Threads of Treason (Anglo-Norman mysteries)

by Mary Bale

  ‘Better still, as you two are so friendly towards each other, I will keep you here, Robert, with a small guard as a hostage.’

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ insisted Edgar.

  ‘You told me you were on your way to Scotland to see your sister, but it has reached my ears that you have not come directly to Kent but have been through Salisbury and visited Winchester.’

  ‘You know my other sister, Christina, is at a convent in that area, Your Grace. You cannot be suspicious about my activities?’

  ‘Robert will stay here,’ said Odon nodding at the horseman he’d set to guard the King’s eldest son.

  * * *

  Edgar felt his horse shift its weight from front to back as it took great galloping strides towards the thieves’ camp. He leapt ditches and fallen tree trunks. Odon’s horse matched his stride for stride and the others followed. Edgar took them into the camp through the widest entrance to the clearing – their swords drawn. Odon’s plan was to raid the site while the thieves slept and could offer little resistance. But they weren’t there. Edgar had left them sleeping. They must have finally realised Prioress Ursula was gone and moved off. Perhaps they like him had become aware of the approach of Odon’s men and they’d decided to melt away.

  ‘This had better not be a trap!’ declared Odon swinging his sword close to Edgar’s head. He sent his men around the scrub and nearby woodland to check for the thieves. They came back with nothing.

  ‘They must have got wind of your presence, Your Grace.’

  ‘You, Edgar Aethling, will remain with me until you leave for Scotland. We will return to Robert directly.’

  Edgar was immediately surrounded by Odon’s men and escorted from the campsite.

  * * *

  As Odon approached the small retinue he’d left with Robert he became concerned. On the ferry road more horsemen were approaching.

  ‘Is this your doing?’ he asked Edgar. ‘Did you intend to split my men and weaken me in that way?’

  ‘Your Grace, the group approaching is small. Barely more than were with me.’

  Odon still wasn’t sure how many men Edgar really had with him. He only knew of two – Sir Guy and Sir Alun, but what of these, so called, thieves? He felt now that he was acting not as Bishop Odon de Bayeux, but he was back in his role of Earl of Kent. Normandy seemed a long way away. He sighed. Then he saw who was approaching. His blood chilled. ‘My God. It’s Rufus.’

  Odon’s rejoined group bristled around him. On this subject they were all agreed: this man was unsuitable to rule England, and his presence meant trouble whichever way you looked at it. Odon moved forward out of the line of his men, Edgar with his two men and Robert de Curthose. ‘Halt!’ he demanded of the four horsemen.

  They obliged by stopping, but instantly drew their swords. ‘Who prevents the passage of Prince William, Son of the Conqueror?’ asked the largest one of them flanking the Prince.

  ‘Odon de Bayeux, Earl of Kent, Prince William,’ replied Odon with clipped courtesy, ignoring Sir Roger. ‘What business brings you to these parts at this hour?’

  ‘Roger, Simon, Ralph, stay your swords a moment. You may act as king in my father’s absence, but all this will be mine one day, and there will be no place in the set up for you.’ There was no mistaking the Prince’s flaring temper.

  Odon detected a movement by Robert’s horse. His man had restrained him. Odon could not afford to let these brothers fight, for they would tear each other apart.

  ‘I ask you with great fealty, as an uncle, not to be interested in my activities, but I as the King’s son am interested in yours. You who have treacherous friends. What are you doing here?’ Odon watched Rufus scrutinise the line up before him. And Rufus added, ‘With all these mighty people?’

  Robert surged forward and rushed at his brother. Their swords clashed as they urged their horses to push each other.

  Odon shouted, ‘Order. This is mere quarrelling. Brothers should not fight before their men like this.’ But they did not part and Roger, Simon and Ralph started to fight Robert off, so Edgar joined the fight, followed by Sir Alun and Sir Guy. Odon pulled his own men back. He did not want their loyalties to be tested. These two groups of men were evenly enough matched. Perhaps, once they tired he might be able to break up the fight before any real harm was done.

