Keen to turn his heavy thoughts aside, he looked to where an anvil rang steady under a hammer. Through a series of archways, the forge was in full use, with the glow of piled embers and the smell of hot iron. Nothing unusual, except a gaunt, tall sister worked it. Her face shone with sweat, and her sleeves were rolled up and secured in linen bands. Her powerful hammer blows looked expert to his eye.
“I’m surprised you have no lay brothers to perform such heavy tasks,” said Theodosia.
The nun tutted. “No lay brothers here. No brothers at all. Nothing they can do that we can’t.”
The smell of freshly baked bread wafted from a side building across a small courtyard and called to Palmer’s stomach.
“A bakery as well? You must have no time for praying.” He said it as a jest, trying to raise his spirits.
Theodosia shot him her fierce look of old. He smiled inside. Maybe she wasn’t quite lost to the world yet.
The old nun pretended she hadn’t heard him. Instead, she pointed to a broad, high doorway far at the end of the corridor, its carved-wood double doors closed tight. “The cloisters are through there,” she said to Theodosia. “Private, of course. The Abbess’s lodge is on the next floor.”
He walked behind them to where a stone vestibule led off the corridor. Yet another sister swept the floor hard with a broom of long twigs. She made room for them to pass, then went back to her task with the same vigor.
Their guide led them up a stone stairwell, which ended on a small landing. An iron-hinged oak door, aged by time and use, stood open.
“Please make yourselves comfortable. I will fetch the Abbess,” said the nun.
“Bless you, Sister,” said Theodosia. She led the way into the room, Palmer close behind.
The oak floor shone from beeswax and many hours of polishing. Arranged around an inlaid pale wood table were straight-backed chairs with fine-turned legs and decorated with painted green bands. Each chair had a gold velvet cushion and a tapestry footstool. A folding table with a sloped desktop stood in the huge leaded window, the better to catch the light. Painted wood panels covered the walls, each a scene from the Bible in costly colors and gold leaf. A stone fireplace threw out heat from a couple of large logs. No wonder Theodosia was so keen to get back to this life.
“I see the Abbess likes her comforts,” he said dryly.
“This room is to help her serve the Lord.” Theodosia went to stand before the fire and rubbed her hands. “Not for comfort.”
Palmer didn’t reply as he joined her at the welcome warmth. Religious folk had a different view on comfort, it seemed.
“Oh, where can she be?” Theodosia’s impatient question was to the flames, with no mind to him.
Rapid footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Palmer and Theodosia turned from the hearth as a small, slight woman walked in, dressed in the familiar black robes and white wimple. He guessed she was of advanced years, but she had a keen, sharp look and moved like a much younger woman.
“May God be with you.” She nodded first to Theodosia, who dropped in a deep curtsey, then Palmer. “I am Mother Ursula, the Abbess of Polesworth. I believe you wanted to speak to me, mistress…?”
“Theodosia Palmer.” Palmer answered for her.
“You are Mr. Palmer?” The nun lifted her eyebrows.
“Sir Palmer,” he said.
“Then you will be Lady Palmer?” said the Abbess to Theodosia.
Her shrewd look reminded Palmer of his squire master: years of experience of sorting out truth from lies.
Theodosia walked from her place before the fire to address the Abbess. She gave a deep bow, hands clasped, before she spoke. “He is not my husband, Reverend Mother.”
“Have you sought me out to play games?”
“No, Reverend Mother.” Theodosia bowed her head again and crossed herself. “We had to tell some untruths to get past the gatehouse. Please forgive us.”
“That depends.” Ursula folded her arms and shot a glance at Palmer. “I note this man does not ask for my pardon.”
Theodosia urged him with a glare and a nod.
Palmer gave a slight bow. “Forgive me, also,” he said through clenched teeth.
To his surprise, Ursula gave a rasp of laughter. “You’re doing well, madam,” she said. “I can’t imagine he’s easy to control, but you’re part there.”
“She doesn’t control — ” began Palmer.
The Abbess cut across him. “I received a message to say you wanted to see me regarding Amélie.” She looked from one to the other. “So, what is it?”
