Authors: Cassandra Clark
“No promise of rain tomorrow,” agreed Sister Marianne, passing a platter to her. “It’s getting serious.”
They were all well aware that in many parts of the county cattle were dying, people were succumbing to a strange falling sickness and the wandering preachers were predicting the end of the world as usual. Even here in the dale, despite the lush grass on the banks of the stream, the meadow was beginning to look parched and they were starting to worry about the crops. Most evenings now they were forced to fetch water from the stream to feed the plants in the kitchen garden.
“It’ll be a good thing when Dunstan gets the sheep away to summer pasture,” remarked Hildegard.
They sat in silence for a while. A shrike was heard in the woods. A fox barked.
The two girls were visible over the picket fence bordering the garden. Petronilla’s lips were moving but she was too far off for her words to be audible.
When it was clear no one else was going to bring the subject up Agnetha flung out her arms and exclaimed, “So? What are we to make of them?” She turned to Hildegard. “What do you think, sister?”
Hildegard shook her head. She had had a word with Petronilla but had only learned all over again about the guardian from whom she had absconded.
“And the heiress is serious about joining us?” asked Marianne sceptically. She was the eldest of the four, sold into the nunnery when she was nine but, it seemed, with no regrets.
“She’s a puzzle, isn’t she?” Agnetha commented.
Hildegard was quiet while the three others speculated on the nature of the guardian who had presumably tried to marry her off in order to increase his own fortune. It would be the old story, they agreed. A headstrong young girl coming into a sudden inheritance and resenting being told what to do with it. No doubt such wealth represented ribbons and fine clothes. Not the sober prospect of marriage to a probably older man, a widower even, followed by the task of running his household and bearing his children.
“Maybe she imagines we’re like the Gilbertines at Watton,” mused Marianne. “She’ll expect to be able to take a little lapdog into mass and play the lady. If she thinks that she’ll have another think coming if she stays at Swyne.”
“Or with us,” murmured Agnetha. “We’re not living out here in Deepdale for that.”
Hildegard let them talk without contributing anything. It was little Maud who worried her.
* * *
Neither girl, it transpired, had ever been to York, the great capital of the north.
Both of them had emerged a few minutes later from the kitchen garden with full baskets to join everyone else under the vine trellis. The bread and cheese was passed around and beakers refilled with small ale.
At first the conversation dwelt on matters to do with the grange, but when somebody mentioned York and the forthcoming Corpus Christi pageant to be held there, Petronilla announced that her father’s lands had been miles from any interesting town, let alone York, the greatest city in the world.
“Excepting possibly Jerusalem,” she added. “I have, in fact, ventured as far as London, a very fine place too, in its way. It was when I was ten. Father took me to see the coronation of King Richard.”
She described how she had been held up above the heads of the crowd so she could have a better view. “So close,” she said, “I could almost touch the king’s robes as he went by. He was such a beautiful boy, all dressed in white silk and jewels and riding a little white horse caparisoned in gold and silver. He was dazzling! And, in fact,” she lowered her voice as if to impart a secret, “we were so close to the king that a man standing next to us caught one of the gold leaves that the four maidens in the towers threw down as he passed underneath the arch. And he gave it to me! I have it still. Or had,” she corrected, “but sadly I had to leave it behind when I fled.”
She turned to Maud. “Have you ever been to London, Maud?”
Maud shook her head.
In a tone clearly showing she judged herself more interesting than anyone else, Petronilla continued. “Of course, at that time I was a mere child and I—”
“Seven years ago,” Hildegard interrupted, “so that makes you seventeen, the same age as the king himself?” Her expression was enigmatic.
“Not quite. His birthday’s at Epiphany and mine isn’t until midsummer’s day.”
“Soon, then.”
Petronilla looked thoughtful, but before Hildegard could say anything else she started up again. “To have witnessed such a magnificent spectacle as the coronation,” she continued in awed tones, “fountains running with wine, the beautiful boy-king, the rapturous cheering of the crowds, that’s something that has impressed itself on my mind forever!”
