Lilies for Love

by Felicity Pulman

  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 little 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, and 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 staying 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. 'You need not 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'd 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 recognise now the spices brought by merchants from the east and sold to the abbey. Ginger and cloves, cinnamon and nutmeg, all teased and tantalised her senses. With an effort, she brought her attention back to Sister Anne's cryptic question.

  'Aren't Agnes's vows binding?' she asked.

  '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 the 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 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. 'Rumour 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 recognised 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 best 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 recognise her claim to the throne. In fact, Stephen was one of the barons who swore to support her.' The infirmarian paused a moment, then added honestly, '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 favour 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 the day dawned fair. 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 towards the pale sunlight, the golden faces of the daffodils growing wild among the trees in the orchard, the green fuzz of new growth on the trees. She and Agnes were on their knees, pricking holes and fitting small 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 ran 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 dispatch of their owner's property, unpacking carts and sorting baggage. Under the watchful eye of the steward, along with Master Will, the bailiff, 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 Matilda, who was now being hailed as 'Lady of England'. She peeped over shoulders and ducked and weaved between the heads that got in her way, but caught only a glimpse of a jewelled hand, a fine gown of silken blue, a gauzy veil. She found it very frustrating.
r />   She joined the nuns in a deep curtsy as the lady passed by, keeping her knees bent as the archbishop followed. But instead of bowing her head in submission, she dared to raise her eyes. The empress was talking to the elderly tiring woman who walked 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 she thought the empress looked 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 jewelled band kept her veil in place; she wore more jewels at her throat and on her fingers. Janna had never seen anyone so fine.

  The empress passed, 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 labours.

  '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 realised, wasn't paying any attention to her. Her gaze was fixed on the bailiff. He had not seen Agnes, 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 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 and he's made you an offer of marriage.'

  'How could he want me, disfigured as I am? No, he wants 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 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 towards the outer parlour, dragging Janna along with her.

  'Master Will said that, if you chose the abbey, he would not continue to pester you with his attention,' Janna warned, as they came to the outer parlour. 'You may well have made your meaning plain to him today, Agnes.'

  Agnes made no reply. She kept on walking through the parlour, along the passage and out into the garden.

  Janna remembered her conversation with Sister Anne. 'If it's the vow you have taken that keeps you here, there is a way out of that.' She repeated Sister Anne's story of King Henry and the young woman he wanted to marry, speaking to Agnes's back for the lay sister would not stop to listen. 'She was the empress's mother.' Janna raised her voice to make her point. 'And she also gave birth to a son. So the marriage was consummated, there were no holds to it.' Agnes made no comment. Instead, she squatted down onto her knees and began jabbing hard into the earth with her fingers. She shoved the small plants into the holes and pressed them down with an angry, despairing urgency. Janna watched, frustrated by her inability to reach Agnes, and her friend's inability to question the true reason for her rejection of the bailiff. She mourned the death of her friend's hopes but suspected that Agnes's despair ran much, much deeper – so deep that it might well last a lifetime.

  SEVENTEEN

  JANNA WAS IN the infirmary with Sister Anne when an urgent summons came from the empress. A tiring woman brought it, a young, fresh-faced girl who seemed in awe of the infirmarian and discomforted by her surroundings. Her name was Margery, she said in answer to Sister Anne's question, continuing in a rush: 'Ma dame has such a bad headache she can scarce see from the pain of it. It has made her sick to her stomach, and she begs you for something to ease the hurting.' Her gaze rested on Janna for a moment, then she looked quickly away.

  'What would you do to relieve ma dame's pain, Johanna?' Sister Anne constantly tested Janna in this way. Janna had first thought it an underhand trick on the infirmarian's part to learn what she could, but had soon come to realise that she herself had learned far more from Sister Anne than anything she might have taught her in return. Now she answered readily.

