by Mary Bale
‘Sister Leofgyth, I have asked you not to talk of such matters in front of Sister Therese and what is more, I am in charge here and you do as I say.’
The gardening sisters took their leave. Sister Winifred was the oldest of the group, a tall woman with her head bent low. As they went out of the door Therese thought she heard Leofgyth say, ‘She always sends us to the garden when our needlework is superior to the others.’
‘Sister Agnes.’ The tall slim nun rose at the Prioress’s address. ‘We are expecting visitors this afternoon. Fowl will have to be found to feed them. You may use whatever you need to make them a decent meal. You may send out for the supplies to be replenished immediately. If need be you may miss noon prayers.’ Sister Agnes bowed and left.
This left just Therese and the short, wide nun.
‘Sister Gertrude,’ said Prioress Ethelburga. ‘You will instruct Sister Therese in the skill of sweeping. All the stairs and corridors are to be done. ‘These builders,’ she complained, ‘make so much dust.’
Sister Gertrude belched as she rose and left with barely a nod to the Prioress. Therese bowed humbly and followed her. This lowly task – she smiled to herself at the thought – would give her the opportunity to have a better look round than her formal, and limited, showing of yesterday.
‘Sister Gertrude,’ called Prioress Ethelburga. Sister Gertrude returned from the corridor. ‘Come here.’ She addressed Therese equally sharply with: ‘You can wait outside a moment.’
Therese did not need to know what was being said but she could guess that Gertrude would have to be on her guard with her and keep her away from any of the sensitive areas.
* * *
The willow brooms swished along the aisles of the foreshortened church. Gertrude sprinkled water to settle the dust before they swept. She opened the doors to the cloister, which were not yet meant to be in use, to deposit their sweepings. As Therese looked up from her dusty pile her eyes met a plump monk surveying the completed masonry.
‘We have finished here, good sisters,’ said the monk. ‘The carpenters still have cupboards to install, but once this area is cleaned up you might as well make use of it.’
Therese looked up towards the south side of the cloister, which was already in use. Indeed Sister Hilda and her needlewomen were taking a break from their work in that area. But Therese could not see them just hear their whisperings because of screening placed between the building works and the precious embroidery areas. Such protection was unusual but presumably the idea was to prevent even the stitchers clothes becoming dusty and soiling their work.
‘There is too much work for two women here,’ said Gertrude. Her jowly face was turning purple.
‘The builders have cleared the worst of the rubble,’ the monk objected.
‘I am going to see the Prioress about this,’ added Gertrude handing her broom to Therese. She padded off over the filth to the screening, lifted a corner and disappeared behind it in the general direction of the chapter house.
Therese smiled at the surveyor and commented on the splendid archways.
‘I’m the architect’s right hand man,’ said the surveyor immodestly. ‘Bishop Gundulf, himself, sent for me, Brother Richard of Caen, to check on his design. The local masons do not always follow the guidance of our Norman craftsmen we brought over especially for this work.’
‘How do you mean?’ prompted Therese. She could tell he wanted to have a grumble to a fellow Norman.
‘That tower,’ continued Brother Richard, puffing out his round belly. ‘Is not in the plans at all. ‘Such a bit of nonsense. They tell me an extra stairwell was asked for after that south wing had already been completed.’ He waved his pink hand crossly in that general direction. ‘Two sets of stairs to a small first floor, quite ridiculous! But it is done now. It will have to be left.’
‘How did it come to be?’ asked Therese conversationally. His tongue had become quite loose, as Sister Miriam, back in Normandy, might have said.
‘That, Sister, is the strangest thing. I am told the orders came from the highest level, yet they did not come through me.’ Brother Richard paused and looked hard at her. ‘This is none of your business, young woman. Get about your work.’ His voice was cross with the embarrassment of having said too much.
