The Nun's Tale: An Owen Archer Mystery

by Candace Robb

  One was his nephew, Richard de Ravenser, provost of Beverley Minster. Prominent bones, deep-set eyes, strong chin, a face that might be handsome with more flesh. It was as if Thoresby gazed at his own reflection with years erased. Did his sister look so like him? Or had she stared at him too intently when she carried Richard?

  Ravenser’s news was an administrative headache. A nun of St Clement’s, York, had run away and the prioress had not reported the incident. An irresponsible prioress could cause continuous problems.

  Across from Thoresby’s mirror image sat a dark-haired, broad-shouldered man with a patch over his left eye. Owen Archer had spent July searching for the murderers of a mercer whose body had been found in the minster liberty. He reported no luck – discouraging news, because if Archer could not find the guilty parties, they would not be found.

  But Ravenser and Archer were not to blame for their news. Thoresby resolved to put aside his gloom as best he could. ‘Come, gentlemen, it is time to join the other guests for dinner.’

  Owen gave Thoresby a questioning look. ‘You are certain you wish me to dine with your friends, Your Grace?’

  Thoresby sniffed. ‘Not friends, Archer. We travelled together from Windsor. Nicholas de Louth and William of Wykeham are canons of Beverley, returning with Richard to satisfy their terms of residency. I could hardly refuse them hospitality when their provost is my nephew.’

  Ravenser bowed to his uncle. ‘I am grateful for this, Your Grace. I know that Wykeham is hardly a welcome guest in your house.’

  Thoresby lifted his Lord Chancellor’s chain and let it drop against his chest. ‘The man who seeks to relieve me of this weight? Perhaps I should thank him for it. But I confess I smile at him with my teeth clenched. I have got the habit of power.’

  Nicholas de Louth and William of Wykeham stood near the hearth in the great hall, warming their feet by the fire, their insides with wine. Both men lived mostly at court, Nicholas de Louth as a clerk in the service of Prince Edward, William of Wykeham as Keeper of the Privy Seal and King Edward’s chief architect. Louth, a fleshy man, elegantly dressed, chatted amiably with Wykeham. The latter did not call attention to his appearance, but dressed soberly, in shades of grey and brown, and had no marks of distinction save his unusual height. He was soft-spoken, with an earnest intentness about his eyes that might pass for intelligence.

  As the five settled at the table, Thoresby spoke. ‘Forgive me if I seem distracted this evening, gentlemen. I have just learned that a nun from St Clement’s Priory in York has died of a fever in Beverley, a nun who had no permission to travel. She disappeared on St Etheldreda’s feast day.’ He watched Louth and Wykeham tally up the days from 23 June. ‘She had been missing more than a month when she died, and the Reverend Mother had not reported her disappearance, nay, had excused Dame Joanna’s absence with a story of illness, a convalescence at home.’

  ‘She was ill when she fled, then?’ Wykeham asked.

  ‘No. Though she apparently had a pallor that might be mistaken for illness from fasting and praying through the spring.’

  ‘Ah. Lovesickness.’ Louth said. He smiled into his wine.

  ‘On the contrary,’ Thoresby said. ‘Dame Isobel claimed the nun was the sort of young woman who believes that excesses of devotion bring her closer to God.’

  The company grew quiet while servants laid out the fish course. As they withdrew, Ravenser shook his head. ‘A serious discrepancy in the story, Your Grace. A devoted nun does not run away.’

  ‘Where in Beverley?’ Louth asked, obviously caught up in his own thoughts.

  Thoresby nodded to his nephew to continue the tale.

  ‘A man kindly took her in when she collapsed in the street outside his house. She sank into a fever and died. The vicar of St Mary’s Church agreed to bury her at once, fearful she might poison the air.’ Ravenser shook his head, sipped his wine. ‘But the priest wished me to inform His Grace and ask whether the family would want her body brought home to Leeds or whether the convent wished to claim her remains.’

  ‘Beverley needs occasional excitement to wake it up,’ Louth said with a cheerful grin. He chewed contentedly, his eyes half-closed, a man who enjoyed food and wine, particularly such excellent fare as was served in Thoresby’s household. ‘Who was the kind soul who took her in?’

  ‘Will Longford.’

  Louth leaned forward, suddenly wide awake. ‘Longford? A one-legged bear of a man?’ He dabbed the grease from his chin.

