“What kind of evidence?”
“The sisters are copying the banned texts.”
“You mean the English Scriptures?”
“Not only the Scriptures, Your Grace, but translating and copying the very words of the heretic Wycliffe.” He reached into the voluminous skirt of his red wool cloak and withdrew a slim quire of parchment, handed it to Harry. The words were written in a fine hand in a language he couldn’t understand. But he recognized the name John Wycliffe in the header.
“How came ye by this? How do we know it is not a forgery?”
“Forgery, Your Grace? Surely you do not accuse Holy Church—”
“I accuse no one. I merely seek the truth of the matter.”
“Brother Gabriel brought this evidence himself. He braved the flooded roads to serve his church and his king. And there is more. An English Bible such as the ones the Lollards carry has been found in Paternoster Row. It contained a bill of sale to Sir John Oldcastle.”
There was no way to put the man off, so Harry decided to offer him a sop. “Ask Brother Gabriel to attend us.”
“Brother Gabriel is gone. He had matters of personal importance to attend. I gave him leave to pursue them as a reward for his courage. But he will be available to testify at the trial.”
“Trial! Your Excellency, be warned that you do not rush to judgment untimely. We do not wish to put an abbey of nuns on trial as our first sovereign act.
“The nuns will be used only to bring in Lord Cobham. We need only frighten them into confessing—”
“Leave the papers, the book with the bill of sale with us. We will study whether or no they have any significance.”
“But Your Grace, surely—”
“You may leave us now, Excellency, to contemplate this ‘evidence.’”
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
After he left, Harry picked up the lute and began to strum his melody. It sounded like a dirge after all, he thought.
His mission finished, Brother Gabriel had made up his mind to go in search of Mistress Clare. He wanted to confront her with reasoning unclouded by grief. He wanted to look her in the eye and hear her repeat her charge that Brother Francis had been his sire. Mistress Clare had said Jane Paul was dead, but maybe he could uncover the circumstances under which she died, discover if she had other children—he might be brother or uncle. This new thought was startling, but oddly pleasing. And if it was true that Jane Paul was dead, he could lay some token on her grave, put her ghost to rest. He could do that for the sweet-faced woman who had cried when he had not hugged her back.
The archbishop had made inquiries for him. Through the abbey Mistress Clare had purchased a small cottage near Appledore in Romney Marsh, where property was cheap. She had probably retired there after Brother Francis’s death. Brother Gabriel was determined to go there immediately to seek her out.
And afterward? Afterward, he would cross the Channel. He needed to see Anna one more time, needed to tell her—tell her what? The truth … if he could but find the courage. He owed her that, at least. He had promised her VanCleve would return. If VanCleve could not, then Brother Gabriel should explain.
But there was one more thing he had to do before he could confront his own demons. When he got to Wrotham his horse turned north toward Gravesend and not southeast toward Romney Marsh. Back toward Rochester. Back toward the abbey.
He would warn the abbess that she would soon be called to answer for the evidence he’d given against her. She would no doubt warn Sir John. But where was it written that they did not have the right to defend themselves? Sir John was a powerful enough man to petition the king to proceed with dignity, not to terrorize an abbey full of nuns—most of whom were probably innocent—with ham-handed searches and threats of torture and burning.
After all, Brother Gabriel had done his job, and done it well. The archbishop had been pleased, called him a loyal son of the Church, praise that left him feeling more damned than blessed. There was something about the whole procedure not to his liking. Wasn’t loyalty to the Church the same as loyalty to Christ? Brother Francis would have said so. But he’d seen a few such inquiries. He knew how confessions were gained. There was little that was Christ-like about the procedure. Little justice and less mercy.
Just thinking about the damning evidence he’d uncovered, the Wycliffe tracts already translated into Czech tucked innocently beneath the French poem by Christine de Pisan, made him dig his heels into his horse’s side. The rain had started again, and there was only an hour or two left of daylight. Best to hire a coach and driver in Wrotham to take him to Rochester.
