“Sister Anne? Sister Johanna?” Janna felt great relief at the sound of Master Will’s voice. He carried a small parcel wrapped in a damp, muddy scrap of woven hemp. He held it out as if it was the most precious object he owned. “By your leave, Sister,” he said in a low voice, as Janna took the object from him. “I have here a gift for—for the abbey.”
Sister Anne inclined her head. “What is in the parcel?”
“The bulbs of white lilies. I beg you to plant them in the garden of the abbey, for I have heard it said that the flowers honor the Virgin Mother Mary, being so pure, chaste and beautiful. For that reason, I believe they are sometimes called the lilies of the Madonna.”
Sister Anne pursed her lips in thoughtful contemplation. Just as Janna began to fear she’d be forced to give Will’s gift back to him, the infirmarian nodded. “I thank you for your gift, Master Will,” she said briskly. “We shall plant the lilies and pick the flowers to decorate the church and the shrine of St Edith on feast days.”
“Thank you, Sister.” Will folded his hands and stepped back. Sister Anne walked on, but Janna lingered just long enough to hear his whisper. “I know Agnes loves to work in the garden. Please tell her to remember my pledge whenever she sees these flowers, for they remind me of her and they are a living token of my love.”
“I will.” Janna felt her heart flood with emotion as she recalled Agnes’s delight in the wild flowers growing in the fields, and her wistful comment about their perfection. Will could not have chosen a more apposite gift for Agnes—for, in spite of what he’d told the infirmarian, Janna knew quite well that this was a gift for Agnes rather than the abbey.
As the bailiff strode off, she took a long look around the marketplace. This was her last taste of freedom for a while. She smiled as she spied a happy family group in the distance, the father swinging a young boy around and around in circles, while the boy squealed his delight and his laughing mother clapped and cheered the performance. Giddy with the movement, the father set down his son and staggered a few steps. The mother rushed to take his arm to steady him. She looked up into his eyes. They exchanged fond smiles, and—
And Janna’s heart stopped beating as she recognized Godric and Cecily, along with Hamo. They had not seen her. For a few long seconds, she stared at them while the world stood still.
At last the silence ended, and the market came back into focus. Once more Janna could hear the cries of the traders, sense the bustle going on around her, smell the dung of the animals mixed with the earthy scent of market produce. Life was going on all around her, but inside she felt as cold as death, and as dead as stone.
Chapter 15
To take her mind off the shock of seeing Godric and Cecily looking so happy together, Janna immediately sought out Agnes on her return to the abbey. Sister Anne had told her to plant out the lily bulbs, but Janna would not do it unless Agnes was there to witness both their burial in the earth, and to hear who had given the bulbs, and why.
She found Agnes directing a group of weary travelers to the guest house, and waited until they had gone and Agnes was free. Then she showed her the wrapped parcel and told of their meeting with Will. Agnes heard Janna out in silence. Janna thought she could detect the glint of tears in her eyes as she said, “Master Will has given a lovely gift to the abbey.”
“To you.” Janna wasn’t about to let Agnes lie to herself, even if it was at the cost of their friendship. “Let’s plant the bulbs in the cloister garth, so all the sisters can enjoy their beauty. You choose a spot and I’ll go and fetch a pick to break the ground.”
“Do you really think Master Will meant it when he said these flowers remind him of me?” Agnes asked, when Janna returned.
“Beyond a doubt,” Janna assured her, and handed over the package. “He gave these to you. You must plant them yourself.” She smacked the pick down into the iron-hard ground, digging deep to loosen the earth.
Agnes carefully unwrapped the bulbs and knelt down. As Janna continued to dig, Agnes scooped out little nests in the loose earth and, following Janna’s instructions, set each bulb upright inside the hollows. With enough ground prepared, Janna threw down the pick and helped Agnes sprinkle soil over the bulbs.
“There’ll be lilies gracing the altar of St Edith by summer,” Janna assured her, as she patted earth over the last of the bulbs.
“And what shall I do then?” Agnes turned to Janna, her distress plainly written across her face. “I like Master Will, but I hardly know him. I can’t even begin to think of him as a husband!”
