The Novice's Tale (Oxford Medieval Mysteries Book 2) Page 16

  ‘She was a professed nun, not a novice?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘A professed nun.’

  ‘Let us hope Emma Thorgold does not run the risk of excommunication,’ Jordain said, crossing himself.

  ‘Any other cases?’ I said.

  ‘One much nearer our own time,’ Philip said, ‘just fifty years ago. A girl who was forced by her stepfather into Haverholme. That’s a daughter house of Sempringham. He too wished to deprive her of her inheritance, and he seems to have persuaded the nuns of Sempringham to claim that she entered the nunnery willingly, but when it came to the point, they would not swear to the truth of their assertions on oath. It seems the girl won her right to leave. I have also come across some instances of oblates entered at early childhood, who declared that it was against their will and were able to escape final vows.’

  ‘That is very encouraging,’ Jordain said, smiling at Philip.

  I felt vindicated. I had been certain that a skilled lawyer would be able to ferret out precedents that would serve us well in court.

  ‘Will you cite these cases to the abbess, Philip?’

  ‘If it seems useful at this point. Perhaps I should merely say that there are legal precedents that make it wise to delay Sister Benedicta’s final vows until a court has examined the arguments on both sides. It would be far less embarrassing for the abbey if a novice were to be allowed to leave quietly than if one of their professed nuns were to bring a case against her stepfather in Chancery, in which the abbey’s complicity would be a matter of public debate.’

  ‘Argued like a true lawyer.’ I grinned at him. ‘I think Emma’s man of law should be able to persuade the abbess by such arguments. Best for everyone that the matter is conducted with quiet dignity.’

  ‘Best also,’ Jordain pointed out, ‘that you should stop referring to the girl as Emma Thorgold. Within the walls of the abbey she is known as Sister Benedicta, and it would be discourteous to speak of her in any other way.’

  ‘I stand corrected,’ I said. ‘Sister Benedicta it shall be,’

  When we reached the branch off St Giles to Woodstock it became necessary to ride in single file, so it was too difficult to continue our conversation. We rode on in silence but briskly, and it was only as we neared the village of Wolvercote that we realised that something was amiss. Instead of being occupied about their trades or their farm work, the villagers were moving in twos and threes along the edges of the fields or making their way into the patches of woodland, some calling, some poking into the undergrowth with sticks. A few farm dogs bustled about, not seeming to be of much use and getting in everyone’s way.

  Crossing the bridge, I saw that the wide gates of the abbey stood open instead of the usual narrow wicket. John Barnes stood just inside, talking in agitation to Sister Clemence, who – if such could be said of a holy nun – appeared on the point of slapping him. John stood with his feet wide apart and a belligerent look on his face.

  ‘What’s afoot?’ Jordain murmured to me.

  On the wider ground before the gate we had drawn up our horses side by side.

  ‘I have visited the abbey four times now,’ I muttered, ‘and it has always been tranquil. It seems we come at an inopportune time.’

  I vaulted from my horse and hastily secured him to the hitching ring where I had left him before. Sister Clemence, who had her back to us and took no note of our arrival, shook her fist at John before striding off across the enclave towards the cloister garth with that curious angular stride of hers. To my surprise, John did not appear chastened. He was smiling to himself as he came back toward the gate and caught sight of the three of us.

  ‘Master Elyot,’ he cried, ‘I had forgot that you were to come today. And these gentlemen?’

  ‘Master Jordain Brinkylsworth, Warden of Hart Hall in Oxford, and Master Philip Olney, Fellow of Merton College.’ I did not, for the moment, describe Philip as Sister Benedicta’s man of law. And in truth I had not given thought to how I was to account for Jordain’s presence. I suppose I could introduce him as her cousin William’s tutor and a friend of the family. And of course William was to have become a Junior Fellow of Philip’s college. In some ways the two of them had more right here than I had.

  ‘But John,’ I said, ‘what’s to-do here? As we came through Wolvercote, folk were beating the woods.’

  John drew nearer, looking from me to the other two, who had now dismounted and joined me. The he glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice.

  ‘’Tis Sister Benedicta, Master Elyot. She has disappeared.’

  * * *

  Although the dense bushes of broom kept off some of the rain, it fell so heavily during the night that Emma slept little. The thunder and lightning, although mostly further south, was frightening, out here on the river bank, with so little protection. Jocosa too was frightened, whining and pressing herself up against her mistress in distress. By the morning both girl and dog were even more exhausted and wet than they had been the night before.

  As the overcast dawn brought a lightening of the sky, the rain slackened a little, and the storm appeared to be moving further south, but it seemed they must either stay in the poor shelter afforded by the bushes, or set out in the wake of the storm and make their way further south along the river.

  Emma shared a little of the bread and cheese with Jocosa, but kept back most of it, for fear it might be a long while before she could find anything else to eat. She wished now that she had stolen more from the kitchen. No cloak and little food. She was ill prepared for her escape, but she had intended to take more care over it, not rush away in haste like this, fearing the greater vigilance of the abbey once Nicholas Elyot set afoot his enquiries into the law.