  'Saxon leechcraft would claim that ma dame suffers from aelfshot. A leech would call forth chants and charms to bless and empower a knife or something sharp to drill a hole into the bone of the skull to release the aelfshot and relieve the pain.' Ignoring Margery's sharp intake of breath, Janna hurried on. 'Others believe that pain comes from the devil, and that drilling a hole in the skull would similarly release the devil and cure the patient. But my mother did not – would not – use a knife, for she had no skill in cutting, or so she said. Instead, she relied on herbal mixtures and remedies to cure all ills. My mother used wood betony for headaches, neuralgia and palpitations, for she believed it was good for the soul and the body, shielding the sufferer from night visitations, visions and dreams. She warned me to pick the herb only in August, and without iron, for it is very holy. Ma dame may also wear a part of the plant as an amulet for further protection.'

  'Very good,' Sister Anne approved. 'It is fortunate that we have it here dried and ready for use. And I will also make up a poultice of vervain with oil of roses and vinegar to help ease the pain.' She turned to Margery. 'Pray tell your mistress that we shall bring the medications to her just as soon as they are ready.'

  Margery's gaze rested on Janna once more; her eyes were full of questions. She bobbed a curtsy and fled the room.

  In the infirmary kitchen, Sister Anne lifted a pot of water over the fire to boil, and searched out the herbs they would need to make up their medicaments. There was silence between them as they worked companionably side by side, for Janna had often helped her mother prepare poultices and potions and was able to anticipate the infirmarian's needs. When it was done, she was dismayed to find that Sister Anne intended to take the medicaments and minister to the empress herself; Janna was to be left behind. She was bursting with curiosity, longing to meet the woman who would become queen, the woman who had captured her imagination and respect. To strive when all seemed lost, and to win the crown as a reward! Janna took courage from the empress's boldness and certainty of purpose, for she felt that her own cause seemed an echo of the empress's struggle.

  She remembered, then, the scented salves and rinses she'd prepared, and reminded the infirmarian of them, smiling with relief for she knew Sister Anne did not have hands enough to carry everything. And so it came about that Janna followed Sister Anne into the abbess's lodge and made her obeisance to the empress.

  Again, she had the strange feeling that she'd seen Matilda somewhere before, but she was unprepared for the sudden hiss of indrawn breath as the empress's gaze rested on her face.

  'Who are you?' Matilda demanded, as Janna held out the rinses and lotions she'd prepared so carefully.

  'Her name is Johanna. She is a lay sister here at the abbey.' The abbess answered for Janna, not giving her a chance to say anything as she continued, 'You may leave the chamber now, Sister Johanna.' It was an order, not a request, and Janna hastened to obey. She was greatly disappointed, but hardly surprised that the abbess was so quick to dismiss her, daughter of the disgraced wortwyf as she was. Had the abbess known her mother was once a nun? A moment's reflection convinced Janna that she must have known. Abbess Hawise's condemnation of Eadgyth became more comprehensible.

  She paused outside the abbess's lodge, feeling greater regret as she realised she'd missed another opportunity to question the abbess. She became aware then, that she was not alone. Margery, the empress's tiring woman, had followed her out.

  'Begging your pardon, Sister,' the girl whispered, 'but are you kin to t
he empress?'

  Janna's loud gurgle of laughter was quickly stifled, but she could not contain her surprise. 'No, indeed!' she said. 'Why do you ask?'

  The girl was silent as she mulled over Janna's denial. 'Your eyes,' she said at last. 'They put me in mind of the empress.'

  Janna frowned. An elusive memory flitted into her mind, teasing her until she suddenly recalled St Edith's fair and how she had looked at herself in the mirror, hoping to find her resemblance to her father – or to her mother.

  Her eyes! That was why the empress had seemed familiar. But Janna knew it was only an illusion. 'Nay,' she said regretfully. 'I am no kin to the empress. Far from it, in fact! I have no home, no family, and am entirely dependent on the abbey for food and shelter. I certainly have no land or wealth to call my own, nor do I have important relations among the royal family.' She laughed at the very thought of it. 'I wish I did!'

  'Perhaps your eyes catch our attention because your hair is Saxon gold, not dark like ours?' Margery observed.

  Janna's hand went to her head. She realised that some hair had escaped her wimple once more, and hastily tucked it out of sight. Smiling to herself, she yet couldn't help dreaming a moment of how things might be if only she could claim kinship to the future queen of England.