Once or twice she’d passed the chapel and heard him reciting the Office. She thought his voice sounded strained, heavy with some unconfessed sin of his own. Or maybe it was just his grief. She started once to tell him that now that his confessor was gone, he could say his prayers himself, confess directly to God. He’d no need of an intermediary. But she knew such an admonition would fall on deaf ears. Or maybe on ears listening for just such heresy. Besides, there was no dearth of confessors to give ear to his sins. The archbishop himself would hear the sins of such a rising star in the Curia.
But enough ruminating, she scolded herself. There was still light enough to work a little longer before the bell that summoned the sisters to vespers. As she crossed the room to get another candle, she gazed out the window that overlooked the quadrangle with its lovely fountain, a sight that always gave her peace.
No peace today.
Because sitting on a bench just inside the cloister was Sister Agatha, her body half in shadow, her doughy face highlighted by a fading sun, and she was talking to a strange man. He should not have been let into the cloister without the permission of the abbess. Unless of course it was a man of the Church. Another cleric on an errand of snooping. She had better don her veil and go down to stop this mischief. Uncanny how they always knew which one to seek out. Why couldn’t it have been Matilde? Or even one of the novices, who were ignorant of the abbey’s real mission.
But before she could get her veil adjusted, there was a knock at her chamber door.
“Mother, there’s a messenger here from Cooling Castle. Says it’s urgent. Shall I allow him in?”
Urgent. From the castle. Probably a warning. Too late, she thought as she closed the door behind her.
“I’m on my way to the cloister now. I’ll see him directly. Give him refreshment and bid him wait.”
Whatever wind Sister Agatha was blowing on whatever blaze needed to be stifled now.
By the time the abbess had made her way down to the cloister, the pair had been joined by a third. Brother Gabriel had likewise crossed the quadrangle, coming from the guesthouse, whose corner window also overlooked the fountain.
“Commissioner Flemmynge, an unexpected pleasure to see you out of Canterbury.” Then, noticing the approach of the abbess, “Mother Superior, we have a visitor,” he said.
The “we” did not go unnoticed by the abbess. How clever he was. The way he wormed his way in with just the suggestion of intimacy. One could almost pity a younger woman who felt the warmth of that charm. How un-circumspect to assign him as a confessor of nuns.
“And welcome, I’m sure. But I would ask the pair of you to retire to either the guesthouse or my office. This is, after all, a cloister for nuns. Vespers bells will be sounding soon. Your presence here would be an intrusion upon our prayers.”
She gave Agatha a hard glance. The woman’s face turned red and she dropped her head.
“I was just passing through on my way to the scriptorium, Mother.” She’d only been released from kitchen duty last week.
“Then you’d best be about your business, Sister. I’m sure our visitors understand the call of duty. The poetry of Christine de Pisan awaits you.”
“Yes, Mother.” Her tone was more subdued than usual. Guilt perhaps at being caught out gossiping—or worse. Agatha’s false sense of piety and general stupidity, for all her cleverness with a quill, could be easily manipulated into treachery. She nodded meaningfully at Agatha, who reluctantly began a slow passage across the quadrangle. The abbess could almost see her ears straining against the thin fabric of her wimple.
The stranger spoke first, his tone unctuous. “Forgive me, Mother. I did not mean to intrude. It is only that I have heard about the work in your scriptorium and sometime, when it would not be an ‘intrusion,’ would avail myself of the pleasure of an inspection. Canterbury is very interested in what you do here.”
Sly words. A thinly veiled threat couched in the terms of flattery.
“The sisters do exemplary work,” she said. “Their hagiographies are known throughout England. They even produced a Life of Catherine of Siena for His Excellency. We will be proud for you to see them. But I’m sure you can understand that an unannounced visit is a distraction from the sisters’ daily routine of work and prayer. If perhaps you could give us some notice, we could entertain you better.”
“It is not entertainment I seek, Mother, though your hospitality is generous, I am sure.” He smirked.
