Threads of Treason (Anglo-Norman mysteries)

by Mary Bale

  She felt the thrumming of hooves through the hillside before glancing sideways and seeing riders coming towards them. Prioress Ethelburga looked alarmed and waved at the nuns, telling them to wait where they were while she spoke to these men at the gatehouse.

  Therese looked for somewhere to hide for she had recognised the man at the front. It was Michael, the Welsh merchant. His whole entourage seemed to be with him, and an additional wagon – no, two additional wagons. To her left Therese caught sight of an open space among the piles of stone ready to construct the rest of St Thomas’s church. Once among them she was momentarily distracted by the pieces of dressed stone, many with ornate carvings already made to their surfaces. Before she realised where she was she had reached the temporary back wall of the church she had just left. And in the centre of it was a door.

  She tried the handle. The door opened and caught on a bar braced against it. The builders, no doubt, liked having the convenience of ready access to the convent. But, her mind raced, this gave anyone access as long as there was someone on the inside to remove the brace. She withdrew, closing the door. Her heart was thumping. And what was Michael doing here? She returned to the place where she’d entered the building site and edged along a half-built stone wall to where Ethelburga was talking to Michael. She could see also that the Prioress had changed her mind and sent her fellow nuns through the gatehouse and into the convent.

  Prioress Ethelburga was holding the reins of Michael’s pony while she spoke to him. ‘You are late,’ Therese heard her say.

  ‘I have wagons now. Trade is brisk.’

  ‘You cannot stop the night here. There is no room,’ said Ethelburga.

  ‘The builders are camped yonder.’ He waved northwards. ‘We can make camp with them.’

  Therese looked in the direction of his gesture and saw campfires burning, bright in the twilight on the level ground half way up the embankment, where she’d seen the tents on her arrival. She could just make out the shadows of people moving about up there, no doubt preparing a meal.

  ‘I will not do business at this hour,’ stated Ethelburga. ‘You will have to return in the morning.’

  Michael conceded the matter with a bow and waved the ponies and wagons back down the hill, complete with the priest and the boy who’d attended to Sir Gilbert on the way to Canterbury. She watched them slow to pass over the stream at the bottom of the hill.

  Therese jumped, realising that Prioress Ethelburga had already gone through the gatehouse. She made a dive for the gate when she heard Michael call,

  ‘Sister, you have big ears.’

  ‘You cannot see my ears,’ said Therese crossly. “He must have looked back and seen me,” she wailed inside.

  ‘Is that the little sister from the forest, who jumps on robber’s shoulders?’

  ‘No,’ said Therese annoyed at being drawn so easily to give her voice away.

  ‘All the nuns here are Anglo-Saxons. You are Norman. You have the accent.’

  She wanted to tell him that this was the land of her birth, but this teasing man could be using his wiles to trick her, so she pulled her cloak about her.

  ‘Sir, I was not listening to you. My sandal became loose and I tripped. When I stopped to repair it I became separated from the others. That is all.’

  ‘That is possibly the weakest lie I have ever heard. But I will let it go, and you, this once. But you owe me for my silence. I will not tell Prioress Ethelburga about this little mishap, Sister Therese.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Therese feeling as if a trap had been sprung about her. She slipped through the gatehouse as quickly as she could. The guard was talking to the builders who were grumbling as they carted out the rubble and dust collected from the cloister area. She passed through unnoticed.

  Chapter 7

  Therese arrived at the refectory table trying to hide her shortness of breath. Grace was said and they sat down to their fish and bread. Any lateness would go against her and unreliability would not get her into the embroidery room. Yet she wanted desperately to tell Alfred of St. Edmundsbury about Michael’s arrival. Perhaps he ought to speak to Abbess Eleanor. She was grateful that the meal would be taken in silence, as always, but she would still have to stay alert to the signals given by the other nuns. Sister Leofgyth was already making a gesture to indicate she wanted the jug passed to her. She would think Therese was ignoring her if she failed to hand it to her promptly.