  As she crawled out from under the bushes, however, she saw that the river had already risen considerably higher than the day before, and with all the streams feeding it from the Cotswold hills, it would almost certainly swell even more. The Thames was known for flooding the lower land along its course. She sat cross-legged on the bank and watched the water swirling past, brown with churned up mud. Had she delayed longer, as she had planned, she could never have crossed it, so despite her near drowning, she had been luckier than she might have been. Luckier, perhaps, than she deserved.

  ‘Well, Jocosa,’ she said, ‘I think there is little use in our remaining here. We shall be soaked whether we go or stay, so we’d best be on our way. If we keep following the river downstream, sooner or later we shall reach Oxford. Or so I believe.’ She realised she sounded doubtful, but surely if the boats bringing supplies came up river from Oxford, walking in the opposite direction must bring her eventually to the town.

  Jocosa watched her closely, almost as if she understood. After the night time alarms of the thunderstorm, she looked confident and brave, as if surviving such terrors meant that she was ready for anything her mistress might undertake.

  Emma secured her bundle carefully, making sure that the manuscript pages were still dry and intact. This time, instead of tying it to her waist for security, she made the cord into a loop that she could sling over her shoulder, which made it much less awkward to carry. She tucked the still damp shift through this carrying loop, in the hope that it might dry as she walked. These few preparations completed, she looked about her. One fold of her habit projected from its hiding place, something which she had not noticed in the dark, so she thrust it further in. Otherwise there was nothing to show that she and the dog had spent the night here, apart from the flattened grass under the bushes, which might have been made by some animal taking shelter from the storm.

  They set off. As Emma had half discerned in the night, there were the traces of a path following the bank of the river, although it did not look as though anyone had used it recently. Perhaps when there had been small farms on this side of the river, as John had told her, the path had been used as the way between them, but with the people gone for the last four years it had become overgrown. Still, it was easy enough to follow, even if it
meant skirting clumps of nettles and seedling bushes which had sprung up here and there. She found that she moved much more easily in cotte and hose, freed from the heavy skirts of her habit, but her sandals were poor footgear for walking in, and they soon began to chafe her feet. She would have blisters later.

  The walk seemed interminable. On this side of the river there was nothing but the desolate remains of abandoned farms. Here and there a ruined cottage showed where there had once been a family, tilling the land and herding cattle and sheep. There was nothing to show whether these had been villeins’ holdings, tied to some manor, or the homes of free yeomen, renting their land from an overlord. The thatched roofs of the cottages and barns had already begun to blacken with rot and fall in. Broken doors stood ajar to wind and wild weather, no doubt providing shelter to those very animals she had feared in the night.

  About mid day she was surprised to see a small herd of cattle grazing not far from the path. Perhaps not all the farms were deserted as John had supposed. She stood and debated with herself whether she should approach the house, which was partly hidden behind a copse. She might beg a little food, ask where this was. The thought of food brought consciousness of a growing ache in her stomach. Tentatively she took a few steps toward the house, moving sideways so that she might see it better.

  With a shock she realised that this house too had been abandoned. Why, then, were the cattle here? Jocosa began to whine and retreated back to the path. Wondering what had troubled the dog, Emma swung round and saw that the hedge which had once enclosed the field where the cattle were grazing was broken down on this nearer side, and a bull was heading slowly toward it. At the moment he did not look threatening, merely curious. Suddenly she realised from the unkempt look of the cattle, the deserted house, the broken hedge, that the beasts had been left when their owners, like so many, had perished. They must have remained here, gone wild, fending for themselves. The grass in their field was thick and plentiful. They must have found enough to eat. In winter no doubt the weaker ones had died, but the strong had survived.

  I suppose the ancestors of all cattle must once have been wild, she thought, so there is no reason why the survivors should not learn to fend for themselves. Her head was filled with a desolating picture of a world in which all men had perished of the plague. All the animals had reverted to their wild natures. Trees had sprung up between the broken cobbles of towns and weeds grew in roofless churches. If the Pestilence returned, it could happen.

  Slowly she backed away, not letting her eyes rest on the bull. As she reached the path she saw from a sideways glance that he had lost interest in her and returned to grazing. Turning her face southwards, she hurried on.

  All that day she walked, following the river, but the blisters on her feet grew larger, and burst, until she could only hobble painfully. Once or twice she stopped to dip her bare feet in the river, which gave her temporary relief, but made it even more painful to put her sandals on again.

  She realised that she was walking more and more slowly, and taking more frequent rests, until she reached a thick clump of willows on the bank as the sun was westering. There was some undergrowth under the trees which would provide a little shelter for the night, for there was no sign of the storm returning. By now her shift was dry, so she removed her cotte, donned the shift, and pulled the cotte on again. It was little enough, but it provided some more warmth. After walking all day, she realised she would feel the cold with the coming of the night. Something else she should have brought was flint and tinder, although she would have been hard put to it to find any dry wood to make a fire. The day had remained overcast and everything about her was still sodden from the storm.