Should she invite them into her study? Had she covered the work on her desk? She couldn’t chance it. Perhaps a quick trip through the scriptorium to be rid of him. She would show him Sister Agatha’s work station first— nothing damning there—giving Sister Matilde time to cover hers.
She continued, “You are welcome to visit the scriptorium, Commissioner Flemmynge. The sisters will be at vespers, of course.”
Help came from an unexpected quarter.
Brother Gabriel put his hand upon the visiting cleric’s shoulder in a friendly gesture. “The scriptorium is one of my favorite places in the abbey. But the light is fading. Perhaps you would be better to stay over in the guesthouse and begin your inspection tomorrow. When you can see the scribes at work. In the meantime, I’m sure the sisters would be honored to have you read the vespers Office. It is not often they have distinguished guests from Canterbury.”
The abbess was so taken aback by Brother Gabriel’s intervention that she almost failed to notice the visiting cleric preen at the finely delivered compliment. She was not surprised at the ease with which the pardoner handled the other—after all, he was slick-tongued; he had to be to sell empty pieces of paper with imagined significance—but she was startled by the conspiratorial wink he gave her as he guided the other away toward the chapel.
No two ways about it, she thought, as she headed toward the kitchen to meet the messenger from Cooling Castle who carried his belated warning. Brother Gabriel was a very dangerous man.
He’s after bigger fish, she thought. He’s not here to bring a few nuns up on charges of heresy. He’s after Sir John.
“Here, just a whiff of this. I think she’s coming around, John.” The voice, a woman’s voice, was low and musical.
For the second time in her life, Anna came back to consciousness in a place unlike any she had ever seen. But where the Romani vardo had conjured a vision of hell, this time she was sure she must be in paradise. The down mattress on which she lay was as soft as a cloud and her eyelids fluttered open to see a canopy of indigo sky strewn with a thousand flowers embroidered in crimson and gold. A small bush of greenery and crimson hung incongruously at its apex.
A sharp aroma of pine resin assailed her senses, accompanied a heartbeat later by the dusty odor of dried lavender so close to her nostrils it tickled her nose. She sneezed and looked up to see three faces like low-hung moons hovering between her own face and the indigo canopy. The heart-shaped, pleasant face of the woman was pretty in a faded way. Dark brown curls struggled free of an ecru lace cap framing apple cheeks and a large mouth. Another face was studded with sharp jet eyes beneath graying eyebrows that bunched in consternation. Two rounded chins were separated by a pointy little beard pulled by restless fingers.
Anna waved away the tussie mussie in front of her nose and struggled to sit up.
“Slowly now. Give your head a chance to clear,” a woman’s voice said, and the large mouth moved.
“Where am I?” Anna asked, her head slowly clearing, remembering before the words were out of her mouth the kitchen of Cooling Castle and her encounter with its lady.
“You are at Cooling Castle.”
Cooling Castle. At last. Tears smarted behind her eyelids. The journey, the crossing with the seasickness she thought would never end. Cooling Castle. I’m here, Ddeek. I’ve done what you said.
“In Kent, England.”
The words came out of the pursed little mouth working above the funny little mustache, viewed from Anna’s vantage point, which was flat on he
r back, as upside down. The effect made her want to laugh with the humor of it, laugh with the relief that she was here at long last, and that this round white face hovering just above her must belong to Sir John Oldcastle. She smothered her exhaled laughter into a spasm of coughing.
“And ye be in milady’s own bed!” the third face said—its mouth a perfect circle in the triangle of a young girl’s face, the tone carrying the tiniest hint of outrage.
Anna became immediately aware of her disheveled appearance and stained travel clothes, noting with relief that at least they had removed her muddy cloak and boots before laying her on the bed. She tried to sit up.
The faces receded and a silk-clad arm, stronger than its shape suggested, whipped behind her back to support her.