  At least sleep came early in a priory and soon she was lying down with the others in the dorter. Already she knew how she would leave the priory. So, as soon as the nuns succumbed to their tiredness, she rose and stole her way into the church from the dorter stairway. Despite the dark she felt her way along the pews to the temporary end wall. Her fingers made contact with the soft wall hanging of Saint Thomas the Apostle. Moving it to one side with as much respect as she could muster, she felt for the wooden brace and lifted it from its hangers. The builders had clearly not used it for some time and as she opened the door dust spewed up and descended upon her. A sneeze took hold in her nose and she nearly choked trying to stifle it.

  Closing the door she was grateful that the wooden formers for the arches were being assembled and the walls on the priory side of the church were well advanced. This gave her a solid screen against any curious eyes. The piles of stone blocks and structures on the other side, she noted, had not been touched since she’d hidden from Michael there earlier that evening. But she sought out the view of the builders’ campfires and, in particular, the fire made by Michael’s party. Alfred was encamped on the other, southern, side of the priory hill – that was what he’d told her. She sensed the warmth coming from the northern camp. There was a hint of laughter on the breeze. It was like being drawn on a line into the sea by a very strong fish.

  Running down the hill towards the northern camp she reasoned with herself that she would hide under Michael’s camp on the slope and listen to his talk. She would then be able to work her way round the escarpment to the southern side of the priory and then she would be able to tell Alfred more than just that Michael had arrived.

  At the bottom of the hill she splashed through the river using the flags laid on its bed by the builders to ease their journeys with the stones brought from the port at Reculver. The Isle of Thanet was not far from there, so she’d learnt through Gertrude’s chattering – Gertrude had been born there. She went more cautiously up the slope at the base of the escarpment until she was just below the shelf, which held the camps. There she crouched down, out of the line of sight of the campers.

  Listening to the rhythm and lilt of the languages spoken above her she worked her way along from the builders’ camp and soon heard the Welsh of Michael’s group. With ale and food, perhaps his guard would be down and she might hear something useful. What deal was he involved with at the priory with Prioress Ethelburga? Why was a man who had little respect for the King here at such a sensitive time? She settled herself on the hillside below his fire.

  But soon she realised that this was pointless as this was one language she did not know. It was similar to a language used by Normandy’s neighbours, Breton, but even so it was beyond her. She was about to move on when she heard footfalls coming up from behind. Flattening herself into the grass she avoided creating a shadow against the fire that would give away her position. She could feel the spring dew seeping through her layers of clothing while she waited for the walker to pass by her. She shut her eyes as if that act would make her invisible.

  ‘Greetings Michael the Merchant.’ Therese recognised the voice. Her eyes snapped open. An English voice.

  ‘Greetings to you, Alfred,’ said Michael speaking English.

  Trying to control her surprise Therese gripped the grass.

  ‘What brings you this way?’ asked Alfred.

  ‘Trade, same as you,’ said Michael. ‘You are here on foot?’

  ‘I’ve made my own camp a little down stream.’

  Therese assumed Alfred to be lying to
prevent unwelcome callers – surely he was upstream from here? He had clearly come to check on this new arrival to the vale for himself. Her strength seeped away with her purpose. She let go of the damp grass. She noticed her clothes wet and heavy about her. She shivered and considered leaving until she caught a change in the tone of their conversation. Their voices had become tentative as if they were testing each other, or sharing a secret hidden in the words.

  ‘You were turned away by Prioress Ethelburga, then?’ asked Alfred.

  ‘You saw?’ asked Michael.

  ‘We are here for the same thing, are we not?’ asked Alfred.

  ‘Aren’t we always?’ said Michael. ‘But we are not working against each other.’

  ‘That is good,’ said Alfred, ‘for I would not like to be opposed to a man with your strength and youth.’

  ‘Your age gives you skills I have yet to learn,’ replied Michael.

