“But your manuscript is a great work of art! Surely they admired your talent?” Janna was amazed at their blindness.
“They…they didn’t know. S-Sister Grace and Sister Maria t-taught me my letters and…and once I p-picked up a quill and a brush. I knew that this was where my heart belonged!”
Janna heard the passion in Ursel’s voice. “You are so clever,” she said. “You write and illustrate your work so beautifully. Surely it is a gift from God, and a blessing that you came here.”
“Do…do you think so?” Ursel’s eyes grew round as she contemplated Janna’s words. It seemed she’d never considered her talent in this way before.
“Of course!” Janna said emphatically.
“But I…I feel un-unworthy.”
“Your work is wonderful. Surely you must know that?”
Sister Ursel bowed her head. “I do my b-best,” she whispered.
“You are not unworthy. You are truly blessed. Your illumination of the life of St Edith will live on through the centuries, a testament to your faith, and to your great gift. It will still be here long after we’re all dead and forgotten.”
“I-I never thought of that!” Ursel raised shining eyes to Janna. It was the first time Janna had ever seen the nun look truly happy and at peace.
“You should never feel unworthy. Never!”
Ursel picked up her brush and dipped it into a pot of color. As she bent once more to her task, Janna heard her humming softly under her breath. She smiled, and went back to carefully copying what Ursel had written on the tablet. Le chat va a la chasse. She read the phrase, and tried to translate it into Saxon. The cat goes hunting? Janna smiled. She had made a start. She was on her way.
*
The thought of Agnes’s unhappiness lay heavily on Janna’s conscience. She’d grown even quieter, and seldom sought out Janna’s company now. When they did meet, Janna still tried to interest her friend in learning about herbs and their properties, but her task was made difficult because the garden lay bare and lifeless in the bitter winter cold, and there was little to see or do there. Nor had Sister Anne consented to have Agnes working in the infirmary, so Janna couldn’t show her how to make up medicaments either.
But the convent soon had much to think about and discuss, for there was startling news from the north, brought by one of the few travelers still abroad. “Earl Ranulf of Chester and his brother, William of Roumare, captured and held Lincoln castle after tricking the castellan into admitting their wives,” the traveler told them. “But King Stephen mustered his army and chased up there to lay siege against them.” The traveler had stopped to talk to the almoner in the outer court, but as word spread of the news he brought, a crowd began to gather around him.
“Earl Ranulf managed to escape with some of his men. He went first to Chester to muster his own vassals along with his Welsh allies, and he also called on Robert, Earl of Gloucestre to support him, promising fealty to the empress in return.” The traveler rocked back on his heels to survey his rapt audience. He was greatly enjoying the attention.
“Earl Robert was delighted at the chance to make an important new ally for the empress,” he explained. “As half-brother to Matilda, he gives her claim to the throne his full support. Besides, his own daughter is married to Ranulf of Chester, so everyone in his family is happy with the new alliance. The two earls joined forces, mustered their troops and chased up to Lincoln to do battle against the king. It seems that all the signs were against Stephen from the start.”
The traveler lowered his voice in hushed awe. “’Tis said that before the battle, he attended a Mass on the feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin. He offered a candle to Bishop Alexander but, when he put it into the bishop’s hands, it broke into pieces. Everyone said this served as a warning to the king that he would be crushed. But worse was to follow. In the bishop’s presence, the pyx above the altar, which contained the consecrated bread, the holy Body of Christ, fell down when the chain snapped. ’Tis said this was the sign of the king’s downfall, and so it came to pass, for the battle was lost.
“The king said it was a judgment from God for his arrest of the Bishops of Ely and Lincoln, and his mistreatment of Bishop Roger of Sarisberie, but he also blamed the many barons who deserted him on the battlefield. Even so, ’tis said the king showed great courage, for although everything seemed against him he still continued fighting, laying about him with a two-headed axe until it broke. Finally, he was struck down by a stone and taken captive, along with several of his followers. He was taken to Gloucestre first, but is now in Bristou, held captive by Robert, Earl of Gloucestre.”