“You could get to know him better, if you would only give him a chance.” Janna kept her head bent and her hands busy. This was more of an admission from Agnes than she’d dared to hope. She didn’t want to take any risks, or spoil such a promising train of thought.
“How can I come to know him when I cannot leave the abbey?” Agnes’s voice was bleak with despair. “I have taken my vows. I cannot break them.”
“But they are not your final vows, surely? Is it not possible to get dispensation? Can you not ask Sister Grace about it? After all, you were only a child when you came here!”
“You’ve heard the story of Wulfrid and the Saxon king and the founding of our abbey, Janna. You know that she was a nun, but the king forced his attentions on her and our dear saint was the result of their union. If Wulfrid was not free to marry a king, how could I ever be free to marry the bailiff? Besides, do you remember that Sister Angelica told us she’d made a mistake coming here, and how much she’d come to regret it? But she would not break her vow—and neither will I, Janna. No.” Agnes looked fiercely determined as she shook her head. “I won’t even think about it.”
In spite of Agnes’s passionate avowal, Janna remained skeptical. “Are you sure your vow is all that stops you from considering Master Will’s offer of marriage?” she ventured.
Agnes averted her head. She stood up, and tried to brush her hands free of dirt.
“You said you cannot leave the abbey. Is that cannot—or will not?” Janna persisted.
“Cannot! Will not! All right, I’m afraid to leave the abbey again. There, I’ve said it!” Agnes’s voice rose. “I hate people staring at me, staring at my scars,” she cried. “I hate it!”
“Shh.” Janna was about to put her hand on Agnes’s arm to comfort her, but saw that her fingers were stained with mud. Instead, she tried to comfort her with words. “People might stare at first, but only until they’re used to you. But they would stare at you no matter what you looked like, for they would be curious to see Master Will’s new wife, particularly one newly come from life in a convent! But think on this: Once their curiosity is satisfied, they will accept you as one of their own and take you for granted.”
“With this to remind them always that I am grotesque?” Agnes’s fingers traced the scar on her face, leaving a muddy trail down her cheek.
“Master Will called the lilies ‘pure, chaste and beautiful.’ He said they remind him of you. He doesn’t think you are grotesque, and neither does anyone else. For certes, no-one here does, nor do they stare at you. They’re so used to you, they no longer even notice you!”
“Are you accusing me of the Sin of Pride?” Agnes’s lips twitched upward into a half-smile.
Janna felt a profound relief that her friend could find some humor in the situation. It meant there was still hope for her cause. “Perhaps, rather, you should ask yourself what harm it does if they do stare at you?”
Agnes was silent as she contemplated Janna’s question. Then she shrugged. “I have made my vows. I cannot unmake them.”
“Master Will seemed to think there might be a way around the problem—if problem it is.”
“And what would a bailiff know of abbey life, and he a man at that?”
Janna had no answer, but still she wondered if Agnes was using her vows as a convenient excuse not to face her fear. She resolved to question Sister Anne about the matter.
“And what about you?” Agnes’s voice br
oke into her thoughts.
“Me?”
“Yes, you. When you came into the courtyard with Sister Anne you looked as if you’d seen the devil himself! Did something happen in the marketplace—apart from meeting Will there?” Agnes’s face and tone reflected her concern, and Janna was touched. She wasn’t used to having a friend, someone close enough to care what happened to her. Although she hadn’t hesitated to interfere in Agnes’s life when she thought the cause was just, it was odd to have the tables turned on her in this way. Hard, too, to break a lifetime’s habit of keeping her own counsel in order to confide in someone. The image of Godric and Cecily together was burned on her brain, etched there with acid. She knew they both lived at Hugh’s manor and that their care of Hamo must keep them in each other’s company. She’d known that in her head, but now she knew it in her heart. The knowledge brought stinging tears to her eyes. She began to describe what she’d seen to Agnes, wanting now to share her burden, wanting relief.
“But why are you so upset? I thought the lord Hugh was the one you cared for?” Agnes looked confused.
