The Nun's Tale (22 page)

Matthew shrugged. ‘I imagine him there, but as I say, I have heard nothing from him in his new life. I address my communications with the Percies to the castle, but that means naught.’ He touched Owen’s arm as he began to move towards the door. ‘If you see Hugh, tell him his mother has passed on, if you will. It seems right that he should know not to expect her if he ever returns. And tell him – tell him we are well.’

Owen walked back through the grand hall, turning his head this way and that to see around him the lovely tapestries, the delicate tracery in the windows, the carved, high backed chairs, the solid table tops hung between the tapestries, ready to be brought down for feasts. Someone had worked hard to make the room pleasant. Anne Calverley on her lucid days? Was she aware of her changeable nature? Was Joanna? Had Joanna seen her mother’s moods and wondered whether she would be the same? And if she had, had she feared it?

Owen, Louth and the canon’s men were to spend the night at the guest house of Kirkstall Abbey. As they rode into the outer court of the abbey, Louth became animated, pointing out the tannery, the fulling mill, the brew house. ‘The Cistercians have perfected the self-contained community. They have everything here. They use every resource available. You will find all the latest techniques practised here.’

‘You are thinking of giving up your prebends and joining the order?’

Louth looked at Owen askance. ‘Of course not. What gave you that idea?’

They rode through the inner gatehouse into the inner court, Louth still pointing out the wonders of the Cistercian design. Owen was glad when, after they were shown to a chamber in the guest house, Louth took his leave to go explore with his squire.

In the main hall of the guest house, Owen met a traveller
en route
to York with a scar on his hand that drew and bothered him like the scar on Owen’s face. Seeing an opportunity, Owen gave the traveller a sample of the ointment he carried, specially prepared by Lucie, and promised him a jar of it if he delivered a letter to Lucie. The traveller found the trade more than fair. Owen found a quiet corner in the hall and spent the late afternoon writing to Lucie, telling her all he had learned that day from Matthew Calverley. It helped him organise his thoughts.

J
oanna stared with such ferocity that Lucie could not help but look away from the penetrating eyes. ‘For pity’s sake, what have I done to warrant this?’ Lucie asked.

Joanna just stared. This morning she made no other response.

Lucie tried to take Joanna’s hands. Joanna pulled them away.

‘I come here as your friend,’ Lucie protested. ‘I want to help.’

Now the eyes flickered. ‘You talk to me for
them,
not for me.’

Lucie’s heart pounded. Two spots of colour high on Joanna’s pale cheeks bespoke her agitation. Best not to lie to her. ‘His Grace and the Reverend Mother are worried about you.’

Joanna shook her head slowly, tauntingly. ‘They are jealous of me. Not just those two, all of them. The abbot, Sir Richard, Sir Nicholas.’

Lucie pressed her knuckle to her brow, searching for a reply that would not anger Joanna, but encourage her to talk. ‘Of what are they jealous?’

Tears welled up in Joanna’s eyes. ‘I am alone but for Our Lady’s love.’

‘We all mean to help you,’ Lucie said gently.

Joanna blotted her eyes with the sleeve of her chemise. Today the mantle was folded neatly beside her. ‘Do you remember what Christ said to Mary Magdalene when she saw Him walking near His tomb?’

Lucie nodded. ‘You told me once. “
Noli me tangere.
” ’ But last time talk of Hugh had brought it up.

‘After Mary Magdalene had loved Him so, mourned Him so, she was not to touch Him. He is cruel.’

Good Lord. How had they come to this? ‘I do not think that was the point,’ Lucie said. ‘He was risen. He –’

Joanna shook her head. ‘No! It
is
the point. It is
always
the point.’

Lucie threw up her hands. ‘What are you telling me?’

‘I am telling you nothing.’ Joanna folded her arms over her chest and turned away.

Lucie rose stiffly, walked to the window, massaging her left shoulder. When she spoke with Joanna it was as if she held her breath and tensed for a blow. She worried over each word, each gesture, hoping that what she said or did would not upset the awkward, fragile balance they had achieved.