The rest of the room came into focus: a small fire flickering, wall sconces already lit, the room bright enough even in the gathering gloom to make out the ornate tapestries insulating the walls from winter drafts. A large chest, heavy with oriental carvings, doubled as a sideboard. A chair and settle covered with silken cushions in bright hues was pulled close enough to the fire for the light to pick out their silken fringes. Green garlands of the season bedecked the mantel and the corner posts of the giant bed that held her.
“Where is Bek? He will be frightened without me. I must go to him.” She tried to stand up.
“Rest a bit longer. I assure you, the child is being well taken care of.” The woman nodded at the maid. “Go down to the kitchen and get the boy and bring him up.” Then, she turned back to Anna. “And now,” she said forth-rightly, “I hope you are feeling strong and comfortable enough, ensconced as you are in my bedchamber, to tell me just what urgent business you might have with my husband.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
And now I’m all alone; what’s done
No longer lets my girdle run
With clasp confining
The pretty fruits of love
There’s no more hiding.
—FROM THE PRETTY FRUITS OF LOVE
(12TH-CENTURY FRENCH POEM)
In the abbey guesthouse Brother Gabriel picked at the roasted capon resting on the table between him and Commissioner Flemmynge. He watched with disgust as the cleric dragged his heavy pleated sleeve across the breast of the bird to disjoint a leg with greasy fingers, then offered this last joint halfheartedly to his mess mate. Brother Gabriel declined. He’d not much appetite of late. Not since he left Battle Abbey. Not since his visit with Mistress Clare.
“I’m glad we had this opportunity to visit,” the visitor said between smacks. “The archbishop asked me to look in on you. He is concerned for your health since the passing of your father confessor.”
Gabriel thought he denoted the slightest inflection of the word “father.” Or was that just his imagination? Was he the last to know that he was the bastard child of Brother Francis? No, he was not the last to know. No one knew. There was nothing to know because it was idle gossip invented in the mind of an embittered servant. The very thought of it called up the hard set of Mistress Clare’s sharp little chin as she said the words. “You are his natural child.”
Yet how could he be so sure it was a lie? He remembered the father’s advice to him about his own carnal urges. The pain in his hip caused him to squirm in his chair.
“The death of Brother Francis was a great loss,” Gabriel said finally. “He was more than my confessor. He was my spiritual father.” He changed the subject. “Did you hear His Eminence voice concern regarding my well-being?”
“His exact words, I believe, were that he hated to see a man with such a promising career in the Church lose sight of his mission.” Flemmynge licked his lips as though he were savoring more than the flavor of the bird.
“And did he pinpoint any specific dereliction of duty that might lead him to believe I was ‘losing sight of my mission’?”
“Only that after considerable time and money spent in France, you have uncovered little evidence concerning Lord Cobham’s sources for his heretical manuscripts.”
No surprise here. The archbishop had told him as much already, and he had given the same reply he now gave to Flemmynge.
“I ruled out the French scribes by uncovering no source that could supply such a large number as Sir John would need for exportation to the Continent.”
“Then all the more reason to look closer to home.”
And that’s why you’ve come, Gabriel thought. The condemnation of dead heretics like Wycliffe does not advance one’s reputation like the burning of live ones.
Flemmynge swiped his bread through the drippings left under the bird’s carcass, and when the juice dripped onto his lace collar, picked at it with a beringed finger.
“Have you done with the French sleuthing, then? Will you be going back?”
“I have no reason to return to France.”
“Well, then. I suppose we will scour our own countryside to unearth the heretical scribes.” He pulled a bit of sinew that had snagged between his teeth and wiped it on the cloth that covered the board between them. “And we might as well begin with this one on the morrow. If that fat old nun can be believed, we just might turn up a contraband text or two on this very spot. It would be a logical source, wouldn’t it? Right here at Sir John’s back door?”
