“Malmesbury Abbey,” I said. Brother Edmund winced. Again, I’d said too much.
“That’s far from here, and the roads are not good,” she said. “You can’t possibly reach it before sundown.”
“We will find an inn halfway between.”
“An inn?” she exclaimed, shocked. “What an idea.” She looked Brother Edmund up and down, and another of those mischievous smiles lit up her face. “But then, who am I to interfere in your plans, Cousin Joanna?”
Now I was as embarrassed as Brother Edmund.
She walked us through the castle, her lady-in-waiting shadowing us. At the front entrance she called to another servant, “Send for Luke, at once.” She said to us: “You must have a guide to Malmesbury; this boy of mine knows the roads very well.”
“But we may not return this way,” said Brother Edmund.
“He can find his way back from anywhere,” she said.
When the boy appeared, I recognized him as the towheaded lad who’d taken our horses. “Luke, do you know the way to Malmesbury Abbey?” she called out.
“Aye, Your Grace,” he said, fingering a lock of his hair as if he were a serf of the manor.
“Then be of service to these people,” she ordered. “Take a swift horse.”
We said our good-byes. Mary watched us from her doorway as we mounted the horses, now followed by both John and Luke. I waved to her one last time, and we started off. I could hear the creaking noise of the chains of the descending portcullis as it crashed back down on the drawbridge.
I pulled up my horse close to Brother Edmund’s.
“So what did you make of the tapestry?” I asked.
“There are similarities to the other one, from the requiem feast. A young woman falls prey to a man and is saved, at least in part, by an older person, a family figure.”
“What could that have to do with the Athelstan crown?” I was careful to keep my voice low.
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“Do you think the other Dartford tapestry, at Lambeth, would tell us more? The one with all of the sisters? Perhaps that is the one Sister Helen intended for me to see. It would seem much more relevant to the priory. Stopping here, to view this one, seems not to have borne fruit.”
Brother Edmund thought for a moment. “Do not be certain of that. I think that in choosing these stories, Sister Helen was trying to say something about an ongoing struggle she knew of at the priory, between earthly desires and salvation, perhaps between good and evil itself.”
I shivered, but it was not because of the cold.
40
We reached the town of Amesbury after sundown. My cousin had been correct about traveling difficulties; we moved slowly through Wiltshire until we reached a main road running between London and Exeter. Amesbury, with its parish church and small market, was on that road, and it boasted a fine inn for travelers, Luke said.
Brother Edmund and I trudged inside the establishment. It was surprisingly large and had a high, whitewashed ceiling. The owner greeted us at the door, with a worried expression.
“My name is Edmund Sommerville; my sister and I seek lodgings,” said Brother Edmund. “We will require two rooms, and stabling for our horses and barn quarters for two male servants. We are ready to pay your rates.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir, we have only one room left in the inn.”
This was a surprise. We’d had no trouble securing separate rooms at any inn thus far, since it was not a popular time of year for travel.
“There is still a Benedictine abbey in our town, although I hate to turn away business,” said the innkeeper. “They are good monks, committed to hospitality. You could send one of your servants to see if they have rooms to spare.”
Brother Edmund shook his head. It had been decided before we left that we could not stay in any religious houses, for fear that we would in some accidental fashion reveal ourselves.
“Ah, you do not favor the old ways. I am sorry I suggested that,” the innkeeper said, flustered.
Brother Edmund sighed. “Do not be troubled. I am willing to pay you extra; do you truly have but one room?”
The innkeeper picked at his hands. “I wish I could oblige you. We have a large party here tonight. Brother and sister have shared a room before; the quarters are spacious, and I can have an extra pallet brought in.”
I nudged Brother Edmund. “We can’t go back on the road. We can make do with one room.”
“Very well,” he said.
Relieved, the innkeeper said, “We serve hot meals right through the archway—it’s no tavern, so it would be a proper environment for your sister. At no cost to you, allow us to serve hot fish pie and ale.”
