'How can you say they're a nuisance when even our Lord loved wild flowers?' Agnes closed her eyes the better to remember. '"Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these",' she quoted triumphantly.
'Who was Solomon?'
'A famous king. It doesn't matter. What matters is what the priest told us – about the lilies of the field, and all that. Do you know that the big white ones are sometimes called Madonna lilies, after our blessed Virgin Mary? We have them in our church for feast days; they're very beautiful. But they don't smell as sweet as the little, wild flowers of lily-of-the-valley.'
'So you're interested in plants?'
'I don't know much about them, but I always volunteer to work in the abbey garden when I can. I love to look at the flowers. They're so . . . so perfect.' Agnes's tone was wistful. Janna wondered if she was reflecting on her own damaged face.
'Just as well we're not all lilies,' she commented briskly, anxious to distract her friend. 'Who'd do all the toiling and spinning at the abbey then? Who'd bring in the harvest?'
'The nuns are lilies, or at least some of them are,' Agnes answered promptly, with a giggle. 'That's why they need us!' Good humour restored, she switched the sickle to her right hand and bent to cut the wheat once more.
The long, hot morning dragged on. Janna felt hampered by the scapular she wore over her habit, which was making her sweat profusely. She had a raging thirst, so she was glad to stop working when the hayward blew on his horn for dinner. There was a goodly spread of bread and cheese, meat pies and fruit, with jugs of ale and mead to wash it all down. She was hungry after her efforts, as well as thirsty. As soon as the prayer was over, she wasted no time in tucking into the feast.
After a while she became aware that Agnes had eaten hardly anything. She held a meat pasty out to her friend. 'Here. You must eat, keep up your strength.'
Agnes groaned. 'In truth, I am in too much pain to have an appetite,' she confessed, and gestured towards her shoulder.
Looking at the strain on the lay sister's face, Janna understood what an effort of will it must have cost Agnes to continue working in the field for so long. Yet she understood, too, her friend's reluctance to speak out about her injury.
'Rest, and try to eat something,' she urged. 'Tonight, if you'll show me where it hurts, I'll see if I know of anything that may help to bring ease, anything that Sister Anne may not already have tried.'
'That's kind of you. Thank you, Janna.' Agnes frowned, puzzled. 'How do you know such things?' she asked.
'My mother was a wortwyf – a herb wife and healer. She taught me all she knew before she died.' That wasn't quite true, Janna reflected. Her mother had let her prepare potions, but hadn't trusted her to actually treat patients and take care of their various complaints. It had been a bone of contention between them, an argument that had lasted until Eadgyth died. Janna sighed. Her mother hadn't trusted her with the truth either. 'I still have much to learn,' she confessed, and took a huge bite from the pasty.
Belly full, Janna was just licking her fingers clean when she became aware that one of the labourers was staring at her. As soon as his glance met Janna's he looked away and, with an air of unconcern, began to scan the other workers of the abbey, although his gaze didn't linger long on any one of them. Curious now, for she thought he might have been staring at her for some time before she even became aware of him, Janna continued to watch him. He sat slightly apart from the others. She noticed that he spoke to no-one, and that no-one spoke to him. Was he perhaps newly come to the abbey, like her?
She frowned. She had come to a house full of women, begging sanctuary. What was his excuse? He was dressed in a villein's garments, tunic and breeches, but they were cleaner and of better quality than those worn by the abbey's lay servants. A man not used, perhaps, to manual labour? She narrowed her eyes, the better to study him. Was his face familiar? Had she seen him before? She couldn't be sure, but his interest gave her a twinge of unease.
'Who's that?' She nudged Agnes sitting beside her, and pointed at the villein. As she pointed, he stood up and turned his back on them to stare up at the burgeoning golden fields.
'I don't know. I saw him staring at you before, but he's trying to act unconcerned now.' Agnes gave a sudden giggle. 'I think he likes the look of you. If you value your virtue, perhaps you'd better make sure he doesn't get you alone somewhere!'
'Agnes!' Janna felt slightly shocked by the young woman's prurient imagination. Nevertheless, she felt reassured by Agnes's words. Could that be the only reason for the man's intense expression?
