by Mary Bale
‘Three rosaries to be said this morning in church after Terce, Sister. And after our midday prayers you will go down to the woods to collect willow for new brooms. Sister Gertrude will go with you and supervise. Her knowledge on such matters is without equal.’
Therese had been so worried about what she was going to say she’d hardly heard the others make their confessions. One, Sister Sybil, spoke so quietly she couldn’t hear what she said at all and another, Maude, gabbled. But she became alert when Sister Agnes spoke. Sister Agnes’s confession was also incomplete, she noticed. There was no mention of her giving clothing to a wet novice in the night. That was not really a sin though, surely? But then Sister Agnes must already have difficulties over the replacement of Ursula’s body with that of a dead colleague. She shivered, thinking of the dead nun’s clothing about her body.
Finally, Prioress Ethelburga announced the benefit of a united effort to clean the cloister now the builders had cleared it. As they left the chapter house Prioress Ethelburga placed her hand on Agnes’s arm. Agnes stopped and they both looked at the arresting hand. Some battle of wills seemed to be taking place until Ethelburga saw Gertrude and Therese waiting to leave. She released Agnes. Gertrude walked off but Therese paused behind the timber banister of the sewing room stairs to listen.
‘I have been wondering about how Sister Ann is faring,’ Prioress Ethelburga asked Agnes.
‘She’s gone to her family, Prioress. They came for her the morning of Prioress Ursula’s funeral. I have heard since that she passed away peacefully among her own folk.’
Therese scurried off. She did not hear the end of the conversation but she did not want to be caught listening. Her clothing seemed to wrap itself about her legs as if it were trying to trip her up. It, no doubt, was worn by Sister Ann, who was now laid in Ursula’s grave. She felt chilled until she reached the cloister where the nuns were already hard at work. She shook off the burden of Sister Ann’s wronged soul and took on the merriment of the others.
First the women brushed down the walls and arches with goose wings and then they sprinkled the tiles with water and swept. The work was soon finished and Therese was left to tidy the brooms and dusters before prayers.
While stooped over her work she heard the deep, Welsh tones that had become carved into her like the patterns made by the masons on the beautiful stones around her. His laugh came from the western end of the cloister. She tried to conceal that she knew him. She pretended to ignore his conversation with Prioress Ethelburga.
“Did they sound like conspirators?” she wondered. She could not hear their words, just the drift of tone and measured volume, in keeping with their location close to the church.
Sister Hilda appeared on the far side with her fellow stitchers, the dust rinsed away from their skin and wiped off their clothing. As they turned away from Prioress Ethelburga and Michael to walk round to the church entrance, the Prioress called out,
‘Sister Hilda, I would like your opinion with regard to the threads Michael has brought us. Perhaps you will join us in the chapter house?’
‘Immediately,’ said Sister Hilda.
The others entered the church while Sister Hilda joined Michael and the Prioress. They walked towards the chapter house entrance, which was off a corridor in the southeast corner of the cloister. Therese was left to collect the dusters and brooms. She took them over to the store close to the kitchen, her heart lightened by what she'd heard. She felt her mind had been making complications where none existed and she blamed the devil for making such mischief in her head. Alfred was a wool merchant and Michael was a thread merchant. The both would surely deal with the same people – spinners and dyers. It was not surprising they knew each other. She could let go of the fears created by last night’s trip across to the northern campsites.
* * *
Gertrude grumbled as Therese darted past her down the southern slope of the hill where the tower of the Priory of St Thomas the Apostle looked out across the Kent countryside. At the bottom, near the wood, she turned back to see Sister Gertrude descending at a much steadier pace. Behind the old woman the building appeared complete. This was the sewing room side. The sunlight was shimmering on the freshly hewn stones. She focused her attention on the wall. There were four windows. These were high and large to let in light to the work. Three were close together and a fourth was some distance from the other three, closer to the tower. This brought to her mind the hole in the wall she’d found in the stairwell. She’d thought it went directly into the sewing room. Yet there’d been no sign that the nuns had seen her broom handle when she’d poked it through. It was no good. She would have to see inside the sewing room before she could work out what this could mean. The hole could be in a cupboard. She just did not know. She turned away from the building. This collecting of willow for broom making was, at last, a little bit of freedom, and she intended to enjoy it.