  Chapter 22

  There was just one panel of embroidery left in the secret room. Therese told Eric to leave, she could manage, thank you. He tried to persuade her otherwise, but she had him through the hole and into the tower with Agnes, before he had a chance to think of a way to prevent it. Agnes grasped him firmly by the shoulders.

  ‘Get the embroidery as far away from the building as you can,’ instructed Therese.

  ‘We will take it over the kitchen yard wall,’ said Agnes. ‘Don’t be long. We will wait for you there.’

  ‘Don’t wait. Go!’ ordered Therese. She went directly back to the last panel and started to roll it up when she thought she heard a noise in the next room. It was the scrape of wood upon wood. Someone was in the sewing room moving the carved screen from the door to the secret room. In a moment whoever it was would be in here with Therese. She stood in front of the last panel as the door swung open.

  Therese stared at the silhouette of a nun until her eyes adjusted to the unexpected light. Gertrude, Maude and Mabel had left the Priory and she doubted they would return. The figure was too slim for Aelfgyth or Beatrice, and not tall enough for Winifred. It could not be Agnes, she would not have had time to unravel herself from Eric and the embroidery. She hoped dearly it was not Leofgyth. Kind, funny Leofgyth.

  The sewing room was lit with church candles and tapers. Therese found the flames and the brightness horrifying.

  ‘Sybil?’ she called gently. The silhouette moved a pace towards her and stopped. ‘Let your hate for the Normans go. This tapestry is too beautiful to destroy. It goes beyond our differences. It tells the world of our skills and our determination. The story it tells on the face of it is not our story. We know that.’

  ‘I thought it was you in here,’ said a voice she could not mistake. It was Hilda's sweet voice hardened and piercing like the point of a needle.

  Therese was completely taken aback; she’d expected to see Sister Sybil. ‘So you lied about Prioress Ethelburga,’ she said.

  ‘No, She did as I said. But her only need was power.’

  ‘So it was you who stole the key from Prioress Ursula?

  ‘If only I’d been quicker, I would have finished the job of inking the panel that our little Impostor failed to do, but Ethelburga saw me, and organised her little power struggle.’

  ‘And this room?’

  ‘I’m not stupid. You worked it out. Well, so did I.’

  ‘When did you work it out?’

  ‘Only recently. I watched you clean the sewing room remember. You took an unnatural amount of care in doing so, and you could not keep your eyes off that screen. I’ve come for the rest of the embroidery I’m sure this is where it’s been stored.’

  ‘You’re too late. It’s gone.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Hilda rushing forward to look behind Therese.

  Therese moved to grab it. As she did so the single panel was exposed to Hilda’s gaze.

  ‘You thief!’ The words almost exploded out of Hilda’s mouth. In one movement she turned and seized the taper from its fixing by the door.

  In the mean time Therese had picked up the partly rolled panel and was making towards the steps to the gallery that led to the hole in the tower wall. Hilda was after her. Therese wrestled with the fabric which seemed intent on unravelling itself the more she tried to tuck it up. Hilda was close – too close. The skilled needlewoman seemed intent on destroying her own work. Therese pointed this out, breathless with fear and the task of shifting the panel.

  ‘I don’t care. And you needn’t give me any of that, ‘I’m an Anglo-Saxon’ stuff. You know too much and this will tidy things up nicely.’


  ‘But your family has not been dispossessed like Sister Sybil’s,’ reasoned Therese.

  ‘My father died at Hastings. My mother had to marry a Norman so my family could retain their lands. My brother as a land owner himself had to swear fealty to our Norman conqueror. I can hardly swallow with the disgust I feel.’

  Therese had reached the top of the gallery steps when Hilda lunged at the embroidery with the taper. The only way she could stop her was by dropping the panel. She did so, but was too late. The corner was burning. At the same time she felt her legs taken away from under her by Hilda wrapping her arms about them. She thumped down onto the gallery, winded. She blinked. She could feel heat about her ankles. Hilda had set light to the hem of her habit as well. In her eye line there was a row of pots along the back edge of the gallery wall. She recognised them. Getting up Therese pushed Hilda down the steps. There was a crack of skull hitting floor at the bottom and the needle-woman lay still. Therese ran over to the first pot and quenched the flames on her skirt with Eric’s urine. The second pot once contained his food, but he’d clearly had the need to fill that too. This pot went over the burning edge of the panel.

