by Mary Bale
‘What are you doing?’ asked the Abbess.
‘Protecting myself,’ replied Thorkell, cutting a branch from an oak tree there.
‘Sir Gilbert does not know we have stopped. We must move on immediately,’ said the Abbess.
He nodded in acceptance of her demand but gave one last longing look back towards the coast and trimmed his branch to make a club.
‘Quick!’ demanded Abbess Eleanor.
‘I need it. It is not safe down there.’ Tucking the club down beside him, Thorkell urged the mules on.
The road made a sharp turn and Therese saw, by the light of the moon, the downlands below her. The roman road cut straight into woodland and was lost among the trees. Wings rushed by her face. It was an owl flying up beside her. She looked again at the woodland but the moon was hidden by cloud and the view was in darkness.
‘Take some rest,’ the Abbess told her, and she settled down among the sheaves of hay and straw left from the wagon’s former loads.
Sleep came, but from time to time something would wake her, but she didn’t know what. She would reach out as if something should be there, but there was nothing, not even the memory of anything. When she awoke she would notice how rough the road was and wondered if the noises she heard in the forest were really the spirits of Romans marching beside her. She liked this image. It was one of protection. Thorkell was clearly less happy with these noises and looked round like a man expecting his death. He urged his mules on.
Hooves clattered on the stony path ahead. Therese reached out to the Abbess. Surely she could not be sleeping? But, no, when she touched her she heard the mutter of prayer and withdrew her hand. Ahead, Sir Gilbert’s grey horse stood across the road. On seeing them Sir Gilbert swung his horse around and came up beside the Abbess. She continued to pray.
‘I think there are people in the wood,’ he said in English. ‘The animals are stirring that should be asleep and the night animals are restless.’
‘There are plenty of people make their living on this land,’ said Thorkell. Therese wondered how he could say such a thing now when just moments ago the same noises had clearly worried him. But she could sense he had masked his fears in front of the knight.
‘Only poachers make a living at this time of night,’ said Sir Gilbert.
Thorkell considered this for a moment. ‘The noises are coming from the front and from the north of us, m’Lord,’ he said.
‘You are mistaken, wagoner,’ said Therese without thinking that it was not her place to speak. ‘There are rustlings to the south and behind us.’
‘Sister,’ said the wagoner, ‘You are not experienced in these things.’ He turned back to the knight and said, ‘I tell you I am right.’
‘I have not heard any people only the disturbances of the animals from in front, but I will search to the north. Then I shall come back here and check with you before looking to the south. Keep travelling as fast as you can, Thorkell,’ said Sir Gilbert.
Flashes of grey horse appeared and disappeared among the trees to the north. The rustle of the horse’s hooves going through last year’s dead undergrowth so close to Therese drowned out any other sounds.
Sir Gilbert came back. Thorkell beckoned him over. The knight rode up and reined in beside him. He leaned towards the wagoner to catch what he said. In reply Thorkell, in one swift movement, lifted his oak-branch-club with one hand, dropped his reins, and swung at the knight’s head. With the horseman unbalanced he leapt on him and pulled him to the ground. Therese rose from the back of the cart and fell upon the wagoner but he thrust her small frame aside as he continued to beat the fallen man. She pulled herself upright ready for another onslaught when the edge of the woods to the south teemed with rugged men holding clubs and knives. At that moment a hand grabbed her clothing and pulled her to the back of the cart. She turned to see who held her and saw Abbess Eleanor shushing her and gesturing towards the back of the cart. Therese shook her head and pointed to the woods to the north. The Abbess nodded and they slipped away, their dark clothing melting with the shadows.
Squatting behind a large old beech tree they listened to the conversation between Thorkell and the men from the woods.
‘You were supposed to go by the coast road,’ said one with a gruff, heavy voice.
‘I couldn’t. They insisted on coming this way. I left you a marker; I left a sign cut in the tree I took this branch from.’
