Daughters of Time

by Mary Hoffman

  Juana held the silk close and sniffed at it. It only smelled like sandalwood – like the inside of the box it had been kept in for so long. She couldn’t admit as much to the Old Queen, so she simply smiled and handed it back.

  “Poor Raymond!” said Eleanor. “People are so unkind. There were rumours, you know. They said we loved one another, he and I. People are always ready with nasty tales and Louis was upset by them. Ugly rumours, but I shouldn’t be telling you of such things. You’re much too young. Here is something you’ll like, though.”

  Eleanor took a wooden carving of a rabbit out of the box and laid it on the bed, next to Juana’s hand. “That was carved by my son, Richard. I have many sons and daughters and I love them all, of course I do, but Richard… well, he is the special one. It’s hard to hide my devotion to him. He is the perfect son. He released me from my prison when Henry died. Richard made this rabbit as a gift for me, when he was only a boy. He whittled at it for hours on end, though I think he was helped by a stonemason engaged in some work at Canterbury Cathedral. Isn’t it sweet? You can almost feel how soft the ears are, even though they’re made of wood.”

  Everything the Old Queen had shown her hadn’t seemed like treasure, but this rabbit was different. Juana stroked the wooden ears gently with one finger. “I wish I had a carving of Soldado – he’s one of the horses in my stable at home… at King Sancho’s palace, I mean. I miss him so much.”

  “I know. I know that feeling… I’ve been missing one thing or another all my life. If you go from country to country, even if the cause is good and you’re creating a kingdom for your children in which they’ll be powerful for centuries to come, you never have a proper home. But for the one in that gaol Henry shut me up in, I’ve never slept in a bed where I haven’t thought: I am only here for a short while. There’s always somewhere to travel to tomorrow. Something else to do. If I don’t do things, they don’t get done as well by other people. I could have arranged for Berengaria to travel to Richard’s court with a party of trusted knights, but alas, I trust no one as much as I trust myself. Even at my age.”

  Juana spoke before she had time to think. “Do you have other treasure, madam? Jewels, gold, crowns and ornaments?”

  “Are you disappointed? I’m sorry… and yes, I do have such things but you can’t drag them round with you on your travels and they are only useful when you want to impress the crowds in a procession or sell them to buy weapons for a just war. I scorn such baubles now, though I was dazzled by them at your age. These things…” she patted the box in her lap, “remind me of certain times and certain people. My whole life is here in small memories. My thoughts are my treasure. No one can steal those and no one can truly enjoy them but me. Every single item in this box helps me to remember. At my age, that’s what you do most of the time: think of the past.” She stood up and smiled at Juana.

  “Here,” Eleanor said and bent down to lay something on Juana’s pillow. “Small enough to put in your own box of treasures when you’re older, to remind you of an ancient crone who couldn’t sleep one night.”

  Juana watched, speechless, as the Old Queen left the room. She took the delicate chain, and fastened it round her neck. The tiny silver cross that hung over her nightshirt caught the light from the candles, which had now burned down to short stumps of wax.

  My very first treasure, Juana thought. I must thank the Old Queen tomorrow.

  She lay back on her pillow and fell at once into a deep and healing sleep.

  When the royal party set out from the convent, the Old Queen rode astride the leading horse. Juana sat in the last wagon with the other servants, surrounded by chests, and rolled up bundles and baskets which the nuns had packed full of foodstuffs for the journey. She wore the cross Eleanor of Aquitaine had given her around her neck. Before I set out on this journey, she thought, I was afraid of leaving home but now I want to see everything: plains and forests and cities and oceans stretching away before me.

  She looked at the mountains of Northern Italy looming high and pale in the distance and tried to imagine what they would find when they had crossed over them and come down on the other side.

  Why I Chose Eleanor of Aquitaine

  My main reason for choosing this queen as my subject is entirely frivolous. In 1968, or maybe 1969, I saw a film called The Lion in Winter. It starred the very handsome Peter O’Toole as Henry II and one of my favourite actresses, Katherine Hepburn, as Eleanor. Hepburn won an Oscar for this part. It’s years and years ago now, but I remember loving the film, and loving the fierce, intelligent woman that Hepburn was portraying. In researching my story, I found that Eleanor of Aquitaine was truly remarkable in many ways, not least because she lived to be eighty years old at a time when such a thing was most unusual. She reigned over two kingdoms, was wife to two kings and mother to three more. She was a crusader and grew up in a court where the chivalric tradition of courtesy towards women reigned. For all those reasons, I was intrigued by her. In my story, she looks exactly like Katherine Hepburn.