A stunned silence greeted the traveler’s words. “The empress has had a meeting with the king’s brother, Bishop Henry of Blois, who is the papal legate,” the traveler continued with relish. “I’ve heard that Bishop Henry has submitted the city of Winchestre to her control, including the royal treasury. Some of the bishops have already sworn their fealty; others will follow. It seems that, for the first time ever, England will have a queen on the throne.”
The traveler looked about him, pleased at the effect of his words on the nuns. They were speechless. Not so the abbess, who swooped down on him like a black crow, full of wrath that she was the last to hear such important news. After dismissing the sisters with sharp words and an admonition to remember their vow of silence, she took the traveler away, presumably to break her vow of silence with an interrogation of her own.
But that was not the last of the excitement. Word came shortly afterward that the bishops had received the empress, and had given her the title “Lady of England,” which she would hold until her coronation. All had pledged their support, with one exception: Theobald, Archbishop of Canterbury. He and the empress planned to meet at Wiltune shortly before Easter, for the empress had expressed a wish to visit the abbey where her mother had spent part of her childhood.
As soon as word of the impending visit arrived, there was a great fuss and commotion. Everyone was pressed into cleaning and tidying the abbey and its grounds. Messages flew back and forth. There was no question, now, of whose side the abbey was on. Perhaps it was the memory of the empress’s mother, held dear among those few nuns old enough to remember her, or perhaps it was that the cause of the king now seemed utterly defeated.
The abbess was in the mood to celebrate the honor, and with a great feast—although not everyone was invited to share in the occasion, for the feast would be held in her own quarters and with only herself, the prioress, the archbishop and empress and their entourages to be present. Nevertheless, it was clear she was spending money with unusual abandon. Notwithstanding the fact that Lent had begun, cartloads of delicacies were ordered from the abbey’s home farm and beyond: swans, peacocks, partridges and barnacle geese, casks of wine and extra eggs, milk and mead, along with several different varieties of fish, plus new utensils in which to cook the food, and new dishes to serve it on. The sisters swept and scrubbed and cleaned and polished with a will, and in their spare time were kept busy making extra candles, and decorating their saint’s shrine with newly embroidered cloths and wall hangings.
Janna relished the buzz of excitement in the air. She had suggested to Sister Anne that the empress might enjoy some soothing unguents, some scented oils to refresh her after her journey, and the infirmarian agreed, telling Janna to make them up for she herself had insufficient knowledge of such things, there being no demand for luxuries of this sort in a convent.
“These are some of the ingredients I used to make up the lotions and rinses we sold at the fair,” Janna told the nun. She was enveloped in a sweet haze of dried lavender and rose petals, almost swooning from their heady scent. Sister Anne took an appreciative sniff. “And they fetched in a goodly sum,” she observed, and thereafter kept close watch on Janna’s activities, “so we can make up some more for the fair in September.”
Janna felt a twinge of unease. She was growing very fond of the elderly nun, but she had no intention of stay
ing at the abbey for so long. “Perhaps we could call in Sister Agnes to help?” she suggested, thinking it would be a good opportunity for Agnes to start making herself indispensable.
Sister Anne shot her a sharp look. “You seem determined to instruct Agnes in healing and herbs,” she said. “Why? Does Agnes wish to take her vows and dedicate her life to the abbey?”
Janna hesitated, unsure how to answer.
“And what of Master Will?”
Janna looked sideways at the nun. Sister Anne laughed. “Don’t look so defensive,” she said. “I know the ways of the world, of men and women. I know that not everyone wants to be wedded to Christ.”
“But Agnes told me she’s already taken her vows.”
“Not her final vows. Besides, she is a lay sister here, she has no dower to become a fully professed member of our convent.”
“Agnes thinks of her vows as binding.”
