Gabriel’s voice called her name over and over as though from a great distance. She was conscious that he was kneeling beside her, his knees mired in the mud, wrapping his arms around her, pleading in his voice.
“Don’t, Anna. Don’t. Please. The abbess would not have wanted you to make yourself mad with grief. Such a life as hers deserves a celebration.”
But Anna was grieving all of them: Finn and Martin and Jetta and Kathryn and Jerome and even the headless nobleman and more—Sir John and all the ones still to come. All that death had claimed from her and would claim from her. Why did Death not take her too? Let her melt into the grave and join the body there.
But it was not death’s breath she felt on her neck. It was Gabriel’s—warm and quivering, whispering words in her ear like that first night when VanCleve had held her after Jetta’s death.
“Shh. Come away, Anna. Out of the rain. Our child needs you.”
VanCleve’s voice. No, not VanCleve’s voice. Gabriel’s voice. Gabriel’s arms like bands holding her together. Her husband’s arms. She could feel his beating heart.
“I love you,” he said. “I have loved you since the first day I saw you, standing in the marketplace in Rheims. You have come so far. You must not give in to this despair. If not for me, for Finn. For that faith you claim.”
Finn? Which Finn did he mean? Was he talking about the old man sleeping in Týn Churchyard? Or the baby, slumbering in his cradle, hidden like the infant Moses, in Romney Marsh?
A flash of lightning split the clouds. Anna looked into that glowing heat and saw Death astride his pale horse, galloping toward them across the sky, his scythe upraised like the pictures carved in the cathedral doors. Beneath his hooded cowl, she thought she saw Arundel’s face, the flesh falling away to the bone. She felt her knees sinking deeper into the grave.
Gabriel’s arms, his voice, tugged at her. “Finn needs you, Anna. He needs his mother. I need you.”
A sob turned in her throat and erupted in wild, hysterical laughter. She raised her fists toward the image of that Grim Reaper who stalks all souls. Did you hear that, old man? You have not taken it all from me. My husband is beside me, my husband who loves me, and our son sleeps in his cradle. The joke is on you. There are two Finns. They will meet someday underneath heaven’s great gold canopy of light—all the Finns and Kathryns and Rebekkas and Martins and Jans that you have harvested with your dull blade. And where will you be then? Rotting in that Purgatory conjured by your own imagination, and no one will be left to pray your sorry soul to heaven.
With a sound like the crashing at the world’s end, lightning ripped the sky again, blinding her. The pale horse reared up on its hind legs, sawing at the clouds, its rider falling to the ground like Satan hurled from heaven. Death—the dreaded enemy transformed to a pile of rag and bone. In that moment of startling clarity and melting rage, Anna might have pitied Death, pitied even the old archbishop—if she’d had strength enough to feel.
The lightning ceased.
The thunder rolled low and far away. The clouds blended to a wall of gray.
Anna’s sobs, like the thunder, subsided.
Gabriel half lifted, half dragged her away from the grave to the shelter of the lych-gate. He took off his doublet and put it around her. He held her. They sat together on the bench where Kathryn’s coffin had rested only hours gone, listening to the rain drip from the eaves of the peaked roof.
When she had gained a modicum of composure, Gabriel said, still holding her, “We should not linger here, Anna. I’ll take you back to Appledore. You and the babe can come with me or not. You married me to save our child from shame. But only you can make a husband of me. It is your choice.”
She pulled away. He stood up and wiped the mud from her face with his sleeve.
“After all that you have given up, Gabriel, you would say that?” Her voice was husky. It hurt to talk.
“I have given up nothing, Anna. I told myself the day I saw you standing in your bookstall that God had put you there for me to save.”
In the pause that followed, the dove called again to its mate, a lonely cooing sound. Anna wondered if Kathryn’s spirit heard it too.
“But it was the other way around,” Gabriel said softly. “God in His mercy put you there to save me. The only real thing in my life—the only thing I’m sure about—is my love for you and our child.” He pointed to the new-made grave. “I saw more of Christ in her than I ever saw in my black-robed brothers.
“You’re wearing your husband clothes,” she said at the mention of the black robes.
She considered him carefully as though seeing him for the first time— this weary yeoman, leaning against the portal of the lych-gate, mud on his breeches, his wet shirtsleeves clinging to his skin. What would she have thought of him if she’d met this Gabriel first? Would she have loved him? Looking at him now, his stooped shoulders, the pain in his eyes—how much courage it must have taken to reexamine all that he thought he believed, to watch it all crumble beneath him. There was something of VanCleve in him. Something of the Dominican friar. He was both and he was neither, something better, nobler. She thought of Finn the Illuminator and his beloved Rebekka. How he had spurned his noble estate to marry a Jewess.
“It was a mercy for me too,” she said. “I have no other home except the one you and I and Finn will make together.”
