“No, my love, I can move faster alone.” He stopped to scribble some words on a paper in a bold, wild scrawl. “You are to show them this when they come to search. It says that I have abandoned you because you would not join my cause. Play the injured wife.”
“I am the injured wife. You are abandoning me for a mistress with whom I cannot compete. Your piety comes between us, sir.”
Her pretty little pout that she’d so often used against him, that pout he could not resist, crumpled. Big tears slid down her cheeks. He took a deep breath, steeling himself not to take her in his arms. If he did he might never leave.
“That’s the pose,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “Pull that face when they question you. When this blows over, when the king comes round, I’ll send for you. If Harry were king, I’d answer the charge now, but Boling-broke lingers and Hal is a fearful pup treading Arundel’s heels. I’m abandoning you to protect you.”
“I don’t want to be protected. I want to go with you.”
“If any of the poor priests come, turn them away. There could be spies among them.”
Rip. Tear. The flame in the fireplace flared again. Such a pity. But no time to think of that now. Survival was more important.
“Tell them Sir John has fled to Wales and they are no longer welcome here.”
Great drops of sweat lined his forehead. One drop trickled down it. He wiped it away with his elbow.
“You are abandoning them too? Abandoning their cause!” Her eyes were round with astonishment and bright with unshed tears.
“Of course not. The leaders among them know where I’ve gone.”
“What about the abbey?”
“You are to continue in your patronage of the abbey, but tell the abbess to translate only Latin Gospels and secular works in English. She has already burned the rest—’the nest is clean.’ When Prince Harry is king in truth, then he can be reasoned with.”
To his surprise she did not argue further. He paused and stared at her, his beautiful, passionate wife—so much more than he deserved. Jesu, how he loved her. How it hurt to leave.
“How can I get in touch with you?”
“Send letters to my holding in Herefordshire Castle. I’ll get them as I’m able. Write nothing incriminating, only news of yourself and Cooling Castle. With angry words. I’ll read endearments in your recriminations and answer as I’m able, begging your forgiveness for abandoning you, haranguing you for your orthodoxy.”
He cupped her chin with his hand. “Each word, each smear upon the page, will speak silently of my love.”
He drew her to him and kissed her, crushing her to his chest so tightly he could hear the pounding of her heart.
“I’m taking your mare. The hunter is winded and my mare is almost ready to drop her foal.” He held her out, wiped a tear from her eye. “Her foal will be a sign. I’ll be back afore the foal can bear your round little rump on his back.” He tried to laugh but choked on the effort. He kissed her again, then peeling her arms from around his neck, tried to recover his man’s emotions.
She followed him out the door, into the courtyard, where her mare waited, bridled and ready. The groom handed him the reins as he mounted, then withdrew. John leaned down from his saddle, kissed the top of his Joan’s head, said low into her ear, “It’ll be fine. You’ll see. Just a short separation. They say the king is at death’s door.”
She merely nodded her downcast head in tight little jerks.
He straightened himself in the saddle, pulled on the reins of his horse, and trotted off, leaving her standing in the courtyard. Behind him, he thought he heard her sniffle. He did not look back.
The ostler carried the news to the watcher at the keep. It was the heart of the night. The watcher roused the steward, the steward the chamberlain. It was the chamberlain who decided not to wake his lady. The news would keep till morn, the news that Sir John’s favorite mare had died. The foal was stillborn.
Anna lay awake in her narrow bed, the sound of her intermittent, stifled sobs mixing with the little snuffling snores from Bek in the next room. Just lately he’d felt secure enough to sleep somewhere other than at her feet. She was glad because tonight she needed to be alone. She’d started to cry with the compline bells. When the bells called matins, she was still awake, and still crying.
It was almost a relief when the summons she dreaded finally came.
A gentle knock at the door. A soft voice. One of the novices.
“Mistress Bookman?” The voice was scarcely above a whisper in the darkened hallway outside her chamber. “The abbess bids you attend her.”
Anna got up too heavily—the weight of the pardoner’s child in her womb? The shattered fragments of a foolish woman’s fantasy? Or dread? Even in Prague they’d heard about the tactics the Inquisition used to solicit confessions of heresy. And Anna had seen firsthand the vengeful wrath of an angry bishop. She tried to push the images of the Vltava River bridge away. The abbess had clearly intended to protect her and then she, foolish, stupid girl with too much arrogance, too much pride, had blurted out her culpability before the cleric. Thinking to hurt him. Thinking to hurt VanCleve. More stupidity! Going over it again and again in her head, remembering how he’d questioned her about the book; information was what he’d wanted from her all along! Even as he’d whispered love into her ear. Even as he’d released his seed inside her.
VanCleve. A friar! Cloth merchant from Flanders—such a cunning, malicious liar could only have been spawned by the devil. No seller of cloth. A seller of purloined grace, taking money from the poor and ignorant for that which was given freely by the Savior’s blood! Brother Gabriel. Father Gabriel. She hated him. But she hated herself more. What would her grandfather say if he knew she carried a pardoner’s child in her womb? For the first time since his death, Anna was glad that he was not here. Glad he would never know.
