He belched heavily, feeling the sourness burn his throat as he spurred his horse and tried to keep up with the king’s soldiers, who seemed disinclined to slow their pace to accommodate the archbishop. He should have stayed back at Lambeth Palace. He was not a well man. The learned doctor from the university who had kept him cooling his heels in an anteroom like any commoner had not helped one whit! His only contribution, besides smelling the bishop’s urine—with an unmistakable look of disgust on his face—had been to discourse on the imbalance of black bile in his humors and turn him over to a barber surgeon to bleed him. And for this the learned doctor had charged his archbishop the exorbitant sum of seventy-five pounds—and delayed their departure for Rochester. The noxious herbal prescription he’d scrawled only added to the sourness in the back of the patient’s throat.
But no matter how ill his health, the archbishop’s duty to his Church mandated he be present when the search was made. Besides, if he had stayed behind in his warm bed, he would have been denied the delectable satisfaction of seeing this nemesis of Holy Church squirm, of hearing the sergeant read the search warrant signed by the very man Oldcastle had been smugly hiding behind. One day soon he would obtain a royal warrant for his arrest and see Lord Cobham clapped in irons—if he lived long enough!
Breathing heavily, the archbishop brought up the rear as the party of six armed soldiers presented its demands to the warden at the gatehouse.
The sergeant unfurled the parchment. The newly minted seal of Henry V gleamed richly. The bells of London were still tolling Bolingbroke’s death when the archbishop brought the summons to the king. It was no accident that Arundel had maneuvered things to make this one of Prince Henry’s first official, if reluctant, acts as king. Best to let the young pup know from the beginning who really held the reins of power.
“We’ve a warrant to search and summons Sir John Oldcastle, Lord Cobham, by order of Henry the Fifth, Sovereign King of all England,” the sergeant intoned. “We demand that he surrender his person to the archbishop’s authority for questioning on matters touching heresy.”
The aging warden at the gate seemed unimpressed. He stepped out into the courtyard and, scratching his head, picked out a louse and impaled it upon his thumbnail. Then he coughed and let loose a string of spittle through the empty space vacated by a missing tooth. The spittle landed on the hoof of the sergeant’s horse. The beast skittered sideways, shivering his haunches in protest.
“His lordship’s ‘person’ beint here,” the warden said.
“Where is he, then?” asked the sergeant, irritation in his voice. But not as much irritation as Arundel felt. All this way for nothing.
“Don’t know. His lordship don’t usually tell me his itinerary” The fellow cleared his throat and spit again, this time just missing the furred edge of the bishop’s cloak. “Beg yer pardon, Excellency. A touch of the lung rot, I reckon.”
The mist was thickening to a real rain. Arundel felt the chill of it to his marrow. This was not the scenario he’d imagined when he’d dragged himself from his sickbed.
“Call Lady Cobham, then,” he said to the warden.
The wretched little warden dared to look him in the eye. “Can’t do that neither,” he said. “She beint here.”
“Is she with Lord Cobham?”
“Nay. She’s gone off to visit her daughter. Matter of fact, nobody left here ’cept me and a few crofters. She took the house servants with her.”
“Where does Lady Cobham’s daughter live?”
“Don’t know.”
The sergeant looked at Arundel as if asking what he should do now. Arundel pointed to the ring of keys hanging from the warden’s belt.
“Open up the castle.”
The old gatekeeper fumbled at his belt, removed the keys slowly. “I’m not sure—”
“On order of the king, warden. Surrender the keys. Now!”
He handed the keys to the archbishop, who pitched them to the sergeant. “Open it up. I mean to search every devil blasted corner of this hellhole.”
Darkness had fallen by the time the search was completed. The archbishop had watched, giving orders as he hunched beside the lackluster fire he’d ordered lit in Oldcastle’s chamber. It was a peat fire. And it burned as bilious as he felt.