“Sir Palmer and I believe you have a sister within these walls by the name of Amélie,” said Theodosia. “She would have come here about ten years ago. She’d be well into her third decade by now.”
“Why do you enquire about her?” said Ursula.
“Because we have an important message to give her,” said Theodosia.
“We have no Amélie here,” said the Abbess, polite.
Too polite.
“But you did have?” Palmer challenged with his question.
Ursula hesitated for a heartbeat. “No.” A tiny muscle quivered at the edge of her jaw.
“You’re lying to us, Mother Abbess,” he said.
“Benedict!” Theodosia cringed at his rudeness. “Mother, please forgive him, he’s a ruffian, he knows no manners — ”
Palmer carried on. “Like you will lie to us if we ask you if Thomas Becket brought Amélie here.”
Red circles appeared on Ursula’s cheekbones. “You are no longer welcome under this roof. Good day, sir knight, and take your lady with you.” She waited for them to leave.
“But we cannot go. We have to find her.” Theodosia’s anguish broke from her, and she appealed to the Abbess. “Please, please tell us if you know of Amélie.”
“I have already given you my answer,” said Ursula. “Now, good day. To you both.”
“Oh, please don’t send us away,” said Theodosia. “We seek Amélie to warn her of great danger.”
Ursula frowned. “Danger? What danger?”
“That is for us to tell her,” said Theodosia.
The elderly nun looked from Theodosia to Palmer. “And who, with the greatest of respect, do you pair think you are? You land from the sky at my door and demand — ”
“I am her daughter.”
The Abbess stiffened but still didn’t relent. “Easy words. Like Saint Thomas the Doubter, I like to have proof.”
Theodosia shot a desperate glance at Palmer. “Do we have anything?”
The cross might have done it. But he’d sold it. He gave a helpless gesture with his hands. “Only you.”
Theodosia faced the nun again. “Mother Ursula, listen to what I say, I implore you. If you still do not believe me, then we will respect your wishes and leave.”
The Abbess hesitated for a long moment, then folded her hands beneath her sleeves. “Go on.”
“I was brought up at Canterbury. Mama was a vowess there,” said Theodosia. “She went away with Archbishop Becket one day, a summer’s day. I was ten years old. She told me she was giving me to the church. I overheard him say Mama would come here.”
“You do well to convince me,” said Ursula. “Except that your name is Theodosia. No daughter of Amélie’s has that name.”
Theodosia shook her head. “My christened name is Laeticia, Mother. Laeticia Bertrand.”
Ursula’s stony look broke with a huge smile. ““Laeticia? Can this be true?”
“It is, oh, it is,” said Theodosia.
To Palmer’s relief, Ursula held out her hands. “Oh, praise God and His blessed Mother.”
Theodosia stepped to her, and the nun hugged her hard. “Oh, my dear girl. Your mother spoke of you to me many, many times.” She loosed her hold and went to an embroidered linen bell pull next to the fireplace. “I’ll order us some dinner; we have much to discuss. Come, come.” Ursula went to the table and sat on one of the chairs, gesturing for Theo
dosia and Palmer to do the same. “I take it, then, that you are not Sir and Lady Palmer?” She rasped a husky laugh again. “Though from your warring ways, you might as well be wed.”
“No, Mother.” Theodosia gave her a shamed glance. “I am Sister Theodosia Bertrand. I wear these lay clothes for a reason, which I will be glad to explain to you.”
A respectful knock came from the open door.
Palmer looked over. A plump young lay postulant waited there, quivering at her task of serving the Abbess’s guests. The poor girl couldn’t have been more than fifteen, and it was probably just as well she’d chosen the religious life. Her face might have been pleasing enough, save for a terrible scar from a wound that had lost her an eye and reddened the skin down one side of her face.
“Wilfreda, bring in our dinner,” said the Abbess. “Make sure you’re prompt.”
The girl’s mouth turned down in worry. “P-prompt? Wh-what’s that, Mother?”
“Quick, girl. Quick.”
“Yes, Reverend Mother.” The girl ducked into a curtsey and fled like a mouse down a cornstalk.
