“Blighted creatures,” Agnes grumbled.
“But just as worthy in the sight of God as rats, cockroaches and every other obnoxious little pest—including Sister Catherine’s dog!”
Agnes’s mouth twitched into a reluctant smile. Suddenly she dived sideways and pounced on a small, quivering ball of fur. She scooped it up and opened her hands.
“A leveret.” Janna looked down at the baby hare, recalling the time in the forest when Edwin had captured just such a one and they had eaten it. She shuddered, feeling greatly relieved that she had never known so great a hunger since then. She took the hare from Agnes, and gently stroked it. It looked up at her with bright, frightened eyes.
“This isn’t the work of just one baby.” Janna indicated the ravaged parsley bed. “The rest of its family must have hopped off and abandoned it.” She cradled the creature against her habit, and kept on stroking its soft fur.
Agnes stretched out a hand to reclaim it. “We’d better get rid of it, stick it over the wall or something. I’m not wasting my time planting things out if they’re just going to be eaten.”
Janna she held the leveret out to Agnes, then snatched it back again. “I know something else we can do with it,” she said, and hurriedly stuffed the tiny creature down the front of her habit as the dinner bell sounded.
*
With dinner over, Janna went once more to Sister Ursel, stealing time out from the garden where she was meant to be working. The nun greeted her with a smile, which grew broader when Janna complimented her on her reading of the Rule.
“In truth, my heart feels so full of the Lord, I-I no longer think of how difficult it is to read aloud in the company of the convent,” she said. “I used to dread it so, and the more anxious I-I became, the worse it got.” She hesitated a moment. “For me, it became a test of faith,” she confessed. “I thought that, if I loved the Lord enough, he would f-free me to speak as others do. When it did not happen, I d-doubled and redoubled my efforts, but it seemed to m-make everything worse. I just got more and more tongue-tied. I thought God had…had abandoned me. I thought it was His judgment for…for not having enough faith, for not believing in Him. And yet I do, with all my heart!”
“God didn’t abandon you. You abandoned yourself.” Janna remembered the heartbroken cries she’d overheard in the church. She was sure that it was Ursel’s lack of faith in herself that lay at the heart of her affliction, probably stamped on her by her unhappy childhood. The theft and destruction of pages of her manuscript must have seemed like an extra sign that God had abandoned her. “You cannot think you’ve earned God’s displeasure, that He has forsaken you, not when He’s given you such a marvelous gift,” she said gently. She was coming to realize how lonely Ursel’s affliction had made her. If only the nun could have shared these thoughts earlier, so much could have been said and done to give her confidence in her worth and in her work.
“I have something for you.” Janna put her hand down the front of her habit and withdrew the baby hare. It had been lying still, asleep against her heart, but at her touch it jerked awake and struggled in her grasp.
“Ah.” Sister Ursel took the hare from Janna and looked deep into its eyes. Its struggles ceased; it seemed mesmerized by her gaze. She stroked it gently, never taking her attention away from it for one moment. Janna watched them, and smiled.
But her pleasure turned quickly to impatience and irritation as she tried to read the words Ursel had written on the slate for her to decipher. Le renard et le loup vont a lachasse au lapin. She tried to sound out the words. Something about a fox and a bear? Or was that a wolf? Chasing a rabbit? Learning to read was taking far longer than she’d realized, and Sister Anne grumbled about her absence from the infirmary and begrudged the time Janna spent away from her own tuition.
“You have more need to learn from me than from Sister Ursel,” she had pointed out, on more than one occasion. “Your gift lies with healing, not with learning something that scribes are trained to do. Besides, you have no time to waste, for there is much to do in the garden now that spring has come.” Unable to confess the real reason for wanting to learn to read, Janna had sought to placate the disgruntled infirmarian. “I am truly grateful to you for all you are teaching me,” she said. It was the truth. Sister Anne’s knowledge was wide-ranging. In addition, the infirmarian always encouraged Janna to administer the potions and deal with the patients herself, albeit under her watchful eye. This was the practical experience that her mother had never given her, and Janna appreciated the nun’s generosity, her willingness to share and to train her new pupil. It seemed to Janna sometimes that her brain would burst with all the new things she was trying to cram into it, but at the same time her confidence in her own ability was growing and she was happy.