The search rendered nothing but a pile of letters left out in plain sight, obviously contrived by Cobham to protect his wife from prosecution. The prey had slipped the snare. This time. But the archbishop had the search warrant with Henry’s signature. Soon he would have an arrest warrant. He could wait. But not too long, the black bile in his throat reminded him. Not too long or the next archbishop would be the one who caught the fox for whom he’d set the trap.
“Go down to the cellar and bring up some of Cobham’s wine. I’m chilled through. But be prepared to ride at first light. We’ll quarter here tonight. Tomorrow we search the abbey.”
For three days the abbess had been expecting them. On the third day the office of prime had been sung and she had settled in to work on a book of hours when the archbishop and the soldiers appeared at her door. There was no need to cover the Latin text.
She had a moment of compassion for the old man the novice ushered in. He looked wan and frail. But the band of soldiers accompanying him and the harsh, dismissive tone with which he addressed her soon erased that.
“Mother Superior, it has come to our attention that your abbey may be harboring copyists within your bosom who transcribe heretical texts for Lord Cobham and the Lollards. I have come to search your scriptorium and the abbey’s private quarters.”
No mention of a warrant. She could not demand one. The abbey, its lands, even the clothes the sisters wore on their backs, belonged to the Church. Only a cardinal or the pope himself had greater jurisdiction.
“As you wish, Your Excellency. But it is early in the day and you appear to have ridden far. Would you care to break your fast before you begin? You and your men could be served in the refectory. All the sisters are at work.”
“This is not a social call, abbess. But a small bowl of gruel, unseasoned and dusted with pulverized almonds, would not be unwelcome.” He grimaced. “Doctor’s orders. I shall eat it here while the soldiers conduct their search.”
“The gruel we can manage easily enough.” His skin looked gray, even accounting for the veil through which she viewed him. “The almonds, I’m less sure of. We are a modest abbey, not given to luxuries such as the bishops enjoy at Lambeth.” She smiled, hoping to soften the implied criticism.
He appeared to take no notice of either the words or the smile.
She nodded toward the novice, who slid silently from the room on her way to the kitchen. On her way too to give the alarm. Though Kathryn knew if all the nuns’ quarters had not already been purged, it was too late.
“If you are going to search private quarters, may I gather the nuns in the chapel? The sisters would find the presence of the men disturbing.”
He nodded his assent. “Better if they are all assembled in one place. I can question them there.”
Question them? God forgive her, if she had endangered them without just cause. But the cause was just. She knew it in her heart. And she would do everything she could to protect them. Most of them were innocent of any knowledge of the contraband texts. This would surely show. The others were strong women. She had prepared them, even practiced with them what to say. All except Agatha. And Agatha she’d assigned to infirmary duty, hoping the men would not venture there for fear of contagion. She had given orders that the nun on duty in the infirmary would not answer any bells.
“Have the bell ringer call the sisters to convocation,” she said to the novice, who returned with the bowl of gruel and, curtsying, placed it in front of the archbishop. “Three short rings.”
“Yes, Mother.” The girl looked at her with fear in her eyes.
Kathryn patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t be anxious, little one. We are innocent of any wrongdoing. This is but a formalit
y. When the archbishop finds nothing here but a cloister of devout nuns serving their Lord, he will go and leave us in peace to our prayers.”
“It is my understanding that you are more than a contemplative order, Mother,” said the archbishop. “That you do more than pray.”
“We make no secret of our other work. We support ourselves through the copying of texts. I’m sure you will visit our scriptorium.”
“Search there first,” he said to the sergeant, who was looking ill at ease. It was obvious that he lacked the archbishop’s enthusiasm for this task.
“Please wait for the bells,” Kathryn said.
And as if on cue, they rang out—three short peals. They were quickly followed by the shuffling of feet through the cloisters. The abbess could hear a difference in the procession. The even rhythm was broken. There was excitement, even urgency in the hurried slapping and scraping of leather along the pavement. (The sisters would not shed their leather-soled stockings until May Day.) There was even whispering. They were seldom called to unscheduled convocation. The last time was when they were threatened with an outbreak of bloody flux.