That did sound a great deal more tempting than a hunk of cold bread from our saddle.
The side room, set with a half-dozen wooden tables, was as pleasant as promised. A fresh fire blazed. Within minutes we were devouring the steaming hot pies. A servant set down mugs of cold ale.
“Not the same sort of drink as served by the dowager duchess, though, is it?” Brother Edmund asked, smiling.
I shrugged. “It tastes fine.”
Brother Edmund regarded me thoughtfully over the table.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I find it remarkable, your temperament, Sister Joanna. At the priory, and now during our arduous travel, you have not once complained of any hardship or inconvenience.”
“Do not we all forsake comforts and worldly pomp when we adopt a religious life?” I asked.
“Yes. However, having met your kin, it is all the more singular to me, the way you conduct yourself.”
I felt a glow of pleasure.
“I thought you admired the dowager duchess,” I said shyly.
He smiled and said, “She is not the sort of woman a Dominican friar would admire.”
“Does a friar admire any woman?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Brother Edmund, to my amazement, looked embarrassed.
There was a commotion in the entrance area, followed by the sounds of men’s voices. A moment later, we were joined by the most extraordinary group. A dozen men found places to sit, each of them wearing the robes of a monk or a friar. But not of the same order. They were Benedictines mostly, but I also saw two Franciscans and an Augustinian. The only order noticeably missing was our own, the Dominicans.
The most unusual-looking one of them was a Cistercian monk. Wearing a white habit and black scapular, the man had pale skin, light-blue eyes, and a fringe of white hair, though he could not have been more than thirty-five years of age. With a shock I realized he must be an albino.
The Cistercian sat at a table nearest to us. Brother Edmund could not take his eyes off the group.
“I bid you greetings on this fair evening.” His voice was mellifluous. “I am Brother Oswald.”
Seeing that Brother Edmund was struck dumb by this party of monastics, I said, “Greetings, Brother. We are Joanna and Edmund Sommerville, traveling from Kent on family business.”
He smiled. “It is a pleasure to meet such a fine couple. How long have you been married?”
“We are not married,” Brother Edmund said. “She is my younger sister.”
Brother Oswald’s eyes flicked back and forth, no doubt noticing our complete lack of resemblance. “Ah, very good,” he said, in the same sweet voice. He took a long draft of the ale put before him. “Brothers, are we not fortunate? Is God not smiling on us? First to hear Mass at a blessed church, then to return to this inn and partake of a generous meal, and now to meet kind strangers, a brother and sister also on the road of travel.”
The rest of the men looked over at us and smiled, with great friendliness.
“What is your destination?” asked Brother Edmund.
Brother Oswald smiled. “Divine truth,” he said.
“Amen, Brother, amen,” shouted the other men in the room.
“We have a spiritual destination,” said Brother Oswald. “We travel
this country, looking for it. We are no longer able to seek it in the abbeys. You see, our homes have all been dissolved by the king’s command. We were forced to leave. But that is no impediment. No, no, no. We have come together—drawn together is another way to describe it—to travel as one. Someday we will find the answer to how best to serve God, how best to live the rest of our days here on earth. We will yet perceive His intentions in allowing the dissolution of the religious orders of England.”
Brother Edmund looked down at the table; his thin shoulders quivered. I feared he would lose control of himself in front of all.
“May I ask a question?” I asked, quickly.
“Of course, Mistress Sommerville.”
I winced. It was shameful to deceive a man like Brother Oswald with false names. But I pushed on. “Do you go from church to church, traveling through England, seeking enlightenment through prayer?”
“We attend Mass whenever possible,” he answered. “But we also look for God in the forests, in the fields, in the marketplaces, in any place where His wisdom could be found. We have come here, to Amesbury, to make a pilgrimage to an ancient site. It is one of the oldest places on earth. Have you heard of it? Of Stonehenge?”
I tensed in my seat. “Is it nearby?”
“Oh, yes. I believe this inn chiefly houses those who’ve come to look upon it.”