‘You are lucky we saw it’, said the gruff one. ‘Or I would have slit your throat. I hope this was not a wasted raid, or I may do it anyway.’
‘But look at what this knight has for us, Tancred,’ pleaded the wagoner. ‘I knocked him senseless before he could use his sword. It is magnificent, and there is so much silver on it. It is worth a fortune in itself. Then there is his armour, and his horse.’
‘Yes, the knight is a good prize,’ was the reply.
Therese felt anger well up inside her. She went to fight them but was held back by the Abbess.
‘They are only thieves,’ she told her in a whisper. ‘They are not after us, no one over here knew we were coming, let alone the reason for our visit. If we let them go with their prize they will not risk killing us, but if we fight now we might be killed in the heat of the moment. Our lives are more important than any amount of silver.’
Therese settled back on the bark of the tree.
‘What about the others?’ said Tancred..
‘They were only two nuns.’
‘Were they carrying any jewellery: crosses, rosaries?’
‘The young one only had wooden beads, but the older one carried a jewelled cross and her rosary was beautiful. You cannot take holy things.’
‘Alright,’ said the gruff voice of Tancred. ‘They must have had something else.’
Thorkell paused, then said, ‘Come to think of it I thought I saw a ring on the finger of the older one, under her big sleeves. She hid it most of the time.’
Behind the beech tree the two women looked at each other. They knew to run would be the quickest way to get themselves caught. So they slid down further and tried to look like part of the roots of the tree which reached out across the woodland floor like gnarled, knotted fingers gripping the ground–in the same way Therese gripped at the earth for dear life.
A group of men were soon working their way through the woodland. One man came close, but tripped on one of the roots and went away blaspheming. They heard them regroup and discuss further whether pursuing the nuns was worthwhile. Just as Therese began to loosen her grip on the earth Tancred growled, ‘I want that ring.’ Thorkell and Tancred stayed by the wagon and the search started again, in the same area as before.
‘Listen,’ whispered the Abbess, ‘I can hear horses.’
Beyond the noise of the thieves searching in the wood came the thud of hooves. They held a quick steady rhythm more like ponies than war-horses. Therese did not know whether to be pleased or not. The people approaching would not be warriors, and perhaps not even Norman. She wondered for a moment whether she and Abbess Eleanor could pass themselves off as Anglo-Saxon. The thought made her uncomfortable. ‘Because I am,’ she said out loud.
‘Shush,’ said the Abbess.
The blaspheming thief was almost upon them.
“Because I am Anglo-Saxon,” she repeated and completed the thought in her head.
Chapter 3
The blaspheming thief leaned up against the beech tree, hiding himself from the approaching ponies and their riders. He stumbled backwards and his foot caught the Abbess Eleanor’s fingers. Therese jumped at her stifled cry and looked up to see the thief already had the older woman, with her arms gripped against him and a hand over her mouth. In the dark, Therese knew he hadn’t seen her down in the next nest of beach tree roots – so she sprang on to the man’s back and wrenched at his arms. Surprised at first he staggered back and then he called for help. The other thieves ran towards them including Thorkell and Tancred, their leader with the gruff voice.
&nbs
p; Just as they reached Therese and Abbess Eleanor the pony-riders arrived at the wagon. Attracted by the commotion in the woods, the riders jumped from their animals, slung their reins at a small boy, who they’d brought with them, and ran towards the rowdy thieves. From her position on the blaspheming thief’s shoulders Therese saw them coming. The man in front carried a short sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. They caught the moonlight as he ran into the woods. A great shout boomed from his chest around the trees. It struck Therese that he was shouting to her in English and she hadn’t caught a word he said, but she shouted back anyway. The only words she had breath for were, ‘Here,’ and ‘Hurry!’
The thieves turned on the pony-men. The two groups whacked and beat each other with such force that Therese shut her eyes, but she still pulled and kicked at Abbess Eleanor’s captor. His swaying, swinging body made her giddy so she opened her eyes to see a dozen or so thieves about her, struck down by the pony-men. Beyond the pile of wounded a few of the raiders fought on against the pony riders. She could not see the wagoner or Tancred. While most of the rescuers stood before her watching the spectacle of a nun riding on the back of a thief with her arms and legs flailing like corn beaters. She looked at the man at the front of the pony-men and noticed that the Abbess was standing with him.