His leg began to ache as he contemplated the ride across the hard-washed roads. His head ached too, thinking about the encounter that was only a few hours away.
Anna tapped at the abbess’s door, hesitant to disturb her.
“Yes?” The voice was impatient, weary, accompanied by a shuffling of paper.
“It’s Anna. The sisters were all busy. I’ve brought your dinner. Shall I leave it outside the door?”
“Anna. No.” The voice lifted. “Don’t leave it. Come in.”
Lifting the latch with her left hand, Anna balanced the small tray of bread, cheese, a pitcher of warm cider, and boiled beef tongue with her right. The sisters ate meat only when they were ailing, and Mother Superior had been pale and easily tired of late. The sister in charge of the infirmary had prescribed meat to build her up. Mother Superior, who was sitting behind the desk, lowered her veil as Anna entered. Anna set the food on the corner of the desk not covered by pens and quills and parchment, and turned to go.
“Wait. Don’t leave. Sit with me and tell me how young Bek likes his new lute.”
“If I stay, will you lift your veil so that you can take your food while it is fresh from the kitchen?”
Anna was appalled at her own boldness. She felt herself blushing.
Mother Superior laughed. “You bargain like a guild merchant,” she said as she moved her chair back from the window that overlooked her desk— just a bit, enough to paint her face in shadow. She lifted the veil and draped it back.
“You probably think me vain,” she said. “I only wear it to protect others—and myself a little. The veil stops their embarrassment and their questions.”
“I do not think you vain. I think you beautiful and brave and kind and—”
The abbess held up her hand in a gesture that said “enough.” Anna felt her face grow hotter still.
“It’s just that I am grateful, Mother.”
“I am grateful as well, Anna. Grateful that our Lord has seen fit to provide us with a scribe of exemplary talent and industriousness. And a young musician.” She cut the beef tongue in half and laid a piece on a slice of bread, then handed it to Anna. “Eat it for the sake of the babe you carry inside you. I should have thought of it sooner. I shall instruct the kitchen that you are to have red meat once a week and an egg a day. We want your little one to have strong bones.”
The salty, heavy texture of the beef brought back memories. Her grandfather had always insisted there be meat upon his table—at least once a week— meat he’d shared with the students from the university. “They come for the food for their bodies,” he’d said. “They return for the food for their souls.”
If the abbess noticed tears pooling in Anna’s eyes, tears prompted by her memories of Prague, she did not remark upon it. They chewed in companionable silence for a while.
“Has Bek learned to play a melody on his new lute?” she asked between bites.
“Yes.” Anna swallowed, daintily licked a spot of grease from her fingers. “Thank you, Mother, for providing him with the lute. He would thank you if he could. He has such difficulty getting his words out.”
“I wasn’t sure he could discipline his fingers enough to pluck the strings.”
“It is amazing. It is the music that pushes him past what his body would do. He’s already coaxing melody from the instrument.” Anna laughed. “And it has a mellower sound than
the tin whistle.”
The abbess smiled at the sound of Anna’s laughter. It was a sound that surprised Anna too. Laughter was a sensation she had not enjoyed for a very long time. The abbess did that for her. It was as though she lived in a pool of tranquillity, and all who were in her company received a kind of baptism in that pool. She wondered what Ddeek would have thought of her. It would have been fun to watch the two of them together—two strong wills united in the same goal. They would have been a formidable force.
Once or twice Anna had tried to connive a meeting with some kind widow or well-favored spinster, but her grandfather had always got his back up. “I have loved two women in that way. That’s enough for any sane man.” His blue eyes had hardened into glass, and Anna had known not to probe further.
The sound of splashing as the abbess poured more cider into Anna’s cup brought her back from her reverie.
“I’m sorry, Mother. I should be the one serving you.”
“We all must serve each other, Anna.” She returned the pitcher to the tray. “I worry that the inherent danger of the work we are doing makes you anxious. Are you sleeping well?”