As a child I’d heard terrifying tales of Stonehenge, that it was a temple built by a race of Irish giants, many centuries ago. “But isn’t that a place of druid worship?” I asked.
“We open our minds and our hearts to any sign of God, Mistress Sommerville, and we have heard that God sometimes speaks to the faithful at dawn at Stonehenge.”
Brother Edmund looked up. “At dawn?” he asked, his voice thick.
Brother Oswald studied Brother Edmund. The Cistercian’s pale-blue eyes lingered on his hat, as if he detected the tonsured head beneath it.
“Do you want to join our morning pilgrimage?” he asked gently. “It is walking distance from here. We will leave shortly before sunrise.”
“Oh, no, we are not worthy to accompany you,” Brother Edmund said.
Brother Oswald smiled. “All are worthy, in God’s love,” he said. “And although I have just met you here tonight, I feel strongly that you and your kind sister are meant to come with us.”
Brother Edmund looked at me. “If you wish it, we will go,” I said. He nodded, grateful.
We made arrangements to meet Brother Oswald and the others before dawn. Most had paid for rooms, but Brother Oswald and two others would sleep on the ground in the stables, he explained. It was what he desired; Brother Oswald, a true Cistercian, had not slept in a bed since taking his vows as a teenager.
Brother Edmund and I climbed the stairs to our one room. I opened the door. It was a large space. The innkeeper had, as promised, placed a pallet on the floor, opposite the bed, heaped with blankets. There was even a fire.
Brother Edmund hesitated at the door. “I feel more strongly than ever that this is not fit,” he said. “I can sleep in the stables, with Brother Oswald, and John and Luke.”
“But look at all this space,” I protested. “I cannot take it all for myself.”
After a long, uncomfortable silence, he said, “Very well. But we must hang a blanket beside the bed, to give you greater privacy.”
Brother Edmund was able to rig a blanket to shield us from each other. I pulled down the blanket atop my bed and crawled under. Fully concealed, I undid my skirt and bodice and put them on top of the blanket. I wore only my shift.
I couldn’t hear anything in the room but the crackling of the fire.
“Good night, Brother Edmund,” I said nervously.
There was silence for a long time. I had begun to think he’d fallen asleep when I heard Brother Edmund’s voice. “Good night, Sister Joanna.”
The dream did not come at once; I was so tired that oblivion claimed me for a time. But then I found myself on a field. It was delightfully warm. I saw flowers everywhere, of all colors. I plucked them and put them in my basket. One patch of red flowers was particularly beautiful, and I reached down to make my selection.
A white hand seized my wrist and I went down, down through the wet ground. A tunnel formed, and I hurtled through it. I screamed, yet I knew that no one could hear me.
I found myself in a cave, sitting up, my arms hugging my knees. Water dripped into a dark pool. I heard footsteps in the cave and began to breathe rapidly. I did not see anyone approach, but suddenly a man knelt next to me. He smiled, trying to calm me. “Nothing bad will happen to you now, Sister Joanna,” he said.
“You know my name?” I asked.
He nodded.
I felt very weak and lay down on the floor of the cave, the water dripping faster into the pool next to my head. I closed my eyes. I knew something was about to happen to me. I did not want to see it. But I did not want to get up, either.
I felt soft breezes, delicate puffs, shiver across my body. There were no hands on me, just the breezes. They caressed me, tickled me with achingly long strokes. The water dripped even faster into the pool; it was becoming a waterfall. I heard short, gasping, panting breaths, but not a man’s; they were the sounds a woman might make. My limbs burned and tingled.
With a start, I woke up. The coolness, the caressing breezes were gone. I was tangled up in my blanket, sweaty with confusion.
An enormous wave of shame washed over me. I had had a sinful dream. I turned toward the mullioned window next to the bed. The moon was high. It was still the middle of the night.
I was tired, and yet I was seized with a great restlessness. I began to wonder if Brother Edmund was asleep. If he wasn’t, I needed to talk to him. It was selfish of me, and terribly wrong, but I craved reassurance from him that I was not a terrible person. I sat up in the bed. My hand shook as I reached up to pull back the blanket he had erected next to my bed.
