The Novice's Tale (Oxford Medieval Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  ‘Indeed?’ He smiled. ‘I remember you were much impressed by William’s beautiful cousin when you visited her at Godstow.’

  ‘Beautiful, intelligent, and resourceful. Had she not kept Merton’s Irish Psalter safely hidden, I should not have been able to return it to Warden Durant. So, by your reasoning, that is another member of William’s family to whom Merton owes a debt.’

  If I hoped by this to divert Jordain from discussion of Emma Thorgold, I was unsuccessful.

  ‘I know that you had a meeting with her, when you took her the word of William’s murder, and another when you retrieved the Psalter.’

  ‘That second time was hardly a meeting,’ I said. ‘She simply handed over the book to me at the gatehouse. I did not even enter the abbey.’

  ‘And have you seen her since?’

  ‘Briefly.’ I felt uncomfortable even recalling it. ‘I had promised to let her know what was the end of it all, so I rode out there the day after I returned the Psalter to Warden Durant. I was permitted to have a meeting in the parlour of the guest house, but this time we were chaperoned by Sister Clemence. We barely spoke.’

  He nodded his understanding. ‘Well, you can hardly take it amiss. Three visits by a young man to a novice in their care, within the space of less than a week? And you not even kin to the girl? Little wonder you were chaperoned! I would have demanded it myself.’

  ‘Do not talk such foolishness, Jordain,’ I said, annoyed. I got up and refilled our tankards from the flagon in the grass, then carried the book of hours back to the safety of the high shelf.

  ‘Besides,’ I said, as I rejoined him on the bench, ‘neither Emma Thorgold, Sister Benedicta, nor the guardian dragon Sister Clemence, could possibly regard me as a young man.’

  I found I could not leave the subject alone.

  ‘A widower with two children, an Oxford shopkeeper? I am no threat to one of the holy lady nuns of Godstow, who all come from good families.’

  ‘And does Sister Benedicta come from a good family?’ he said. ‘We have been speaking of her aunt Farringdon’s poverty.’

  ‘As far as I can make out, Mistress Farringdon married somewhat beneath her birth, though her husband was a good man of the minor gentry. Her sister, Emma’s mother, married above her rank, in her first marriage. Her first husband, who was Emma’s father, was the younger son of a knight. The second marriage, to Emma’s stepfather, was less fortunate.’

  ‘Less fortunate in many ways,’ he agreed, ‘if all we are told is true. It resulted in the lady’s death from an unsought late pregnancy and the forced entry of her daughter into a nunnery.’

  He looked at me thoughtfully. ‘You seem to have learned a good deal about the family. Was this during the time when you barely spoke?’

  ‘We had a few minutes alone before Sister Clemence took up her post. Like you, I was concerned about the family and sought to know more about them.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘And did you learn more of the girl herself? It must be a full year ago that she was sent to Godstow. According to her cousin Juliana, the stepfather despatched her with an attendant company of six armed men of his, to ensure she did not escape. Juliana’s words. When is the novice to take her final vows?’

  ‘Sometime later this summer. As I said, we had the chance to speak only briefly before her guard arrived.’

  ‘You contrived to discover much in a short time.’

  I shrugged. Our conversation had been driven by some urgent but unspoken need for haste, our words tumbling over each other. I suppose we had both realised we might not have another meeting. I had been promised the opportunity to bring her word of the outcome of the pursuit of William’s killers, but I did not think the abbess would admit me again. As Jordain pointed out, I was no kin to Emma Thorgold. Sister Benedicta, I corrected myself.

  ‘She has still no vocation for the monastic life?’ Jordain said. ‘I had thought she might have become reconciled by now.’

  I shook my head. ‘As much reconciled as a singing bird would be reconciled to a cage in a dark room. She desires her freedom with a fierce passion. If they try to force her to make her final vows, I think she would take to her heels and flee the place.’

  ‘Surely they would not do such a thing? They are holy women, not monsters.’

  ‘What if it has been made plain to them that it is the wish of her family?’