Ursula sighed. “Lord, give me strength. I think she lost more than an eye when she fell in her mother’s lye bucket.” She turned her attention to Theodosia. “Now, what do you want to know?”
“Is my mother here?”
Palmer shared the desperation in her gray eyes. Amélie was the key to everything.
“No. I may have bent the truth earlier, but told no outright lie,” said Ursula.
Theodosia looked fearfully to Benedict. “Then we are still in danger — ”
“Child, child.” The Abbess interrupted her with a raised hand. “Patience is a virtue. You need to hear me out.”
“Sorry, Mother.” Theodosia folded her hands, her pale cheeks pink.
Ursula went on. “She was here. Becket himself brought her here, many years ago. He had only recently been made archbishop then.”
“Like you remembered.” Palmer met Theodosia’s gaze, and she nodded.
“It was a great sadness to her to have left you behind,” said Ursula. “As to why, she said she was sworn to secrecy. The Archbishop said it was for the best of reasons, but none he could tell either.”
“And you accepted that?” said Palmer.
“My life, the very life of the church, is based on vows of obedience,” said Ursula. “Unquestioning obedience. A notion some people struggle with.” She raised her eyebrows at Theodosia, who colored again. “Yet while your loss gave her great sadness, it also gave her great, great comfort that she had gifted you to the church, to be a great woman of God.”
A clatter came from the doorway.
“Ah, here’s our food,” said the Abbess. “We can talk as we eat — it won’t delay my mouth any.”
The unlucky postulant came in bearing a large platter that held spoons, three hefty bowls of ground pork and bread crumbs in rich gravy, a round creamy cheese, and a tall earthenware jug of ale with matching tankards.
As she set it down on the table, the Abbess spoke on. “All was as ever here, with Sister Amélie living in our community. Then, only a matter of days ago, the messenger who carries the monastic posts told me he had a letter for her.”
Wilfreda placed a dish, spoon, and tankard before the Abbess, then Palmer, and finally Theodosia. She put the cheese in the center, then cast an anxious glance at the Abbess.
“Drinks next, Wilfreda, remember?”
Wilfreda picked up the jug and poured a full tankard for the Abbess. She next went to Theodosia.
Theodosia placed her hand over the top of the drinking vessel. “No ale for me, thank you. May I please have some water?”
“No ale?” Surprise met disapproval in the Abbess’s voice.
“No, Mother. I took it as one of my vows, as an anchoress,” said Theodosia.
“Ah.” Mother Ursula’s expression cleared. “That explains it. Not much call for ale if you’re in one of those cells.” She gave her infectious rasp of a laugh again. “I’ve been digging turnips all morn, so I need to keep my strength up. Wilfreda, when you’ve served Sir Palmer, please fetch some well water also.”
“Yes, Mother.” The girl moved around the table to fill Palmer’s tankard. She poured too fast, and a couple of mouthfuls slopped over the top.
Ursula made an impatient click with her tongue.
“Oh, I’m s-sorry, s-sir.” Wilfreda’s hands shook more than ever.
“It’s naught,” said Palmer. “I’ve spilt a lot more than that in my time. I was one of the most cack-handed pages in the country.”
Her hand flew to the ruined side of her face at being spoken to by him.
“Fetch a cloth along with the water,” said Ursula.
Wilfreda gave her bob of a curtsey again and fled.
The Abbess bowed her head, joined by Theodosia. Palmer did likewise.
“Let us give thanks for what the Lord has provided.” The older woman finished with a rapid sign of the cross. “Now, where was I?”
“The letter?” Palmer spooned a mouthful of hot, herbed pork into his mouth.
“Yes. The letter.” Ursula also tucked into her food.
A glance at Theodosia confirmed she had little appetite yet.
“I gave it to Amélie,” said Ursula. “She read it, became highly agitated. Then told me she had to leave at once.”
“Only days ago. After so many years.” Theodosia’s face showed her torment. “Where did she go?”
“I don’t know.” Ursula took a long draught of ale.
“You must know,” said Palmer. “All you had to do was look at the letter.”