‘You can let go of that blaspheming thief now,’ said Abbess Eleanor.
Therese slid off his shoulders and he pelted off into the woods, zigzagging around the trees. She was pleased that the dark hid the redness of her face.
‘I am Michael from Montgomery,’ said the leader of the rescuers in English. He beckoned to them to follow him out of the trees while his followers dealt with the last of any remaining thieves.
‘Your voice is Welsh,’ said Abbess Eleanor to the thickset, black-haired pony rider.
‘And I can hear that your English is that of a Norman,’ he returned.
‘It is indeed, Sir. Would that knowledge have changed your actions in helping us just now?’ asked the Abbess.
He thought for a moment. ‘The Anglo-Saxons have a word for slave, which means Welshman. I find their present predicament almost acceptable. I have nothing against the Normans as long as they leave Wales alone. And I myself travel with clergy.’ He nodded to the boy holding the ponies. A man dressed as a priest stood beside him.
But Therese could not see Sir Gilbert so she started to run towards the wagon dreading that he would be lying dead inside.
As she approached the cart the priest said, ‘The knight is not dead. He has stirred, so we’ve got him into the back of the wagon.’ She silently thanked God while the Abbess went over to Sir Gilbert and spoke with him. Therese didn’t hear what was said but she noticed that the knight’s sword, helmet, shield and chain mail were no longer with him.
On her return she said, ‘We will go on to Canterbury. Sir Gilbert can rest there. He assures me he is strong enough to make the journey.’
‘I am going to Canterbury myself,’ said Michael. ‘We can see you safe to the city, if you will allow us?’
The Abbess nodded her head. ‘We would be grateful for your consideration, Welshman. You have, after all, the name of an Archangel.’
As he helped them onto the driving bench Therese looked across at Sir Gilbert, their Norman protector bereft of strength, and wondered at the wisdom of placing their trust in such a wild man, someone they knew nothing about.
Abbess Eleanor took the reins ignoring Michael’s offer of a driver from one of his own men. Sir Gilbert’s horse was hitched to the back and they set off. Therese watched the pony-rider up ahead. Michael was clearly used to his pony and his pony used to him by the casual way he rode him with loose reins and dangling legs. As time passed the mules became lazy about lifting their feet and the Abbess went to urge them on, but her sleeves flapped and caught around her fingers. She tutted and pulled up her sleeves out of the way. Therese noticed her hands were bare. Bishop Odon’s ring was missing from her finger.
‘Mother,’ she said without realising that she’d slipped from formally addressing her superior into using the name of most people’s next of kin. ‘The ring – it is missing.’
‘It was supposed to give us safe passage. It has nearly got us killed. I do not wholly trust our Welsh friend so I have given it to Sir Gilbert for safekeeping. We will need it again in Canterbury.’
As if someone had called his name, Michael came back and set his pony level with Therese. She kept looking at her knees cloaked in her brown habit and braced against the movement of the cart under her. He rode thus for some distance before he said, ‘Your Duke William has a mighty strength?’
‘Our Duke of Normandy is now your King,’ corrected the Abbess.
‘Harold should never have been England’s King,’ said Michael.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Therese. She thought everyone in England once supported King Harold. She’d begun to wonder if she too ought to feel this way.
‘Edgar should have been the King of England, Sister. By birth he was closest in line.’
‘Everyone knows King Edward gave the throne to Duke William,’ said Therese.
‘Everyone knows,’ said Michael, looking at her steadily, ‘Harold kept Edgar’s father away from King Edward so he would think that he did not care for the throne of England. When Edgar’s father died, Harold manipulated the situation until he too was given the rule of England. It was King Edward’s weakness that has given this land such strife. You cannot promise two strong men such as Harold and William the same thing.’