Therese watched him scuttle out in the same direction as Gertrude, but decided that he would be making for the refectory, ready for the results of Sister Agnes’s morning labours. She considered using these moments on her own to slip off and have a look around, but before she could act on the thought Sister Gertrude returned.
‘We can leave the cloister. The Prioress will arrange a special cleaning project for tomorrow involving everyone. She says we are to clean the tower steps.’ Gertrude frowned deepening the furrows between her eyes. ‘Those stairs are so narrow, so steep and winding. My old bones won’t get up there.’
‘I’ll do it,’ said Therese a little too quickly.
‘Are you stupid?’ asked Gertrude shutting up the church. She turned and went under the flap of screening.
‘Just keen to do God’s work,’ said Therese trotting after her.
Gertrude grumbled something about ‘the devil’s own’, but Therese didn’t quite catch what was said. At the bottom of the tower the old nun said, ‘I will wait here.’
So Therese left her sitting on the wood-pile and resting her back on the cool stone wall outside in the yard close to the kitchen, while she climbed the tower with her broom.
‘Sister Therese!’ Gertrude called. Therese peered back down the stairwell, but she couldn’t see round the tightly turning stairs. ‘You will have to start at the top and work down,’ came Gertrude’s advice.
‘Yes, Sister Gertrude,’ she called back. She turned and climbed slowly as if there was something to be gained from inspecting every corner of each step. Steadying herself with her left hand against the curved wall, she reached the opening to the first floor landing. This is where the Impostor had entered the tower with Ursula in pursuit. There were small inky marks on the wall making a pattern trailing upwards. She followed them remembering the Impostor’s soul would never be at rest – forever in Purgatory. She tried to rid herself of the thought and increased her speed upwards.
A few steps on she paused and looked towards the door at the top. She couldn’t see it yet. But she caught sight of a shadow high up on the sewing room side of the wall. It looked like a hole, as if one of the large stones was missing. She listened but could not hear anything. This did not mean much though as she suspected the nuns worked in silence. She stretched but was not tall enough to reach it. The tip of her broom handle could get in though, confirming it as a substantial hole. To one side of the broom-handle she noted a holder in the wall designed to take a lighted taper. She waited to see if there was any reaction to her broom handle from the other side of the wall.
A scream wrenched at the air above her – not a human scream, nor a shout of surprise given by a nun seeing the end of a broom poking through a wall. This was like the scream of a soul in Purgatory. Her flesh jumped and she brought her broom close to her chest like a staff. She knew it would be useless against a damaged spirit, but it might defend her against worldly obstacles. She rushed up the last twenty or so steps. She flung open the door at the top and threw her broom at whatever was there. A crow’s wing span blackened the opening but moved before the wooden handle made contact with it.
Beyond Therese could see the parapet, so close to the door. And her broom was flying towards it. And she was following, but she stopped herself from going over the top by catching the stone wall.
Hanging over she saw the broom land at Gertrude’s feet. It snapped. The old nun visibly jumped, looked at the broken pieces, and at Therese. ‘There’ll be trouble now,’ she shouted, struggling to stand. She stooped to collect the smashed broom. ‘Heed my warning,’ she added, shaking the splintered wood at her.
Chapter 6
On her return to Canterbury Abbess Eleanor form
ally introduced herself to Abbott Scotland at St Augustine’s monastery. This would be a convenient location within easy walking distance of Christ Church Abbey and the growing structure of Canterbury Cathedral standing by it. Archbishop Lanfranc was so close, yet so out of reach. But Alfred’s connections with other people within Saint Augustine’s would not be without their uses, and the closeness of Ursula was a comfort.
This was already her second day here and it was time to make substantial inroads into the matters that brought her here. She rose and left the Church of Saint Peter and Paul within the grounds of St Augustine’s and walked out into the sunshine, through the gatehouse to the walls of Canterbury. She entered the town by the South Gates and proceeded north to Christ Church Abbey. Once there she made enquiries about Sir Gilbert’s health, but was told he was still poorly and should be allowed to rest.