“Very well, thank you, Mother. It is work I love, and I am not afraid.” Anna was about to say that she had faced such danger before, that she’d had a remarkable role model to show her courage, when there was a knock at the door.
“Mother, it is the friar. I told him you were at dinner and not to be disturbed, but he insists on seeing you now. He says it is urgent.”
Anna, recognizing Sister Matilde’s voice through the heavy oaken door, rose and gathered up the remains of the dinner.
“No, Anna, stay. It’s the resident friar I told you about. I’d like you to meet him. He’s a pardoner. Maybe even an honest one. I’m not sure. You can help me decide.”
The abbess lowered her veil just as the door opened to Sister Matilde. Trailing behind her was a Roman cleric, his cowl and cassock dripping water onto the floor rushes. Anna receded a few steps, turned her back to place the tray on the chest on the other side of the room. She remained there to give the newcomer her chair across from the abbess’s desk and herself time to compose her features in such a way as not to show her natural animosity toward the pardoner.
“I am sorry for the intrusion, Abbess, but I have come on an errand of mercy.”
The timbre of the voice startled Anna.
“You need to know that a warrant may soon be issued for Sir John’s arrest on charges of heresy.”
Anna was so distracted by the voice itself, that at first the full import of the words did not sink into her understanding. So like VanCleve’s voice, she thought, and yet different too, very different in tone, very authoritarian.
“This warrant will be obtained based on evidence gained in your scriptorium. No doubt you or some of the sisters will be questioned, even asked to testify against Lord Cobham.”
The abbess did not respond immediately. The room seemed to hold its breath. Or was it just Anna’s breath that would not come? When the abbess finally answered, her tone was cold as steel and just as hard-edged.
“Evidence gained by whose hand?” she asked.
The friar’s tone did not waver. “Gained and given up by mine own hand, in the service of the Church. But damning as the evidence is, if you prepare a proper defense and with my recommendation, the abbey will probably get off with an admonition. The most hurtful document was found at the west end of the scriptorium, the desk nearest the window.”
What the friar was saying had finally registered with Anna. The candle flickering in the window, the friar she’d caught snooping! Why had she been so negligent? Why, when she had missed the finished text of the Czech translation, had she assumed that it had already been gathered up by the person who filled the inkwells? Why had she not been vigilant?
“Why are you warning me? Such a warning seems to fall outside your loyalty to the Church,” the abbess said from behind Anna.
“I am warning you because I know you to be a dedicated servant of our Lord. This abbey can be a valuable tool for His service. It has merely fallen under wrongful patronage. Nothing can be gained if the abbey is closed and you are imprisoned.”
There was some exasperation in his tone. Had the man expected gratitude?
“Give up for interrogation the nun who sits at that desk and plead ignorance of any conspiracy to provide English and Czech Scripture to the Lollards.”
Anna felt faint. Her hand shook, knocking the cider pitcher from the tray. It clattered to the floor with a startling crash. Anna clutched the edge of the chest for support, felt herself about to topple like an overblown seed head on a stripling stalk.
The voice that answered the priest’s demand was resolute.
“I will not identify the sister who sits at that desk. You may go back and tell your archbishop that whatever culpability falls upon the abbey rests with its abbess alone. While I await his summons, I shall be strengthened by the Paraclete and the sure knowledge that I am in His will. You see, Brother Gabriel, I too have my loyalties.”
So calm were her tone and demeanor, she might have been discussing the cancellation of an order for diluted ink or inferior parchment.
“But I apologize for one thing, Brother Gabriel. It seems my manners are remiss. Anna, I would like you to meet the sometime-resident friar I told you about. The guesthouse will be soon available after all. It seems the friar’s work here is done.”
It was a wonder frost did not form on her lips as the words exited her mouth.
Anna turned around and stumbled forward. She gave a little half-curtsy, a mere nod to acknowledge the introduction.
