The Nun's Tale: An Owen Archer Mystery

by Candace Robb

  ‘Indeed you shall. And I trust you will not disappoint me.’

  The prioress blushed, but she did not drop her head meekly. ‘I shall not, Your Grace.’

  Thoresby liked the way her jaw stuck out with determination. ‘How has Joanna been received at St Clement’s?’

  Isobel sighed. ‘She has disturbed the peace of our house.’

  No doubt. Gossip was ever the bane of a closed community. ‘Her behaviour is disturbing?’

  ‘Only those caring for her witness her confusion, Your Grace.’

  ‘She plays the tragic heroine. She will tire of it.’

  ‘But the mantle, Your Grace –’ Isobel stretched a hand toward him, imploring. ‘The rumour of it has spread through St Clement’s. And Dame Margaret’s rash …’

  ‘Sir Richard said you had put a stop to that.’

  Isobel withdrew her hand. ‘He was kind to say so. I have done my best, but once a rumour such as that begins –’ she looked pained. ‘It is plain that something happened to Joanna, else why would she return after making such an effort to disappear for ever? So the sisters take Our Lady’s intervention as an explanation. The only one that has been offered.’

  But not the only explanation the sisters had considered among themselves, Thoresby was sure. ‘Sir Richard de Ravenser has a theory that she went off to have a child. Is there any sign of that?’

  Isobel’s pale face coloured slightly. ‘Not that we can tell, Your Grace.’

  ‘Has she spoken of a lover?’

  ‘Except for the comments to Dame Prudentia, no. At least – not a living one.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The prioress looked uncomfortable. Her eyes met Thoresby’s, then moved away, focusing on the floor. ‘Joanna speaks of dreams in which her one love comes to her. She said it was these dreams that led her to run away, but now she knows they were sent by the Devil.’

  ‘One love?’

  ‘I believe Joanna had a vision and did not understand.’ Isobel held up her hand to stop the archbishop’s impatient interruption. ‘Have you read any of the mystics, Your Grace? They write of their love of God in terms of human love. It can confuse an inexperienced child like Joanna.’

  ‘Inexperienced?’

  Isobel’s stubborn chin jutted out even farther. ‘I stand firm in my belief that she left St Clement’s an innocent, Your Grace. And there is yet something else – something that frightens her. She was given the last rites in Beverley. She fears that in God’s eyes she is dead. She wishes to profess her vows once more.’

  ‘You believe these ideas are connected?’

  ‘I believe they reveal a soul in turmoil and confusion, Your Grace. I think that Joanna went out to seek the lover in her dreams and found an ordinary man.’

  ‘So you do believe a man was involved?’

  Isobel shrugged. ‘It seems likely. In fact, a man has lurked about St Clement’s since she arrived.’

  A fact. Thoresby was pleased to hear a fact at last. ‘Horsemen followed Dame Joanna’s company from Beverley, as you have no doubt heard. Do you feel threatened by this watcher?’

  Isobel spread her hands. ‘How can I know?’

  ‘Do you recognise him? Might he have visited Dame Joanna at St Clement’s?’

  ‘She had no visitors, Your Grace.’

  Thoresby raised an eyebrow. ‘None? In six years? At least her family, surely.’

  The prioress looked down at her hands, dropped them at her sides. ‘No one, not even her family.’ A new note had crept into Isobel’s voice. She chose her words with uneasy care.

  Thoresby suspected they were now close to the nub of the problem. ‘Her family. Yes. Last time we spoke about this I sent you off to discover whether her family wanted to remove her body to Leeds. What was the outcome of that interview?’

  Isobel once more tucked her hands beneath her scapular. Thoresby wondered whether she thought that hid her uneasiness. ‘They wished to have nothing more to do with her, Your Grace.’

  ‘Because she had broken her vows?’

  Isobel, head bowed, said nothing.

  ‘Whatever you are not saying, it will come out, do not doubt it, Dame Isobel. And it will be far better for you if I have heard it from your lips. I have ordered Richard de Ravenser to find out all there is to know about the friends who assisted Joanna in her escape and deceit. And one of my men will talk to her family. So you might as well speak now.’

  A tense silence ensued. Silence did not bother Thoresby. He was content to let it lengthen until his visitor could bear it no longer. Indeed, it was to her credit how long Isobel held on to it. But at last she sighed and raised her eyes to his.

