by Mary Bale
‘So what are you going to do with the bottle now?’ asked Therese
‘I’m going to destroy it. The ink has faded on my hands. No one can connect me with this any more.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She will look to remove me, because I know.’ Hilda trembled.
‘Others will soon know too.’
‘What do you mean? Who are you?’
‘Does Prioress Ethelburga know the bottle is here?’ asked Therese.
‘No. No she doesn’t.’
‘Then put it back, Sister Hilda. All will be well. I will tell no one if you keep your secret a little longer and you must tell no one about this or about me.’
‘Are you sure you can make this right?’
‘Soon, Sister Hilda.’
The bottle slid back inside its hiding place and the loose brick was put in over the top. The two nuns returned to their beds to catch a little sleep before the next set of prayers. As Therese snuggled down she smiled to herself. At last there was real proof of Ursula’s story. There had been the ink on the tower wall. But that might have easily been explained away. And then there was Agnes’s story, so closely confirming Ursula’s. But she could be dismissed by some as she was a close friend of Ursula’s. No. This was hard evidence, not offered, but found from a reluctant witness.
And, Sister Aelfgyth had noted Hilda’s suspicious behaviour and passed that note to her in the egg basket. No doubt Aelfgyth was defending her friend Sister Winifred, who’d had the position of Prioress snatched from her. This complication seemed to have arisen due to ambitions for power among members of this small community. So if it wasn’t Prioress Ethelburga or Sister Hilda who were in league with the Impostor, thought Therese, who was it?
Chapter 13
Eleanor looked up from her script. She felt quite naked without head covering as she watched the other monks stooped over their work. Being Brother James of Caen had not been as difficult as she’d thought it would be. The Rule of St Benedict, which they lived by, was the same, although here it was kept more rigorously than most of the English priories she’d visited.
Ursula had arranged for the letter of introduction to say that Brother James was excellent at colouring so she would gain access to the scriptorium. But letters of any significance were not elaborately coloured so she found herself painting glorious patterns, animals and plants around the edges of pages for a psalter. However, Brother David seemed pleased with her work and paid little attention to the person who was creating it. And she’d become used to the smell of the ink and the various tinctures–though she tried to sit near the door, which was left open on warm days, to get as much fresh air as she could.
A week had already gone by and she had completed plenty of pictures but she had nothing of significance to show for her presence here. The bell rang for noon prayers and the monks rose. She opened the door and descended the steps into the cloister. They entered the church through the cloister door.
Some of the laity had clearly braved the building works to join them and Eleanor couldn’t resist a sideways glance to see who was there. Her heart seemed to spin in her chest. Prince Rufus, with his crop of blazoning red hair, stood in the centre aisle, his guard of three knights slightly behind him.
The chanting rose and fell melodically, but Eleanor could not find a “Brother James” singing voice, so mimed. She could no longer see the Prince and his guard due to an altar screen, but on leaving she saw him cross the cloister to speak to Archbishop Lanfranc, resplendent in his purple robe. She stopped to adjust her sock and sandal. The two men were talking so quietly Eleanor could hardly hear them. She leaned forward to listen. She stayed like this until her elbow was gripped and her arm was jerked sharply. Perhaps one of the Prince’s guards had come up behind her. If she were to die now she could help no one. She tried to control her rising panic. She toppled slightly, stumbled and regained her balance, while being propelled along the walkway. She managed to turn and see the person who’d arrested her. He was a large monk, cloaked and cowled. Her fear subsided slightly. She heard the Prince call his guards to him by their names: Simon, Roger and Ralph. On looking back she could not work out which was which although one was taller than the other two and without their helmets she could see one of the shorter ones was quite fair in colouring. The large monk at her elbow propelled her out to the infirmary before he stopped. At least she knew how to deal with this sort of enemy.
‘I will say, Brother James, that you were taken ill,’ said Brother Matthew, lowering his hood.
Eleanor looked at his feet. She should have looked before. They were unmistakable. She smiled.
‘Anyone would think you were spying on the Prince and the Bishop loitering like that. The Prince’s guard were giving you some very long suspicious looks, especially the blonde one, Simon.’ Brother Matthew frowned at her.
She wondered if he recognised her, but she spoke in her “Brother James” voice anyway.
‘Which of the Prince’s guards is Roger?’
‘The tall one,’ answered Brother Matthew.
That made Ralph the shorter, brown haired one, thought Eleanor.
‘You ask a lot of questions about people who should not concern you,’ complained Matthew.
‘I am just fascinated by royalty,’ she said like an awe-struck novice.
‘It is best to keep away from royalty. Power creates turmoil. Any rift between people can be prized open by their so-called advisors for their own advantage.’
‘Does Prince Rufus seek advice from the Archbishop?’ she asked.
‘Among others, Brother James. But he is not one of those types of advisors I have mentioned. He is a clever man, but a good one too.’
‘I understand the Archbishop favours Prince Rufus over his elder brother for King of England?’ She inflected her voice making a question out of the statement.
‘I think that is only because the Conqueror himself is in favour of this arrangement. What the King wishes, will be the rule of law.’ Brother Matthew went to enter the infirmary, he paused. ‘Brother James, I would not wear those socks if I were you. It is not usual here and you will be asked to remove them.’
