The cases against the accused were heard within the confines of the abbey itself, in the chapter house, which was more used to hearing the tittle-tattle of the abbey than the serious crimes which were now being aired. Mus was brought in first, attended by Robert of Babestoche along with those others from his manor who had come to testify on his behalf. Looking them over, Janna wondered how much money the witnesses had been paid to speak of the mouse's good character, for she had no doubt they had all been hand-picked with care by Robert and rewarded accordingly. She quaked as she met Robert's malevolent stare. It was her word against his and his men.
To Janna's surprise, the steward presided over the court; the abbess was nowhere to be seen. A roomful of men would not, perhaps, be sympathetic to a woman's plight – particularly when they heard how Janna had managed to defend her honour! She needed a woman to speak up for her, someone highborn, whose opinion would be listened to and respected. Someone like Dame Alice. But the dame sat quietly on her own at one side of the chamber, looking as if she wanted no part in the proceedings. Nevertheless, Janna comforted herself that the lady was present, and would hear what Janna had to say. After all, she had right on her side. Although she was bound by Cecily's secret, surely Mus's actions must count against him.
Janna's spirits rose slightly as she noticed Will, the bailiff. She recognised several of the people with him, and realised they too would be called on to bear witness as to what had happened on that day. The bailiff knew the truth of the matter, and so did they. They would corroborate what she said, while the bailiff could also give evidence of his own: finding the noose in Mus's scrip, the noose meant for her own neck.
Casting her glance further, Janna saw Hugh and Godric in the crowd. Cecily was with them. She looked serene, even happy. Janna was glad that the tiring woman seemed to be over her disastrous relationship with Robert. They were looking her way, and she raised her hand to them and smiled, pretending a confidence she could not feel. Her heart hammered painfully; her breath came short. She longed for the ordeal to be over.
Although Robert and his villeins spoke in glowing terms of Mus's character, to Janna's great relief Mus's appeal met with little sympathy from the steward. Then it was Janna's turn to bear witness. She defended her honour with vigour, backed by the word of the bailiff and his men, who produced damning evidence that Mus had asked after 'the new sister called Johanna' as soon as he arrived, even before he'd met her out in the fields. Several pairs of sharp eyes had noticed how quickly he'd taken up position beside her while they were working, and Will's description of the noose found in his scrip set the final seal on his guilt.
Janna stole a glance at Dame Alice. She was sitting back, looking thoughtful. The abbess had come in, and had taken a seat beside the dame, both of them onlookers of the unfolding drama. But when Robert offered to pay amercement for Mus's release, Dame Alice spoke up at last.
'I will not have that man in my employ,' she said firmly, 'and I will not have him set free to prey on this unfortunate young woman or, indeed, on any other. Take him to the castle at Sarisberie. He can stay in the dungeon until such time as he ceases to be a menace to our community.' From the dame's tone, it was clear that she believed that time would come only when Mus was dead. Janna was jubilant, until it occurred to her that Robert might well find some way to pay the money for Mus's release without Dame Alice being aware of it. She sneaked a glance at him, and reminded herself to stay on her guard, just in case. Her fear increased for, as Mus was dragged out of the chapter house by the guards, he spoke to her.
'No matter how long it takes, I'll find you when I get out.' A finger sliced across his throat accompanied his words.
Janna shuddered. She thought of reporting the incident to the steward, but he was already engaged in summoning those involved in the case against Odo. She met the cold stare of Robert of Babestoche, and shuddered anew. While she stayed within the abbey confines she was safe, but she would always be a threat to him. She must never forget that.
As it turned out, Janna played only a small part in giving evidence in the case against Odo. His lord, as well as villeins from his manor, spoke on his behalf, seeming at a loss to understand why someone who had shown so little signs of violent behaviour in the past should have been driven to commit such a desperate deed. Then Emma was called to tell what she knew. So were Peter Thatcher and Hugh. Although all were careful not to raise the fact that Hugh had been wounded by Odo, albeit on Anselm's instructions, the matter came to light as further damning evidence against the villein.