At least, she was happy until the memory of Godric and Cecily intruded. Then her heart would sink like a stone to the bottom of a pond; she could imagine mud and slime oozing over, covering it, burying it in a mire of her own making. Even the thought of Hugh couldn’t cheer her. He was not for her; he was far too highborn to consider her as anything but a bedmate. And that was something she would never countenance, even though the thought of lying with Hugh sent a wave of heat through her body.
Far better to turn her back on both of them, while wishing Hugh well with his pursuit of a wealthy bride, and Godric every happiness with Cecily, for it was no more than he deserved, and she would make him a worthy and loving wife.
No, there were more important things on her mind right now, like the words scratched on the slate Sister Ursel had just passed to her. As soon as she was able to read her father’s letter, she would go in search of him. She began to sound out the words, struggling to make sense of the longer, more difficult ones.
Becoming impatient with her efforts, she read the piece through quickly, and recognized it as the day’s Rule that Ursel had read out during dinner.
Although she could not recall the reading word for word, she found she could remember enough to guess the words that puzzled her, and so find the meaning of the text. She picked up the metal stylus and began the task of copying out what Ursel had written on the slate, saying the words quietly under her breath as she scribed them.
When Janna next looked up, the hare had vanished. She looked around the cloister, but could see no sign of it. On the other hand, there was a suspicious lump in the front of Ursel’s habit, too low and too big to be mistaken for a breast—the fabric suddenly bulged out, and as quickly subsided. Just so had Janna witnessed a child kicking from within a pregnant woman’s stomach, and she smiled at the sight.
Sister Ursel caught her watchful gaze, and smiled in return. “I shall call him ‘Harold,’” she said, and went back to carefully smoothing a piece of vellum with a pumice stone in preparation for a new page on the life of St Edith.
Chapter 18
With the high holy time of Easter now passed, spring gave way to early summer. The green fuzz on the trees sprouted into pale leaves that darkened into a thick canopy of green. Daffodils and bluebells bloomed and died, wheat grew higher and so did the weeds in the fields. It was time to scythe the long grass in the water meadows to make hay. Janna wondered if Agnes would go out and brave a meeting with Will, but got a sharp rebuff when she suggested it.
“I can’t scythe the hay. My arm gets too sore.” Janna thought she could detect an expression of regret before Agnes drew her wimple closer around her cheeks and turned her face away.
“You could mind the children.”
“No. It’s too late for that now.” Agnes hurried off without another word, not even of farewell.
With the spring sneezes over, and warmer weather to soothe old bones, the infirmary had become less crowded. Janna was quick to take advantage of a quiet hour after dinner to visit Sister Ursel in her carrel. The nun greeted her, and handed Janna the wax slate that lay always in readiness. As she chose a passage for Janna to read and copy, Janna gazed about the cloister. The lilies had grown tall and
were swelling into bud. One was already in full flower.
Janna remembered Will’s comment. She wondered if Agnes also remembered, but knew also that Agnes lacked the courage to act. Janna, herself, was beginning to understand how Agnes felt about leaving the abbey. She longed to be free, and yet she dreaded having to venture outside in case she met up with Godric or Hugh. She was afraid to confront them, afraid of what she might learn.
“I’m not ready to leave, not yet,” she told herself. But she knew the time must soon come for, although she was still unable to read her father’s letter, tantalizing glimpses into the past were gradually being revealed to her impatient gaze. Nor could she use the winter cold and rain as an excuse for delay, for it was promising to be a warm, dry summer and conditions were perfect for traveling. All too soon, she would have to leave behind the safety of the abbey and the places of her childhood, as well as everyone she knew, including Agnes, Hugh and Godric. Utterly cast down by the thought, she looked about for something to take her mind off her uncertain future. Her glance fell on Sister Ursel’s manuscript, and the delicate border of white lilies that framed the text.