  They were laughing now. Therese was confused by their apparently close friendship. What could this mean? Were they joined in some political endeavour, or was Alfred trying to find out more about Michael by assuming his friendship? Therese crawled away down the hill. Supposing this meant that she could no longer trust Alfred? She would be lost and alone. She ran back all the way to the priory, and returned to her bed the way she’d come. Slipping off the damp woollen over-clothing she hoped the straw bedding would help dry out her linen chemise.

  In the middle of the night all the nuns rose for vigils. Therese had hardly slept and her clothes were still wet. They made their way down the stairs she’d used earlier and Therese, seated in the choir with the others, stole glances at the hanging over the door while bending deeply over in apparent meditation. The dust had settled, but she imagined, for she could not see in this light that her footprints would be clear to all in the dust by morning.

  They returned to bed and Therese lay shivering with fear and cold when a hand touched her arm. She kept it still as she did not wish to show any emotion. And she found herself looking into the steady eyes of Sister Agnes. In an instant she recalled Ursula’s warmth and the help Sister Agnes had given the ex-prioress of St Thomas’s. Even now Agnes had the comforting smell of the kitchen about her.

  The older nun beckoned to her to follow. Her mind raced. If Alfred was connected to Michael then so might Ursula be–and Agnes? Sister Agnes took her outside and across the yard to the kitchen, just across from the tower and the refectory along the western end of the cloister.

  Inside Agnes stoked the fire in the central hearth and placed Therese in front of it. She passed her a dry habit and placed the wet one, once removed, in front of the blaze on a wooden stand. She did all of this in silence with kindly gestures and Therese followed her instructions as gently as she could. She was not encouraged to speak and their silence protected them both.

  Agnes drew up a short bench for them to sit on and they must have stayed there for over an hour. But still the garments hung onto the wetness from the grass, so Agnes sent her back to bed with the ones she’d given her. The only words she spoke were, ‘The nun who wore this has no need of it now.’ It was said in tones meant to comfort Therese, but they unsettled her.

  * * *

  When Bishop Odon disembarked at Dover his ship was just one of many pulled up along the river’s shoreline. Casks of wine and other necessities from the continent were being unloaded while other boats were being loaded with the first of the season’s wool. He’d brought just two men with him as a bodyguard. But he was confident as he had many more stationed at Dover Castle. This England was like a missing piece of Normandy. He was pleased to be back and sighed, knowing the English would always consider him a foreigner here. He turned the sigh into a deep breath. This was his Earldom and he would take rest and change into dry clothes at the castle. He thanked God for a good crossing.

  By the hearth in the castle’s keep he sat down and fingered the chess pieces on the board in front of him. Kings, Queens, Knights and Bishops, and so many pawns – but no Princes. He had only considered two as potential kings, William Rufus and Robert. Henry was too young to be considered, just thirteen, but growing fast by all accounts and he speaks English like a native, so they say. Perhaps it would take another generation for the Normans and the English people to adapt to each other.

  His reverie was broken by the entrance of one of his personal bodyguards.

  ‘My Lord Bishop, Prince William has sent word that he will be arriving shortly.’

  ‘Make ready for him,’ instructed Odon. He allowed himself another sigh once he was on his own again. He was reluctant to see William Rufus, but he could not possibly turn down the King’s son.

  The clatter of horses in the courtyard caused him to look through a slit of a window down at the King’s second son. He dismounted with expertise and unnecessary swagger. He rode with three others. He left the horses with the grooms Odon had sent to attend them. Rufus directed his men to follow him. Odon recognised the distinctive height of Roger and the fair head of Simon. The last of the three looked up. It was Ralph with his aquiline nose, lips like a long-bow at rest, dark eyes and hair. They made for the entrance to the keep.

  They entered Odon’s room still with their chain mail and swords. This was rudeness barely tolerable to Odon, but he contained his anger. ‘Prince William.’ Odon bowed to his nephew.

  ‘Uncle,’ said Rufus, his face as cool as his sword.

  ‘Please, as my honoured guests, feel free to remove your encumbrances from your journey and relax with me. Take some sustenance?’