Finally, Janna was called. She found it difficult to look at Odo as she answered the steward's questions. She knew the villein was headed for the gallows and that nothing she said or withheld could make any difference to the sentence that would be passed on him, yet she had never seen a man condemned to death before and it troubled her greatly. She was almost sure Odo had not plotted to murder Anselm, that the act had been a moment's madness, an angry reaction to being cheated out of what he considered to be rightfully his. In truth, Janna believed that Anselm's behaviour had contributed in large part to his death – but the steward did not see it that way and Odo was duly sentenced to be hanged. Janna's spirits were leaden as she watched the villein being dragged away.
Before she had a chance to escape back to the infirmary, Hugh walked over to her, flanked by Emma and Peter.
'We wanted to thank you again.' Emma pressed a small purse, bulging with coins, into Janna's hands.
Startled, Janna looked down at the purse. It was drawn tight with a string, and smelled of new leather.
'It's the money won by Anselm at the cockfights,' Emma whispered. 'I want you to have it. If not for you, that could have been Peter standing there, facing the death sentence.' She looked white and strained. Her brother's death and Odo's trial had taken their toll.
Peter stepped up and put his arm around her to give her strength. 'My thanks to you too, mistress, er . . . Sister Johanna,' he hastily corrected himself.
'That was well done, Johanna, and you are safe now.' Hugh looked her straight in the eye. 'Tell me, have you tired of holy orders yet? Are you ready to come home with me?'
Janna heard an exclamation, quickly choked off. Godric had joined them, along with Cecily. What was he thinking? What was Hugh thinking? She could feel the heat mount in a wave through her body; she was sure her face had turned scarlet.
'Not yet, my lord,' she murmured, and tucked the purse deep into the sleeve of her habit.
'Be sure you have a home at my manor when you change your mind.'
Hugh's reassurance settled Janna's doubts about his intentions, but also somewhat deflated her spirits. A home, no more than that was on offer. But a home was something she valued, almost above everything. She would not close off her options for the sake of misplaced pride.
'I thank you, my lord, but I am content to remain here for the moment.' She stole a glance at Godric. Was that disappointment she could read on his face? Or despair? Or was he not thinking of her at all, standing as he was with Cecily by his side? The tiring woman was smiling; she seemed content. And why not, with someone as strong and steady as Godric now in her life? Janna hastily pushed the thought aside and turned to Emma. 'Thank you,' she said, indicating the purse in her sleeve. 'Be sure I shall put it to good use.'
Emma smiled at Janna, seeming glad that the ordeal was over, and all debts paid. 'We have a long journey home, and it is too late to leave,' she said. 'Do you think the abbey can accommodate us for the night?'
'I'll take you to the guest house.' Anxious to break the tension of their meeting and her disquieting speculation about Godric and Cecily, Janna beckoned the group to follow her to the outer courtyard, where the guest house was situated. Sketching a hasty farewell, she hurried off to find the sister in charge of looking after the abbey's guests. She could deal with their needs; for herself, Janna was desperate to get away on her own, to come to terms with Mus's threat and Odo's fate, and to sort through her own muddled emotio
ns regarding Hugh and Godric. Yes, she was running away, but for the moment it seemed the wisest thing to do.
The guest mistress promised to take care of the party, and Janna turned her steps towards the garden. 'God's great cathedral', her mother had said of nature, and that was where she wanted to be now. Working among the plants calmed her spirit, and made her feel close to her mother again. But her trial was not quite over.
'Sister Johanna!' The abbess's voice halted Janna's eager footsteps. Reluctantly, she turned, and was surprised to see Dame Alice by the abbess's side.
'Mother Abbess. Dame Alice.' She bobbed her knee in reverence.
'Tell me, child.' Dame Alice looked troubled. 'I am at a loss to understand why my husband seems so against you, for after what I heard today, I feel sure that the man they call Mus was acting on his instructions. Have you had words with my husband? Is there something between the two of you that I should know about?'