“See, Janna,” Ursel said, when she noticed Janna’s interest. “I’m likening the lilies of the field to our saint, she being as pure and holy almost as the Virgin Mother herself.”
Janna thought of Agnes. “They toil not, neither do they spin,” she quoted softly.
Ursel smiled. “Of all the flowers, I think lilies are the most beautiful.”
“And so is your work, Sister Ursel.” Janna never let a chance go by to praise the nun, and indeed the praise was justified. To her intense satisfaction, there had been no more trouble with missing pages. Ursel had reported, under Janna’s questioning, that very little had needed to be said when she returned the box to Sister Catherine. The nun had realized that her acts of vindictive spite had been discovered, and was most anxious that they remain a secret. Not only did she stay away from Ursel’s manuscript thereafter, she also made sure to keep her dog away from Harold.
Janna glanced about the cloister to find him. The hare was full grown now, and was contentedly munching grass where it grew long among the lilies that Janna had planted with Agnes. She looked from the bloom to Ursel’s illustration, marveling how well the nun had managed to capture its grace as well as the fine detail in the glossy petals and long throat, and the furry yellow stamens at the heart of the flower.
Sister Ursel handed the passage she had chosen to Janna. “Why don’t you read this aloud to me while I work?” she suggested.
Janna hated reading aloud. She got ever more flustered as she floundered among the words she couldn’t recognize and couldn’t read. But Ursel was always patient and kind, and Janna understood that it was better to get her help with the difficult words than keep on misreading them.
“Your reading is improving, Janna,” the nun complimented her, after a more accomplished performance than usual. Janna smiled, pleased. Soon now, she promised herself; soon the secrets of her father’s letter would be revealed, and the past with it.
Shadows were beginning to creep across the cloister. It was time for her to go back to the infirmary to relieve Sister Anne. But, once she’d thanked Ursel and said goodbye, a strange restlessness stayed her passage and turned her steps instead toward the church and the shrine of St Edith. It had become far more crowded now, with the hand of St James the Apostle attracting ever more pilgrims. Nevertheless, it was St Edith’s presence that Janna sought, for it had not escaped her attention that the saint’s name was almost the same as the name of her own mother. It seemed right, therefore, to attempt yet another reading of her father’s letter to her mother in the saint’s presence. To Janna’s relief, the chapel was empty, for the outer gate had been closed and not even the sacristan was present to disturb her privacy. With a feeling almost of dread, she reached under her habit for her purse. She untied it, and pulled out the sheet of parchment, then sank to her knees before the reliquary.
She hadn’t looked at the letter for a little while and now she peered at it, trying to decipher the unfamiliar words in the glow of candles placed around the saint’s golden casket. How she wished she’d asked Ursel to teach her to read Saxon English! It would have made her task so much quicker and easier, yet she had been sure her father’s letter would be written in Norman French, all of it, instead of just the opening salutation and the close. Perhaps he had written it thus on purpose, knowing English was Eadgyth’s native tongue? Perhaps he thought that, although she was able to speak Norman French, she might not be able to write or read it? But the phrases he used at the beginning and end must have been familiar to her mother. Janna had managed to read them and blushed at the memory. She closed her eyes and tried to relax, for already she could feel the strain of not knowing, knew it would scrunch up her insides and shrivel her brain, and make her so anxious that reading became impossible.
She took a deep breath, and then released it. When she opened her eyes again, her gaze fell on a wall painting of the saint. Edith’s hand was raised; it was clear she had just performed a miracle, for a child and his parents were gamboling around her, while a discarded crutch lay on the grass nearby.
A miracle. Janna looked down at the letter. This time, instead of straining to read the message word by word, she glanced through it, picking up the words she’d already understood before, so that she had a framework to guess the rest of them. And, as if a veil had been lifted from her eyes, the words began to hold together, to make sense, and to speak of love, and loneliness, and longing.