  Ravenser shrugged. ‘I have not had the honour of meeting him.’

  Thoresby was interested. ‘You know him, Sir Nicholas?’

  ‘I have had occasion to question Longford for the Prince,’ Louth said. ‘He fought in the Free Companies under du Guesclin.’

  ‘A peculiar good Samaritan.’ Owen said. ‘I wonder what inspired such a man to tend a sick nun?’

  Thoresby found that curious indeed. The Free Companies were bands of renegade soldiers with no national allegiance – though most were abandoned English soldiers – who terrorised the French countryside and then extorted protection money from the frightened people. A most unlikely source of charity.

  Louth lifted an eyebrow. ‘An odd sympathy from a man who has most likely raped and killed nuns across the Channel.’

  Ravenser nodded. ‘I daresay she was a piteous sight.’ His posture toward Louth indicated an impatience with the man’s behaviour. Thoresby knew his nephew thought Louth a glutton and a fool.

  Wykeham sat pensively holding a piece of bread in mid-air. Thoresby wondered what he was thinking. Sensing the archbishop’s eyes on him, Wykeham turned to his host. ‘What drew her to Beverley?’

  Thoresby gave a fleeting smile. ‘An excellent question to which I have no answer.’

  ‘An unfortunate story.’

  ‘Perhaps her family can enlighten us,’ Louth suggested. ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Joanna Calverley,’ Thoresby said. ‘I have asked Dame Isobel de Percy to inform her family. Perhaps she will learn something more.’

  ‘Of Leeds, you said?’ Louth asked.

  Ravenser nodded.

  ‘It is curious,’ Louth frowned. ‘Why did she flee to Beverley, not Leeds?’

  ‘Why indeed.’ Thoresby sipped his wine. There was more to this than a runaway nun. He felt it in his bones. While the others went on to more amiable topics through the two meat courses, he brooded.

  As the servants cleared and brought out the brandywine, Thoresby returned to the subject. ‘Why is the Prince interested in Longford, Sir Nicholas?’

  Louth tapped his fingers on his cup and looked around at the company, weighing how much to say. ‘Now that du Guesclin is a captain in the service of King Charles of France, Prince Edward would like to know all he can about a man he will inevitably face in battle.’

  ‘And was Longford helpful?’ Ravenser asked.

  Louth laughed. ‘Helpful? You would not ask had you ever met him. A slippery man, Will Longford. Much to hide. Oh, he told us a few things, but nothing to compromise du Guesclin.’

  Owen leaned forward, his good eye turned to study Louth. ‘So it was not just information you wanted.’

  Louth squirmed under the hawk-like regard. ‘No. I have the house watched.’

  Wykeham was interested. ‘What do you think he does for du Guesclin?’

  Louth shrugged. ‘I have proof of nothing. But men who might fight for our King have been taking ship to the continent to join the Free Companies.’

  ‘Thus weakening us.’ Thoresby nodded. ‘So you watch Longford’s house, and yet no one reported the arrival of a solitary nun.’

  Louth sighed. ‘I know. What else have my men missed, you wonder. So do I.’

  Wykeham noticed Thoresby’s brooding expression. ‘You think there is more to this nun’s death than an unhappy runaway struck down with fever?’

  Thoresby met the eyes of the man who was positioning himself to take over as Lord Chancellor. Perhaps they were intelligent eyes. He shrugged
.

  ‘A nun runs away to a lover. ’Tis always the story,’ Louth said, pouring more brandywine, though his face was flushed by what he had already imbibed. ‘Think no more of it.’

  Thoresby closed his eyes, weary of idle speculation. He would like to know more about the dead nun, yet what would be the gain? She was dead, buried. He tapped his fingers impatiently in time with the steady plop of a new leak behind him, near the window. Perhaps the ominous ache in his bones was just the rain and his too many years of living.

  One

  Lamentations of the Dead

  Late May 1366

  Nicholas de Louth dropped his work and hurried out to the hall to greet Maddy, Will Longford’s servant. Surely she would not have come to Louth’s house unless she had received word of her master.