  The taper was still clutched in Hilda’s hand and its idle flame singed the floorboards. But Therese had to secure the embroidery first so she ran with the panel and dispatched it through the hole. Back next to the unconscious Hilda she trod out the taper’s flame. Hilda’s hand moved and grabbed her ankle. Therese felt herself being pulled down again as Hilda, her face shaking with anger regained her feet. Briefly everything went black for Therese.

  * * *

  Eleanor heard the battle well before she could see it as she rode up the hill on the white horse. She wasn’t sure who was fighting whom, but knew she could not afford to be cautious: Therese was in danger.

  Bishop Odon must be among them. On getting closer she realised that most of the large band of mounted men were not fighting. There were just eight and these were no longer on their horses, but slogging it out with swords on the ground. She ordered Sir Gilbert’s horse into the centre of the fighting where two men, one with hair the colour of fire the other with red in much softer tones, had discarded their weapons and were mauling, wrestling and punching each other. Their exhaustion was obvious as they staggered at each other with grim determination.

  ‘Stop it!’ ordered Eleanor with the full authority of her status of Abbess. ‘This is no time for fighting among ourselves.’ The two young men separated as did the other fighters. She directed a severe look at Bishop Odon whom she located just beyond the fight in the watching group.

  ‘I heartily agree,’ he said. ‘I was about to stop it myself.’

  ‘I think, Bishop, you were enjoying the entertainment,’ accused Eleanor. ‘We must get to the Priory of St Thomas. I have received word that the embroidery is in danger this very night.’ She did not say Therese, for she could not tell the Bishop what danger she’d placed his ward in.

  The fighters silently mounted their war-horses and at Odon’s command the whole troop wheeled round and headed towards The Priory of St Thomas.

  * * *

  Coming round Therese felt dizzy. Through a fog she heard Hilda asking, ‘Do you want to save the last panel?’ Therese felt herself being dragged into the sewing room. She went to pull away but her hands were tied behind her back. ‘Well, you can die in here with it. I will get one panel now and then I’ll fetch the others and pile them onto the flames.’

  It was clear to Therese that Hilda was unaware of the help she’d had moving them. She smiled; at least she’d succeeded in saving the embroidery.

  ‘You think I can’t get them. Did someone help you move them? All the nuns here are Anglo-Saxon. Do you think they would deny me access to the panels, my own countrywomen?’

  By this time Hilda had tied her to the leg of the embroidery stand. Therese hoped Agnes and Eric would return the embroidered panels to their rightful owner, Odon de Bayeux. But she could not be sure they would. Therese strained at her bindings. She’d expected to uncover the traitor before any harm would be done, but she’d been so gullible. It was as if Hilda read her mind.

  ‘You can’t help being young,’ she said.

  Indignation filled Therese’s lungs with hot air. She felt strength returning to her arms and legs. She grabbed hold of the leg of the embroidery stand she was tied to, gathered her feet up underneath her and heaved it up, pushing it away from her and releasing her bindings from it at the same time. Hilda leapt back out of the way of the crashing wood. She stared at the mess of broken frame and torn fabric. Therese followed her gaze and her heart sank. She knew she was too late – there were flames licking about the material and almost immediately they were spreading to the linen window screens, the dry rush seating of the needle-women’s stools and then the straw in the wattle and daub partitions.

  Hilda reached for a candle and rushed at Therese, who still had her hands tied. So she charged at Hilda with her head down like a bull. They crashed onto the floor into the centre of the burning room. Somehow Hilda moved and Therese fell heavily without her arms to break the fall and Hilda pushed her out of the way and headed for the secret room, which was still free of the fire, although the screen that had stood in front of it was now aflame. Therese recovered and was soon on her feet. She could not fight effectively with her hands tied. She spotted a jagged nail sticking out of the top of the leg she’d been tied to, where it had come away from the embroidery frame, which had rolled away and was already engulfed by the inferno. The nail was hot and seared through her bindings.