‘I have bad feet. They need to be covered.’ Eleanor could not keep the irritation inspired by his nosiness out of her voice.
‘I have not seen you lame.’
‘But I will be if I do not keep my feet warm,’ she said, now feeling defensive.
Brother Matthew frowned again. ‘Let me see your feet.’
Eleanor looked at him. He was examining her hairless face. She wondered if she could trust him. ‘Ah well,’ she sighed in her own voice while she sat on the step. She took off her socks and showed him her dainty feet.
‘Abbess Eleanor?’
‘Yes, I’ve been a bit of a fool. I thought I could come here as a monk and find out what was going on. I guessed there might be some trickery between Archbishop Lanfranc and Prince Rufus, but, of course, there cannot be. If the Archbishop is an honourable man, as you say, and Rufus is recognised as heir by his father there is no reason for discord.’
‘I will not ask for the details of your being here, Abbess. But I think your instincts are right. I am sure there has been an excessive amount of comings and goings here lately by the Prince. And, no doubt these matters need looking into but, even so, I have to say I think your behaviour is extraordinary. You take such risks in dressing in this manner and taking on the role of a monk.’
‘Others have taken more risks than me,’ said Eleanor.
He looked at her steadily as if there was no void between them of hierarchy or sex, examining her intent and her constancy. ‘I think you ought to stay and see what is going on. It may be relevant to you as well as to us.’
‘Why should such things bother you, Brother Matthew?’
‘Everyone has been worrying themselves about it. They are concerned for the church’s treasure. Christ Church Abbey draws a considerable income. Kings often like to take to themselves wh
at was given to the church. And Princes are not always patient about waiting for crowns.’
‘You talk of treason.’
‘I am not making any accusations, Abbess. I just appreciate your interest. It gives me an incentive to look further myself and I will tell you all I find out. Between us we should be able to make some sense of it. Hopefully I will be able to put my brothers’ minds at rest.’
‘If I am to stay what am I to do about my feet and my socks?’ she asked.
‘I will give you a note from the infirmarer saying that you have to wear them for your health. Hopefully that will cover the issue.’
* * *
Prioress Ethelburga was reading the morning’s chapter from St Benedict while Therese sat on her hands so she would not be seen wringing them as hard as sodden washing, for that is what she wanted to do. The chapter house seemed too small for what was inside her head. Frustrations were building inside her until the tension made her want to scream, but she could not. That would cause chaos and prejudice her investigations. And that was her main frustration. She may have been back sweeping the sewing room, but she was doing it when all the nuns had left – and Sister Gertrude was back as her guide. But Sister Hilda had not left her conscience. A week had passed since Therese had promised her a resolution and so Hilda was still waiting to be made safe from Sister Ethelburga’s machinations. Therese had made no more progress.
She had to gain access to Sister Sybil – she was, after all, from a family dispossessed by the Normans. But Therese knew so little about her views. She had not come across any occasion when she could talk to her and Sybil kept herself to herself except for an occasional conversation with Winifred and Aelfgyth. Therese was running out of individuals who could be the link between the key and the Impostor and now Sybil seemed the most likely.
Prioress Ethelburga finished reading and started giving out the morning’s work. She pointed out that the growing season was getting the better of the gardening team of Sisters Leofgyth, Winifred and Aelfgyth and that they would need additional help.
‘Sisters Maude, Mildred and Therese will join them this morning in their labours,’ she directed. ‘The animals are out on their summer grazing now and the servants can deal with what jobs are left.’
Therese had hoped she might be asked to thread needles in the sewing room. She felt she had been at the Priory long enough. But, yet again she would have to wait to talk to Sister Sybil. Nothing would be gained from making a fuss, so she followed the others out into the garden and, once again, she was given the task of hoeing. Maude and Mildred joined her. They were grumbling to each other about being taken away from their usual tasks of animal husbandry, which they far preferred.
Their conversation drifted over different subjects as they progressed down the rows until they started arguing about the day it snowed late in February. Mildred insisted it occurred on the Sunday and Maude said it did not. Until then Therese had been only half listening to them, now she was attentive. They both remembered that some of the plants and animals had already been responding to a few days of spring-like weather when a cold, gusty wind blew up, but which actual day it happened was in dispute.
‘That was the day Prioress Ursula and the Impostor fell to their deaths,’ said Maude.
‘I’m sure it was the day before,’ complained Mildred, sounding more interested with her argument than the plight of the fallen nuns. ‘We’d opened the top doors in the great barn to let in the air.’
‘Yes that’s right, but we opened the bottom doors too,’ said Maude, ‘to let out the muck wagon on the far side of the barn. The servants had filled it and it needed to go out to the muck heap.’
‘That wasn’t the day the snow came though,’ said Mildred.
‘Did you see what happened?’ Therese asked them, enthralled.
‘That’s why I know that was the day of the snow,’ said Maude clearly forgetting her shyness in her eagerness to prove her sibling wrong. ‘The wagon had just left for the muckheap. I was hooking back the door. It was difficult in the gusting wind. And then I heard a scream. It came from the direction of the tower. I ran down the hill a little bit to get a better look and I saw them fall.’