  ADÈLE GERAS

  Eleanor of Aquitaine Facts

  Eleanor (sometimes known as Alienor) of Aquitaine was born in either 1122 or 1124. No one is quite certain of the exact date. She married Louis, King of France, in 1137. Their marriage was annulled because Eleanor had not given birth to a male heir. She had two daughters with him, but no sons. In 1152 she married King Henry II of England. With him she went on a Crusade to the Holy Land. They had five sons and three daughters and three of her sons became kings. Henry imprisoned Eleanor for a long time, because he was angry at his wife’s support for their son Richard’s claim to his father’s crown. Richard I, known as the Lionheart, set his mother free when Henry died and he became king. After Richard’s death, the crown of England passed to his brother, King John. Eleanor lived till 1204. She was one of the most powerful women in Europe and her descendants and relations were in control of much of Europe by the beginning of the thirteenth century.

  All Shall

  Be Well

  A Story about Julian of Norwich

  (c.1342–c.1416)

  BY KATHERINE LANGRISH

  “KNEEL DOWN,” says Alys wearily.

  So I get down on the floor, trying not to cry. I’ve done so much kneeling since I came here, I’ve got overlapping blue and purple bruises on both my knees. They are turning an interesting yellow at the edges; I inspect them when I peel my stockings off and get into bed with Alys at night. I hate sleeping with Alys. She’s old and bony, and she complains unless I lie absolutely still, but then she falls asleep ahead of me and snores.

  “Apologise for your fault,” says Alys, from up above.

  I bow my head and clasp my hands across my chest, staring at the hem of her brown worsted gown where it touches the tiles.

  “Mea culpa,” I gulp, “mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. I’m sorry I spoke disrespectfully. I’m sorry I was careless. I’m sorry I broke the eggs.”

  “How did it happen?” Alys sounds calm, but I’m eye level with her hands, and her fingers are twisting and squeezing each other as if she’d like to wring my neck.

  “I tripped,” I mumble. I was coming down Conesford Street with the basket of eggs on my arm, and some boys came running past kicking a ball, with dogs chasing the boys and a group of hysterical ducks scattering in their wake. I dodged the boys, the dogs and the ducks, stepped on my own shoelace and went flying. All those lovely golden eggs smashed and dripping! It was a terrible waste. Mother would have slapped my ears. I’d actually prefer that to Alys’s tight-lipped disapproval. But Mother isn’t here.

  Alys starts to scold, low-voiced so as not to disturb Lady Julian, who is saying her prayers in the next room. “You wouldn’t have tripped unless you were romping or running. Haven’t I told you, over and over again, when I send you out on an errand you are to walk? Quietly and modestly?”

  “Yes, Alys.”

  “And to keep your eyes to yourself, not to chatter or gossip or frolic?”

 
“Yes, Alys.”

  “You are Lady Julian’s maid – what sort of impression do you think people will have of her if you rush about, falling over and breaking things?”

  I don’t answer. It’s a stupid question. Lady Julian is far too holy for anyone to think badly of her just because of me.

  “You don’t seem sorry at all,” Alys sighs. “You’d better stay there on your knees while you say three Paternosters, and think. Think how to be a better girl. Think about your sins.”

  There are Seven Deadly Sins painted on the chancel wall of the church, and I seem to have most of them. Sloth, for one – Alys says I should do my work joyfully and eagerly, but I don’t. I do my work all right, but I begrudge it. Wrath – I’m angry at least once a day, and I hate Richard, my stepfather. Then there’s Envy… I’m jealous of my sister Annot. That makes three of the seven already. I need to stop, this is scary. At least I can truthfully say Lust doesn’t bother me. But Gluttony – I can’t help thinking about food. We eat only vegetable stew here, and I’m longing for a bite of meat. I dream of spiced sausages bursting out of their skins, and wake up hungry. Alys says, “You’ll get used to it, it’s just Greed.” Finally, Pride. Pride is the worst of all, the sin of Lucifer. It hardens your heart. It stops you feeling sorry for the bad things you’ve done.