“Mon amour, ma cherie.” My love, my darling. That was easy enough to decipher. Heart thumping hard with fear and excitement, Janna continued to read.
I had hoped to return to you long before this time, but I find that my father has gone to Normandy and so I must follow him there. I cannot send a message to him for he will not understand why I need to break my betrothal to Blanche, nor will he forgive me unless I meet him face to face to explain why I am utterly unable to wed anyone but you.
He will be wroth, but I feel sure I will be able to persuade him that, in this, I know best. While he has made a worthy match for me, I know that once he meets you and witnesses our happiness together, he will fall under your spell just as I have done, and will welcome you into our family and bless you as a daughter. For certes, no-one could be more worthy than you to be my wife, or bring such grace to our family.
You have my ring, and now I send also this ring brooch to you to pledge my love. “Amor vincit omnia.” It means “love conquers all”—and so it shall.
I will return as soon as possible, for I miss you more than life itself.
Je t’embrasse de tout mon coeur, de tout mon corps, ma cherie. John.
Shock kept Janna kneeling on the floor, utterly still. She looked at the words again and again, knowing that she had read enough of them to fully understand the sense of the letter, yet unable to comprehend what was in it that had forced her mother to flee, to beg the abbess for charity rather than stay to face her lover. Even if he hadn’t known Eadgyth was pregnant, he’d obviously loved her so much he was prepared to break his betrothal and face his father’s wrath rather than give her up. I kiss you with all my heart and all my body, my darling. That was what he’d said at the end of the letter, and presumably he meant it. Surely such a love would also have welcomed a child of their union? It just didn’t make sense.
Janna opened her purse and drew out the silver brooch with its multi-colored gemstones. With shaking fingers, she traced the words on the back of it.
Amor vincit omnia. Love conquers all. But it hadn’t. Why? Had John’s father refused to let him break the betrothal? Did he have second thoughts about setting Blanche free once he’d got to Normandy?
No! Janna frowned, trying to order her thoughts, for they flew around like a swarm of bees, buzzing so loudly in her head that she could not think straight. No. John had written to Eadgyth to explain his delay in returning to her. If he had changed his m
ind, once he saw his father or Blanche, surely he would have written again to explain why he would not return?
Had her mother destroyed the second letter but kept the first, to remind her that she was once loved? Was it the second letter that had forced her to flee? Janna shook her head, trying to make sense of the muddle.
There was something at the back of her mind, something someone had said. She was sure it was important, if only she could remember what it was. One by one, she recalled everyone she’d spoken to about Eadgyth, thinking through what each one of them had said. The abbess had told her nothing. The sisters had tried to be helpful, but it was obvious that they were passing on rumors, not facts. Only Sister Ursel had spoken to her mother. Janna began to replay their conversation in her mind. As the scribe’s words came back to her, she realized then what had troubled her.
“As to why your mother confided in me, she c-came to ask if I could show her how to write a name. Your name, Johanna. ‘In c-case I have a little girl,’ she said.”
Johanna? If Eadgyth had read this letter, and perhaps even replied to it, she would surely have known how to write “Johanna.” Why, then, did she ask Ursel to show her how to write the name?
The answer came like a blast of thunder and it cracked Janna’s heart wide open. She’d often wondered why her mother had never taught her how to read or write when she’d taken such pains to school her in everything else, including how to speak Norman French. Now, at last, she had the answer. Eadgyth couldn’t teach her what she herself didn’t know! Janna felt numb with the shock of her discovery. Her mother had never read this letter because she didn’t know how to read.
She didn’t know how to read.
John had taught her mother the language of the Normans, but must have believed that she could read and write in her own language and that she would understand his message. She must have been too proud to admit her ignorance. He had written and asked her to wait for him—but she, finding herself with child, had fled. She must have thought he was writing to tell her that his betrothal could not be broken, that his father would not agree to it, and that he could not return to her.
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