Brother Edmund picked up the story. “Zeus knew the truth, of course. But Hades was his younger brother, so he could not take Persephone away from him entirely. Zeus worked out an arrangement, that for six months of the year, Persephone would live with her mother and the other six with Hades, her husband. When mother and daughter were reunited, the sun was warm and the plants grew tall. When she was pulled down again, the
plants all died and the cold came, for Demeter always grieved her daughter’s absence, and her defilement by Hades. That is how the ancient Greeks explained the rise and fall of the seasons.”
My cousin Mary clapped her hands, as delighted as a child. “You tell it almost as well as my brother, Surrey, and he’s a poet. You are most erudite. Please stay with me for a few days at least—I’d so enjoy your company.”
Brother Edmund flushed. Perhaps he’d never been praised by a beautiful young woman before. I felt a strange twinge.
Mary’s eyes were on me, and she smiled mischievously.
“What will happen to you, Joanna, if the priories are all dissolved?” she asked. “Will you cease being a nun altogether?”
“I haven’t given it any thought,” I said.
She said, “I suppose I should tell you that both my brother and I follow the teachings of religious reform. The king wished it.”
Stricken with disappointment, I said, “You know why I was sent to the Tower, don’t you, Cousin? In May I went to Smithfield.”
She bowed her head. “Poor Aunt Margaret. Yes, you were the only one brave enough to do that, you and your father.” She raised her head, curious. “Where is your father now?”
“He pays the price of someone who acts according to conscience, not according to ambition,” I snapped at her.
Mary’s eyes flashed. “It’s easy for you to pronounce judgment, Joanna. You don’t attend court, you hide away at Stafford Castle or in your priory; you don’t know what it is like to be in the presence of the king. How angry he becomes, just like that”—she snapped her fingers—“when he is defied. No, you don’t have any idea how fearsome he can be.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I cried. “I know better than anyone how fearsome it is in the presence of King Henry.”
As both Mary and Brother Edmund turned to look at me, shocked, I bit my lip, furious with myself. I couldn’t believe I had revealed so much.
I swung toward the door. “We will leave now,” I said.
“But you’ve just arrived,” she protested, looking at Brother Edmund.
“I’m sorry,” I said firmly.
“Where are you going?” she pouted.
“Malmesbury Abbey,” I said. Brother Edmund winced.
Again, I’d said too much.
“That’s far from here, and the roads are not good,” she said. “You can’t possibly reach it before sundown.”
“We will find an inn halfway between.”
“An
inn
?” she exclaimed, shocked. “What an idea.” She looked Brother Edmund up and down, and another of those mischievous smiles lit up her face. “But then, who am I to interfere in your plans, Cousin Joanna?”
Now I was as embarrassed as Brother Edmund.
She walked us through the castle, her lady-in-waiting shadowing us. At the front entrance she called to another servant, “Send for Luke, at once.” She said to us: “You must have a guide to Malmesbury; this boy of mine knows the roads very well.”
“But we may not return this way,” said Brother Edmund.
“He can find his way back from anywhere,” she said.
When the boy appeared, I recognized him as the towheaded lad who’d taken our horses. “Luke, do you know the way to Malmesbury Abbey?” she called out.
“Aye, Your Grace,” he said, fingering a lock of his hair as if he were a serf of the manor.
“Then be of service to these people,” she ordered. “Take a swift horse.”
We said our good-byes. Mary watched us from her doorway as we mounted the horses, now followed by both John and Luke. I waved to her one last time, and we started off. I could hear the creaking noise of the chains of the descending portcullis as it crashed back down on the drawbridge.
I pulled up my horse close to Brother Edmund’s.
“So what did you make of the tapestry?” I asked.
“There are similarities to the other one, from the requiem feast. A young woman falls prey to a man and is saved, at least in part, by an older person, a family figure.”
“What could that have to do with the Athelstan crown?” I was careful to keep my voice low.
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“Do you think the other Dartford tapestry,
at Lambeth, would tell us more? The one with all of the sisters? Perhaps that is the one Sister Helen intended for me to see. It would seem much more relevant to the priory. Stopping here, to view this one, seems not to have borne fruit.”