  Longford had disappeared in March, slipped away in the night. When a few days had passed with no signs of activity in and round the house, Louth had had his men break in. They had found not a soul, not even the servant, Maddy. She had been discovered at her parents’ house, complaining of her abandonment. She had said that one evening Longford had told her to leave, that he and his man Jaro were going away. ‘With no more notice than that. He might have told me sooner. I might have arranged for work. I’ve no wages now.’ Longford had said he would come for her when he returned. ‘He left that night. I’ve heard nothing since.’

  A search had revealed that someone had gone through Longford’s house before Louth’s men, scattering things everywhere. They had found more than a dozen daggers, several swords of French make, one of Italian, and – the prize – a letter with Bertrand du Guesclin’s seal acknowledging monies owed Longford. It was not proof of treason, not even signed, but it was a link with du Guesclin, however ambiguous. Louth would be less gentle in questioning Longford next time. They had also found some puzzling items, including a bottle of Italian glass that held a white powder. Maddy had recognised it. She’d said that the nun who had died at Longford’s the previous summer had brought it with her, offering it to Longford as a relic. Louth had taken it home with the weapons and the letter.

  A generously hefty bag of coins had convinced Maddy to stay at the house. She was to alert them if Longford returned or anyone else appeared.

  Had Maddy come to Louth to report visitors this morning?

  He found her sitting in a chair by the fire, a thin young woman clutching a mazer of mulled wine in trembling hands. When he greeted her, she lifted up to him eyes red-rimmed and frightened. ‘I cannot go back there, Sir. I dare not!’

  ‘What is it, Maddy? Has your master returned?’

  She shook her head. ‘’Tis the ghost of poor Dame Joanna. She’s come back for the milk of the Virgin. Weeping and wailing and beating her chest and praying that she should die. She’s not at rest, Sir.’

  Louth did not absorb Maddy’s story at once, so far was it from what he had expected. ‘Dame Joanna? What can you mean, child?’

  Maddy took a gulp of wine. It did not ease her tremors. ‘Please, Sir. ’Tis just as they say, the dead walk when they are not at peace. ’Tis Dame Joanna – she’s come back because of the relic. She must have the bottle she brought to my master.’

  By now Louth had caught the drift of the girl’s story. ‘Dame Joanna, whom your master buried last summer? She has returned? She is at the house now?’

  Maddy crossed herself and nodded. ‘I came to you straight away. I’d come in from the kitchen to open the shutters. I do it mid-morning every day, to keep it fresh in there in case the master returns. There she was, in the corner by the shelves, wrapped in a blue shawl, whispering about the milk of the Virgin. Such a ghostly voice. Like angels’ wings aflutter. And when she’d searched all the shelves she fell to her knees and wept and beat at her breast. Oh, Sir, the lamentations of the dead are not for us to hear unless we may help them! You must return the bottle!’

  Louth was not one to believe in the dead walking, but until now Maddy had seemed to him a sensible and trustworthy young woman, not one to lose her head. ‘You think this apparition seeks the relic Dame Joanna brought from St Clement’s?’

  Maddy nodded and took another gulp of wine.

  ‘Was she in the house when you left?’

  Maddy nodded again and crossed herself.

  It was not what Louth had hoped. Nor did he believe that the dead would walk for the sake of a lost relic. Men with far more reason to lie unquiet in their graves stayed put. But Maddy had stuck to her post until this moment, and she deserved his attention. Could this be a clever ruse to get Maddy out of the house? After more than a month of close watch, had someone fooled them to get inside? The thought propelled Louth to act.

  He called for his squire and instructed a servant to hurry to the provost’s house to ask him to come to Longford’s. ‘Sir Richard might be at Mass at the minster. Do your best to get him as quickly as you can.’ Louth turned to the serving girl. ‘Now, Maddy, do you wish to come or stay here where it is safe and warm?’

  Maddy glanced at the fire with longing, but shook her head. ‘’Tis my place to come, Sir. And I must see for myself what you see. I will not rest if I am not sure what happens.’

  Louth admired her pluck. ‘Then come along. We must not keep her waiting.’

  Though it was beyond mid-morning on a sunny day, the light was dim inside Longford’s house. Louth heard the woman, alternately weeping and whispering, before he made out her form in the shadowy corner. He could not understand what she said. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he noted that the windows across the room from the apparition were still shuttered. He motioned for his squire to open them. The apparition threw up a slender hand to protect her eyes from the light. A decidedly physical gesture, Louth thought. He doubted that a spirit’s eyes would be sensitive to light.