“He—No! I—yes, I suppose I do. Care for him, that is. I admire him. But Godric is my friend.”
“Your friend? Why, then, should you mind if your friend woos Mistress Cecily?”
Why indeed? Janna had no answer for Agnes, or even for herself.
*
Darkness had fallen, and the bell was summoning the convent to Vespers by the time Janna left the physic garden. She’d taken refuge there after she and Agnes had finished planting out the lilies. Telling Agnes what she’d witnessed had stirred the emotion boiling in her heart and mind to such a pitch that the company of others had become unbearable.
She decided not to attend the office, for her hands were thoroughly muddy and needed a good scrub. On her way past the scriptorium, Janna noticed Sister Ursel hunched over her manuscript. In the faint light cast by the candle on her desk, Janna saw that there was a quill in her hand and a pot of ink at the ready, but she didn’t seem to be writing anything. In view of what had happened, Janna couldn’t blame her for losing heart. She walked past, treading noisily in the hope that the nun might turn around so that she could whisper something sympathetic. But Sister Ursel stayed bowed over her manuscript. Janna wondered if she was crying.
Sister Ursel and her distress haunted Janna as she walked to the lavatorium where the sisters washed their hands before and after every meal. She wished there was some way of finding out who was taking the pages. And where was she hiding them before they could be spoiled and “found?” As she plunged her hands into the basin of water, an idea came to her. She stopped to ponder it. After giving her hands a hasty scrub, she snatched up a tallow candle set in a holder, and hastened to the dorter where the nuns slept. This was surely the best place to start her search. She was greatly relieved to find the dorter deserted, for she not entitled to be there at all.
Sleeping pallets were stacked in a neat pile in the long communal room, which was shared by novices, oblates and some of the nuns. Beyond the dorter was a short corridor, with doors leading off it. The faint sound of chanting from below reassured Janna that the nuns were now busy at Vespers. Wasting no more time, she began to rifle through the wooden chests lined up on one side of the room. They contained nothing more interesting than the spare clothing and shoes of the occupants. The nuns had no private property to store, for it was against the Rule to own anything at all, and Janna hadn’t really expected to find anything of interest secreted there.
Carrying the candle, she hurried on to search the small cells on either side of the corridor leading off from the dorter. The cells were closed off by curtains, and Janna pulled aside the first one she came to. A small room was revealed, containing only a truckle bed and a squat chest, with a wooden crucifix on top. There was a hook for the nun’s cloak, empty now for the nun would need its warmth in church. These cells must be occupied by the obedientiaries, and perhaps those nuns who had lived in the abbey for many years or who, for one reason or another, had earned the privilege of solitude. Janna resolved to search them all, for this was the most likely place for the missing pages to be hidden. Which cell belonged to Sister Philippa? Had she been here long enough, was she important enough to have her own cell?
With her ears strained to catch the smallest sound, she began a quick search of each cell, feeling under straw mattresses and examining the small chests beside each bed. She searched carefully, but to no avail. The favored hiding place appeared to be under the hard straw mattresses, and she’d uncovered several secrets—a blue ribbon, a folded letter, a child’s embroidered cap, an enameled brooch—but nothing that resembled the missing sheet of parchment.
Janna was on her knees, with her hand under yet another mattress, when the sound of voices jerked her upright. The voices seemed still some distance away. She was tempted to make a run for it, but there was only one cell left at the end of the corridor to search.
With her heart hammering in fright, she ran into the cell, placed the candle on the chest beside the bed, and swiftly searched through its contents. Nothing. She felt under the mattress. Her fingers touched something flat and hard. She pulled out a wooden box and studied it. It bore an inscription chased onto a silver band. She shook it, and heard the faint rustle of something inside. Her conscience stirred, but she reassured herself it was all in a good cause as she snicked open the catch.