  Again she threw all her remaining strength at Hilda. And this time took her down too quickly for her opponent to twist out of it, so Hilda took the brunt of the fall and was knocked out. Therese started to drag her up to the gallery. They could both still escape from being burnt to death by going down the stone stairway. Hilda stirred. Therese looked round. The fire was already in the secret room and rapidly approaching them. Once it took the gallery they would not have a chance. Hilda clearly realised this as she pulled back on Therese, wrapping her arms about her legs.

  ‘We’ll die together,’ she hissed.

  ‘We will not die. The truth must be known.’

  ‘I know all I need to know,’ said Hilda, taking Therese down.

  At that moment the fire reached the top of the timber gallery steps and the supports, the gallery fell away taking Hilda with it. Therese found her own body still on the remaining piece of gallery floor but her legs were hanging down into nothing but flame and scorching hot air. She dragged each leg up onto the platform cautiously, reached into the hole and pulled herself through. Her height meant that by dropping down and holding onto the edge of the hole in the stonework the drop onto the stairs was not enough to hurt her. She even missed landing on the panel she’d dropped through not long before. Picking it up, she ran down the winding stairs and was soon out in the kitchen yard. There was no sign of Agnes, Eric or the rest of the panels, but a spark from the sewing room had clearly reached the dry kitchen building and it was already afire. So she turned into the cloister.

  It was full of builders with buckets of soil and water trying to douse the flames. Among them were the remaining nuns, sleeves rolled up, covered in sweat and filth. Therese looked along the line till she spotted Agnes.

  ‘Where’s Eric?’ she asked her.

  ‘He’s gone in after you, just now. I tried to stop him.’

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘By the chapter house.’

  Therese took Agnes’s bucket and tipped it over herself.

  ‘No, don’t go, Sister,’ Agnes pleaded. ‘I couldn’t bear to lose both of you.’

  One of the builders took off a cloak soaked it in water and gave it to her. Therese took it and went back into the burning building.

  * * *

  Eleanor saw the flames as did the others when they breasted the hillside by the builders’ camp. It was deserted and they could hear the shouts of many men and women trying to fig
ht the fire at the priory. It had clearly not reached the gatehouse or the church. Bishop Odon rushed out ahead rapidly followed by Eleanor and the others. Still she dared not utter the name of her charge. At the stream a human chain was formed bucketing water and handing it along to the priory.

  Once through the gatehouse she dismounted and ran into the cloister where the most noise was coming from. The sound of crackling and the roar of a hungry fire crowded out normal speech. Everyone was shouting instructions, but it was being done with a stoic orderliness.

  ‘Abbess Eleanor,’ called someone from the line.

  Eleanor turned and looked. It was a tall nun. She did not know her well, but guessed it was probably Sister Agnes. ‘Yes, Sister,’ she replied.

  ‘Sister Therese is in there,’ said Sister Agnes.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Bishop Odon. He was at Eleanor’s shoulder. ‘Who’s in there?’

  Eleanor felt as if the fire itself had rushed through her and torched her mind and body. Her spirit was burnt out. She walked towards the flames. Odon stopped her.

  Chapter 23

  Odon saw Edgar rush towards the burning building, but before the young man could enter it the stooped figure of Therese came out. Her cloak formed a halo of flames above her head. She flung it off, but her habit had also caught fire. Edgar pushed her to the ground and rolled her in the soil of the unplanted garden in the centre of the cloister. He kicked dust over her hem.

  The Bishop started to go over to her. At least, he thought, she’d had the good sense to save herself. As he helped her up she opened her arms and a boy ran out, his whole being blackened by smoke. Abbess Eleanor was the other side of Therese and the girl collapsed into her arms. Odon felt rage grip him. How dare this boy endanger Therese! ‘Arrest the child,’ he directed a guard nearby, and the boy was taken away.

  A horseman rode through the cloisters and into the central area. ‘Your Grace, I have checked the perimeter of the priory and there are panels of embroidery stacked behind the southern wall. The building is well alight, Your Grace. I don’t think it can be saved.’