point of law, but somehow it had all got out of hand. Now we were planning an assault upon the abbey, demanding a delay to the service of making Emma a nun, proposing a visit to a dying gentleman who would probably have me thrown out by his servants, and anticipating both the removal of a novice from the jealous arms of the Church, and the presentation of a case at law to the Court of Chancery.
Had I gone mad? I found I was sweating, and threw off the feather bed altogether. The fact was – I could admit it to myself here, alone in the dark – I was more interested in Emma Thorgold that I would care to admit to Philip Olney or anyone else. Elizabeth had been dead for more than four years now, and she still haunted my thoughts, especially when I looked at Alysoun, who grew more like her every day. Yet Emma stirred something in me which was not merely compassion for an unhappy girl. Philip regarded her as some unfortunate to be championed, but if I was honest with myself, I knew that I was being drawn to her for quite other reasons.
As if to emphasise my self-confession, the thunder, which had been drawing gradually nearer, suddenly crashed, so it seemed, directly overhead and the flash of lightening which accompanied it shot slabs of light through the gaps around the shutters of my window. There was a cry from the children’s room, then the patter of bare feet on the floor boards. Rafe burst through my door.
‘Papa, I don’t like it!’ he wailed, hurling himself across the room. ‘Jonathan says lightning can strike you dead!’
I put my arms around him and drew him into my bed.
‘But see,’ I said. ‘You are quite alive. The lightning did not strike you dead.’
‘But it hasn’t stopped.’ He flinched as another simultaneous flash of lightning and crack of thunder burst seemingly over our very roof. He buried his head against my shoulder.
‘Jonathan says, even if the lightning doesn’t get you,’ he mumbled into my night shift, ‘it will hit a tree, and that will fall on you.’
‘But lightning always strikes the highest point,’ I reassured him. ‘None of our trees, and none of our neighbours’ trees, are tall enough. Here in Oxford, the tallest things are the churches. I am quite sure we are safely guarded by St Peter’s on one side and St Mary’s on the other.’
‘But God would not let the lightning strike a church!’ he said in a shocked voice.
‘It is not for us to guess what may be God’s purpose,’ I said. It was a lame answer, but he seemed to accept it.
‘Can I stay here with you, Papa?’
‘Is Alysoun awake as well.’ I could see myself abandoning all hope of sleep as my bed was taken over.
‘Not her,’ he said dismissively. ‘She is snoring like a pig.’
‘Rafe, Alysoun does not snore.’
‘Well, perhaps not. But sometimes she talks in her sleep.’
‘Does she?’ This was new to me. I wondered what she said. Such an infringement of one’s private thoughts, I have always felt. I hoped I did not do so.
‘Very well, you may stay.’ I sighed. Rafe is an uncomfortable bed fellow. ‘But you must be quiet now. No more talking.’
‘I promise.’ He wriggled down and sideways, until he was occupying at least two thirds of my bed. ‘Goodnight, Papa.’
‘Goodnight, my little man.’
I retrieved the feather bed from the floor and made myself as comfortable as possible on what was left to me of the bed. Rafe fell asleep at once, but not before he had pulled most of the feather bed over him.
By the morning I was totally deprived of covering and I had woken with the first cock crow. As I lay there, watching my son’s peaceful sleep, I realised that the thunder had passed, but there was still a heavy downpour hitting the roof. Sometime during the night I had decided that I would tell Jordain the outcome of my visit to the abbey and also my discussion with Philip Olney. I need not mention that I had sought Philip out at his mistress’s house. I was somewhat ashamed of that, for it was a private part of Philip’s life which he needed to keep hidden. A woman with whom he had lived for at least eight years could be counted as a common law wife, which meant he was in danger of losing his fellowship and any future within the university. To hold his position as a Fellow of Merton, he must remain unmarried.
Walter and Roger arrived soon after we had broken our fast, cursing the rain and hanging up dripping cloaks on pegs beside the door. We were unlikely to see much trade today. Business always diminished during the university summer vacation, when most of the students returned to their homes, except for a few (like Jordain’s pair), who must undergo their disputations again at the beginning of the Michaelmas term. Some of the Masters left Oxford as well, either to visit family or to travel to one of the other great universities. The current war with France meant it unlikely any would venture to Paris, but there were others where they might meet scholars with similar interests – Padua, Salamanca, Bologna. Some might even venture as far as Prague. Our few customers amongst the townsfolk were mainly merchants’ wives, who had the coin to buy books and the leisure to read them, but these ladies would certainly no
t venture out on such a day.