She looked hard into his face, trying to discern what he was thinking. She thought she saw relief in the easing of the tight muscles around his mouth, the little half-sigh he allowed.
“Anna, are you sure? Are you sure that’s what you want to do? You could stay with my mother. You and the child would be safe. I am not abandoning you. I shall send you what sustenance I can.”
“Do you not want us, then, Gabriel? Is that what you are saying?”
“No! By my troth, I swear it. I want you with me. I want him. It is my heart’s only desire. But your safety—”
Safety. Kathryn had sent Anna’s grandfather away for his safety, letting him think she was dead. She had given him up because she loved him. Was that what Gabriel was doing? Her grandfather had grieved that loss all his life. Kathryn and Finn had accomplished much apart, but how much more might they have done together? And how much joy had they lost?
“There is no safety but what God in His mercy freely grants us.” She took his hands in hers and drew them to her heart. “I am your wife, Gabriel. Whatever we face, we face together, trusting to that same mercy that brought us together.”
“Then you can forgive VanCleve’s deceit?”
“If you can forgive Anna’s bitterness.”
A ghost of VanCleve’s old grin softened his next words. “A sharp-tongued wife can be an asset for a scribe, I suppose—and yours is sharp enough to point the toughest quills.”
“ ’Tis very well, then, Master Scribe, that you think so, because you’ve likely not heard the last of it.” She kissed him lightly on his lips, her next words soft and low. “We will learn forgiveness and trust together.”
He was about to return the kiss when Anna stopped him. She pointed to Sister Matilde, who, heedless of the misting rain, was heading for them as fast as her wide-hipped body would allow. “Anna, thank God I found you before he did,” she said breathlessly. “You have to leave. At once! Sister Agatha sent me to warn you.”
“Sister Agatha!”
Matilde shook her head. “Don’t second-guess a gift. Just take it and be grateful. The Lord works in mysterious ways. Master Flemmynge is in the visitor’s room. He is here to pay his respects, or so he says. He does not need to find you here.” She looked directly at Gabriel, making no mention of his strange appearance. “Or you either.”
“Can’t I at least say good-bye to Bek?”
“There’s no time. There’s a limit to how long Sister Agatha can stall the cleric. Her talents are not large. Bek is happy here. If he sees you now, it will only make him miss you more.” She had an arm around each of them and was guiding them bac
k into the rain. “Lord Cobham’s servant will meet you at the Rochester Cross with fresh horses. When you are well away, Gabriel, see that she rests.”
Anna held out her arms to hug her but remembered her muddy clothes and drew back. “Sister Matilde … you have been like a sister in the truest sense tome …”
“Off with both of you before you set me to crying. And Godspeed to—”
Sister Agatha’s strident voice interrupted, carrying from the open door of the chapel. “Master Flemmynge, it is kind of you to want to see Mother’s grave even in the rain, though I think you’ll find that everyone is gone.” Loud even for Sister Agatha.
Matilde thrust a bundle at Anna. “Here are some dry clothes and a bit of food. Don’t go back through the cloisters. Leave from here.” Then she hugged Anna, not seeming to care about the mud that transferred itself to her clean white linen.
Sister Agatha was still standing in the doorway, completely blocking Flemmynge’s view. She heard him grumble something and Sister Agatha stepped aside to let him peer into the empty graveyard. Without even a glance at the lych-gate, he stepped back inside, out of the rain, lest he spoil his fine garments. Agatha shut the door.
As they left the abbey behind, Anna looked back. Candlelight glowed in the windows of the abbey chapel, where the sisters would be finishing their evening prayers. This is the last time I will see it, she thought, trying to carve it in her memory.
Her gaze moved to gather in one last look at Kathryn’s grave. In the misting rain and shadow of the trees, she could just make out the outline of the cross where the persistent dove still called to its mate. Loneliness and loss welled up afresh. She could not leave like this. Where would they go? What would they do? What if Gabriel tired of her and regretted all he had given up?
Then from out of the highest branch of a bordering yew another dove sailed low and fast and settled beside its mate on the cross arm.
“Look, Gabriel,” she said. “There is a pair.”
It is a sign—she thought, but did not say, lest the learned friar think her silly. A sign that Finn and Kathryn are together at last. I will take it for a sign of blessing. She felt her spirit lighten.
“That is as it should be,” he said, reaching for her hand. “But we must hurry, Anna. Lest the archbishop’s lackey discover us.”
“Do not worry, husband; he has no interest in two ordinary pilgrims seeking only God’s mercy.”
EPILOGUE
31 December, the year of our Lord 1417
My dearest Anna,
How wonderful to hear your news of the birth of your twin daughters, Rebekka and Kathryn. I only wish that Mother had lived long enough to know her namesake. Though I am glad she did not live to hear the sad tidings I must impart to you now. We received news yesterday that Sir John has given his life for that cause in which he believed. It was reported to us that he died bravely and many were converted by his noble example. I fear that his death marks but the beginning here in England.