“Does she?” Sister Anne’s hands stilled on the mortar she was using to grind some precious cloves into powder. They would be used by the infirmary cook to spice up the last of the wrinkled old apples that had been picked in the autumn and stored in the cold room. Janna inhaled the sharp fragrance. She could recognize now the spices brought by merchants from the east and sold to the abbey. The scent of ginger and cloves, cardamom, licorice and nutmeg, teased and tantalized her senses. With an effort, she brought her attention back to Sister Anne’s cryptic question.
“Do Agnes’s vows not bind her to the abbey?”
“She was but a child when she came here,” the infirmarian answered obliquely. “Children should not have to decide their future at too early an age. In fact, the empress’s own mother…” She began to wield the mortar once more, driving it into the dried black flower buds with great energy. “Her name was also Matilda. She was the daughter of the Scots king, and her mother was the great-granddaughter of our own Edmund Ironside, and so a member of the true royal family of England. It was a good political match for King Henry, but there was one small impediment. Matilda was sent here as a child to be raised by her aunt Christina, who was Abbess of Wiltune at that time. It was said that she’d been seen wearing a wimple and veil, and that she was a nun.
“But Henry would not be gainsayed and so he appealed to his archbishop, Anselm, for help. It’s said the decision went against the archbishop’s conscience, for he was a saintly man, but he found in the king’s interests after listening to Matilda’s story. She denied she was ever an oblate here, but claimed that her aunt Christina, who was a severe disciplinarian and who even resorted to the rod when disobeyed, had forced her to wear the veil ‘to protect herself against the lusts of the Normans.’”
Sister Anne giggled, sounding suddenly like the young girl she must once have been. “Rumor has it that the lustful Norman in question was actually the king’s brother, William Rufus!”
“But he was—”
“An ungodly lout. Yes, I know. Fortunately for Matilda, the ruse seems to have worked, for he left her alone once he’d seen her wearing the veil. However, Matilda claimed that whenever her aunt was out of sight, she would take it off and trample on it. All swore that she had never been a professed nun, and so Anselm abided by the dictum of his predecessor, Archbishop Lanfranc, who had recognized that women who fled to the monasteries ‘not for the religious life but for fear of the Normans,’ and who had never taken any vows, might be free to return to the world to marry. And so Anselm blessed the marriage and, shortly thereafter, crowned Matilda Queen of England. You might like to tell Agnes that story, Johanna.”
“I will. But I’m not sure if it’s her vows or her fear of the unknown that is keeping her here.”
Sister Anne nodded. “Tell her there is a way out, if she wishes it, but she will have to make that decision for herself; no-one else can do it for her.”
“You know so much of what has happened in the world,” Janna ventured. “Who has the right claim to the throne, in your opinion? The king, or his cousin, the Empress Matilda?”
“Matilda.” Sister Anne answered without even having to think about it. “She was her father’s only legitimate heir after her brother William died in the White Ship disaster. All were drowned in that sorry affair, save one who lived to bear witness to it. Her father, King Henry, twice made the barons swear an oath of allegiance to his daughter before he died, that they would recognize her claim to the throne. In fact, Stephen was first among the barons who swore to support her.”
The infirmarian paused a moment, then added, “No-one really wants a queen on the throne, especially not one married to an Angevin! In truth, Henry had many children out of wedlock, including the empress’s greatest supporter, Robert of Gloucestre. It is widely thought that he would make a far better king than Stephen, who has proved himself weak, reckless and lacking in state craft. But…” She smiled cheerfully at Janna. “It seems Matilda will soon be crowned queen and, with luck, she will take her advice from her half-brother Robert rather than her husband, who anyway spends his time in Anjou and Normandy, not England.”
Janna found herself in agreement with the nun’s argument in favor of Matilda’s claim to the throne. She wondered where her father stood on the matter, and whether divided loyalties might cause problems between them in the future—if he was still alive.
And if she could find him.
*
All was in readiness for the empress’s visit and fortunately the day dawned fine. Janna and Agnes and several other lay sisters were hard at work in the kitchen garden, planting out leeks, cabbages, peas, beans, lettuces and onions. Vegetables were the mainstay of the abbey’s fare, served whether it was one of the many days of abstinence when only fish was allowed on the table, or on other days when poultry, pork or beef might also be eaten.