Speaking with Joanna, picking her way with such care, drained Lucie of energy. And today Joanna seemed worse than ever. Dame Isobel had warned Lucie that Joanna’s agitation had increased with frightening results. The past evening Joanna had thrown a heavy cup at the maid, Mary, cutting her above the eye.

Lucie felt lost. How was it that Joanna saw herself as both Mary Magdalene and a virgin? It was as unlikely a combination as Lucie could imagine. What was the point?
He is cruel
. Joanna’s lover?

Lucie returned to her seat by Joanna. ‘Has someone told you not to touch him?’

Joanna cocked her head to one side. ‘You are with child.’

Lucie realised she had been pressing her stomach with one hand, her lower back with the other. She clasped her hands behind her back. Letting Joanna know something so intimate bothered Lucie, a feeling she recognised as hypocritical when she was trying to discover such intimacies about Joanna. ‘Does what Christ said to Mary Magdalene remind you of something that happened to you?’

‘Do you know about St Sebastian?’

Lucie closed her eyes, took a deep breath. She wanted nothing so much as to shake Joanna, make her stop playing this game. But they needed answers. ‘He is the patron saint of archers.’

‘What do you know of archers?’

‘What do
you
know?’

‘My brother Hugh had a seal that showed St Sebastian with the arrows piercing his body.’

‘His seal was that of an archer?’

‘Not his.’ Joanna frowned. ‘So? What can you tell me of archers?’

‘The Welsh longbowmen have won many a battle for the King.’

‘How would you know that?’

‘My husband is one. Was one. He was captain of archers for Henry, Duke of Lancaster. Who used the seal of St Sebastian, Joanna?’

Joanna closed her eyes. ‘I thought I might go to France.’

Lucie clutched her hands behind her, afraid she would strike Joanna in frustration. ‘Go to France with whom?’

A long pause. ‘Will Longford seemed a kind man. He gave me wine when I was so cold. I’d been caught in a storm.’

‘When you took the relic to him?’

Joanna sat up suddenly, her eyes wide open. ‘The wine was a sleep potion. So that I would sleep while he thought what to do with me. And then the potion he gave me for my burial. To keep me still. It was too strong. For days they could not wake me.’

‘Who, Joanna?’

Joanna shook her head and suddenly lay down, pulled the covers up to her chin. ‘Must sleep now. It poisons me yet.’

Lucie leaned against the door of the abbey guest house, letting the sun and the summer breeze caress her face. She was glad that she had followed her inclination this morning and rejected the wimple. She wore instead a short, light veil that let the breeze cool her neck. She felt the heat so much more this summer. The babe in her womb warmed her. She noticed Daimon up on the abbey’s river wall. Without Sir Robert. Daimon must have tired of kneeling with his master in the abbey church. Lucie looked up at the sun. Quite early. Sir Robert would not be expecting her yet. If Daimon would agree to keep a secret from Sir Robert, he could escort Lucie to Magda Digby’s house. Lucie could talk with Magda and return with enough time to get back to the shop. She needed Magda’s advice about Joanna.

Lucie asked the hospitaller how she might get up to Daimon on the wall.

Brother Oswald looked at her with horror. ‘I shall send someone up to him.’

Lucie smiled reassuringly. ‘There is no need. I would rather go myself.’

The monk shook his head. ‘Forgive me, Mistress Wilton, but I cannot permit you to go up there.’

In the end, Brother Oswald sent a boy up to Daimon, who came down chattering enthusiastically about the river traffic.

Lucie used his interest to coax him into going to Magda Digby’s hut. ‘It sits on a rock at the edge of the river.’

Daimon grinned. ‘I should like to see it.’

‘You agree that we need not disturb Sir Robert?’

Daimon readily consented.

They were soon making their way down to the riverbank through the paupers’ camps that clustered outside the abbey’s beggars’ gate. ‘I see why Sir Robert would not like us coming here. Why do folk live like this?’ Having grown up on the manor, Daimon had never seen such poverty.

‘The reasons are as countless as the stars, Daimon. Some come to the city to disappear, some have been given false hopes of riches, some have lost their land through no fault of their own. Others have lived like this through so many generations they know no other way. In a city it can be difficult to feed yourself. You must pay for food or trade for it. Jasper de Melton, the boy who is to be my apprentice, could tell you how hard it is to find food on the streets of the city.’