Once again, she decided, she must try to speak with Archbishop Lanfranc. That was really why she was here, after all. She drew up her reserves of stubbornness and settled in for a siege. She would stay for as long as it would take.
At the visitor’s hall she was greeted as before and then interviewed again by the stooped clerk, Brother David.
‘I will intercede on your behalf,’ said Brother David, bowing a little too low. He left only to return a while later and say, ‘Follow me.’
‘At last,’ muttered Eleanor under her breath. She rehearsed what she would say to the great man. But she realised they were heading out of the Archbishop’s chambers, not even in the direction of the chapter house, but to another building.
She followed him up the steps. Her nostrils caught the sour smell of ink. ‘The scriptorium?’ she enquired. This was clearly a diversionary tactic. But it still might be worth looking around, she decided. She walked steadily around peering over the shoulder of each monk.
Some were writing what appeared to be copies of letters for the abbey’s records. Others seemed to be making new editions of old books, with the original laid out beside them. Some were involved in illustrating works with elaborate pictures of animals and scrolls of red and yellow.
While Brother David was answering a query posed by one of the monks Eleanor returned to one of the letters she had noticed earlier. She read the Latin quickly. She had been drawn to it as it was addressed to Bishop Odon de Bayeux. Nothing would illustrate the relationship between him and Archbishop Lanfranc better than their correspondence.
While she read, a monk entered with a message for Brother David.
‘I have to leave you for a few moments,’ he said to Eleanor.
She nodded and he left. She hoped her casual pose had disguised her true activity. The effort, however, was not proving worthwhile, as the letter seemed to be a piece of straightforward business over a piece of land where there was some dispute. The Archbishop addressed his fellow Bishop in the way he addressed all his correspondents, it seemed, as a brother wishing to give advice, even though he frequently did not even know the people he was writing to.
The monk looked around at her dallying and she moved on. The smell of ink was too strong for her, so she left the scriptorium and headed uninvited towards the cloister. So often documents were stored there in cupboards so air could keep the vellum fresh. But the cloister was busy with monks leaving the church. It was not time for prayer so she assumed some special service had been said.
Her feet stuttered on the tiles in a panic to escape the flood of monks.
But it was impossible. With cowled and bowed heads the monks only saw the ground they were about to tread. One knocked into her and sent her sprawling into one of the pillars supporting the arches edging the cloister. From her position, rolling onto her hands and knees, she saw two large knobbly sandaled male feet in front of her.
‘I’m so sorry,’ exclaimed the monk, the owner of the feet. He offered her a hand. ‘Are you unhurt?’
‘I am, thank you,’ said Eleanor, rising and brushing herself down. ‘However, I will enter the church and take some respite there.’
‘I will assist you,’ said the monk. ‘I am Brother Matthew.’
‘Brother Matthew,’ she said severely, to cover her embarrassment, ‘I can manage perfectly well on my own.’
Brother Matthew bowed and followed the others. She turned towards the southern doors of the church. On entering the eastern end of the nave she found herself alone, but at the western end, five people were leaving through the main doors. She tried to adjust her eyes to the contrasting shafts of light from her doorway and theirs, along with the darkness of the church.
These men were important. Their tunics and cloaks caught the light. They wore rich reds, golds and purples: Norman knights and a cleric. And one was clearly more important than the others, as they deferred to him at the door. Not the King. The King was older, sturdier – a warrior of many campaigns. These were younger men. One of the Princes, perhaps? Eleanor’s mind raced. This was why she’d been kept hidden away in the scriptorium. These were visitors she was not meant to see, let alone meet.
As the sun caught the face of their leader she recognised the red hair and sharp face of William Rufus – the King’s second son and heir to the English throne. ‘God preserve us,’ she whispered. His brutality was of an ancient kind that she hoped would soon be unnecessary in a modern world.