Gabriel shook his head. “This abbey is too small. I don’t deny that they may have produced an occasional English psalter on commission. But show me the scriptorium that has not. That’s one of the reasons I came here, and I’ve found nothing of suspicion. But you can see for yourself on the morrow.” Gabriel squirmed in his chair, trying to ease the pain in his hip. It ran down his left leg like a cord of fire.
“If they have not hidden them all. I don’t trust a woman who hides her face behind a veil. And that one old nun said—”
“Sister Agatha? She’s just looking for attention. I tell you, Flemmynge, there is nothing here. The abbess keeps her face veiled to hide scars from an old injury. Besides, in spite of her proud bearing, she’s old. Too old to be running a heresy mill. The sisters are all devout. Leave them to their prayers and scribbles. Don’t waste time chasing a rabbit down a hole.”
“Then why did you come back here?”
“Because it is as close as I can get to Sir John without staying at Cooling Castle. And Lady Joan will not have me there. And if truth be told, after …
He could not say “after he had seduced a woman and abandoned her”— and “abandoned” was the right word because he knew now he would never return to France. How selfish his dreams of VanCleve and his mistress had been! He would not follow in his father’s footsteps and beget a bastard child upon an innocent woman. At least after that first time, he’d been wise enough to withdraw at the crucial moment. Nor would he deny her the true husband she would find in another, more deserving man.
“After Brother Francis’s death I found it oddly comforting to be here among the sisters,” he said, standing up. “Now, if you will excuse me.” He nodded at the small cot in the corner. “I hope you sleep well. I shall seek my own rest.”
Flemmynge frowned. “Not exactly the lap of luxury, is it?”
“No. But you’ll find the bed linen clean and the mattress well aired. The abbess may be old, but she keeps a good house. We breakfast together after lauds and I will accompany you to the scriptorium, where you will see that all here is as it should be.”
Brother Gabriel wondered, as he spent yet another sleepless night tossing upon his cot, interrupted more than once with the self-discipline of his little corded whip—though it seemed the pain in his hip should have been discipline enough—why he had intervened, giving the abbess time to hide her texts, even lying to protect her. What spirit had possessed him? During his nocturnal prowlings, when all honest people slept, he had seen the candle glowing from her chamber window. He listened now to the familiar call of the bells to matins followed by the sounds of the sisters shuffling through the cloisters to recite their sleepy prayers in the cold chapel.
&n
bsp; Still sleep did not come.
His head was filled with questions and yearnings for two women. Two faces painted themselves upon his closed eyelids: one framed with hair of gold, and one with hair of red. One as faded and ghostly as a long-ago memory, with no clear feature to mark a portrait. The other as clear as last night’s troubled dreams, its eyes still lit with unshed tears. One a longing from the heart—the other a longing rooted in his soul.
At least one was safe in the little house in Rue de Saint Luc. In time she would forget about the merchant of Flanders.
And the other one— “Jane Paul is dead,” Mistress Clare had said. He could still see the bright glint of certainty in her eye when she pronounced it.
“You are one of us. You are home at last,” Sir John said when Anna told him of her long journey after the persecution in Prague, of her grandfather and her deathbed promise to him, of Martin’s death—still calling him her husband. Anna had grown so accustomed to the lie of widowhood that she clung to it still.
“I knew your grandfather by reputation only, but that reputation said he served our Lord’s cause well. You and your son will stay with us as long as you want, though I fear your grandfather may have overestimated England’s tolerance for the cause.”
Lady Joan frowned. “He is not the only one who may have overestimated it.”
She had remained silent as Anna told her tale, her eyes fastened on Bek, who, having been brought to Anna, seemed content to sit on a pallet by the fire, his limbs twitching slightly, fingers drumming on the floor as he hummed softly to himself. Now she turned her searching gaze on Anna.
“Was your son born with this affliction?”
“He was not born to me. I … we took him in. He was abandoned.” One lie was enough. Why tell another one?
“It is good that he was not born to you. He must be a heavy burden for a woman alone. You are to be commended for your charity.”
The Mercy Seller: A Novel (v5) Page 29