The archbishop put down his spoon and nodded at the sergeant.
The abbess rose and took down her ring of keys from the peg above her desk. “I will open the scriptorium for you,” she said. And she left with the soldiers, leaving the archbishop to rifle through the papers on her desk. He would find none anywhere else. Her closet was as clean as an abandoned bird’s nest.
Anna answered the summons too, assuring Bek that there was nothing to worry about. The sisters were not going to be chanting the hours. Yes, he was coming too. Come on. Hurry. No. He did not need his lute or his whistle. Just leave them in the scriptorium beside the desk. No need either to hide the papers she was working on. The only thing on her desk besides a book of poems by Christine de Pisan was a new musical composition she was copying for Bek. By some miracle he seemed to be able to follow the strange little markings above the words, even if he could not read the words themselves.
Her heart was pounding as she filed into the chapel with the others. This was VanCleve’s fault. Why did she still think of him by that name? By any name? It was all his fault. And hers for falling prey to him.
The sisters huddled in little groups, whispering. Many of them were completely baffled. When Mother Superior came in, the sisters ceased their whispering, waited for her to address them.
“Sisters, there is no cause for alarm. I’ve called you together because we’ve been invaded by a small company of male visitors in the company of Thomas Arundel, Archbishop of Canterbury. I thought to spare you their prying eyes. They will be conducting a routine inspection of the abbey, after which His Excellency may have some questions for some of us. Answer any question put to you as honestly as you can, remembering that our first loyalty is to Christ, whom we serve, and then His Church. I’m sure the archbishop will not bring the men into the chapel.”
Anna marveled at how calm her manner was.
Sister Matilde’s gaze met hers and was followed by a nod and a reassuring smile.
“Will the men be going through our personal things?” one of the young oblates asked in a tremulous voice.
The abbess smiled. “Don’t worry, Sister Teresa. They merely want to see what manner of work we do. They have no interest in your clean shift or the hairbrush and small mirror you may have hidden under your mattress.” Small chuckles. And sighs. The tension lightened somewhat.
“Now, may I suggest that we put this unscheduled convocation to good use. Sister Mary, you may lead us in a psalm.”
They chanted every psalm they knew before the archbishop entered the chapel. Anna tried not to look at him. She did not want her gaze to call attention to herself, but from downcast eyes she took the measure of the man. He was of stern, unpleasant aspect, as she had suspected he would be. But she had not suspected that his personage would be so unimposing. He huddled in the pulpit, scarcely discernible from the carved figures of the rood screen behind him, as he addressed the sisters, who seemed to be holding their collective breath.
“Good afternoon.”
The wooden figure had a voice. It was thin and light for a man.
A few of the nuns mumbled back the greeting. By this time it was afternoon. They had been enclosed here for hours, it seemed to Anna. Her stomach was beginning to growl. She gave a discreet little cough to cover the sound. The archbishop looked at her and frowned. Of course, she could not hope to blend in. If her grumbling stomach had not betrayed her, her dress would have. She and Bek were the only souls present not in nuns’ garb. And beside her, Bek, his muscles stressed beyond all discipline by so long a time, began to jerk, calling more attention to them.
“I bring you greetings from Canterbury. And I have come to warn you of a concern that your archbishop has regarding the Lollard heresy that spreads like a pestilence across Christendom. This infection has spread to your very doorstep and may have even crossed your own cloistered threshold.”
He paused for this to settle. One or two of the nuns gasped.
“Your patron and neighbor, Sir John Oldcastle, Lord Cobham, is suspected of spreading this heresy through transcribed texts.”
He paused for the gasps of surprise he expected. He was not disappointed.