'He might be a bit old for you, do you think?' Agnes was still looking him over. 'But his clothes are quite fine, he could be a good catch as a husband.'
'You go catch him then.' Janna answered without thinking, and then wished with all her heart that she could take back her words.
'He wouldn't want me, and besides, I've already taken a vow.' Agnes sounded light-hearted enough as she continued, 'You should think hard before you commit yourself to life here, Janna. You're not used to being confined, like I am, and you don't seem to have a vocation, if I may say so. Besides, you're so comely, you could wed anyone you want.'
'I assure you, I have no interest in men, at least not at present.' As she spoke, Godric's face came into Janna's mind. How sad he'd looked when he'd said goodbye, just as sad as she'd felt when the gate had clanged shut behind her and closed off the world. Godric was lost to her – as well as Hugh, she thought, as the Norman nobleman's handsome face suddenly superimposed itself over Godric's image in her mind. Janna sighed. The lord Hugh managed a manor farm as tenant of his aunt Dame Alice, who was married to that scheming reptile, Robert of Babestoche. Hugh had been kind to her. He'd even kissed her once! He hadn't wanted her to come to the abbey. In fact, he'd begged her to stay on at his manor farm.
Hugh was so far above her in station that it was foolish to entertain any notion of love, no matter how tender his kiss and how admiring his gaze, Janna reminded herself firmly. Besides, she was not the only one enamoured with the lord Hugh; there was also the beautiful Gytha, daughter of the cook. If Hugh was to seek comfort from a young woman any time in the near future, Gytha would be right there under his nose. Unlike Janna, who was now hidden behind the gates of an abbey.
Janna shook her head, trying to shake free all thoughts of love and marriage. She was here for a reason. Two reasons. She was here to learn to read and write, and also to keep out of the way of Robert of Babestoche. Inadvertently, her glance moved towards the stranger in their midst. He had turned around. Once again, he was staring at her.
FOUR
SLEEPY AFTER THEIR dinner, and after a hard morning's work, the lay servants moved off with their families to work in their own fields. Agnes looked up at the blue arc of the sky, judging the time from the position of the sun.
'It's time for us to go, Janna.' She cast a regretful glance at the stubbled fields, and at the long strips of wheat still waiting to be cut. 'Come on,' she said, and reluctantly heaved herself up onto her feet. She set off towards the abbey, pausing only to leave her sickle and gloves in the shed.
Janna followed after her, keen to reach the safety of the abbey once more. She looked about for the stranger, but he had gone off with the other lay servants, perhaps to cut his own wheat and bring it safe to the barn. 'Is it customary for strangers to join in with the lay servants at harvest time?' she asked her friend.
'Oh yes,' Agnes answered easily. 'Our abbey will give alms and shelter to any who need it, be they beggar, pilgrim or even the richest merchant in the land – although the wealthy have their own guest quarters, of course,' she added hurriedly.
'And they're expected to work for their keep?' Janna slowed down to keep pace with Agnes, who walked with careful steps, her right elbow cradled in her left hand as if to keep her shoulder safe from any further movement.
'W
e don't ask guests to work for us, but some seem happy to earn their keep. The bailiff also hires extra hands if he thinks there are not enough workers to bring in the harvest.' Agnes shot a shrewd glance at Janna. 'Why? Are you worried about the staring stranger?'
'Yes. No.' Janna gave an uneasy laugh. 'I don't know.'
'I saw him looking at you, and I also heard him ask the bailiff who you were.'
'Why?' Janna's unease deepened. 'Did the bailiff tell him?'
'How could he? He's never seen you before today, and you didn't give him your name, did you?'
'No.' The bailiff might not know her, but others did. It was only a matter of time before the stranger found out who she was. And then?
'Don't let him upset you, he'll be moving on soon enough.' Agnes gave a wistful smile. 'It must be nice to know you have an admirer, though.'
'If that's what he is.'
They forded the river and came back within the abbey precinct once more. 'What now?' Janna asked.