‘What happened then?’ asked Therese.
‘I called out to Mildred, but we couldn’t leave the animals. There were plenty of people to help over there and we smelt a bit high by then so I don’t expect they’d have wanted us around anyhow.’
‘I see,’ said Therese leaning on her hoe. ‘But did you see anything else. Anything else at all?’
‘I did,’ said Mildred. ‘And so did you, Maude.’
‘I don’t remember anything,’ said Maude pouting.
‘Well I do,’ snapped Mildred. ‘There was someone in the woods. I saw him and so did you, Maude.’
‘A man?’ asked Therese.
‘I’m sure of it,’ replied Mildred.
‘Didn’t you tell anyone at the time about him?’ asked Therese.
‘No, what of it?’ asked Mildred. ‘He could have been collecting kindling for the camp on the other side of the priory. It really does not matter. Does it matter to you?’
Therese regretted instantly forgetting that the twins had already opened up to her more than she could have hoped and she had pushed too far. But this was important information – and unexpected too. She smiled. ‘No, it doesn’t matter to me. I was just curious, you know.’
Maude was frowning. ‘I don’t remember. I think I was seeing to one of the sheep. It had caught its head in the side of its pen.’
They re-engaged in their sibling squabbles and Therese turned back to her work. She used her hoe as rigorously as her mind was working. Who could have been the man in the woods? Could it have been the Impostor’s accomplice – or even the designer of the conspiracy to damage the embroidery? Perhaps she’d gone to the tower not to just try to escape but to signal to him, and when she saw all hope was gone she killed herself. She might even have hoped he’d seen her fall. And if that was the case, who could that man be? She stopped hoeing. Michael the merchant? And if it was? The child Eric could even be the Impostor’s son! Eric gave no hint of having the Norman father Michael stated. Perhaps little though he was, he was a spy. Such probabilities created danger. Thankfully the child was no longer in the Priory, but from what he’d told her, he already had vital information others could make use of. All he had to do was wait to be contacted by one of his own. Even though Michael had been arrested, there were, no doubt, others who could make the connection. No, she told herself firmly, he was just a small boy, placed in her care. Or was he a spy?
Chapter 14
Brother Matthew came towards Eleanor. Nothing in his manner gave away his knowledge of her identity. The scriptorium was on a short break and the monks were taking exercise on the walkway behind the infirmary. Eleanor had slipped her hands up opposite sleeves and bowed her head to give the impression that she, or rather, Brother James, was in deep contemplation and not to be disturbed lightly.
Brother Matthew showed suitable respect as he bowed and engaged Eleanor in conversation. ‘Brother James, I have some news,’ he told her, his voice barely above a whisper.
‘What is it?’ asked Eleanor in the same manner. Their behaviour, she realised, would not seem unusual as other monks were talking quietly to each other. But a noticeably female voice even in these circumstances would carry like a bell across the drone of male ones so she used a hushed version of her “Brother James” voice.
‘I have found out why Prince Rufus goes to see Archbishop Lanfranc.’
‘Why?’ asked Eleanor through gritted teeth. She was already irritated at Matthew’s slow, deliberate manner.
‘Prince Rufus goes to see him because the Archbishop has told the Conqueror he does not approve of the Prince’s behaviour. He is trying to stop his brawling, womanising and he wishes to modify his expensive tastes.’
‘So,’ said Eleanor, ‘he may be disgruntled with his father after all?’
�
��That looks a definite possibility.’
‘What happens during these interviews?’ asked Eleanor. Even speaking quietly she could sound crisp, more so than she intended.
‘They are in private,’ said Matthew. ‘What I have told you has slipped out through overheard conversations between one of the Prince’s guards and Brother David. Indeed the Prince’s pride is somewhat hurt over it.’
‘Thank you, Brother Matthew. I haven’t been here long enough to be trusted with the gossip.’ Eleanor noticed a change among the monks. They were separating to make a path through the middle of their number. Brother David was giving sly little glances to each monk, expecting them to defer to him and receiving their excessive respects as if he himself were a Bishop. There was no mistake, however, that he was making his stooped progress towards Matthew and herself.
‘That information was not just ordinary gossip, Abb…, Brother James,’ Matthew faltered. Brother David was almost upon them.
On his arrival they both bowed deeply as the others had done and he nodded his head in recognition.
‘Brother James of Caen,’ Brother David addressed Eleanor.
She bowed again.
‘I have news of one of your brethren.’ The whites of Brother David’s eyes were heavily veined and the flesh about them grey. This was more than age, thought Eleanor. Perhaps he was aiding his sleep with the contents of the cellar. He seemed sober enough now. His persistently rude tones she’d come to expect.
‘Oh?’ asked Eleanor trying to contain her embarrassment – as far as she knew she had no ‘brethren’.
‘Brother Richard of Caen. He is one of Bishop Gundulf’s men involved in the building program.’
‘I see. I’m not sure if I’ve met the man. Our skills are of a different order. I work in the scriptorium, he works on buildings.’
‘You must know him. He is about your age. You must have been novices together.’