  ‘Mistress Farringdon is her only blood kin,’ he said, ‘and she would not force her.’

  ‘I think her stepfather assumes that he has rights over her. It was he who wanted her put away there. Perhaps he has also made it plain that he wants her secured there for life.’

  Jordain looked alarmed. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come, Jordain,’ I said, ‘you cannot be that innocent. He may have offered them a substantial benefaction if they keep her.’

  ‘But why? It makes no sense to me. If he has promised money, he could have used the same to dower her in marriage. Why force her?’

  I shrugged. ‘I do not know. I do not think Emma herself knows, but we had no chance to discuss it. She did say that the man has three daughters of his own, by previous marriages, and sons, too. Perhaps he sees her as a cuckoo in the nest, an unwanted appendage to her mother. He married the mother solely to provide him with a woman to manage his household and care for his children, as well as to warm his bed. Emma was of no use to him. It would not be the first time an unwanted girl has been shut away in a nunnery.’

  ‘Juliana did mention in her letter,’ he said slowly, ‘that the man plans to marry again.’

  ‘There you are. Emma would not fit in with his plans.’

  ‘It is a sad situation, but there is nothing we can do about it.’ Jordain shrugged, but I saw that he looked regretful.

  ‘I suppose there is not,’ I said reluctantly. ‘Besides, Godstow will be all the more eager to keep her, now that she has produced that book of hours. In worldly terms, they must see her as a financial asset.’

  ‘I expect you paid a great deal for that book. It is truly beautiful.’

  ‘I paid a fair price,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Do you really think she might run away? It would be a grievous sin.’

  ‘Not every novice takes final vows. If the abbess were to agree to release her, she could walk away with no shame or guilt.’

  ‘And then what?’ he said. ‘Join her aunt and cousin in their poverty? Surely she would not want to return to her stepfather, even if he would have her. ’Tis a pity she is a girl. Were she a man, you could employ her as a scrivener, and make your fortune, producing books like the one you showed me.’

  It was clear that he was doing no more than teasing me, yet even so . . .

  ‘Aye,’ I said, quite seriously. ‘I would be happy to employ her, but it would almost certainly lead to trouble.’

  Our conversation was interrupted by the return of the children, Alysoun and Jonathan half leading, half carrying Rafe between them. The right knee of his hose was torn and blood was pouring freely down his leg.

  ‘Rafe fell on a sharp stone, Papa!’ Tears were running down Alysoun’s face. ‘He did not mean to do it.’

  ‘Of course he did not,’ I said, lifting Rafe up, but doing my best to hold the bloody knee away from my clean shirt. ‘Aunt Margaret is still away to the dairy, but I know where she keeps her salves. Come, my fine man, we shall soon have you bandaged up.’

  Rafe nodded. Tears were also making pathways down his dirty face, but he was biting his lips to keep himself from crying out. Even at four years old he tried to show the courage demanded by his masculine pride. I felt pity like a deep ache in my stomach. A child of four should not need to play the man

  * * *

  Four miles north of Oxford, Godstow Abbey occupied an island in the many-branched Thames, and was reached by a bridge, which gave it something of the appearance of a fortified manor, an appearance further strengthened by a handsome gatehouse of two storeys and a substantial stone wall enclosing the mon
astic buildings. Although it lay some distance off the main thoroughfare from Oxford to the royal palace at Woodstock, there was a well-used trackway leading west from this road to the abbey, through the small village of Wolvercote and the even smaller hamlet of Godstow, which provided housing for the abbey’s servants.

  One of the few wealthy nunneries this far north, Godstow had been well endowed since Henry II had granted it funds and property, for it was the resting place of his mistress, Rosamund Clifford. A series of shrewd and practical abbesses in subsequent years had increased its endowments, so that it was now also a favoured place of withdrawal or retirement for great ladies who had seen enough of the secular world and sought the peace and tranquillity of Godstow as guests of the nuns. These noble ladies, however, did bring with them a certain whiff of the worldly life outside the abbey walls, which was not always welcomed by the stricter and more conventional of the sisters. Indeed, the bishop had been known to wax severe on the subject, although there was not a great deal that either Abbess Agnes de Streteley and her obedientiaries or the bishop himself could do to prevent, if some lady of noble or royal blood took it into her head to favour Godstow with her presence.