The last person to leave the church was the Archbishop in his robes of office. She started towards them, but checked herself. This was neither the time nor the place to attract attention. Such an open confrontation could only work against her in these circumstances so she waited until they were quite clear before making her way out. She assumed that by now Rufus and his entourage would be enjoying the Archbishop’s hospitality. As she passed out through the gatehouse she heard voices in the yard and observed Brother David talking to one of Prince William’s guards. She turned away and walked through the butter market and onto the main thoroughfare towards Canterbury’s south gates.
She was soon aware of a beggar darting about her in the crowd. At first she tried to ignore him until she realised it was Agid. She drew into an alleyway and waited for him.
‘Did you see that?’ he asked breathlessly when he arrived.
‘What?’ asked Eleanor, not bothering to hide her irritation at having to talk to this filthy man.
‘Rufus and his knights.’ He plucked at a stained bandage about his wrist.
‘Prince William to you,’ she said stiffly.
‘You didn’t get to see Lanfranc again, did you?’
‘I have no intention of discussing my actions with you.’ She turned away.
‘I knew you didn’t.’
She turned back and glared at him. ‘Who has paid you to follow me today?’ He crumpled into a humble slump and peeped up at her with a wily twinkle in his eye. She wanted to poke it.
‘Alfred told me to keep an eye on you,’ he said. ‘I would rather see your Norman bones rot in a pit, but Alfred thinks you’re all right.’
‘Look what we give you,’ said Eleanor making a grand arch with her arm, embracing all the new building works for the cathedral.
‘We had perfectly good churches before you lot came along. This is The Conqueror’s penance. With all the bloodshed he’s caused the church has conned him into all this building for the sake of his soul. And he wouldn’t have cared less if they hadn’t tried to excommunicate him all those years ago for marrying his cousin.’
‘She wasn’t his cousin.’
‘Old Lanfranc got him off that one, didn’t he? That’s why he’s here. That old Italian. Got the top job for putting matters right with the Pope.’
‘You are wrong. Archbishop Lanfranc is a very humble, religious monk. He didn’t want to come here.’
‘Well then, perhaps the Pope thought he’d better send him here to keep an eye on the old sod.’
Eleanor went to clout the man’s ear for calling King William an ‘old sod’. She could have him flogged, of course, but part of her couldn’t help but agree with Agid’s sentime
nt. She too hoped Lanfranc could control the King’s warring. He had, after all, managed to get him to sign up to the church’s peace movement last year. And, anyway Agid had disappeared again, so she carried on walking. She was soon aware of the beggar at her heels again.
‘Do you know,’ he whispered, ‘that old Italian monk you hold up so high struck off some of our Anglo-Saxon saints from the calendar.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Eleanor, her temper rising again, ‘he thought you had enough holidays.’
Agid laughed. ‘You’re not so bad, Abbess.’
Already they stood at the gates of St Augustine’s.
‘Now if you’ll excuse me, you can tell Alfred that I’m in the best of health.’
‘There’s one more thing you ought to know about Lanfranc, but that isn’t for me to tell you.’
‘What is that?’
‘Ask your own archbishop – Odo of Bayeux.’ With that Agid melted into the throng.
Eleanor called, ‘Wait.’ But she received no reply.
* * *
Therese and the other nuns left the church after vespers by the priest’s door on the north side of the church. Prioress Ethelburga had explained earlier that she had decided the builders should clean up the cloisters before a final spring clean by themselves. Perhaps, thought Therese, Richard of Caen had been mellowed by Agnes’s vitals into agreement. Anyway, the work was continuing into the evening. Nor did Ethelburga think it seemly for the nuns to go through the dorter while builders were in the compound.
The setting sun gave the church a heavy shadow and this chilled the air about them so they wrapped their semi-circular cloaks tight and pulled their hoods over their veils. Therese felt a strange freedom from just standing outside the convent compound. With her head bowed she followed the others towards the gatehouse. The building site end of the church was quiet, with all the builders in the cloister.