The dark, barren earth was yielding to the promise of spring, and Janna felt a lifting of her spirits as she observed green shoots thrusting toward the pale sunlight, the golden faces of the daffodils growing wild among the trees in the orchard, and the green fuzz of new growth on the trees. She and Agnes were on their knees, pricking holes and fitting seedlings into them before carefully covering and tamping the earth around the plants to keep them secure against rain and wind. But all the sisters, Janna and Agnes among them, abandoned their chores and hastened to the courtyard as soon as they heard the first notes of the trumpeter heralding the guests’ arrival.
The archbishop and his entourage arrived first, closely followed by the empress and her train. The outer courtyard was soon crowded with the dignitaries, along with their servants, who milled about, kicking up dust as they saw to the unpacking of carts and sorting of baggage. Under the watchful eye of the steward, along with Master Will, grooms unsaddled the mounts ridden by their owners, and led them away to the stables. The abbess herself had hurried out to welcome the guests and she wasted no time in taking them to her own quarters. With all the dust and movement, and situated as she was at the back of the sisters who had crowded into the courtyard to spy on the proceedings, Janna found it difficult to see the empress. She peeped over shoulders and ducked and weaved between the heads that got in her way, but caught only a glimpse of a jeweled hand, a fine gown of silken blue, a gauzy veil. She found it very frustrating.
She joined the nuns in a deep curtsy as the lady approached, keeping her knees bent as the archbishop followed. But instead of bowing in submission, she dared to raise her eyes. The empress was talking to the elderly tiring woman beside her. Her head was averted from Janna but she turned suddenly, and caught Janna staring at her. Her eyes widened.
Instantly embarrassed and ashamed of her impertinence, Janna bowed her head. She was puzzled. She knew she’d never seen the empress before in her life. She would certainly have remembered it if she had, and yet the empress seemed somehow familiar. She had long dark hair that hung in a plait bound with a silk ribbon of the same hue as her gown, which was richly embroidered at the neck and at the edges of the long sleeves. A jeweled band kept her veil in place; she wor
e more jewels at her throat and on her fingers. Janna had never seen anyone so fine.
The empress passed by, followed by the archbishop, who wore robes as splendid if not more so than those worn by the empress. And then they were gone and the excitement was over. The nuns were dismissed to return to their labors.
“We’d better get back to the garden.” Janna tugged on Agnes’s sleeve, heaving a despondent sigh as she noticed her cracked and dirty nails. Agnes, she realized, wasn’t paying any attention to her. Her gaze was fixed on the bailiff. He had not seen her, but was pointing in the direction of the stables as he talked to one of the grooms.
“Go and speak to him.” Janna gave Agnes a hard nudge.
“No!”
“Why not? You used to think of him as a friend.”
“That was before.”
“Before what?”
“Before he spoiled everything.”
“Spoiled? How?” Janna couldn’t hide her surprise. “He loves you; he wants you for his wife.”
“How could he want me, disfigured as I am? No, what he wants is a mother for his children, no more than that.” Agnes’s voice was raw with grief and resentment.
“Is that what you believe?” Janna gave an incredulous snort. “Think on it, Agnes. He’s the abbess’s bailiff. He could probably have anyone he chooses, and it would certainly be easier for him to choose someone outside the abbey if a mother for his children was all he had in mind. But he wants you, Agnes. Surely his words and his actions prove his love for you?”
Agnes said nothing. She continued to stare at the bailiff. But when he finally noticed her, she turned abruptly and hastened toward the outer parlor, dragging Janna along with her.
“Master Will said that, if you choose the abbey, he will not continue to pester you with his attention,” Janna warned, as they came to the outer parlor. “You may well have made your meaning plain to him today, Agnes.”
Unholy Murder: The Janna Chronicles 3 Page 24