Daimon looked round at the makeshift huts, the rats that scurried underfoot, fat and aggressive, the ragged people, skinny and despondent, then back at the walls of the abbey and those of the city beyond. ‘But these people are not even in the city.’

Lucie nodded. ‘And once they have lived here, it is difficult to find their way through the gates.’

Daimon’s shoulders slumped; his steps lost their spring.

Lucie was glad to see Magda’s house up ahead. ‘Look, Daimon. There, just at the water’s edge.’

The queer home of Magda Digby crouched on a rock. The hut was built with the beams and planks of old boats, with an overturned Viking ship for a roof. The Riverwoman sat outside the door, in the shade of the dragon at the Viking ship’s prow. The dragon leered upside down at the approaching visitors. Magda wore her usual patchwork gown. Her grizzled hair was tucked up into a cap, leaving her neck bare. As they drew closer, Lucie saw that Magda was mending a fishing net.

‘Are you about to cast it out, Magda?’

‘Nay. ’Tis late in the tide to catch a worthy fish this morning. Magda will fish by moonlight.’ The old woman’s intense blue eyes studied Daimon. ‘Thou hast brought a soldier, eh? Dost thou carry such evil news thou’rt fearful Magda will attack thee?’

Lucie laughed and sat down on the bench beside the Riverwoman. Daimon stood and looked round, uncertain where to place himself.

Magda squinted up at the lad. ‘Thou’rt Daimon, son of Adam, steward at Freythorpe Hadden.’

Daimon looked frightened. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Magda brought thee into the world of men.’

‘But babies all look the same.’

Magda shrugged. ‘Not to Magda. Thou also lookst the image of thy father.’

Daimon relaxed. ‘You know my father?’

‘Aye. A good, brave man. Magda made a salve for thy father’s shoulder when first he came here from the wars. And she taught Dame Phillippa how to press and pull and loosen thy father’s shoulder joint.’

‘Why have I never met you?’

Magda shrugged. ‘When Midwife Paddy lived upriver, Magda did not have as much work as now, got around more. Now Magda goes away for a day and a night, folk are camped out on the rock when she returns.’ She shook her head.

‘Why do you use a ship for your roof?’

‘Ever ready for a flood, eh?’ Magda gave a barking laugh. ‘Thou needst a stool. Hie thee within, bring out what suits thee.’

When Daimon had gone into the hut, Magda put down her mending and touched Lucie’s check. ‘Thou’rt hot-blooded with this child. A good sign.’

‘I was worried.’

‘Then cease thy worry.’ The sharp eyes studied Lucie. ‘How does Sir Robert?’

Lucie wondered what Magda read on her face. ‘He is well enough.’

‘And Joanna Calverley?’

Lucie glanced round for Daimon. She was uncertain how much to say in front of him.

Magda noted her hesitation. ‘The lad will tarry a while. He has the wide-eyed look of a child. He will explore Magda’s treasures. Thou canst talk freely.’

Magda had arranged a private talk just by sending Daimon in for a stool. Lucie smiled. ‘You are the one who should talk with Joanna. You would plot a course to coax more out of her than I shall ever hear.’

Magda wagged her head from side to side. ‘Oh, thou’rt such a bungler, indeed. ’Tis of course why the crow and the squirrel wish thee to speak with Joanna.’

Lucie paused. The crow, she knew, was the archbishop. The squirrel – ah! – Dame Isobel, with her chubby cheeks and fussy little hands. Lucie laughed until tears blurred her vision and her stomach began to cramp. Magda watched her with a secret smile. ‘What is it?’ Lucie asked.

‘Thou dost so little of that. Laughter from deep within.’ Magda touched the thin veil. ‘This suits thee. Leave the wimple and gorget till thou’rt a crone, child. Thou hast lost one husband, but won another. Thou’rt neither a widow now nor yet a crone. Dance in thy beauty while thee may. But Magda wanders. What is the trouble with Joanna Calverley?’