“If any among you knows of such copying, has been asked to copy a text by the heretic John Wycliffe or an English translation of the Holy Scriptures, which has been declared by Church Council and the law of the land to be a profane text, the possession of which is punishable by death—” Here he paused again to let this sink in. “Then now is the time for you to step forth and confess it.”
The light washing through the grisaille glass from the chapel window lent a sickly gray glow to his face. “If you confess now, an amnesty may be granted you and your abbey on the grounds that, being innocent of any knowledge that such activity was heresy, you were only the tool of others.”
Surely that pounding in her ears was not her own heart. Or was that the sound of all the hearts around her beating as one? She scanned the crowd for Sister Agatha. Mercifully, she was not present! Mother Superior’s face was inscrutable behind her veil, but her demeanor was as calm as though the archbishop were delivering a familiar homily.
He waited for a long moment.
“Who will be the first to step forward to protect your abbey?”
The nuns all gazed at the floor, none daring even to raise their eyes.
“Very well, then. You should know that evidence has been given. Though we found nothing in our search today, contraband texts have been confiscated.” The sickly gray color of his face prompted a feeling of nausea in her. “Who sits at the desk closest to the window on the western end of the scriptorium?”
Anna heard rushing in her ears. She thought she was going to faint.
“We rotate the seats,” the abbess said.
“Then you will surrender the rotation schedule.”
“I have no such schedule. We do not keep them. We scrape them at the end of each week to write anew on the parchment.”
The archbishop’s gray face showed a little color for the first time since he’d begun.
“Abbess, I warn you. We can hold you responsible for what your nuns copy. I have but to give the words and the sergeant will take you into custody to be tried before an ecclesiastical court for heresy. If you are convicted, your abbey will be closed and the sisters dispersed.” He turned to face the sisters. “Is this what you want for your abbess and your fellow sisters?”
Anna stood up. The abbess was too old. She would never survive the questioning. And Anna owed her too much to let her bear the brunt for all of them. Better one of them should suffer. Beside her Little Bek made a gurgling sound in protest, as though he could read her mind. She could feel all eyes directed on her, all the upturned faces now washed too in the gray-green light from the window.
“I sit at the desk by the window on the western end of the scriptorium,” she said.
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He looked surprised. “You are not one of the sisters.”
The abbess stood up also, turned to face Anna and spoke loud enough for all to hear. “Your Excellency. Anna is not one of us. She is a guest. A widow from abroad that we took in. She will be leaving soon. She copies the poetry of Christine de Pisan to pay for her keep and that of her afflicted son, who sits at her feet. She is a good scribe, but she does not have a vocation and would have no interest in theology. She only copies whatever we give her.”
“Abbess, we are impressed with your charity and protective manner toward the stranger in your gates.” His tone dripped sarcasm. He turned his gaze on Anna.
“Madam, from whence came you?”
“My home was in Prague, Bohemia.”
He smiled as though that answer gave him great satisfaction. “Prague. The home of Jan Hus! A hotbed of heresy.”
Anna hated that she had given cause for his gloating.
“Madam, I shall not ask you if you have copied the Scriptures in English. You have admitted to sitting in the seat where the heretical texts were confiscated. Indeed, I really don’t care if you have copied them. My question for you, madam, is what is your relationship with Sir John Oldcastle?”
There was no sound in the room. Not even Little Bek moved.
“He is a kind man who took me in when I was in distress and delivered me and my son to the abbey for refuge.”
“A careful answer, madam, but not a wise one. Sergeant,” he called to the man waiting outside the chapel, “we will search this woman’s quarters again in her presence and in the presence of the abbess.”
Then he turned to the congregation of nuns. “Go back to your labors,” he said gruffly, making the sign of the cross. “Laborare est orare.”
THIRTY-THREE
The estate of the pope has no peer, an emperor is next
him everywhere and a king is correspondent, a high cardinal
The Mercy Seller: A Novel (v5) Page 35