But the abbess would have to know. Maybe she already knew. Maybe she had read it in Anna’s face. Would she continue to protect her if she knew the child was not her “husband” ’s but that of a monk? A sin on either side of orthodoxy.
Another knock. “Mistress Bookman?”
“Yes, I’m coming.” Anna moved to the door. The scrape of wood on stone echoed in the night as she opened the door a small crack—just enough to make herself heard but not seen in the glow of the candle the girl carried. “Tell her I’ll be right there.”
“Begging your pardon, mistress, but the abbess bade me wait to guide you. She said you might stumble in the darkness.”
“Very well,” Anna said. “Give me a minute to dress.”
Stumble? Or run away? Had the abbess mistaken the horror in her face for fear? Had she decided to give her up to save the other sisters? Was that why she was being summoned in the middle of the night? Who could blame her? Her first loyalty would be to protect her abbey. That was only right.
Anna threw cold water on her face, thought about throwing her cloak on over her shift for the sake of speed, then thought better of it. They might have come for her already. If she was going to gaol she did not intend to go in her shift. She took another moment to bind her unruly hair into a knot at the nape of her neck. The novice waiting in the hall would be getting cold. “Just one more moment,” she called softly. She gathered up her cloak, stuffing a comb into the pocket along with a handkerchief, then tiptoed in to peek at Bek. He was sleeping soundly, clutching his tin whistle in his sleep. His lute lay on a chair beside his bed. Within reach. If she did not return, he would grieve. But the sisters would take care of him, she knew. At least he had his music.
“You may leave us now,” the abbess said to the novice. “You may return to your bed.” She nodded to Anna. “Come sit by the hearth. You’re shivering.”
The girl was in such distress that the abbess feared for the child she carried. She gathered the shawl from her own chair and spread it around Anna’s shoulders, noticing in the firelight how the girl’s red-rimmed eyes searched the shadows.
> “We are alone. You need not be afraid. I will do everything I can to protect you, in spite of the fact that you practically told the friar you were copying the contraband texts. You are no more guilty than the rest of us, but by your confession you implicate all of us.”
“That was foolish, I know.” Anna’s voice was small.
“Very foolish because it puts not only you but your unborn child in danger. And you do not strike me as a foolish woman.”
Anna said nothing. The midnight shadows danced on the walls with the movement of the flames. The abbess lit the oil lamp on her desk to make the room appear less sinister. She moved her chair closer to where Anna hunched in a little pile of misery. She reached out and took the girl’s hands in her own.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Anna? About your previous association with Brother Gabriel?”
The girl closed her eyes, but one tear escaped anyway. Her hands trembled. She shook her head as if to say she could not speak.
“You said you met him in Rheims. And though he denied it to your face, he admitted after you left that he knew you—rather well, I think. He was quite distressed, Anna. He kept saying over and over that there was a misunderstanding, and that he needed to talk to you. I sent him away. I hope that was the right thing to do.”
“I hope never to see him again.”
The bitterness in her voice disturbed the abbess. She knew if such anger turned inward it would fester like proud flesh. It might even mark the child she carried. It was plain that there was more here than philosophical differences. She had never been one to pry into other people’s secrets, but this went beyond personal factors. There were implications here for the abbey. The priest had been visibly shaken by seeing Anna.
“What was he doing in Rheims, Anna? Do you know?”
“Spying!” She almost spit the word into the flames. “He was spying for the Church. He posed as a merchant, prancing around in his fine silk garments, buying gifts for Little Bek, pretending to offer friendship, when all he was really trying to do was spread a net to trap Lollard scribes and copyists.”
“Did he find any?”
She looked up, her eyes gleaming. “Just one.” She put her hands on her belly. “Maybe two. Did you tell him about the baby?” Her voice trembled.
“No. Of course not, I—Anna, did he offer you more than friendship?”
“He is the father of my child.” And Anna began to sob so deeply that it was several minutes before the abbess could calm her enough for Anna to tell the story: how she’d fled Prague under threat of persecution, alone and friendless; how she’d traveled with the Roma pilgrims to Rheims. How there in the shadow of the great Notre Dame Cathedral, she’d met a merchant named VanCleve, a man who’d offered her shelter and said he loved her.
Only much later, long after the first light of dawn had come and the sisters had shuffled off to prime and Anna’s exhaustion had driven her to sleep, did the abbess stop to remember how very similar this conversation had been to one she’d had many years ago when she’d held another unwed mother in her arms and tried to give her comfort. But that memory belonged to another life and had no purpose here—no purpose except to remind her of the time she’d sent another man away.
The shock, the pain in Brother Gabriel’s eyes: it hurt to see it. Had Finn had that same look in his eyes when the prioress had sent him away? But she couldn’t think about that now. That had been another lifetime. It no longer mattered. In this lifetime, she had her abbey to protect. She’d best get at it. The archbishop’s soldiers would come soon. They would find the scriptorium and the nuns’ quarters swept clean. Not a crumb of heresy anywhere.
Please, God, let it be so.