'No, ma dame.' Janna was aghast at the thought that the dame might suspect that she'd had a dalliance with Robert and that he'd turned against her. Yet she could not tell her the truth, could not betray Cecily's secret. If only Cecily was here to speak for herself! Yet Janna knew, in her heart, that the tiring woman would never have the courage to confess her liaison with Robert, or its dreadful outcome. She raised her eyes to face Dame Alice and the abbess, and read the doubt and distrust in their expressions.
'Perhaps if you spoke to the lord Robert? Perhaps if you asked him . . .?' she ventured. The dame's lips compressed into a thin line, telling Janna that she'd probably already tried that, and had got nowhere. Janna knew she stood condemned, both by her own silence as well as Robert's. She bitterly resented their judgment, but knew herself powerless to reclaim her good name, not without blackening another's.
Her anguish was slightly eased by the thought that, in the face of her and Cecily's continuing silence about his responsibility for the death of her mother, Robert must believe himself safe. Which must mean that Janna herself was surely safe from any further attempts on her life?
'You may go about your work.' The abbess's cold tone dismissed Janna from their presence. With downcast eyes, for she couldn't bear to look at them again, she bobbed her head and fled to the garden. But it was quite some time before the memory of the trial, and the hurtful condemnation that came after it, began to fade.
FOURTEEN
OVER THE FOLLOWING weeks Janna found ease working in the garden, and in the round of daily chores that were in her care. In addition, she had come to enter fully into the life of the convent, attending Masses as well as the regular offices that divided the nuns' days and nights. She found that she enjoyed the grandeur of the church and the beauty of the music. Although her life was regulated by the constant pealing of bells, she had grown used to them. She enjoyed the calm, unhurried pace of the abbey and the comfort of her surroundings, especially when she compared her life now to what she'd once known.
Resigned to living within the abbey confines for the while, she envied the nuns their acceptance of God's presence, their certainty about themselves and the vows they had taken, although she could not share their faith. Nor could she accept wholeheartedly all that she was told. But she found her questions were frowned upon, and so she stopped asking the convent for answers. Instead, she searched her own heart for the truth.
She celebrated the Christ Mass and all the festivities with a glad heart, for she loved the story of how Joseph and Mary had trudged to Bethlehem while Mary was pregnant, and how the baby Jesus was born in a manger. The days were joyous indeed, with extra provisions and delicacies in the refectory, and extra leisure time to talk, read and even to play games of skittles in the cloister garth, making the most of the few hours of pale wintry sun. With shorter days and long cold nights, the nuns and lay sisters were kept busy indoors, spinning wool and weaving homespun cloth to make the habits and tunics they wore, or stitching and mending garments in need of repair. Every evening the convent gathered in the calefactorium, where a fire was kept burning constantly throughout the winter and the nuns were allowed to talk. It was their last chance to warm themselves before going up to bed in their freezing cold dorter.
Janna often slipped away from the infirmary to join them for it was an opportunity to talk, to question the sisters about the scenes painted on the walls of the church. They were shocked at her ignorance, but for the most part they delighted in recounting the stories of Jesus, Mary and the saints. And Janna enjoyed hearing them, for she knew little of stories, especially the ones from the Bible. She revelled in the drama of Jesus' life. Some of it she already knew, but now she found out about His temptation by Satan in the desert, His confrontation with the moneylenders in the temple, His encounters with the Jews, the Romans and the Pharisees. She loved to hear of His friendship with the disciples and how they had forsaken all they knew to follow Him, although she felt a little sorry for the families the disciples left behind. She marvelled at the miracles, although she couldn't help doubting some of them. She wept over the account of His betrayal in the Garden of Gethsemane, His trial and cruel death by crucifixion.