  It was perhaps irritation at the arrival that morning of yet another secular lady to take up residence in the guest quarters that made Sister Mercy, mistress of the novices, more than usually short tempered. Or perhaps it was the stifling heat trapped within the walls all day, unrelieved by any breeze. Sister Mercy did not bear the heat easily, and an enveloping monastic habit of black wool is no garment for summer weather. Whatever the cause, Sister Mercy’s temper – never of the kindest – was frayed beyond control.

  The novices under her governance, all six of them, had been set a particularly grim passage from St Jerome to parse and translate, before writing a commentary on it, which was to demonstrate their certain grasp of his arguments. Moreover, of the girls sent to school with the nuns of Godstow, the two eldest were deemed sufficiently apt in their grasp of Latin to be set the same exercise as the novices, while Sister Mercy (who undertook much of the teaching of these paying pupils) dealt with the younger girls in another room, hearing and fiercely correcting their exercises in the French language.

  The eight older girls, novices and pupils alike, sweated over St Jerome in an airless room, the window tight closed, for Sister Mercy believed in shutting out all distractions, and for some time since the dinner hour no sound had disturbed their toil other than the scratching of quills, until one girl flung down her pen and leapt to her feet. Seven heads went up in alarm, and seven hands stopped writing.

  ‘Sister Benedicta! What are you about?’

  It was Sister Ursula, like Emma Thorgold eighteen years old and on the point of professing. Unlike Emma, she had come to Godstow by choice. Given to sudden raptures and fainting fits, at other times, when she was in sober control of mind and body she regarded herself as the leader of the novices, by reason of both her age and genuine vocation. Her face was rigid with disapproval, but the others regarded Emma with interest, for one could never be quite sure of what she might do. Sometimes her demeanour was tightly controlled and submissive. Sometimes it was not.

  Emma gave Ursula a look which was part pity, part impatience.

  ‘I have finished the exercise. I do not intend to sit here a moment longer.’

  ‘How can you have finished?’ Ursula protested, though without absolute conviction. She knew, as they all did, that Emma was a better scholar than Sister Mercy, and many of the other nuns.

  Emma did not bother to answer, but slipped out of the door, closing it softly behind her. The rooms where the novices and schoolgirls were taught opened directly on to the cloisters, and, by turning away from the room where Sister Mercy was teaching the younger girls, she could make her way unnoticed to the outside day stair leading up to the dortoir.

  Like many nunneries, Godstow permitted its inmates to keep pets, provided they observed the strictures which forbade taking them into the church during services. Emma’s dog Jocosa had come with her into the abbey the previous year, for she had refused to leave the animal behind, fearing what her stepfather might do to the creature once she was gone. Had Godstow banned dogs, Emma would probably have smuggled Jocosa in anyway, but the small dog, one of the fluffy, white, Maltese type, was well behaved and acceptable. The abbess had granted permission without hesitation, perhaps because she realised just how unwillingly Emma had been brought to the abbey.

  At the top of the stairs, Emma gave a short two-note whistle – something she was forbidden to do within these decorous walls – and Jocosa bounded off her mistress’s bed, skittering across the polished wooden floor with a clattering of claws. She hurtled down the stairs ahead of Emma and made instinctively for the gate leading through the wall and into the abbey’s vegetable garden.

  The stifling heat had driven the nuns indoors from weeding amongst the rows of cabbages, beans, and peas, but half a dozen of the lay sisters had no such freedom and were hard at work, while two of the male servants were digging over a bed from which early lettuces and carrots had already been harvested.

  Emma was popular with the lay sisters, treating them with more consideration than did most of the nuns, so they smiled and nodded as she passed. It was clear that she was playing truant, for at this hour she should have been at her lessons, but they were not likely to betray her.