Brother Edmund thought for a moment. “Do not be certain of that. I think that in choosing these stories, Sister Helen was trying to say something about an ongoing struggle she knew of at the priory, between earthly desires and salvation, perhaps between good and evil itself.”
I shivered, but it was not because of the cold.
40
W
e
reached the town of Amesbury after sundown. My cousin had been correct about traveling difficulties; we moved slowly through Wiltshire until we reached a main road running between London and Exeter. Amesbury, with its parish church and small market, was on that road, and it boasted a fine inn for travelers, Luke said.
Brother Edmund and I trudged inside the establishment. It was surprisingly large and had a high, whitewashed ceiling. The owner greeted us at the door, with a worried expression.
“My name is Edmund Sommerville; my sister and I seek lodgings,” said Brother Edmund. “We will require two rooms, and stabling for our horses and barn quarters for two male servants. We are ready to pay your rates.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir, we have only one room left in the inn.”
This was a surprise. We’d had no trouble securing separate rooms at any inn thus far, since it was not a popular time of year for travel.
“There is still a Benedictine abbey in our town, although I hate to turn away business,” said the innkeeper. “They are good monks, committed to hospitality. You could send one of your servants to see if they have rooms to spare.”
Brother Edmund shook his head. It had been decided before we left that we could not stay in any religious houses, for fear that we would in some accidental fashion reveal ourselves.
“Ah, you do not favor the old ways. I am sorry I suggested that,” the innkeeper said, flustered.
Brother Edmund sighed. “Do not be troubled. I am willing to pay you extra; do you truly have but one room?”
The innkeeper picked at his hands. “I wish I could oblige you. We have a large party
here tonight. Brother and sister have shared a room before; the quarters are spacious, and I can have an extra pallet brought in.”
I nudged Brother Edmund. “We can’t go back on the road. We can make do with one room.”
“Very well,” he said.
Relieved, the innkeeper said, “We serve hot meals right through the archway—it’s no tavern, so it would be a proper environment for your sister. At no cost to you, allow us to serve hot fish pie and ale.”
That did sound a great deal more tempting than a hunk of cold bread from our saddle.
The side room, set with a half-dozen wooden tables, was as pleasant as promised. A fresh fire blazed. Within minutes we were devouring the steaming hot pies. A servant set down mugs of cold ale.
“Not the same sort of drink as served by the dowager duchess, though, is it?” Brother Edmund asked, smiling.
I shrugged. “It tastes fine.”
Brother Edmund regarded me thoughtfully over the table.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I find it remarkable, your temperament, Sister Joanna. At the priory, and now during our arduous travel, you have not once complained of any hardship or inconvenience.”
“Do not we all forsake comforts and worldly pomp when we adopt a religious life?” I asked.
“Yes. However, having met your kin, it is all the more singular to me, the way you conduct yourself.”
I felt a glow of pleasure.
“I thought you admired the dowager duchess,” I said shyly.
He smiled and said, “She is not the sort of woman a Dominican friar would admire.”
“Does a friar admire any woman?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. Brother Edmund, to my amazement, looked embarrassed.
There was a commotion in the entrance area, followed by the sounds of men’s voices. A moment later, we were joined by the most extraordinary group. A dozen men found places to sit, each of them wearing the robes of a monk or a friar. But not of the same order. They were Benedictines
mostly, but I also saw two Franciscans and an Augustinian. The only order noticeably missing was our own, the Dominicans.
The most unusual-looking one of them was a Cistercian monk. Wearing a white habit and black scapular, the man had pale skin, light-blue eyes, and a fringe of white hair, though he could not have been more than thirty-five years of age. With a shock I realized he must be an albino.
The Cistercian sat at a table nearest to us. Brother Edmund could not take his eyes off the group.
“I bid you greetings on this fair evening.” His voice was mellifluous. “I am Brother Oswald.”
Seeing that Brother Edmund was struck dumb by this party of monastics, I said, “Greetings, Brother. We are Joanna and Edmund Sommerville, traveling from Kent on family business.”
He smiled. “It is a pleasure to meet such a fine couple. How long have you been married?”
“We are not married,” Brother Edmund said. “She is my younger sister.”