  Like now.

  “Finished?” asks Alys briskly. “Then get up and be useful.”

  She sets me to preparing vegetables, which means I can wipe my eyes and pretend it’s only the onions making me cry.

  There’s a soft scratching at the inner door. Alys opens it and I hear Lady Julian’s low voice, asking something. Alys murmurs in reply, glancing at me. What are they saying? Is the lady asking about me? Alys gives me a look that says, None of your business, get on with your work, and disappears inside Lady Julian’s cell, shutting the door behind her.

  Everyone in Norwich knows about Lady Julian, though hardly anyone ever sees her. She’s our anchoress, holier than any nun. When she was just a young woman she fell sick, so sick she nearly died. As she lay there suffering, her eyes dimming, the sweat of death cold on her face, who should appear to her in a vision but our blessed Lord Jesus himself?

  And she got better.

  If a miracle like that happened to me, I’d dance and sing and cry for joy. I’d go to church, of course, and thank our blessed Lord, and I’d – I don’t know – I’d give the best thing I could to the church, a silver penny or a big fat candle. But I wouldn’t, I couldn’t do what she did next. She went to the bishop and asked to be locked up in the little cell at the back of St Julian’s Church so that she could spend the rest of her life there, praying. And he agreed. So one day more than twenty years ago, she came here, and the bishop said the funeral service over her and sprinkled her with earth, as if she was already dead. Then she walked calmly into that inner room, and they shut the door on her, and she’s not come out again. Never, not once. And she never will. Not till the day she dies and they carry her out to the burying ground.

  How can she bear it?

  I’m looking at her door now. It’s as thick and heavy as the one in the church porch. I’ve been through it once. I had to. She wanted to see me last month when I first came. I trembled from head to foot, I felt as if I were visiting a holy tomb. Maybe angels visit her when the door is shut. But she’s only a bent old woman in a black gown and a white veil, like a nun. She moves slowly, as if her joints are stiff. Her eyes are pale blue and the skin of her hands and face is very pale too, like soft, crumpled leather. She welcomed me quietly. I think she does everything quietly. I wonder if she ever danced or jumped or sang in all her life? Proper songs, I mean, not psalms. Songs you sing because you’re happy and for no other reason, as we did at home.

  Oh, it was lovely on winter evenings when mother would sit knitting at one side of the fire, rocking baby Margery (who died) or baby Hugh (he died too), and my father and Annot and I would sit at the other, and we’d sing carols and rounds: ‘Wed Me, Robin, and Bring Me Home’ and ‘I Have Twelve Oxen’ and ‘Blow Northern Wind, Send Me My Sweeting’. And darling Tib, my little white cat, would curl, purring, on my lap. I miss Tib. She was due to have kittens when I left home. I wish there were a little cat here to cuddle. I’ve dropped hints. But Alys doesn’t listen.

  What does Lady Julian do all day, shut up in her cell? Alys says she is writing a book about all the visions she had. I never heard of a woman writing a book! And of course she prays. She prays all the time, special prayers like the monks, not just the Paternoster and the Ave Maria like ordinary folk.

  Her prayers work, too. One night just after I came, I woke up to see a skinny little imp skipping around the room, twirling his tail and dancing and making rude gestures. He was so comical I laughed out loud and he turned in a flash. “Oho!” he said. “You don’t belong here!” And he jumped right at my face, grinning. I shrieked and fought with the bedclothes, and then Alys was saying, “Good heavens, child, don’t thrash so!” and the imp was gone. Alys went back to sleep, but I lay stiff with fright, thinking he might return, till I saw candlelight from the cracks of Lady Julian’s door and realised she was awake, praying. That must be why the imp had fled. But I’m still worried. I know the imp spoke the truth when he said, “You don’t belong here!” So where do I belong? Not at home any more.