She paused for breath, but before her audience could contribute anything she was off again. “I tormented myself over how I could ever become Queen of England. It seemed hopeless. I was in complete despair! What chance did I have, hidden in my moated grange! It was a living death! To die unknown and unseen! That’s when I determined to make my escape as soon as I was old enough and—”
“So that’s why you ran away!” Agnetha broke in with a kind smile. “Not to escape your guardian but to become Queen of England? It’s a pity then about Anne of Bohemia!”
Petronilla’s eyes flashed for a moment but then she burst into peals of laughter, along with everyone else. “It does sound ridiculous now, I grant you! But I was only…” she hesitated, “I was only … I was only ten, don’t forget. I knew nothing. I was far too young to know it would be impossible.”
“And now I suppose you know everything, you scamp.” Agnetha had the air of rescuing her. She seemed to have taken a liking to her, despite her vanity.
Hildegard studied her carefully. The girl was never seventeen.
Maud, as usual, admitted to very little.
They returned to the original question.
No, she had never been to York.
An animal suddenly shrieked from the undergrowth. Maud gave a little jump and a cry of alarm escaped her. Hildegard patted the back of her hand. “It’s nothing,” she reassured her. “A fox finding its midday repast. Aren’t you used to the countryside?”
She didn’t reply.
“I thought perhaps you might have always lived in a town where sounds are more human and familiar?” Hildegard persisted.
Maud shook her head. With an effort she muttered something about being used to the country.
Petronilla interrupted again. “We’re miles from anywhere. That’s why we were sent here. But I still expect my guardian to come crashing after me with his men-at-arms. He’s bound to track me down. But if he does I shall tell him I won’t go with him. I want to stay and be a nun. You’ll support me in this, sister, I trust?”
“I will indeed if that’s your honest desire,” replied Hildegard.
It was going to take time to get Maud’s trust. The poor child was a bag of nerves. Somehow she had brought a sense of unease with her. It was like a dark cloud over Deepdale.
It was true the grange was well hidden.
A path led back down the valley alongside a beck, although the sound of water bubbling over the rocks was inaudible from where they sat. A few miles downstream was a vill surrounded by arable strips belonging to another manor. Then came woodland and after that open countryside and the Vale of York. At the back of the house they had stables, at present without horses, and there were a couple of store-sheds and beyond those the sheep pens. The path crossed the bottom of the meadow and snaked all the way to the cliff at dale head and only petered out in the vast desolation of the moors.
Several shepherds lived up there, their own man Dunstan included. They seemed inured to the privations of such inhospitable terrain. Winter and summer alike, the men tended the flocks belonging to different owners, some to the Abbey at Meaux, some to Roger de Hutton, yet others to more distant lords. Dunstan, a tall, vigorous fellow with straggly fair hair and far-seeing blue eyes like the rest of the Dalesmen, kept himself to himself. On the rare occasions when he had anything to say to the nuns he stood a few paces off with arms folded across his chest, offering no sign of deference. Two sheep dogs shadowed him wherever he went.
When Hildegard took the tenancy she had been told that Dunstan had tended sheep in Deepdale all his life, like his father and his grandfather, and even when the buildings had been left derelict for many years he had continued to tend the sheep. By law, of course, the flock belonged to Lord Roger de Hutton, who granted rights in the wool crop to Hildegard and her sisters. In essence, however, it was owned by Dunstan. They were well aware of that and let him get on with the job without interference.
Now the shearmen had finished it was time to bring the sheep down to start on the long journey to their summer pasture at Frismersk on the banks of the Humber. They would reach their destination on the first day of July, shortly after the Feast of Corpus Christi.
Hildegard rose to her feet. “If you girls have finished your bread and cheese, maybe you’d like to come and help me catch some fish for supper?”
* * *
The upper waters of the stream lay across a meadow filled with buttercups. When they reached the far side they had to scramble down a grassy bank to the water’s edge. Although shallow, the stream ran fast over many-coloured stones. It was so pure they could see right into it. A waterfall cascaded in a noisy slash of white down the limestone crag above. Both girls gave a gasp as they caught sight of it through the trees. Over the centuries the force had worn a smooth basin where fish liked to gather. It was secluded enough for the nuns to use as a bathing pool.