Gertrude was catching up so she turned to her task. The wood of willow and alder had been well coppiced. The alders looked almost ghostly with their small purple cones and leaves. She could see why these trees had thrived here. Their roots and part of their trunks were submerged in the water drained from the surrounding slopes. And somewhere in the midst of the woods the river flowed. In winter it had spilled out, and the ground here would take a summer to dry. She guessed the water would cover her ankles, and would possibly reach her knees. The older nun was already wrapping the tail end of her skirts around her cord girdle. Therese did the same. They slipped off their sandals and entered the muddy water.
Having cut a wand of willow, Gertrude passed her knife to Therese. ‘Like that,’ she said, ‘You cut it, like that.’ She wedged her rear into a stump, which was shaped like a chair with wands of willow sprouting out around its edge on three sides. Her action had the fluency of habit as she shuffled back. Her feet cleared the water and she leaned on the fine branches of willow. ‘I’ll watch you to make sure you do it right,’ said Gertrude.
But this was a chore she’d often done back in Normandy, so Therese set about her task, reducing the number of willow stems on each stump, but not taking them all, before moving on to the next. She waded back out of the woodland to stack the bundle on the dry ground. Gertrude watched her, steadily at first and then less so, her head dropping onto her chest from time to time. So Therese continued. The sunshine and the work warmed her until she heard someone approach from the far side of the wood.
She glanced at Gertrude and wondered whether she should wake her, as they might need to run for safety. She was close to the old nun, her hand reaching out to touch her when she heard Michael’s voice very quietly say, ‘Sister, I need help.’
Turning to the sound further into the woods, she saw him. He was out of sight of the priory, but too close to Gertrude to avoid disturbing her. She flicked her hands at him, shooing him away and pointing out the slumbering nun. He did as he was bid and walked back through the water, across the stream – bridged by a fallen tree in the middle – and out to the far side. Therese followed. He sat down and invited her to sit with him on the grassy hillside. She looked about her. There was no-one else to be seen and behind them nearly at the top of the hill was a mound of earth in the distinctive shape of a grave. She guessed it must belong to the Impostor.
‘My town is well under the thumb of the Normans,’ he said.
‘Then your town is a safe town,’ retorted Therese, ‘But if this is going to be your line of conversation I would rather not hear it.’
‘My town may be safe, as you call it, for now, but the Welsh will not stand to be controlled by foreigners.’
‘What business is this of mine?’ Her confidence in Michael being a simple merchant was failing. She wondered for a moment whether he might invite her to join with him in some conspiracy. ‘You said you needed help?’ she asked.
‘There is a boy in my party. He is the son of a priest. Your Archbishop Lanfranc is against such things. He wants clerics to be celibate. My outspokenness may we
ll bring my little companion into danger.’
‘Then hold your tongue,’ said Therese.
‘Most of my group are grown men and we can fend for ourselves. It is the boy I fear for.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want you to hide him in the priory.’
‘A boy?’
‘There must be a place you can hide him.’
Therese wondered about the hole in the wall, but she could not be sure where it led. She frowned. ‘You could take him to the infirmary,’ countered Therese. She wanted her mind to work faster, find a solution before she agreed to something she might regret.
‘I don’t want him around all those sick people,’ said Michael. He signalled with his hand over to the eastern end of the woods and a boy scampered out, tripping on a loosened cross garter. It was the boy who’d held Michael’s ponies in the woods. He seemed too young to be away from his mother, she thought as he bobbed down and tied his lace. His little face turned up to greet her gaze and she knew she had already lost the argument.