  Last spring it rained for all of Lent – cold sleeting rain, driving in from the German Sea on a harsh east wind. Father had to be out in it, dawn till dusk, muck-spreading, ditching, raking, ploughing, then coming home chilled and soaked. By Candlemas he was coughing so hard it hurt to hear, and by St Gregory’s Day he was dead. We’d prayed so hard, I’d thought God might give us a miracle, but no. Mother says she’s wept enough tears to know that miracles don’t come two a penny.

  Right, I’ve finished the onions. Peeled and chopped the turnips. Cleaned the leeks. Put them all in water. Set the dried peas to soak. And I’m hungry, hungry, hungry. It’s only mid-morning; we got up at dawn, as always, and we won’t eat till noon. There’s a small bowl of apples on the deep windowsill, a present for Lady Julian from one of the townsmen. My mouth waters just looking at them, but it would be stealing to take one, and even if I’m a sinner, I’m not a thief. Alys won’t allow ‘munching’ between meals. But I nibble one hard little pea that’s dropped on the table. It’s dry and bitty, but I chew it up anyway. That can’t be stealing, can it? Maybe it is. Maybe I will go to hell. And then our priest can hold me up as a terrible example. The Girl Who Went to Hell Because She Stole a Dried Pea.

  Alys is still in there with Lady Julian. I’m feeling more and more nervous. What can they be talking about? It must be about me. Whatever will I do if the lady sends me away? I can’t go home. I don’t have a home. Not now.

  Mother was never as easy-going as Father, and after he died she became very short-tempered and stern. I think she was worried about money. Under the terms of our lease, she had to find a man to work the land for her. She couldn’t do it on her own. I thought she would hire a ploughman, but of course she would have to pay him, and then our neighbour Richard de Wotton offered to marry her, and to my horror she said yes. How? Why? How could she?

  He is a lean, hollow man with shaggy eyebrows and spindly legs, long knobbly fingers and a perpetual sniff. He said, “Well, Joan, I know you are an honest, thrifty woman.” Sniff. “And it makes good sense for us to marry – my land at Butterhills runs next to yours.” Sniff. “As for the children, Annot will stay at home, but the eldest is big enough to earn her own keep. What is she, twelve? My cousin Alys, the anchoress’s woman, needs a girl to run errands and do the rough work. It would be a good place for Sarah. Shall I speak to Alys?”

  I will never forgive him. I looked at Mother, certain she would refuse. I thought she would jump up and exclaim, “Lose my Sarah? Never!” and order him out of the house. Not a bit! She just nodded and said, “That will be very kind of you, Richard.”

  So I was sent away. I always knew Annot was her favourite
. They are all together, him and Mother and Annot and my darling little Tib – they have each other and I have nobody. I must stay here till I’m withered and old like Alys and the lady, never singing anything but psalms, never running or skipping or dancing, never going anywhere except on an errand ‘and coming straight back’, never going a-Maying, never…

  I want to feel Mother’s arms around me and put my head on her shoulder. I want to see Annot’s teasing smile. I want to stroke Tib and feel her soft, soft fur…

  I will not cry.

  The latch of the lady’s door lifts with a loud click. My heart skips a beat. Alys comes out, looking rather quiet and strange. “The lady wants to see you.” Her eyes are red-rimmed. I stare at her, petrified, and she says sharply, “Did you not hear me?” and then, more gently, “Go along, Sarah, and don’t be afraid.”

  So I rub my hands quickly on my gown and pull my cap straight, and tap. “Come in,” says the lady’s low voice, and I slide in around the door, my heart beating hard.

  It’s a dark little stone room, so small I could cross it in three hops. The only daylight comes through a tiny round window high up on the east wall. Under it there’s a small altar with a crucifix. A narrow north window looks slantwise into the church, so she can peek in and see the Blessed Sacrament. And one more window faces south into the churchyard, but it’s covered with shutters and a black cloth. There’s a fireplace with a chimney, a bed with a chamber pot under it, and in the middle of the floor there’s a tall sloping desk. That’s all.

  I bob my head to Lady Julian, but I’m gulping. It’s hard to breathe. These four walls are all she ever sees, day in, day out. In more than twenty years she hasn’t seen the sun rising out of the mist on the water meadows, or white summer dust rolling in clouds behind the wheels of an ox cart, or stars glittering in the night sky, or the wind ruffling the surface of the river, or the bluebells coming up in Thorpe Wood…