'Now we do our work about the abbey.' Agnes was back to talking out of the side of her mouth again. Janna remembered why and, nodding in understanding, followed her to the kitchen. 'This is a good place to work, especially if you're hungry,' Agnes muttered as she led the way in. She marched over to one of the sisters, who was busy stirring something savoury in a huge iron pot. Its aromatic steam flavoured the air. 'This is Sister Johanna. She's new,' she told the cook in a loud and open tone.
'Welcome, Johanna. I am Sister Euphemia.' The nun's face was flushed from the heat of the fire, but her smile was friendly as she said, 'I need some extra onions and cabbages, if you'd like to take our new sister out to the kitchen garden to gather them?'
The garden! Janna's face brightened. She looked forward to seeing which herbs were grown by the infirmarian, and how she tended her plants. She looked about her with interest as Agnes led her out of the kitchen, along the side of the abbey and into a well-tended garden. It was ringed with fruit trees, ripening apples burnishing bright in the sunshine, and the hanging green globes of pears.
This was the largest garden Janna had ever seen. She gasped with pleasure at the array of plants and flowers spread before her. Forgetting their allotted task, she walked along the rows of vegetables, marvelling at their variety and abundance. The beds of herbs in a separate garden enticed her on, and she moved towards them. Fragrant agrimony, spicy sweet marjoram and creeping bugle, pungent pennyroyal and brilliant yellow toadflax, so-named because of the shape of its flowers. She recognised them all and named them as she passed them by.
'Sweet woodruff,' she murmured. 'Wormwood and woundwort, valerian and –'
'You know your herbs, I see.'
Janna jumped in fright. The words dried in her mouth. She turned to confront the voice, and found herself staring into the bright eyes of the elderly infirmarian.
'Sister Anne.' Agnes's voice confirmed her recognition. 'This is our new lay sister, Johanna.'
'And where is your home? Where do you come from, Johanna, that you are so familiar with the herbs in my physic garden?' the nun asked.
'I . . . uh . . .' Janna was at a loss to answer.
The nun's face creased in bewilderment. 'You have no home?' she asked gently.
Janna felt her throat suddenly constrict at this unexpected reminder of the past. Hot tears welled behind her eyes. She swallowed hard, unable to speak.
The nun continued to watch her with a sympathetic gaze. Hating her weakness, Janna struggled to find her voice. 'My . . . my mother was a wortwyf, Sister. She taught me all she knew.'
'A herb wife?' The nun's gaze sharpened. 'So you have some knowledge of healing?'
'Yes.' Janna hoped, with all her heart, that this might help her entry into the abbey itself.
'She offered to make me a salve for my scars,' Agnes broke in. 'I told her that you have looked after me and physicked me since I was a child.'
'Yet I am always willing to learn new recipes. Tell me, Johanna, what would you or your mother have used to heal such serious burns as our poor Sister Agnes has suffered?'
Janna thought back to what Eadgyth had told her, and the salves she had made up to soothe the burns of a little boy who had spilled a pot of boiling water over himself, and who still bore the scars of it.
'If the burn is from liquid, you should boil elm bark and lily root in milk and smear it on three times a day, but if the burn is from fire, you boil dog rose, lily and speedwell in butter and smear it on the burn.'
'White lilies?'
Janna nodded. 'And a dressing made from whole boiled linseeds will relieve pain and heat, prevent infection and help the wound to heal.'
'And afterwards, for scars?'
'Burdock leaves for shrinking of sinews, and an ointment of boiled hog's lard and the roots of white lilies or hound's tongue. My mother told me that the juice of violets mixed with olive oil and goat fat is also very soothing.'
'We sometimes use the flowers of the Madonna to adorn the shrine of St Edith and decorate the Lady Chapel on feast days,' Sister Anne said slowly. 'I haven't used lilies in medicaments before.'
'I believe the roots may be used for any number of skin ailments as well as to soften the scars of burns. Mixed with honey or hog's grease, they may also join cut sinews.' Janna wondered if she was talking her way into further trouble, even unknowingly committing some sort of sin. To her relief, Sister Anne smiled at her.