  ‘You are too kind,’ snapped Rufus looking about him as if he expected to be run through by a sword at any moment.

  ‘Dover castle has to be the safest in England,’ said Odon.

  ‘I have no time to stay. The King is intent on securing Wales this year.’

  ‘Surely Earl Montgomery has already broken the back of that task?’

  ‘He has done well, as have the other Earls along the Welsh border, but it is not enough. My father wants these Welsh to declare their fealty to him as the English have done.’

  ‘With respect to your great father and my beloved brother, the King, I think he may be asking a great deal of those wild people. They share a past with our Bretons and we have had many a fierce battle against them.’

  ‘Normandy is all-powerful,’ said Rufus. ‘We follow the Roman Empire in our magnificence.’

  Odon turned away. Fighting and war was in all of their blood. It was honourable to fight. It was more honourable to fight for convictions than to win. This was as strong in his blood as in any of his family, yet he was a Bishop.

  ‘I know,’ said Rufus, ‘that you would rather see Robert on the throne of England. But it will never be.’

  ‘I desire only what is right.’

  ‘The King holds sway on all things, Your Grace. And you have put down uprisings all over this England, Bishop Odon, by the sword. Your hands are as bloodied as any of ours.’

  ‘And I pay my penance daily,’ snapped Odon. ‘Surely all that business is now settled?’

  ‘I have heard, Uncle…’ said Rufus as if dangling a baited line. He seemed calmer now Odon’s temper had been roused.

  ‘Heard what?’ Odon rose again to the enticement.

  ‘I hear that there are Welsh spies infiltrating into England causing unrest.’

  ‘I have heard no such rumours myself.’

  ‘I am surprised. For I believe Alfred of St Edmundsbury, a brother of a former Kentish Prioress of your acquaintance, Prioress Ursula, is a man who moves between these worlds.’

  Odon felt as if he’d been struck a blow in the back. How easy it was to make a little information look treasonous by adding a slight twist to a few selected details. ‘I believe,’ he said evenly, ‘that Alfred of St Edmundsbury is a wool trader. Our monasteries need to sell their wool to survive.'

  ‘Your monasteries gather riches to themselves like squirrels gather acorns. What need has God of gold and ivory?’

  Odo
n hid his anger by poking at the fire embers. The clean smell of wood smoke filled his lungs. He let the words hang, hoping Rufus would become embarrassed at his own coarseness. But when he looked at his pale eyes the young man’s gaze was steady.

  ‘Earl Montgomery tells me he does not trust a trader from his own area, a man called Michael,’ added Rufus. ‘I believe you know him also.’

  Odon felt the blood drain from his face despite his proximity to the fire. This was a man who held a great trust – not in words but in the goods he traded. He must have truly worked out the political value of his trade with the embroidery workshop at the Priory of St Thomas the Apostle and even know the importance of the work going on there. For this man to even have the slightest smell of deceit lingering in his behaviour or motives was unacceptable. And Alfred would have to be drawn into his cleansing net in case he was involved too. He could not risk anything happening at this stage to the embroidery. Perhaps all he’d heard about the poor dead Prioress Ursula had been true. Perhaps she had been the traitor. Odon turned to his visitor and said,

  ‘Thank you, nephew, for your information. I will have these men arrested directly. This will be carried out under my personal supervision.’

  Chapter 8

  Therese bowed her head. She stood in the lowliest position in the chapter house and waited her turn to make her confession. She’d been dreading this ordeal. It was, of course, inevitable as she could not take the sacrament of communion without purging her soul. But her soul would not be purged for she held in her heart so many secrets that had given rise to falsehoods. She had, therefore, composed a version of events that she thought would cover matters for now. She would rely on a total confession to Abbess Eleanor at a later date when she would be free to tell all. She would have to feign illness to avoid Mass the following day. Her list of sins seemed to be growing at an alarming rate. No doubt, Sister Miriam, back in Normandy, would have had no trouble over her conscience with such matters. So Therese just told them about the breaking of the broom.