I moved the blanket aside, just a few inches, and peeked out. Moonlight flooded the room. I could see the pallet clearly on the other side of the room. It was empty. Brother Edmund was gone.
I slumped back down in the bed. He must have left for the stables after all. I felt confused and a bit angry that he had done this after our discussion. But I was also oddly relieved.
Within minutes I fell asleep again.
It was easy to waken before dawn; I was accustomed to it from my time at the priory. I dressed and found my way downstairs.
The monks and friars milled about in the courtyard outside the inn. Brother Edmund talked to two Benedictines. I spotted John and Luke to the side, with our horses gathered.
Brother Edmund made his way over to me. I expected him to say something about his disappearance from the room.
“This pilgrimage should not take long,” he said in a cool, impersonal tone. “We will walk with the brothers to Stonehenge, and then go our own way, on horseback. We should make it to Malmesbury Abbey well before sundown.”
I nodded, and waited. He still said nothing about the night before. I noticed that he did not look as ill as the other mornings. The nightmares had not ravaged him.
He leaned down to say something else, quietly. “I will walk with the brothers, but you should ride one of the horses.”
I recoiled. “Did they ask you to tell me to separate myself?”
“No.”
My throat tightened. “Do you want me to walk apart from you?”
“It might be best,” he said.
“If we are going to make a pilgrimage to this ancient place, then I will travel as a pilgrim does, which is on foot,” I said angrily.
He started to say something, but I brushed him aside. I strode up to Brother Oswald. “I thank you for your invitation. Whenever you are ready, I am prepared to walk.”
We set out through the dark, silent town of Amesbury. A Franciscan monk led the way, carrying a thick candle. Our shoes made crunching noises on the frozen ground.
I purposefully walked far
apart from Brother Edmund, I felt so angry with him. Every time he neared me, I strode faster, or started a conversation with a friendly friar. After the third approach, he seemed to give up and fell back.
We settled onto a path out of town, walking in single file, singing hymns. The white clouds of our breath hovered in the air.
The path traveled a series of small, low hills. A faint light crawled higher up the eastern horizon. I peered behind me, to the end of the line of religious men. Brother Edmund was halfway back. Luke and John were at the very end, with the horses.
The Franciscan carrying the candle paused at the top of a hill, then turned around to us and dramatically blew out his candle. A reddish glow pulsed in the sky.
“Hurry,” someone shouted. We started running, to get to the top of the hill the Franciscan stood on. We were no longer in single file. Once we’d reached him, we stood shoulder to shoulder, all equals.
From the top of the hill, I saw atop the next one a rough, broken circle of enormously tall stone slabs of the same height, surrounding a handful of other, smaller slabs. It was the strangest thing I’d ever beheld. Yet it was familiar, too. Like a fragment of a dream I’d had years ago, coming to life on this undulating plain.
As we walked together to the stone slabs, the sun rose over the hill far behind Stonehenge. Suddenly, where there had been light-gray stone on dark soil, I saw blinding contrasts. Gold shimmered on black. Shadows leaped everywhere.
The monk closest to me laughed at the sight of the shadows. He was a Benedictine, stout, with wide-set brown eyes and a graying beard. Tears coursed down his cheeks. I had not spoken to him yet that morning, had not known he existed before last night. Yet we smiled at each other as if we were lifelong friends. I held out my hand, and he took it. His rough fingers scratched my palm. We walked the rest of the way together.
As I approached the outer circle of stones, I trembled. I was filled with the conviction that everything I’d done in my life, every decision, every word spoken, had led me to this hill, on this morning.
Some of the monks and friars paced around the stones; some prayed on their knees; some stood in the center, their palms stretched upward. I saw Brother Edmund turn in a circle, slowly, looking at the slabs. Brother Oswald knelt near him, chanting.
The Crown Page 33