‘You can take him now,’ said Michael. ‘Bundle him in your cloak like the willow you’re collecting.’
‘I cannot make a broom from him, and he is the weight of a dozen brooms. I cannot explain away the disappearance of that much wood.’
Michael laughed. ‘You are right. He is a wooden boy.’ He waggled the boy’s head and the boy allowed his head to be waggled.
‘Sister Therese!’ It was Sister Gertrude’s voice.
‘Bring him to the church wall on the northern side of the compound tonight. I will find somewhere for him,’ whispered Therese hastily as she ran back into the woodland. Each step felt as if she’d caught herself up in a rope that was tightening about her. The going was difficult, but it was not because of any impediment about her legs, the rope was in her mind. It was the added complication of having a child to care for.
And she still was not sure of Michael’s motives. He must have been watching them to make such a calculated approach. And where was Alfred? She thought he was going to set up camp at the very place where she and Michael had just sat. Was he in some way party to the arrangement that Michael had brokered with her about the boy?
* * *
As dusk approached Therese finished whipping the bristles to a new broom-handle.
‘No need for formalities, Sister,’ said Prioress Ethelburga coming into the kitchen yard from the base of the tower. Therese twitched to stand but was arrested by the firm grip of the Prioress on her shoulder. Ethelburga continued, ‘I have just the job for a new broom.’ She sounded almost friendly until she added sharply, ‘Come with me.’
They ascended the tower steps to the first floor and walked towards the sewing room door. Therese counted her steps from the tower to the door. Fifty-five. She nearly said it. She couldn’t believe that she had gained access to the sewing room so soon.
Prioress Ethelburga unwrapped the key from the folds of her skirts. The thin chain connecting it to her girdle jingled as she turned it. Inside the evening light poured through linen screens at the windows onto a fabric laid loosely over a frame in the middle of the room. The Prioress didn’t offer to show Therese the covered work, she simply instructed her to sweep as she’d been shown using water to lay the dust. Slightly disappointed at not being shown the embroidery, she set about her work studiously, for while she swept she summed up the length of the room. It was barely thirty steps long, and she knew that as she’d stood and watched Gertrude come down the hill she’d seen a fourth window along this wing, but there were only three in here.
Therese scooped a hand full of water from the bucket and scattered it low over the floor.
‘Good, good,’ said Prioress Ethelburga, ‘you mustn’t splash the work.’
As Therese gingerly swished her broom over the wetted floor she observed the ornate wooden screen at the end where the sewers had left their threads and needles. And she wondered how many of the other nuns had worked out that there was a secret room. But for now that did not matter, for she had somewhere to hide the boy.
Threads and lint from the fabric made fluffy balls and tangles among the sticks of her broom.
‘Shovel up the threads, Sister. But don’t put them into the bucket until we’re out of the room, just in case the dust flies up.’
Therese backed out keeping an eye on her load. For a moment her pan wobbled and the Prioress commanded her to, ‘Be alert, girl!’ This made all her sinews snap to attention and the pan steadied long enough for Ethelburga to shut the door and for Therese to safely deposit the load in the bucket.
Sister Hilda was standing behind them when they turned away from the door.
‘Yes?’ asked Prioress Ethelburga. Her mouth pinched up tightly behind the question
‘I’m calling you to our devotions, Prioress.’ Hilda bowed respectfully.
‘Young people,’ snapped Ethelburga, ‘never do a job properly unless they are carefully watched, Sister Hilda.’
‘Yes, Prioress,’ said Hilda meekly.
‘Lead on,’ said Ethelburga to Hilda and Therese followed Ethelburga’s stiff back.
* * *
The nights were still chilled and Therese rubbed her arms as she stood outside the temporary door in the church. The night was very dark with cloud covering the moon and stars. Even after some time she could make out little among the stones. She felt her way along to the edge of the building works.