Here, just where the stream narrowed, they set a net from one bank to the other. With trees growing self-coppiced on both sides the grove was filled with the constant murmuring of wood pigeons.
Petronilla pulled off her boots and slipped her feet into the cold water as soon as the net was set. For once she had stopped talking as if in awe of the serenity of the place. As silent as ever even Maud undid her laces and tugged off her boots, cautiously dangling her toes over the edge of the rock where she was sitting. Her hood was still up. Hildegard waded into the shallows to adjust the net, then went back to sit on the bank beside her.
They sat for some time in silence. The echoing grove enwrapped them in a drowsy cocoon.
* * *
Hildegard opened her eyes. The grove was filling with shadows. She realised she must have fallen asleep.
Maud was trailing a stick in the water and Petronilla was standing knee-deep in the pool trying to catch fish in her cupped palms. The choirs of birds had fallen silent. A flock of starlings rose abruptly with a beating of wings and flew off.
Hildegard gave a quick glance round. There was something amiss. It made her skin prickle. Torn between the desire to stay where she was and a sense of unease she got up to investigate. Now that the birds had flown the silence of the grove seemed strangely ominous.
A swift inspection revealed nothing alarming, so she scrambled to the top of the bank. The grange lay on the far side of the meadow. It glimmered peacefully in the afternoon sun.
Then she noticed a glint of something close to one of the barns. As she watched it flashed again. There were several horses in the yard. It was the winking of sunlight off the buckles of their harness that had caught her eye. Of their owners there was no sign.
Before she could move she heard a burst of shouting from the direction of the house. It was followed by a distant crash. A man came running outside. He crossed the yard. Deciding she had better take a closer look she slid down the bank to retrieve her boots. Maud scrambled to her feet in alarm when she noticed her haste.
“Stay here,” Hildegard told her. “We have visitors. I’m going up to see who it is.”
Maud didn’t reply but she was already thrusting her wet feet inside her boots.
Hildegard climbed back up the bank to the meadow. More shouting became audible. One of the voices was Agnetha’s. The one that answered was male. To Hildegard’s alarm a plume of smoke suddenly rose from the hayloft above the stable.
A second man appeared. He came from inside the house. Sunlight glinted off the sword he carried. By now flames were beginning to shoot from the roof of the stable in thickening plumes. Hildegard’s first thought, after the shock of seeing an armed man in their yard, was thank heavens we have no horses. Her second was for her hounds. They were both chained inside to keep them out of harm’s way when the flock came down. She began to run.
Petronilla, barefoot, was scrambling up the bank behind her and gave a shriek.
Hildegard glanced over her shoulder. “Get back into the trees!” she ordered. “Stay out of sight until I tell you to come out!” Bunching the hem of her habit in both hands, she started to sprint across the meadow towards the barn.
* * *
She had just reached the kitchen garden when a man appeared between the standing canes of beans. As soon as he saw her he took long strides to bar her way. In the moment it takes to assess danger she noticed a mail shirt under his black linen tunic and something white at his throat. He wore a leather casque with a guard over his nose concealing the upper part of his face, the lower part hidden by a thick beard. In his hand he too carried a sword.
Through the slits in the casque his eyes appeared very bright but without warmth or welcome. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded without any preamble.
“More to the point: Who are you?” she answered tartly.
He forced her to a halt. “Are there any more of you?”
“What’s it to you?”
He raised his sword. “I don’t like your manner—”
She stepped back. “I’m not keen on yours either. What are you doing on our property?”
Out of the corners of her eyes she realised that the bean canes had been broken and the plants, so carefully tended, now lay in tangled heaps. Rage surged through her. But her focus remained warily on the knight.
He continued to wave his sword about, barring her way, so she sidestepped, taking him by surprise, and ran on briskly into the yard. She knew he had followed her when she felt something snag at her skirt. Before she could turn she was jerked to a stop, but finding that the stranger was trying to drag her back towards the garden she kicked him with the back of her heel under his kneecap. He was not wearing greaves and the blow made him flinch away with an oath, but he regained the initiative by grabbing the front of her habit and spinning her round to face him.