From her little cottage outside Appledore village., Mistress Clare leaned on her broom and paused in the sharp, cold air to look out over Romney Marsh. In the distance she could hear the booming call of the bittern hidden in the reeds. Some might have thought her vista lonely. She merely found it peaceful. Loneliness was an enemy she’d long ago faced down. At least here she had to serve none but herself.
The cottage suited her. It was snug enough with its own round fire pit and stone hearth, its roof well thatched with reed. She could hardly wait for spring to till the little patch of withered herbs beside the stoop. She’d made her last payment from Brother Francis’s legacy and still had a little horde left—enough to see her through if she supplemented it with the sale of eggs in the village. She blessed the parsimony that had at long last bought her freedom from servitude.
Her cottage faced east and from her front stoop she could see Romney Marsh and beyond to the busy seaport in the distance. To her south the river Rother wound its way through the marshlands. And just to her north beyond her little patch of garden, she could make out the steeple on the village church.
On clear days like this she could sometimes see the laborers working on the steeple. The locals had told her about the violent history of Appledore when she’d secured the cottage with her first payment—years ago. For centuries the seaport had been a favorite for warring ships. First the Danes, and lately the French; raiding, pillaging, and burning. That was why she’d got the place so cheap—that and its lonely aspect. During the Peasants’ Rebellion of ’81, even Appledore’s stone chapel had been pillaged and burned, along with Home’s Place, the village manor house. But William Home had got his revenge. He’d been one of the commissioners appointed to put down the rebellion. He’d been well rewarded for his loyalty, his great farmhouse and its fortifications rebuilt during the intervening years with money from the bishops. And now his heirs were at work on the chapel.
The locals had told her something else too. Yesterday, the village provost informed her that a cleric had been inquiring about her. “I told him naught, but if he comes nosing around again, shall I tell him?” Her heart was racing as she gave him her permission.
The bell from the chapel rang out. She liked the sound. Shading her eyes from the bright glare of sun, she turned in the direction of the bell, squinted into the distance. A sharp north wind lifted her kerchief. She shivered and, rubbing her hands together, went back inside. No sign of a horse and rider picking his way down the lane that led from the village to her cottage.
But he would come.
The provost had said he seemed very anxious. She’d best go in and punch up the fire, put out a simple supper. Just in case. Her boy would be cold after his long ride.
Brother Gabriel wondered as his horse picked its way through the marsh what demon had driven him to this godforsaken place. The only sign of life was a curl of smoke from the cottage on the headland. He kept his eyes fastened on it as though it were a beacon of hope though he had no rational explanation for what drove him to seek out the old woman who lived there. What possible succor could she offer? She’d never even shown him any warmth.
In the distance an abandoned flat-bottomed boat slapped against the pebble shore. That’s me, he thought. Rudderless, adrift. The abbess had sent him packing, refusing even to let him speak to Anna, even though he’d begged and confessed to her more than he should have. She’d not been unkind, merely firm. But he was glad he could not see her eyes behind the veil, could not read the condemnation there. He’d thought to stop at Cooling Castle to warn Sir John, but had urged his horse on by the gatehouse, lacking the courage to face the man he’d betrayed. Surely the abbess would warn him. The last thing Brother Gabriel wanted to do in his current state of mind was to be called to testify against Sir John.
“Well done,” the archbishop had said. Were those the same words the high priest once said to Judas Iscariot? Where he once would have preened at such laudatory words, now they turned his heart to lead. He could not quit Lambeth Palace fast enough.
He looked back at the curl of smoke. Mistress Clare can tell you who you are, a small voice inside his head said. Any port in a storm. There, perhaps, he could gain perspective. For Brother Gabriel no longer knew where his loyalties lay.
But worst of a
ll, he’d betrayed Anna. Anna. He could almost hear the devil’s laughter.
Mistress Clare was sitting beside her blazing hearth, waiting, the table already laid with a simple meal, as it had been for the two nights since her conversation with the provost. Yet, when the knock came, she started with the quickness of a deer.
So. He’d come at last. Just as she’d hoped he would.
It had taken him longer than she thought, but that had given her time to make up her mind. He was in trouble. Why else would he have come looking for her? If he’d let it alone, she would have left him to the future he’d chosen. But he had not. She was his mother, and she was entitled to tell him so. She was entitled to give him comfort. She’d kept her bargain. Now he’d come looking for Jane Paul. And he would find her.
THIRTY-TWO
When the kindness of Constantine gave Holy Church endowments
In land and leases, lordship and servants
The Romans heard an angel cry on high above them:
‘This day dos ecclesiae has drunk venom.’
—WILLIAM LANGLAND IN
PIERS PLOWMAN’S PROTEST (14TH CENTURY)
Archbishop Arundel jerked his sable-lined hood over his forehead. The March wind kept pushing it back, exposing the thin skin of his bald pate to the cold. Finally! Cooling Castle was in sight and not a minute too soon. A cold mist was rising or settling. Hard to tell which. But he could see the keep and crenellated tower rising on the marshy headland like a great white ghost.
The Mercy Seller: A Novel (v5) Page 34