Michael was already there, his pony at his side, the child almost invisible behind the man’s stocky legs. The boy seemed so much smaller than when she’d seen him burst from his hiding place in the woods.
‘How old is he?’ she asked, wondering about her ability to look after a child.
‘He’s seen six summers,’ answered Michael. ‘He’s strong and can look after himself mostly. Hurry now, you must take him.’
Therese could hear the thunder of hooves and the rattle of metal somewhere beyond the hill where the builders and Michael were encamped. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
‘I do not know, Sister. But whatever it is, remember the boy’s father is a Norman and has no part in what I do.’
‘How can a small boy not be influenced?’ she asked him, but he was already taking his leave. ‘What shall I call him?’ she asked as he swung his pony round.
‘Call him Eric,’ suggested Michael as he drove his pony away with his legs.
Taking the boy into the church she realised her gullibility. She’d been taken in by the boy’s ready smile and her own sense of adventure, and, not least, by Michael’s confidence. She shouldn’t be doing this. It was, at the very least against the priory rules. She was already half way across the cloister. Michael was, in attitude, if not in fact an enemy of the Normans. Without saying anything she turned around and took the boy back to the church. When she reached the door the child hung back.
‘You must go back to Michael,’ she said. Silently he shook his head. Opening the door she dragged him out. ‘You can’t stay here.’ He resisted enough to show his reluctance as she took him down the valley and steered him across the stream towards the campsite. The valley was quiet. The sound of war-horses had gone. It was not unusual, she guessed, for such groups of her countrymen to travel through the night.
She made her way to the place where she’d seen Alfred and Michael talking around the fire. But the fire had been kicked out and the tents were lying slashed to pieces. Eric tugged at her sleeve and it started to rain. She trembled, but she could see no bodies, and she had no time to listen in on the builders’ conversations as they picked over Michael’s camp. Even though she might learn something from them, she would have to be in church for dawn prayers. And Eric was sobbing. She could only guess at Michael’s fate. But whatever had happened, he was no longer here.
There was no choice. In the same way Bishop Odon de Bayeux had plucked her from her flaming village, she was obliged to care for Eric. Bending down she wrapped her arms about him and picked him up. She ran back to the p
riory against the rain and with the child weighting her steps. She thought her will might break until she reached the sanctuary of the church. The structure held a physical strength she needed. The boy was quiet now. She let him slip down as she clutched a nearby pillar and held it till she caught her breath. She wanted to enter the church quietly.
Eric pulled at her habit. Therese looked down.
‘Is it my fault?’ asked the boy in English. The four words were spoken like a ballad, almost sung.
She wiped her face with her sleeve, and said, ‘No.’
‘What has happened to Michael?’ he asked. Eric faltered over what, to him, was clearly a foreign language.
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. Composing herself, she took him into the church and to the tower. She counted the steps and stopped below the hole. ‘Climb on my shoulders,’ she instructed, bracing her hands to form a stirrup for him. The tower was almost completely black with the rain clouds still covering the moon. He felt for her hands. His fingers were small but strong and his leather-clad foot made a firm purchase and soon the boy was on her shoulders.
‘There’s a hole in the wall up on the left. Can you see it?’ she asked.
‘I can feel something,’ he said. ‘A metal thing, a light holder.’
‘It’s higher and on your left.’
‘Found it.’
‘Climb in,’ said Therese, ‘but be careful. I do not know what is in there.’ The weight on her shoulders pushed her down on one side and then it was gone. He made no sound, so she called to him, ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ said Eric poking his head out. ‘I only just fit in the hole. It’s like a hay-loft up here.’ He sounded excited, but there was little in his voice to indicate a Norman father. He seemed more like Michael.
‘Do you need any food?’ she asked.
‘I’ve eaten, thank you.’
‘Good, but wait.’ Therese went down stairs into the kitchen yard and collected a pot. She returned and gave it to him with the words: ‘There are no hedges up there so use this.’ He reached down to collect it and disappeared into his hideaway.