It is worse in Bohemia, where, after the burning of Jan Hus, civil war has broken out. I pray that you and Gabriel and Finn, and his two little sisters, have found a refuge there in Paris from the persecutions to come, and that you will not return to Bohemia. Since Gabriel has been admitted to the guild as a master scribe, I must conclude that you are prospering. You mention the Bible readings in your home. Please be careful.
Sister Agatha is abbess now. We do not do the good work we once did. Now we copy only those works approved by Archbishop Chichele. He persecutes the Lollards with even more vigor than did Archbishop Arundel. And the king is with him in that effort. But with Sister Agatha as abbess, we need never worry about heretical books in our scriptorium.
Concerning books, King Henry returned your books to the abbey in person, saying that it was his understanding that your use for them was not sectarian in any way. I am sending them with this letter. Mother Agatha would not have them here anyway.
You asked about Bek and Lady Joan. Sir John was captured in Wales. Lady Joan was not with him. Cooling Castle is deserted and we have had no word from its lady. I have heard she is with her daughter, Lady Brooke. I pray that it is true and that there she can find solace for her grief.
You need not worry so about Bek. He has grown tall in your absence, and although he will never be strong in body, he is strong in spirit. He writes music for our choir. He misses you, but he seems happy. He is always singing—when he is not ringing the bells. One day, the king called upon him—yes, the king. It was the day His Majesty returned your books. It was quite something to see them together—Bek huddled with the king, instructing His Majesty’s fingers on the correct placement on the strings of a harp. Bek seemed to think himself an equal with the king and the king seemed not to mind. I saw a deep sadness in His Majesty. They say he is bitter at Sir John’s plot against him. I know few details of that supposed plot or of Sir John’s execution, and I would not burden you if I did.
I must return to my duties, Anna. Without Sir John’s patronage we are hard-pressed to earn our way. Godspeed be with you. I will leave you with the words from Julian of Norwich that Mother so often quoted: All will be well.
Your loving Sister,
Matilde
AUTHOR’S NOTE
After the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381, the Church in England attempted to stamp out the dissent sparked by the teachings of the Oxford cleric John Wycliffe, a movement which came to be known as Lollardy. While the bishops succeeded in driving the movement underground, they could not stop it from traveling abroad, especially after Richard II, who was king of England during Wycliffe’s time, married a woman from the noble house of Bohemia. Queen Anne was more receptive to Wycliffe’s ideas, and because of the new relationship between the royal houses of Bohemia (now known as the Czech Republic) and England, a student exchange program between Oxford and Charles University in Prague brought Wycliffe’s radical ideas to Bohemia. There they flourished under the preaching of Jan Hus. By the early fifteenth century, the seeds of Lollardy were once again sprouting in England and presenting a direct challenge to the authority of both the established Church and the king.
Henry V, who reigned from 1413 to 1422, is probably best known for his defeat of the French at the Battle of Agincourt during England’s Hundred Years’ War with France. Thanks to William Shakespeare, who used him as the original prototype for the scurrilous Falstaff, Sir John Oldcastle is remembered primarily for his early friendship with the young Prince Harry before he became king. The two served together in battle and became, according to Shakespeare, good drinking buddies; but Lord Brooke, the master of entertainment at the Court of King James, thought Shakespeare took too many liberties with his honored ancestor. Not wanting to offend such an important member of his patron’s court, Shakespeare wrote a disclaimer and changed the name of the jocular but cowardly Sir John to Falstaff.
There was nothing cowardly about Sir John Oldcastle. History records that he died bravely. Some say he died a Christian martyr, others a traitor. After Henry V, driven by archbishops Arundel and Chichele, grew ruthless in his persecution of the Lollards, Sir John was charged with plotting to seize the king at Eltham during a Twelfth Night celebration and form a common-wealth that would allow for religious dissent. When that effort was aborted, several other insurrections and plots followed—all laid at Oldcastle’s doorstep. A reward of one thousand pounds was put on his head. He was wounded and captured in Wales and brought to London in a horse litter. There he was summarily condemned without trial, on the basis of the previous conviction, when he had escaped execution with the help of a parchment maker by name of William Fisher.
To flesh out the characters of both Henry V and Sir John, I drew not only from the historical record but from Shakespeare’s characterization of these figures. To my knowledge, there is no historical evidence or even conjecture that William Fisher and Henry V were one and the same, although history does point to the king’s reluctance to execute his old friend. History also records th
at on December 14, 1417, Sir John Oldcastle was taken to Saint Giles Field beside the Tower, where he was drawn (stomach cut open) and hanged (for being a traitor) over a slow fire, where he was burned to death (for heresy).
The Lollard persecutions continued until the Reformation. Many men and women were tortured and executed for religious dissent, including Jan Hus in Bohemia. Unfortunately, such religious intolerance did not end with the Reformation.
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