'I am grateful for the information, and I will certainly try your recommendation,' she said. 'In fact, I'll make up a new salve straight away. Pray visit me in the infirmary after supper tonight, Sister Agnes, and I'll give you the preparation to try.' She nodded and moved briskly away. Janna noted that she was heading in the direction of a large clump of lilies, and hoped that the infirmarian would find the new recipe effective.
'I think you've impressed Sister Anne with your knowledge,' Agnes said, with a sideways grin. 'Will you teach me something about the medicinal use of herbs? It's such a good excuse to visit the garden, and I do love to work out here.' She threw out a hand to encompass the plants in all their showy summer brilliance, and the brightly coloured butterflies that flittered among them.
'Gladly,' Janna said, eager to repay Agnes in some measure for her kindness. She indicated the physic garden. 'Let's start here and work our way through, just a few at a time, so that you'll remember what I've told you. You know flax?'
'Of course. We soak the stems and strip the fibres to weave into the cloth we wear.' Agnes touched her habit, which, unlike the abbess's costly woollen robe, was made of rough homespun.
'It is also called linseed,' Janna continued. 'Oil from the seeds may be used to ease coughs, as well as taking the heat from burns. Perhaps Sister Anne made up a linseed poultice when you were first brought to her?'
'I don't remember.'
'No matter. Remember it now, for flax is one of our most useful plants, and so is hemp.' Janna pointed to a row of plants growing beside the flax. 'This, too, can be woven into homespun but it can also be used to alleviate pain and promote sleep. Boiled in milk, the seeds will soothe a cough.' She moved on to indicate some long spikes of greyish leaves with small white flowers. 'White horehound,' she said. 'In a syrup with fennel and dill it will suppress coughing, soothe the throat and help expel phlegm from the chest.' She encouraged Agnes to bruise the downy leaves and smell their fragrance.
'Flax, hemp, white horehound,' Agnes murmured.
'This one I don't know.' Janna paused beside a bed of white flowers. 'They look a bit like poppies, but . . .'
'They are poppies.' Sister Anne paused beside them, bearing a lily root and several other plants. 'They come from the east, and I use them in preparations for calming the nerves, for pain, and to induce sleep.'
'Oh?' Janna looked at the flowers with new interest.
'Their juice must be used with discretion, for it is a powerful sedative and painkiller. It is much stronger than preparations made from common red field poppies.' She walked around them and on
up the path between the beds of herbs.
'Thank you, Sister,' Janna said hurriedly to her retreating back. She turned to Agnes. 'My mother told me about the opium poppy, but I've never seen one before. So we've both learned something new. But that's enough for now, I don't want to confuse you.'
'And Sister Euphemia is probably getting very impatient,' Agnes reminded Janna with a grin. They hurriedly picked the cabbages and onions and hastened indoors with their bounty. Thereafter, they were kept too busy to talk, being occupied with scrubbing, peeling and chopping the vegetables to be served in a pottage with beans in the refectory that night. Their task completed, Sister Euphemia told them to scour the cooking pots and generally make themselves useful in the kitchen. But Janna heard Agnes murmuring the names of the herbs and reciting their properties when she had occasion to pass by. She smiled to herself, so well pleased with the day's work that even the memory of the inquisitive stranger couldn't disturb her composure. Let him admire her from a distance, if that was his will. Soon enough he would move on, but in the meantime she would not allow him to deflect her from her purpose here in the abbey. She had made a good start, she thought, remembering her conversation with the infirmarian. If Sister Grace or the chantress weren't prepared to teach her, perhaps she could prevail on Sister Anne instead?
Once again, Janna woke with a start at the sound of the bell, but she remembered where she was and arose from her pallet with alacrity, ready for Prime, the first service of the morning. After a break for bread and ale, and a brief hearing in the chapter house, they all filed into the church for High Mass. Janna knew what to expect now, and she listened carefully to the music of the nuns' voices. Their chants and prayers intertwined with her thoughts as, once again, she tried to fathom the secrets of her mother's early life. Finally, she gave up and let the nuns' quiet reverence soothe her troubled spirit, and bring peace and a new strength of purpose to her cause.
Lilies for Love Page 5