Brother Oswald’s eyes flicked back and forth, no doubt noticing our complete lack of resemblance. “Ah, very good,” he said, in the same sweet voice. He took a long draft of the ale put before him. “Brothers, are we not fortunate? Is God not smiling on us? First to hear Mass at a blessed church, then to return to this inn and partake of a generous meal, and now to meet kind strangers, a brother and sister also on the road of travel.”
The rest of the men looked over at us and smiled, with great friendliness.
“What is your destination?” asked Brother Edmund.
Brother Oswald smiled. “Divine truth,” he said.
“Amen, Brother, amen,” shouted the other men in the room.
“We have a spiritual destination,” said Brother Oswald. “We travel this country, looking for it. We are no longer able to seek it in the abbeys. You see, our homes have all been dissolved by the king’s command. We were forced to leave. But that is no impediment. No, no, no. We have come together—drawn together is another way to describe it—to travel as one. Someday we will find the answer to how best to serve God, how
best to live the rest of our days here on earth. We will yet perceive His intentions in allowing the dissolution of the religious orders of England.”
Brother Edmund looked
down at the table; his thin shoulders quivered. I feared he would lose control of himself in front of all.
“May I ask a question?” I asked, quickly.
“Of course, Mistress Sommerville.”
I winced. It was shameful to deceive a man like Brother Oswald with false names. But I pushed on. “Do you go from church to church, traveling through England, seeking enlightenment through prayer?”
“We attend Mass whenever possible,” he answered. “But we also look for God in the forests, in the fields, in the marketplaces, in any place where His wisdom could be found. We have come here, to Amesbury, to make a pilgrimage to an ancient site. It is one of the oldest places on earth. Have you heard of it? Of Stonehenge?”
I tensed in my seat. “Is it nearby?”
“Oh, yes. I believe this inn chiefly houses those who’ve come to look upon it.”
As a child I’d heard terrifying tales of Stonehenge, that it was a temple built by a race of Irish giants, many centuries ago. “But isn’t that a place of druid worship?” I asked.
“We open our minds and our hearts to any sign of God, Mistress Sommerville, and we have heard that God sometimes speaks to the faithful at dawn at Stonehenge.”
Brother Edmund looked up. “At dawn?” he asked, his voice thick.
Brother Oswald studied Brother Edmund. The Cistercian’s pale-blue eyes lingered on his hat, as if he detected the tonsured head beneath it.
“Do you want to join our morning pilgrimage?” he asked gently. “It is walking distance from here. We will leave shortly before sunrise.”
“Oh, no, we are not worthy to accompany you,” Brother Edmund said.
Brother Oswald smiled. “All are worthy, in God’s love,” he said. “And although I have just met you here tonight, I feel strongly that you and your kind sister are meant to come with us.”
Brother Edmund looked at me. “If you wish it, we will go,” I said. He nodded, grateful.
We made arrangements to meet Brother Oswald and the others before dawn. Most had paid for rooms, but Brother Oswald and two others would sleep on the ground in the stables, he explained. It was what he desired; Brother Oswald, a true Cistercian, had not slept in a bed since taking his vows as a teenager.
Brother Edmund and I climbed the stairs to our one room. I opened the door. It was a large space. The innkeeper had, as promised, placed a pallet on the floor, opposite the bed, heaped with blankets. There was even a fire.
Brother Edmund hesitated at the door. “I feel more strongly than ever that this is not fit,” he said. “I can sleep in the stables, with Brother Oswald, and John and Luke.”
“But look at all this space,” I protested. “I cannot take it all for myself.”
After a long, uncomfortable silence, he said, “Very well. But we must hang a blanket beside the bed, to give you greater privacy.”
Brother Edmund was able to rig a blanket to shield us from each other. I pulled down the blanket atop my bed and crawled under. Fully concealed, I undid my skirt and bodice and put them on top of the blanket. I wore only my shift.
I couldn’t hear anything in the room but the crackling of the fire.
“Good night, Brother Edmund,” I said nervously.
There was silence for a long time. I had begun to think he’d fallen asleep when I heard Brother Edmund’s voice. “Good night, Sister Joanna.”