“It had the seal of Canterbury on it, sir.” The Abbess’s stern reply had him realize why poor Wilfreda shook like she did.
“But as I have said, Canterbury is where we have come from, Mother,” said Theodosia. “That’s where I have been, all these years. I never left.”
The Abbess put down her spoon down in her bowl with a sharp clink. “Then what do you know of poor Archbishop Becket’s murder?”
“We witnessed it,” said Theodosia. “A group of fi — four knights.”
“Oh, my child.” The Abbess reached for Theodosia’s hand and squeezed it hard.
“They killed him because they wanted to find Theodosia,” said Palmer. “And Amélie.”
“But why?” Ursula shook her head in incomprehension as she looked from one to another.
“We don’t know,” said Palmer.
“Just how have you come to be embroiled in all of this?” Ursula pinned him with her look.
“It matters not,” said Theodosia. “He has saved my life. Many times.” The corners of her mouth lifted in spite of her troubled expression.
“Noble indeed. But not an answer.”
“The truth?” said Palmer.
“The truth,” said Ursula.
“I was the fifth knight.”
“You sit here, a murderer, accepting the hospitality of the church — ”
“No, Mother,” said Theodosia. “Benedict was ensnared by their falsehoods. Once he realized their foul intents, he has done everything within his power to keep me from harm.”
The Abbess focused on Theodosia. “You trust him?”
A thief, a coward. He tensed for the words.
“With my very life, Mother,” came her quiet reply, though she did not meet his eye.
Palmer kept his smile in. He’d finally won her trust. Her respect. But his happiness died inside him. He’d still lose her.
Silence settled on the sun-filled room, then the Abbess finally nodded. “Very well.”
The scuttle of footsteps sounded from the landing, and Wilfreda came in, cloth in one hand, stone jar in another. “I’ve brought what you asked, Mother.”
“Good. Now, give Sister Theodosia her water and mop up that mess.” The Abbess released her hold on Theodosia’s hand and gestured to her and Palmer. “Eat up. Waste is a dreadful sin.”
As they both acted on the Abbess’s ins
truction, Wilfreda poured Theodosia’s water.
“Mother Ursula,” said Theodosia, “have you still got the letter?”
“Yes, I do. It’s in that chest, behind my desk.” She pointed over to the window.
“We have to see it,” said Theodosia.
Palmer mopped the last of his meat with a piece of bread, eyebrows raised to himself at Theodosia’s firm demand.
“S-sir?”
He picked up his tankard so Wilfreda could clean beneath.
She scrubbed so hard he thought she’d go through the tabletop.
“That’s fine, thank you. Leave us now, Wilfreda.”
“Yes, Mother. Sorry, Mother.”
Off she shot again, poor wretch.
Palmer took a drink as Theodosia pushed her point. “Mother Abbess? The letter?”
He didn’t join in. That letter, any letter, would be as much use to him as a straw sword.
“I don’t know.” For the first time, the Abbess seemed unsure of herself.
“Please allow me to read it,” said Theodosia. “It must have a bearing on Becket’s death. On the hunt for my mother and me. If it does not, then there is no harm done.”
“Very well,” said Ursula. “Once you’ve finished, I’ll show it to you.” She sighed and pushed her bowl away. “My own appetite has departed. Who are these men that would have carried out such evil acts and want to do yet more?”
“They’re led by a Reginald Fitzurse,” said Palmer.
“To look at him, you would think he was an angel,” said Theodosia. “Eyes as blue as the summer sky, but a heart that belongs to Satan.”
“One of them, Hugh de Morville of Knaresborough, is dead.” Palmer helped himself to a cut of soft cheese rich with best cream.
“As is de Tracy,” said Theodosia. “We believe Fitzurse has joined him, and the fourth one, a great, scar-faced brute called Richard le Bret.” Her eyes met Palmer’s. “Do we not?”
Palmer knew her well enough that she suspected his doubt. “We’ve been on our own for days, haven’t we?” He washed his cheese down with the last of his ale. “Now, Mother Abbess, can you show Theodosia the letter, please?”
E. M. Powell Page 18