  ‘I did not go to her family. When she entered St Clement’s we agreed that she was dead to her family from that day.’

  ‘It is a symbolic death.’

  Isobel shook her head. ‘It was a condition of payment, Your Grace.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘They paid handsomely?’

  ‘I was not then prioress.’

  ‘But the Council of Oxford forbade this.’

  ‘St Clement’s is poor, Your Grace, and Joanna’s family were keen to be rid of her.’

  ‘Did they explain why?’

  ‘Her mother said she was impossible to rule.’

  ‘As Benedictines you take a vow of poverty.’

  Isobel bristled. ‘The money did not make our lives soft. It patched the roof and kept us warm in winter.’

  ‘Still, it is simony.’ Thoresby stood, clasped his hands behind him and, frowning, turned from her. ‘I am increasingly uneasy about the state of St Clement’s, Dame Isobel. I depend on you to watch over the sisters and rule them wisely. You have failed me.’ He stayed there a moment, letting her study his back, then spun round with a stern frown. ‘If you fail me again I must think what to do.’

  Isobel looked sufficiently disgraced. ‘Your Grace, please, it is an unfortunate –’

  ‘Yes, it is unfortunate. This entire situation is unfortunate. And to prevent more misfortune, I want Dame Joanna taken to St Mary’s Abbey guest house. The abbey walls are better fortified than St Clement’s, the gates are more secure.’

  Dame Isobel’s expression warred between shame and relief. ‘Considering the watcher and the rumours, I would be most grateful for such an arrangement.’

  ‘This does not relieve you of your duties. You will speak with Dame Joanna at St Mary’s. Find a way to inspire trust. I want to know what she knows of Jaro, the man in her grave, and Maddy, the maid who was murdered. I want to know why someone is following her and who it is. I want to know with whom she left Beverley. Sir Nicholas de Louth will tell you more. Speak with him.’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’

  ‘You may go.’

  She bowed to him. ‘Peace be the Lord my God.’

  ‘God go with you.’

  Thoresby thanked the messenger who had just ridden in from Knaresborough and bade him leave the door ajar as he quit the parlour.

  ‘Michaelo!’ Thoresby bellowed a few moments later.

  Thoresby’s secretary presented his elegant self. ‘Your Grace?’

  ‘Send Alfred and Colin to me. Captain Archer recommends them. I think they might manage to track down a man who is watching the nunnery.’

  ‘They might do,’ Michaelo said, ‘though you must not expect them to take him alive. They are thirsty for blood, those two.’

  Thoresby stared at his secretary. It was the most astute comment Michaelo had ever made to him. ‘I shall impress upon them that I wish to speak to the man.’

  Michaelo bowed and hurried off on his mission.

  Thoresby drummed his fingers on the polished wooden table and considered his departed secretary. He had appointed Michaelo to the post more to keep an eye on him than to make use of him. As a monk of St Mary’s, Michaelo had been led seriously astray by the former Archdeacon of York. But of late Michaelo had shown improvement. He was reliable, and kept his own counsel. Thoresby even detected som
e likeable qualities in him – an amusing sense of humour. A quite unexpected development.

  Dame Isobel paced her chamber. Her interview with the Archbishop had mortified her. It was plain he considered her incompetent. As well he might. But it pained her. She respected Archbishop Thoresby, admired his combination of worldliness and spirituality. She had read the lay catechism he had directed a monk at St Mary’s to write, It was an inspiration of elegant simplicity. And the Lady Chapel he was building in the minster promised to be a magnificent monument to Our Lady. Isobel must prove to Thoresby that she was worthy of her position.

  But how? He wanted answers from Joanna, but the young woman spoke in riddles, gibberish. It was true she seemed occasionally lucid, but as her memories overwhelmed her she lapsed into nonsense.

  Isobel paced and prayed, but it was no use. Joanna’s state required more than prayers; she was too agitated to think clearly. Perhaps Brother Wulfstan, St Mary’s infirmarian and said to be gifted, could be of help. Isobel resolved to speak with him when she accompanied Joanna to St Mary’s on the morrow.