“Anna is a widow from the Continent, a guest of the abbey. She and her son will be with us only until the weather clears and she can complete her pilgrimage.”
The cassocked figure stepped forward and Anna looked full into his face for the first time.
Her first thought, born of some great reservoir of longing deep inside her, was that VanCleve had come for her at last. But no. Given the conversation that had just transpired, it could not be VanCleve. Perhaps his evil twin then.
In a halting movement, the friar reached up and drew back his hood, revealing his eyes. His eyes betrayed him.
The quivering in her voice betrayed her. “Brother Gabriel and I are well acquainted, Mother. We met in Rheims.”
The color drained from his face. “You are mistaken … that is … I’m sure we’ve never met. I’ve not been in Rheims—”
“I would not likely forget such a meeting, Brother. I remember all my customers. You once purchased a book from me.” Her voice was hardly above a whisper. “You paid exceeding well, though had I known your true occupation, I might have considered the coin to be as counterfeit as your wares.”
He just stood there for the longest moment with his mouth open, as though words would not come. But his eyes were eloquent. She could read the struggle in his soul, but she stiffened herself against any compassion for him. Bitterness welled up inside her. In that moment she despised him.
“What kind of book did he buy, Anna?” the abbess asked. Incredulity and a struggle for understanding overlaid her question.
“He bought an English translation of a gospel, Mother. I fear he is no honest pardoner after all, but a spy for Rome.”
He held out his hand like a supplicant. “Anna, Mother Superior, there—”
“Now, if you will excuse me,” Anna said, “I’ll leave Brother Gabriel to explain to you as he wishes. If you want me, I shall be at my desk.” Here she looked at Gabriel, directly into VanCleve’s eyes. “It is the desk closest to the window at the western end of the scriptorium.”
THIRTY-ONE
God, I have lost my lover, he who loved me so, handsome and fair.
’Twas such an oath I had from him …
And where is now the young squire gone
Who begged me ever, night and day?
And now I am all alone …
—FROM THE P
RETTY FRUITS OF LOVE (12TH-CENTURY FRENCH POEM)
When the message came, Lady Cobham was inventorying the pantry, making sure there would be enough stores to get them through until the summer harvest. With so much rain, some of the rye was moldy. She gave orders to feed it to the hogs. Some fed it to the peasant class, but not Joan. She’d seen too many serfs with mind sickness—hallucinations and wild ramblings—from eating moldy rye. The barrel of ground wheat flour infested with weevils—that she would pour out in plain sight so that the beggar women could come and scoop it off the ground. She knew they would pick out the bugs and make it into bread for their children. The very thought of it disgusted her, but she knew when early spring stores got low and there was little flour even in the almshouses, the infested flour might help keep some peasant child alive.
“Don’t pour it directly on the ground. Just set: the barrel by the kitchen door. It’ll be empty soon enough,” she told the butler.
She moved to another of the dozen barrels lined up along the wall, picked out a few of the weevils herself, crushed them between her fingers, frowning in disgust.
“This one too,” she said. At this rate she’d be picking out weevils from Sir John’s bread.
“Milady, this came from the abbey. The messenger said it was urgent.”
Joan wiped her hands on her apron and broke the seal on the folded parchment. A quick scan of the contents—just a few lines in a fine feminine hand, “The hawk should fly west, the nest is clean. Make all haste.”
She recognized the seal from the abbey. The message was clear enough.
“Tell Sir John I need to see him in his chamber. He may be in the stables. He has a sick mare.”
Now she had more to worry about than diminishing winter stores.
“I want to go with you,” his pretty wife said as Sir John stuffed books and smallclothes into a bag. Flames leaped in the fireplace as he added crumpled paper to the fire. It burned quickly. Just one of the reasons—that and the price—that they preferred paper to parchment for the contraband texts. The Gospels he could not bring himself to burn—only the Wycliffe tracts—but he could not carry them all. And he would not leave them here. It was too dangerous for Joan.
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