I donned a stout pair of boots that I wore normally in winter, and my thickest hooded cloak, not for warmth but as some protection against the rain, and set out for Hart Hall. Catte Street was awash, the central kennel running like a stream, with here and there puddles too wide to be jumped over. At Hart Hall I found Jordain and the two students sitting glumly over their books by the light of a smelly tallow candle, for the heavy cloud still lowering over the town cast a gloom over everything. As usual the place reeked of old boiled cabbage.
‘I had not expected to see you out in this weather,’ Jordain said. ‘A wise man stays withindoors.’
‘There is a matter I wish to discuss with you,’ I said. Now that I was here, I was not quite certain why I had come, although I have always found that Jordain talks good sense, and I was not sure that my own recent actions reflected much of that estimable quality.
Jordain glanced at the two boys, who had abandoned their studies and were regarding my dripping form with interest. I gave them a friendly nod.
‘Why do you not let them have a day free of study?’ I suggested. ‘This weather is gloomy enough. Even with their disputations looming at Michaelmas, I am sure a little leisure will not come amiss.’
The boys exchanged hopeful grins.
‘And I am sure they will return to work all the more readily afterwards,’ I added, seeing Jordain’s doubtful expression.
He shrugged. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘It is hard work trying to read in this poor light. You shall have the day free from study. But mark what Master Elyot says. I shall expect all the greater effort tomorrow.’
The students gave me a grateful glance and hurried away before Jordain could change his mind. We heard the clatter of their shoes on the stairs as they made for their rooms. Jordain sighed.
‘It will be dice or cards,’ he said.
‘Oh come, it is not so very long since we were their age,’ I said. ‘I remember that you were not averse to a game or two yourself then.’
‘I do not suppose it will do them any harm.’ He crossed the room and closed the door which they had left open. ‘Ale?’
‘Nay, I’ve not long broken my fast.’
‘So why are you here? You did not come out in this foul wet for no reason.’
‘Sit down, and I will tell you.’
We sat on opposite sides of the battered trestle table which served Hart Hall for both dining and study, and I gave Jordain a full account of my visit to Godstow, the plea of Emma Thorgold, my determination to discover the legal position, and my discussion with Philip Olney.
To begin with he said nothing, only rubbing his chin with a rasping sound. He cannot have shaved for two or three days.
‘Olney is very sound on the law. Practical law,’ he said. ‘He can be a prissy fellow at times, but there is no faulting him on his knowledge.’
I thought of Philip Olney in that welcoming little house, trying to mend his son’s shoe, with the horn book and the written exercises lying amongst the supper plates.
‘He’s not such a bad fellow when you know him better,’ I said. ‘He has offered to draw up a document for Emma’s grandfather to sign. He is going to search for legal precedents today.’
‘From what those old men at the inn said, over by the ferry, Sir Anthony is very ill. I wonder whether he is capable of signing such a document. Or, provided he is not too ill to understand it, whether he would be willing.’
I shrugged. ‘That we cannot know, but I thought I would seek Mistress Farringdon’s advice. I am certain she would do anything she can to help Emma.’
‘That I am sure she would. But why have you taken this upon yourself, Nicholas? It is no affair of yours.’
He had put his finger on it. ‘She appealed to me for help,’ I said. ‘They keep her very close and I think she knows no one else outside the abbey. Her cousin used to visit her, but since his death, she has no one.’
‘Her aunt is now living here in Oxford.’
‘Forgive me, Jordain, but I do not think Mistress Farringdon is capable of taking on the might of the Church, however much she might wish to.’
‘And you are?’
‘With the assistance of Philip Olney, I think I am. He will come with me to Godstow tomorrow.’ I avoided his eyes.
Jordain sighed, leaned his elbows on the table and his chin on his fists.
‘There is more to this than the girl simply asking for help, is there not?’
Jordain had known me since we were boys. My sister might think him a dreamer, but I knew better. When he put his mind to it, he was very shrewd.
‘I don’t know.’ I prevaricated. ‘She is so helpless, so afraid she will be forced. It seems unjust.’
‘Nicholas, tell me the truth. Have you fallen in love with the girl?’
‘I am still in love with Elizabeth,’ I said sharply.
He reached out and laid his hand over mine.