‘Harold should have handed the throne to Duke William. He had vowed his allegiance to the Duke long before King Edward’s death,’ said the Abbess.
‘That was a trick set up by Bishop Odo of Bayeux.’
Therese and the Abbess gasped as one and stared in the darkness at Michael – their rescuer, and also teller of such wickedness that their ears burned. Therese could not bring herself to speak. Her dearest Bishop would not trick anyone. She was here, after all, because of him. The insult insulted her as much as the absent Bishop.
‘You, you..,’ stammered the Abbess.
‘I’m sorry if I’ve offended your Norman sensibilities. I only tell it as I see it. Depending on where we sit we see things differently.’
‘Edgar has given his allegiance to King William,’ said the Abbess. ‘He does not look for the throne of England.’
‘But he did battle for the English throne for many years, alongside Malcolm King of Scotland,’ said Michael.
‘Even Malcolm has settled with King William now,’ said the Abbess. ‘And Edgar has been given Norman lands.’
Therese felt caught between them as they argued across her and yet the stories of the land of her birth held a new intensity for her.
‘Many rebels have given lip-service to the King. Such bought peace cannot last,’ said Michael. ‘Malcolm married Edgar’s sister. When a Scottish King becomes King of England, then you will have back a truly English King.’ Michael leaned back in his saddle.
‘That will not happen in my life time,’ said the Abbess. ‘Welshman,’ she added curtly, ‘we would be more comfortable if you rode at a distance.’ She shook her reins at the mules and turned away from the pony-rider.
Having ridden just ahead of them Michael turned back and said: ‘The Welsh have not rolled over for William the Conqueror of England with his border Earls fighting our Welsh Kings. He will have to fight for every grain of Welsh soil.’
‘We shall see,’ said the Abbess. She yelled at the mules in her native tongue and Therese had to grip the edge of the cart as the wheels lifted and fell over the rutted track.
* * *
Michael and his men and boy left them at the church of St Martin, well outside the gates of Canterbury, just as the sun rose. Therese tried to take in the details of his face, as she hadn’t seen it properly during the night. She noted his dark eyes, quick smile and broad nose. And then he was gone.
‘Are we not going to do anything about th
e Welshman?’ asked Therese. ‘He has surely spoken treason to us.’
‘Much is said in the dark of the night, you cannot pay it too much attention once the sun has risen,’ Abbess Eleanor replied.
The wagon continued on its way to Canterbury and Therese looked about. The road was already busy with people hurrying about their business. Some were travellers on the road to London, most were on foot, but some carried their luggage or wares strapped to a donkey or on an ox-cart. As they came closer to St Augustine’s Abbey Therese realised a large number of the people were builders carrying their tools wrapped in cloth.
‘King William has commanded all these grand building works, Sister Therese.’
‘Is this where we will find the Archbishop of Canterbury?’ asked Therese.
‘No, Sister,’ said the Abbess leaning across her to point out the gateway. ‘St Augustine’s Abbey is being rebuilt as you can see but a vast cathedral is being constructed within the walls of Canterbury. Christ Church Abbey is the abode of our great Archbishop Lanfranc, while the Abbot here at St Augustine’s is called Scotland.’ The Abbess settled back on the driving bench. ‘King William has been good to the Church. He has the greatest respect for men and women of God.’ She smiled at Therese and Therese looked out at the endless throng of stone masons and carpenters about them. ‘I have seen much work done at our abbey in Normandy,’ continued the older nun. ‘They make a wooden structure to build a stone arch.’
‘But I cannot see anything much from here,’ said Therese, almost standing in her seat, ‘except rubble.’
‘Sit down, Sister. You will look like one of these mules braying if you stretch yourself like that. Don’t worry; you might get a chance later. There will be grand pillars and decorated arches to see.’
Therese sat straight, remembering her dignity, which she’d lost for a while in the woodlands of Kent. ‘It will be just like home,’ she said.