She began to look about the church with new eyes, understanding at last what she was seeing. Yet at the same time she couldn't help remembering how Eadgyth had dragged her out of the small church at Berford. She could still hear her mother's impassioned cry: 'You don't need to go to church when God's great cathedral is all around you,' she'd said, and had pointed at the beauty that surrounded them: the bright flowers in their garden, the dancing butterflies and bumblebees, and the green forest beyond.
Who was right? Her mother, or this convent of women who believed so implicitly in what they were doing here in the abbey? Yet her mother had once been a nun herself; Janna was as sure of that as she was sure that winter would eventually give way to spring, and then to summer. She ached to find out more about her family, but resigned herself to patience, for she could not leave the abbey until winter was over. She'd thought the abbey would provide the answers she sought. Now, Janna recognised that she would have to look for the answers elsewhere. She had no idea where that might be, but consoled herself with the thought that the new year had begun and it was time for a new beginning and a new plan.
'M-my m-manuscript, M-Mother Abbess.' The stutter, the distress in the speaker's voice told Janna who was speaking. She looked at Sister Ursel, feeling desperately sorry for the nun and, at the same time, curious as to what lay behind this seeming run of bad luck. She listened as the nun stammered her way through an explanation of the latest calamity: another sheet of her manuscript had gone missing.
It had happened too often to be chance, Janna thought, as she recalled other instances related by the unfortunate sister. The first, she remembered, was when two pages had gone missing, only to be found later under a bush, supposedly blown by the wind into the cloister garth. It hadn't seemed likely at the time. It seemed even less likely now, especially in the light of what had happened since.
Another page had gone missing. It had also been found, but this time it was torn into several pieces. It was too damaged to be used, and Sister Ursel had carefully lettered and illuminated the page all over again. The pieces of parchment had been kept and scraped back so that they might be reused for practice by one or other of Sister Maria's students, but Janna had seen the page when it was whole, and could imagine Sister Ursel's grief and rage at having her beautiful work destroyed in such a way.
The next occurrence was even worse. This time the missing page had turned up crumpled, torn and smeared with dog faeces. The bishop had been visiting at the time, to celebrate the Mass of the birth of the Christ Child. He had stayed on as a guest at the abbey until after the new year, but his visit had been marred by several incidents involving the sisters' pets that had invoked his wrath and called down his censure.
While most of the nuns had ignored his instructions to get rid of their animals forthwith, nevertheless they kept close watch on their pets and made sure that all animals were
kept from the bishop's sight. Because of the need for secrecy, little was said about the missing document, but common consensus seemed to hold that one of the animals must have got hold of it, must have worried and played with the piece of parchment until it was torn and spoiled. It seemed an obvious conclusion, but Janna had looked at the sheet of parchment, had flinched on Sister Ursel's behalf, and had also noted that there were no teeth marks to be seen. But she had held her tongue in face of Sister Ursel's distress for this, more than anything, expressed such contempt for the beautiful work that it was beyond Janna's powers to imagine anyone spiteful enough to do such a thing.
Now it seemed that yet another page had gone missing. Before the abbess could respond to Sister Ursel's confession, Sister Philippa stood up.
Janna looked at her, curious to know what the nun might have to say about the problem. She had come to know the nuns quite well by now, and knew that Sister Philippa stood very much in the shadow of Sister Ursel when it came to fine penmanship. While Sister Ursel had been entrusted with the sacred task of writing and illuminating the life of St Edith, Sister Philippa and several other nuns had been set to copying, as best they may, some of the manuscripts held by the abbey. These were kept under the fierce guardianship of Sister Maria, the chantress, who was also in charge of the abbey's library.
'It seems to me that we can no longer entrust Sister Ursel with the sacred task of recording the life of our dear St Edith,' Sister Philippa began. As the abbess opened her mouth to protest, the nun went on to detail, as Janna had just done in her own mind, the various calamities that had befallen Sister Ursel. 'It shows a lack of care on the part of Sister Ursel,' Sister Philippa concluded. 'All the manuscripts are locked away every night. Only Sister Maria has the key, and I am sure she would confess it if it had gone missing at any time?'
Lilies for Love Page 20