  Brother Wulfstan sat quietly in Abbot Campian’s parlour listening to the prioress’s description of Joanna’s nervous state. Dame Isobel had been disappointed when the round faced, elderly man had shuffled into the room. She knew the infirmarian only by reputation and had expected a commanding presence, not this meek serenity. But as she spoke and saw his age-dimmed eyes watching her, the round, tonsured head nodding and tilting as he considered her words, as he asked for details that she had not thought to offer, she relaxed and grew hopeful.

  So she was puzzled when he said he would ask Mistress Lucie Wilton to assist him.

  ‘Mistress Wilton,’ Isobel repeated, ‘but why?’

  Wulfstan regarded her kindly. ‘You would remember her from her days at St Clement’s, but seven years have gone by, Reverend Mother. She is a master apothecary and quite skilled. Were this patient a man, I would have my assistant Brother Henry work with me. But it is more appropriate that a woman examine Dame Joanna, and I can think of no woman I would trust more. She might even teach me something.’ His eyes twinkled.

  Dame Isobel looked down at her hands, wondering how to explain her concern. ‘Mistress Wilton was not happy at St Clement’s. She might not wish to cooperate.’

  Brother Wulfstan smiled sadly. ‘You made a vow to watch over the sisters in your care, did you not, Reverend Mother?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you break that vow because of an old grudge?’

  ‘The Lord knows I would not,’ Isobel said, crossing herself.

  Wulfstan nodded. ‘Mistress Wilton is a master apothecary, Reverend Mother. She performs her duties as faithfully as you do yours, and all for the honour and glory of God. She will do this as an apothecary; not as a favour to St Clement’s. Or even to me.’

  Four

  A Consultation

  A golden dawn found the chinks in the shutters and shone into the room. Lucie Wilton dreamed that her daughter took her first steps, safely supported by Lucie’s hand under her left elbow, Owen’s hand under her right. The child grew bold, rose on her toes, wobbled, and twisted to land in the soft grass with a cry of righteous indignation. She reached up to Lucie, her furry paw pressing against Lucie’s chin.

  Lucie woke. Melisende yawned in her face. ‘You confused my dream, you wretched cat,’ Lucie grumbled. Melisende lazily opened an eye, yawned again and drifted back to sleep.

  Lucie closed her eyes and contemplated Owen’s imminent return. He had written that he was on his way home, might reach York by this evening. Lief and Gaspare would accompany him, staying at York Castle with the archers they were training. Owen did not explain the change in plans, but Lucie was delighted he would be home, however briefly. Nonetheless, she wondered what had happened.

  She looked forward to meeting Lief and Gaspare. Owen wrote that Lief spoke of little else but his healthy son. It was good that Owen was seeing a happy father; he seemed to dread the prospect of being one himself, much as he protested to Lucie that he thanked God they were at last to be blessed with a child. Gaspare, a bachelor, teased Lief and Owen about their virtuous devotion to their wives; in writing of this, Owen was quick to add that Gaspare could not lead him astray. Lucie did not fear that Owen would stray. It was the dark moods that had come over him since she’d told him she was with child that worried her. Perhaps Lief’s enthusiasm would cheer him.

  Idle thoughts. Lucie stretched. Melisende sat up, expectant. ‘Yes, we shall go down and stoke the fire. Let Tildy wake to warmth for a change.’ Lucie’s serving girl, Tildy, had been pampering Lucie while Owen was away. With Owen returning tonight and Lucie’s father, Sir Robert D’Arby, arriving by week’s end, Tildy was about to become quite busy. ‘She deserves a treat,’ Lucie said, scratching Melisende’s striped back. The cat blinked, as if in agreement.

  Brother Wulfstan’s summons arrived as Lucie and Tildy finished the morning chores.

  ‘He is not unwell?’ Lucie asked the messenger with alarm.

  ‘Brother Wulfstan is well. He requires your assistance with an ailing guest.’

  Knowing that the infirmarian would not make such a request idly, Lucie instructed Tildy to ask customers to return in the afternoon and accompanied the messenger to the abbey, tingling with curiosity about the unusual summons.

  Her haste was rewarded. When Lucie saw the prioress of St Clement’s in attendance in the patient’s room at the guest house, she guessed the identity of the patient shrouded in the curtained bed. She had heard the rumours about Dame Joanna of Leeds.

  Dame Isobel greeted her politely.