  Louth crept up to within a few feet of the blue-draped figure, so close that he could reach out and touch her head. He could see little more than a light-blue mantle or shawl, stained and torn, wrapped about a slender form. The hand held up to the face was dirty. The figure had a strong, mouldy scent, but it was the odour of unwashed flesh and clothing, not decay. So, Louth reasoned, neither a spirit nor a corpse.

  ‘Who are you, Mistress?’ He spoke in a gentle tone, but loudly enough to be heard over her whispering.

  She pounded her chest thrice and murmured, ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,’ then sobbed and crumpled to the floor. Louth did not know what to make of it. He was relieved when Ravenser slipped quietly in the front door and joined him. The provost crouched by the inert figure, sniffed, rose quickly, putting a handkerchief to his nose. ‘Who is she?’ he whispered.

  Louth shrugged. ‘I know not. But she is a fleshly apparition, I think.’ He knelt down and gently pulled the mantle back, uncovering greasy, matted hair. The woman seemed unconscious. Louth cautiously turned her over and touched the delicate, tear-stained face. ‘Come, Maddy,’ Louth called softly. ‘She is warm to the touch, a living being. Tell us if this is Dame Joanna.’

  Maddy tiptoed forward, a hand stretched out in front as if to protect herself from a sudden attack. When she was still too far away to see the woman’s features in the dim light, she said, ‘She was not so thin as that, Sir.’

  ‘Come closer. I have touched her and have not suffered.’ Louth reached back to Maddy. ‘Come. Tell us if it is she.’

  Maddy crept close, then recoiled.

  Louth nodded. ‘It is the smell of unwashed body, unwashed clothes, Maddy, not decay. Come. Look at her face. Is this Dame Joanna?’ The woman lay still, her eyes closed.

  Maddy leaned close, then jumped away, nodding. ‘’Tis her.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘As much as I can be. If I saw the colour of her eyes, I should be certain. I have never seen the like. Clear green, if you can imagine.’

  Louth sat back on his heels, wondering how to proceed. ‘Is there a fire in the kitchen, Maddy?’

  ‘Aye, Sir.’

  Louth’s squire,
John, crouched down beside him. ‘Shall I carry her there?’

  Louth nodded.

  John scooped up the woman and stood. Maddy hurried before him, leading the way to the kitchen. Louth pulled two benches together near the fire and John gently laid down his burden. The woman stirred, eyelids fluttering.

  ‘Some brandywine, Maddy!’ Louth called.

  The serving girl brought a cup. As Louth lifted the woman’s head, he noted that her hair was pale red. He was more and more confident that this was Dame Joanna. He put the cup to the woman’s mouth and whispered, ‘Drink slowly.’ Some of the wine spilled down her chin. A hand fluttered up to the cup, touched it. The lips parted. She drank, then coughed. Louth helped her sit up. Her eyes opened, but did not focus. Clear green eyes stared out into the distance.

  Maddy nodded. ‘You see the eyes. ’Tis her.’

  Louth held the cup to Dame Joanna’s lips and she drank again, then pushed it away. ‘Can you understand me, Dame Joanna?’ The green eyes glanced at Louth with no expression. He was uncertain whether she even saw him. ‘You are in Will Longford’s house in Beverley. Can you tell us what happened to you?’

  The pale brows came together in a frown. Then the eyes cleared and focused on his. She grabbed his shoulder. ‘The milk of the Virgin. Is it here?’

  ‘It is close by.’

  ‘I must return it.’

  ‘You must return it to St Clement’s?’ Louth asked.

  ‘I wear Our Lady’s mantle, you see.’ She clutched the blue shawl to her. ‘I have risen from the dead – as did Our Lady. But it should not have happened so. I am a Magdalene. Our Lady said I must return to die.’

  ‘Our Lady told you that?’

  The eyes opened wide, guileless, innocent. ‘The Blessed Virgin Mary is watching over me.’

  Louth glanced at the provost, back to the nun. ‘You had a vision?’

  The eyes filled with tears, the head drooped backward against Louth’s arm. ‘I must return,’ she whimpered, her eyes fluttering shut.

  ‘Dame Joanna?’ Louth whispered.

  Joanna muttered something incoherent.