Tucked safely inside the box was a folded sheet of parchment. She hurriedly opened it, identifying it instantly as coming from the hand of Sister Ursel. Whose cell was this? Conscious of the voices coming closer, she cast about for any signs that might identify the occupant. There were none. A pair of sandals stood beneath the empty peg, discarded now for the stouter boots of winter wear. Did they belong to Sister Philippa? It was impossible to tell. Janna peered into the box in the hope of finding some means of identifying its owner. As well as the parchment, it contained a crucifix and, strangely, a couple of teeth. Not human, surely? Janna peered more closely at them, feeling almost sure they came from some animal.
She closed the box and tried to decipher the inscription on the lid. It meant nothing to her, even when she turned the box and studied the writing upside down. Exasperated, she slammed the box down onto the mattress. A thought came to her. She couldn’t read the writing, but she knew who could! She opened the box, took out its contents except for the parchment, and left them lying on the chest. She tucked the box into the folds of her sleeve and, feeling like a thief, hastily skipped out of the cell just as several sisters entered the dorter with cloaks folded over their arms.
“My pardon, sisters. I needed to visit the reredorter,” she said, moving quickly away before any of them could question her. She ran downstairs and went straight to the scriptorium, hoping to find Sister Ursel. The manuscript was there, but the nun wasn’t.
Janna paused a moment to admire the beautiful lettering, and the delicate lines of a drawing depicting a robin perched on the hand of St Edith. Janna knew it was a robin for its breast was shaded red. She wasn’t quite so sure it was St Edith she was looking at, for she could not read the writing beside the illustration. She sighed with frustration and wondered again why, when her mother was teaching her how to write her own name, she had not at the same time taught her how to read and write anything else.
Holding the candle close to the page to see more clearly, she noticed that some of the color had smudged beyond the line of the robin’s breast. In fact, the work gave all the appearance of being abandoned in a hurry, for only part of the breast was colored. Janna studied the smudge. It looked as if it might have been caused by a splash of water. A fallen tear, perhaps? She had never seen a smudge on Sister Ursel’s work before, and knew that something extraordinary must have happened to cause it. She wondered whether she should make some effort to protect the work, but a moment’s reflection reassured her that it was probably safe enough for the present. Whoever was behind the damage to the manuscript thought she already h
ad a sheet to destroy; she would not risk taking another quite so soon, particularly after Abbess Hawise’s stern warning.
Conscious of time passing, Janna went in search of Sister Ursel. Had she gone to Vespers after all? Was she now awaiting supper in the refectory? Janna was all too aware of the box concealed within her sleeve. She was horribly afraid that someone would stop her, and that she would be searched. Anyone finding the stolen articles could easily misconstrue the reason for finding them in her possession. Even the thief could point her finger at Janna, for was not Janna carrying a box stolen from her own cell? There was no sign of Ursel in the refectory or anywhere around the cloister. Janna made a conscious effort to slow her footsteps as she went outside to search in the garden. She didn’t want to attract any attention, nor did she want to add the Sin of Running to her crimes. But Ursel was not there, or in the physic garden, or the orchard beyond.
There was only one place Janna hadn’t looked. She had never been into the church on her own, and was reluctant to go there now. Vespers was over and the nuns would be having their supper. She was already late for the meal; she didn’t want to be held to account for the dual Sins of Lateness and Trespass.
The church door was open, inviting her in. Janna’s hesitant steps took her over the threshold. The air smelled dusty and old, perfumed with stale incense. Flickering candles cast a ghostly glow, while her shadow leaped high and dark against their light. She set down the candle and walked into the choir stalls, but there was no Ursel sitting in her usual seat, nor anyone else there either. A gasping cry came to her ears, and she kept very still, turning her head to locate the direction of the sound. She thought it came from the Lady Chapel or perhaps the small chapel that housed the shrine of St Edith, and so she tiptoed quietly toward the north arm of the crucifix-shaped church. A figure lay spread-eagled on the floor in front of St Edith’s shrine, racked with sobs but trying her best to stifle them. Janna could make out a few choked gasps—“N-n-not worthy, oh God, not worthy…”—followed by a cry of agony: “Oh God, h-help me! Pl-please, please g-give me the gift of faith. Help me, S-St Edith, help me!” The nun’s eyes were blind with tears; her voice desolate with grief.
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