  Brother Wulfstan came forward with open arms. ‘Bless you for coming so quickly, Lucie.’ He led her aside to explain the situation. His face darkened as he moved farther into the tale of Joanna’s disappearance, reappearance, the two deaths that seemed linked to her, the rumour of her miraculous mantle, and her possible danger. ‘Forgive me for drawing you into such unholy concerns, Lucie, but I need a woman’s help in this and I know you have the skill – and the discretion.’

  Lucie smiled at Wulfstan’s dear, troubled face. ‘With such sweet words, how could I possibly be offended? Come.’ She took his arm. ‘Introduce me to this fascinating patient.’

  With a grateful smile, Wulfstan led Lucie over to the curtained bed. A table had been drawn up beside it. The infirmarian had assembled a wine flagon, some apothecary jars, a cup, spoons and measures, and a spirit lamp on which a bowl of water steamed. ‘The Reverend Mother needs Dame Joanna calm enough to answer questions. She hopes to discover what happened – what drove Joanna away, what brought her back.’

  Lucie could well imagine. She suspected that it was Archbishop Thoresby who motivated Dame Isobel.

  ‘I thought to begin with something simple: valerian and balm in wine, a strong dosage. But I must know whether Joanna is in any pain. The sisters believe she has discomfort from cuts, scratches, bruises, but is otherwise sound. I hoped you might examine her and reassure me.’ Wulfstan turned at a noise from Dame Isobel. ‘Forgive me, Reverend Mother. I do not mean to question you. I am taking my normal precautions. A medicine for one can be a poison for another. We pray God to guide our hands, but He expects us to take care.’

  Dame Isobel tucked her hands beneath her scapular and bowed her acquiescence.

  Wulfstan turned back to Lucie. ‘I shall be in the corridor while you examine Dame Joanna. I shall await your summons to return.’

  When the door had closed behind Wulfstan, Dame Isobel joined Lucie. Lucie opened the curtain. Dame Joanna lay with her eyes closed, her mouth moving as if in prayer, her hands pressed together on her chest. She was wrapped in a clean but shabby blue mantle. Her face was pale. Deathly pale.

  ‘Dame Joanna,’ Lucie said, and waited for an answer.

  The nun continued as she had been.

  Lucie leaned over and touched Joanna’s arm.

  The woman jerked her arm away, opened her eyes, and stared up at Lucie w
ith alarm.

  Could she have been unaware of Lucie’s presence until the touch and then respond so dramatically? Lucie was puzzled. ‘Please, do not be frightened. I am Mistress Wilton, an apothecary. I am to examine you so the infirmarian knows how to treat you.’

  The green eyes flicked over to Dame Isobel, back to Lucie. ‘Treat me?’

  ‘Brother Wulfstan will prepare a remedy to calm you, help you sleep. But he must know as much as possible about you. Whether you are in any pain is important.’

  ‘Pain is unimportant.’

  Lucie glanced back at Dame Isobel with raised eyebrows.

  Dame Isobel shook her head, dismissing Joanna’s reply.

  Lucie felt Joanna’s forehead with the back of her hand. ‘You are not feverish, yet they tell me you have been talking as if you were. Why is that, Dame Joanna?’

  Joanna touched the hand Lucie still held to her forehead. ‘I do not mean to be trouble. I would not mind so much if you would examine me alone.’

  ‘Without your Reverend Mother?’

  Joanna nodded.

  Lucie turned to Isobel. ‘Will you permit this?’

  Dame Isobel did not look pleased, but she nodded. ‘Of course, Mistress Wilton. Brother Wulfstan says I can trust you as I do him.’ Dame Isobel gave Joanna and Lucie a little bow, then moved away to the far side of the room. She sat down with her head bowed, hands pressed together in prayer.

  Lucie looked at Joanna’s eyes, her mouth. Her teeth were in remarkably good condition except for a front tooth that was chipped. ‘Does the chipped tooth hurt?’

  Joanna touched it with her tongue, nodded.

  ‘Brother Wulfstan can give you clove oil to dab on it for the pain.’

  ‘I offer it up as a penance.’

  ‘But why, if there is a remedy?’

  Joanna said nothing.

  Lucie shrugged. ‘As you wish. How did you chip it?’

  The eyes turned inward. ‘I fell.’

  Coupled with a fresh scar beside Joanna’s mouth and a red streak in the whites of her eyes, Lucie guessed she had been beaten, and not very long ago. But her business was to examine Joanna’s body, not her story. ‘You had a blackened eye recently?’