‘Elizabeth has been dead these four years and more, Nicholas. She brought you joy. She brought joy to everyone who knew her. And she would not want you to spend the rest of your life in mourning. You are still young. Why should you not love again? Marry again? Give your children a mother?’
I shook my head. ‘Rafe might accept it, but I do not think Alysoun would. And they have Margaret.’
‘Alysoun cannot remember her mother, she was but two years old.’
‘She thinks she does.’
Jordain shook his head. ‘That is perhaps some comfort to her, but I think she is imagining it.’
‘And there is Margaret.’
‘Margaret is a good woman and sensible. I do not think she would want you to remain alone for her sake.’
Jordain’s arguments were persuasive, but he lived a celibate bachelor life as Warden to a student hall. He could not understand the complexities of my domestic situation. Nor could he understand how caring for my children had helped Margaret to cope in part with the loss of her own.
‘I do not know, Jordain,’ I said. ‘I find the girl moves me deeply – but is it love, or merely pity? She is very young, seven years younger than I. Elizabeth and I were of an age and knew each other when we were barely more than children. I do not understand my own feelings. And why should I suppose that she could feel anything for me? A widowed shopkeeper with two children?’
He gave me a long, penetrating look. ‘As one who has had to put aside all thoughts of marriage, I suppose I am not the one to judge how you are feeling, or what she might feel. However, at the moment she is pledged to the celibate life as much as I am. If your plan to free her from her vows succeeds, then that is the time to think of these things more carefully. Not now.’
I nodded. ‘Of course you have the right of it.’
I had said more than I had intended to say, but it had somehow made me feel a little better to have said it. On impulse I said, ‘Why do you not ride out to Godstow with Philip and me tomorrow? Then you may see Emma for yourself. Perhaps you might judge of her feelings more clearly than I can do myself, in my confusion.’
‘Very well,’ he said, ‘I will come with you.’
I left Hart Hall soon afterwards and ploughed through the streets to the Farringdons’ house. The heavy rain through the night had turned the hard packed earth of the minor lanes to sticky mud, for Oxford stands on clay. Although the principal streets were cobbled, the town authorities regarded a dirt surface quite sufficient for the lesser ones. As the colleges began to encroach on these minor streets, a few areas of cobble had been laid. However, those on foot had tracked mud across the cobbles as well, so that they were treacherously slippery and I was hard put to it to stay on my feet.
‘Come you in, Nicholas!’ Maud Farringdon exclaimed. ‘It was too much to hope the fine weather would last, though the crops have needed rain. I hope the hay is all cut safely.’
I smiled. You may rely on a country woman to think of the crops first and personal discomfort last.
‘And I hope the corn ma
y not be beaten down,’ I said. ‘It was fierce last night.’
‘Aye, ’twas indeed. And why are you about in this downpour? I am working in Mistress Coomber’s dairy this afternoon, for your sister has found me a place there at the cheese making. I hope the rain may slacken a little by then.’
‘It is not far to the dairy, and the rain is not so heavy now,’ I said. ‘I have come to ask your advice, Maud, in the matter of your niece Emma.’
Emma’s cousin Juliana was sitting at the table fashioning a poppet out of scraps of cloth for little Maysant, but she stopped at the mention of Emma and looked at me intently.
‘You have seen Emma, Master Elyot?’
‘I have, and she is as determined as ever not to take her final vows.’
I turned to Mistress Farringdon. ‘I have spoken to a friend who is a lawyer. He thinks that if Emma’s grandfather supports her wish to leave the nunnery it will override any action by her stepfather. Did you know that he had given her to Godstow as an oblate?’
‘Nay, I did not!’ She pressed her hands to her throat and sat down suddenly. ‘He had no right to do such a thing. She was seventeen, a young woman of marriageable age, not an infant! Surely that must be contrary to the law?’
‘On that point I am not sure, but it is certainly contrary to the spirit of giving young children to the Church, not grown women. However, the thing has been done, and for Emma’s sake we must contrive how to set her free.’
I realised that I was speaking a little too passionately. I sat down and resumed in a more practical tone.
‘My friend believes that if Emma’s grandfather is willing to sign a document which he will draw up, then it will be possible to delay her final vows until the case may be heard in the Court of Chancery. There are precedents, he is certain.’
‘Would the court decide in her favour?’
‘That we cannot know, but this is the way to proceed, step by step, using the due processes of the law.’ I thought I sounded like some ancient greybeard, but let my words stand.
‘And why do you wish to consult me? I am more than glad for you to go ahead with this plan.’