  Beyond the end of the vegetable garden, which was enclosed with a wooden fence, a meadow lay within a curve of the river, providing grazing for a small herd of goats. Milked by the deye or dairy woman, these goats were the source of the small, strong cheeses sent weekly to Oxford market, while the abbey’s flock of sheep and herd of cows were kept at the home farm on the far side of the bridge, adjacent to Godstow village.

  The dog ran joyously across the meadow, taking care to avoid the goats, known to be of uncertain temper, not unlike Sister Mercy. She wove a zigzag course through the grass, stopping from time to time to explore enchanting smells. On the bank of the Thames Emma kicked off her sandals, kilted up her habit, and waded into the shallows of the river under the shade of a spreading willow tree. In its shadow the water was cold, making her gasp at first, but bringing relief from a day of oppressive heat. In defiance of all the rules, she snatched off her veil and wimple, and felt the faint stirrings of cool air through the stubble of her hair, as she stood here in the river. She ran her hand over her head, ruffling hair which was nearly half an inch long. Soon the razor would be taken to her scalp again.

  The story the novices were told was that a shaven head would bring their thoughts and prayers nearer to God, but Emma wondered whether Jesus had ever decreed that his women followers should be so treated. Surely the women of Judah had worn their hair long? She suspected, instead, that it was merely one more humiliation intended to break the spirit of any woman entering the conventual life. Instead of a full head of glorious hair, a temptation to men and an invitation to vanity, every novice and every nun was reduced to hideous baldness. Even monks fared better, for they retained a fringe of hair circling their tonsure.

  The river had hollowed out a miniature cove between the roots of the willow, where the water lay almost still, only shimmering faintly from the current flowing along the main course of the river. So clear was the water and so tranquil that every pebble on the bed of the river in this cove showed in glowing detail, and a school of minnows hung motionless near Emma’s feet. As she stepped cautiously forward toward deeper water, the fish moved as one, a cloud of creatures with a single mind, turning with a flick of their tails and disappearing under the arch of a watery root.

  She waded a little further out into the river, until the water reached her knees and flowed rapidly, spinning an occasional fallen leaf past her like a miniature boat. The Thames led south from Godstow, eventually twisting past Oxford in a maze of waterways, serving as a means to carry goods up and down river. Supplies for the abbey often arrived by boat, for it could prove an easier route than transporting
loads by cart along roads regularly broken by rain and frost.

  Emma had often wondered whether she might escape her prison by this unguarded way, but the river was usually deep here and she could not swim. However, the prolonged period of hot, dry weather had caused the river to shrink. Ahead of her a bank of gravel, halfway across, had risen above the surface of the water.

  Deliveries of those goods that came by boat were landed on the other side of the meadow, where a solid wooden landing stage had been built. She could hardly beg passage in one of the boats, marked out as she was by her monastic clothes. Somehow – and soon – she must find a means, before she could be forced into making her final vows.

  When the bell rang from the abbey church for Vespers, Emma knew that she must return and face her punishment. She thrust damp feet into her sandals, and did her best to secure her wimple and veil, though they were lopsided and creased. Slowly she dragged herself back through the vegetable garden, empty now of any workers, and joined the end of the procession of novices into the church. Ursula glanced at her with pursed lips and a faintly sanctimonious smile. The dog, knowing her place, retreated to a corner of the cloister.

  During the service, Emma closed her eyes and allowed herself to sink, mindless, into the music. Sister Mildred, the precentrix and librarian, was a true musician, and the only solace Emma had found here in Godstow, apart from her work of scribing and illumination, was the music. She herself possessed a rich singing voice in the upper register, and joined happily into the music of the service, ignoring the nervous glances of the other girls and the knowing looks from Ursula.

  To her surprise, Sister Mercy did not summon her after Vespers to answer for her defection from lessons. To herself, Emma argued angrily that Sister Mercy had nothing to teach her, and in any case she had completed the work set on St Jerome. Nevertheless, she was uneasy, and went to bed wondering why she had received no punishment exercises or penance. She slept at last, rose for the night-time services, and greeted another scalding dawn at Prime.