  Amongst the bushes again she hollowed out a sleeping place, like one of those same animals returned to the wild, and she broke the remaining bread and cheese in half. One half she set aside for the next day, the other she shared with Jocosa. It was little enough, and her stomach ached. Scooping up water from the river to drink, she hoped it would help to fill the hollows. Jocosa had already settled in the cleared space, so Emma lay down beside her, hugging the dog close for warmth.

  She thought that by now she would have seen the first houses of Oxford on the other side of the river, yet there was nothing but water meadows. And somehow she would need to cross the river again to reach the town. As on the previous night the ground was hard and uncomfortable, but tonight she was so tired she hardly noticed. In a very few minutes she was asleep.

  Chapter Eight

  I stared at John Barnes, gaping. ‘What do you mean, she has disappeared? How could she disappear within the enclave of Godstow? She must be here somewhere.’ I lowered my voice, for I had begun to shout. ‘Or is she perhaps hiding, for fear of another beating?’

  The porter gave me a troubled glance.

  ‘She took the beating without complaint, Master Elyot, and the sisters do not hand out beatings as a regular punishment. More likely half a dozen paternosters on their knees in the church. Indeed, I’ve heard some whispers that the other ladies were unhappy at the punishment inflicted by the mistress of the novices.’

  ‘Rather too late to be effective,’ I said dryly, trying to control my anger. ‘But has the enclave been thoroughly searched? When did she go missing?’

  ‘She was not present at Prime yesterday, it seems, and it was thought at first that she had simply overslept. Afterwards there was no sign of her in the dortoir. When she did not appear either to break her fast or to work in the scriptorium, that was when the search began.’

  ‘And you have searched everywhere?’

  Jordain and Philip left the questioning to me, but I saw them exchange a glance. Perhaps they felt that I presumed too much.

  ‘Everywhere,’ John said, ‘from hayloft to side chapel, and from the attics of the guest house to the shed where the chaplain keeps his garden tools. Never a sign. Then one of the schoolgirls, the oldest one, Madlen, who is away to be wed soon – she told me she thought Sister Benedicta must be gone quite away, for the dog Jocosa was missing as well. She was a friend of Sister Benedicta. When it was known the dog was gone, the abbey servants and the folk on the home farm were set to searching as well. That was just before Vespers yesterday.’

  ‘And why was Sister Clemence angry with you just now, John?’ I asked. ‘I saw her shake her fist at you.’

  He looked away, embarrassed, and shuffled his feet.

  ‘If it might have a bearing on what has happened, you needs must tell me,’ I said. I took him by the elbow and drew him outside the wall.

  He looked nervously over his shoulder and lowered his voice. ‘Sister Clemence was angry because the gate was unbolted the night before last.’

  ‘The night Emma may have disappeared?’ I no longer bothered to call her Sister Benedicta.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Now, how could that be? I have seen that it is a heavy great bar, difficult for a young girl to move.’

  He did not answer, merely shifted uncomfortably again.

  ‘I think,’ I said slowly, ‘that you did not bolt the gate that night, John, and Sister Clemence thinks the same. Have I guessed right?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Now, I wonder why that would be. A conscientious fellow like you. Not wanting to risk a good position as porter to the abbey, with comfortable lodgings, and I daresay your meals provided.’

  He gave me a desperate look, then sighed. ‘It is the only safe way out of the abbey, and I knew she was going to attempt an escape that night.’

  ‘You knew! How could that be?’

  ‘She borrowed a cap from me.’

  I was perplexed. ‘What has that to do with her leaving?’

  ‘She couldn’t go about the world in a nun’s wimple and veil, could she? Nor go bare headed either, for all to see her shaved scalp. She needed something to cover her head.’

  I rocked back on my heels. ‘But her habit would give her away at once.’

  He grinned, beginning to relax. ‘Oh, I recko
n she had made provision for that. She’s been working in the laundry of late. Not too difficult to make off with some simple servant’s clothing. She’s no fool, the maid.’

  Nor was he, as I had realised before.

  ‘You were her friend, so you left the gate unbolted a-purpose.’

  ‘I am still her friend. And this is the only safe way out of the enclave.’

  Jordain, having kept silence all this time, stepped forward now. ‘What do you mean, the only safe way?’

  John looked at him soberly. ‘There is no barrier ’tother side of the meadow but the river. I do not think the maid can swim. I hoped she would not attempt that way. When I was a young lad, working here in the kitchen, there was one of the servants stole some silver plate from the church and tried to flee by the river. He drowned.’

  I swallowed. Surely Emma would not attempt the river. I was suddenly angry again.

  ‘The fool girl! I promised to bring her the help of a lawyer, and here he is!’ I gestured at Philip. John bowed and Philip inclined his head. ‘She had only to wait a few days. You know that she did not want to take her final vows.’

  ‘I know,’ John said.

  ‘We think we have sufficient case to delay the rite, or will have when I have seen her grandfather. There was no cause for her to run.’

  ‘Mayhap she saw it differently,’ he said.

  Inwardly I was cursing not Emma, but myself. It should have told her more clearly to stay quietly in the abbey, until I could bring her legal help. Instead I had been too hesitant. She had not believed there would be anything further to hope for from me, and now she was out there, alone in the world, without help. And where?