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

  ‘Reverend Mother,’ I said, aware that with this woman it would be wise to come straight to the point, ‘you will no doubt recall that the abbey recently sent a book of hours to be bound in Oxford by Henry Stalbroke. With your agreement, I purchased the book. Now, I have a wide clientele for holy books, especially books of the same quality as that book of hours – members of the university, leading burgesses of the town, and the wealthy families for some miles around Oxford. I would like to suggest to you an arrangement between us. If Godstow’s scriptorium could produce similar books of a devout nature – books of hours, Psalteries, lives of saints – bound by Henry Stalbroke with his usual skill, then I would be prepared to purchase them. It would provide a steady income for the abbey, in these days when tithes and rents from property have been blighted since the Pestilence.’

  I was rather pleased with this final part of my proposal, which had but that moment occurred to me, reminded suddenly of Warden Durant’s claims of collegiate poverty.

  The abbess laid her hands palm to palm and rested her chin on the tips of long, elegant fingers. Not an act of prayer but a pose of shrewd calculation.

  ‘Master Elyot, our scriptorium is small. Not many of the sisters are lettered, beyond the reading of abbey documents, church services and the words in the choir books. That is, they can read and write for all practical day-to-day needs, but have no skills in the elegant penmanship required for the copying of sacred books. We are more accustomed to augment the abbey’s purse by selling our ecclesiastical embroideries to the great monasteries of our brethren.’

  ‘I would not expect you to be able to provide many books,’ I reassured her. ‘One every few months, as finely written and illuminated as that first book of hours, and I could obtain a good price for you.’

  She gave me a knowing look. She understood very well that I was aware Emma Thorgold was responsible for my book of hours.

  ‘I should need to consult our precentrix and librarian, Sister Mildred. She would best be able to say whether we could provide what you wish. We have only three with the skills to create illuminated books, Sister Mildred herself, one of our senior nuns, and one of the novices, who is shortly to take her final vows. Unlike our brothers’ monasteries, we do not habitually train our sisters in these skills. Needlework is considered a more suitable occupation.’

  ‘But the copying of holy books–’ I suggested modestly.

  ‘Indeed, it can be a form of devotion, and turn the mind to thoughts of God. In the case of one of our scribes, it might prove salutary. She is in some turmoil of mind at present. Aye, that might be a useful occupation, to steady her in these last weeks.’

  She laid her palms flat on the desk and gave a brisk nod.

  ‘I think we might undertake to provide one book to you, for a start, and then we will decide how to proceed thereafter. I would not wish to enter into a more permanent arrangement until we have had time to consider further. Have you a preference? A life of St Frideswide, perhaps, as patron saint of Oxford?’

  This would have very limited appeal, but I smiled encouragingly.

  ‘Such a life would be excellent, but what I know many people desire heartily these days is a book of hours. While a saint’s life makes for inspirational reading, a book of hours is a personal means of daily devotion. Even quite simple people long to own one. Such a one as I know you can produce here would be fit for one of our noble families.’

  I was not flattering her, I truly meant what I said, and I think she understood that.

  ‘Very well. I will instruct Sister Benedicta at once to make a start on a book of hours. I am sure you are aware that it was she who made the other.’

  We both rose. I understood that I was being dismissed.

  ‘If you wish,’ I said, ‘I can supply you with the parchment and colours.’

  ‘I thank you, but I believe we have sufficient.’

  ‘In that case, I will leave matters in your hands, Reverend Mother. At some point, in a few weeks, perhaps, I should like to view the progress of the work.’

  ‘I expect that can be arranged.’

  I knew from her tone that she meant I might see the pages, but not the scribe, though I was sure I would be able to insist on consulting Sister Benedicta.

  We had reached the door and she was about to bow me out when I turned, as though I had only just remembered.

  ‘If you are speaking to Sister Benedicta,’ I said, ‘you might tell her that her aunt will shortly be moving to Oxford, to a house in St Mildred Street, owned by Merton College.’

  She shook her head. ‘It would be best not to give her any news that might disturb her state of mind any further. Wiser if she forgets about her past kin. Her family now is here amongst her sisters in the Order.’

  I reflected on this as I walked slowly across the court toward the gatehouse. It seemed a cruel attitude, to deprive Emma of the knowledge that her aunt would soon be a mere four miles away. If Mistress Farringdon paid a visit to the abbey, would she be banned from seeing her niece? Why was the community at Godstow so bent on keeping Emma here against her will? The Benedictines were generally known for a tolerant and kindly order, and Godstow in particular was famous for welcoming secular guests, which meant that it was more open to the world outside than many a nunnery. It remained a conundrum, and it seemed to me a somewhat distasteful one.

  As I neared the gatehouse, a small ball of white fluff burst from the open door and collided with me. Looking down, I found that a small dog, one of those Maltese – as they are called – was sniffing my shoes and hose with some interest.

  ‘That is our dog Rowan you can smell, you ridiculous animal,’ I said.

  I recognised the white dog which appeared engaged in mischief in some of the pictures which adorned Emma’s book of hours.

  ‘I apologise, Master Elyot.’

  John Barnes had pursued the dog from the gatehouse. He now picked it up and tucked it under his arm, from which position it eyed me with a friendly but remarkably shrewd expression.

  ‘I am minding Jocosa while her mistress works in the laundry,’ he said. ‘When she is loose in there she is apt to get underfoot and trip the sisters up.’

  ‘She belongs to one of the nuns?’ I fondled the dog’s ears. Her hair was very fine and soft, fluffy as lambs wool. Though she was smaller than our puppy, I judged her to be full grown.

  ‘Nay, one of the novices, Sister Benedicta. Brought the dog with her when she came last year. She told me once that Jocosa is all she has to remind her of home and her late mother.’ He made an awkward attempt to cross himself, while still keeping a firm hold of the dog.

  ‘She may have more reminders soon of her home and family.’ It occurred to me that if the abbess refused to pass my message to Emma, the good-natured porter might do so. ‘Sister Benedicta’s aunt, Mistress Farringdon, will be moving to Oxford in a few days’ time, so she will soon have kin a short distance away.’

  I did not go so far as to defy the abbess and tell Barnes that he should pass the information to Emma. I hoped that it might come out briefly in conversation, for if Emma regularly left her dog with the porter, they must be on good terms with each other.

  ‘You had a successful meeting with the Reverend Mother?’ he asked. Like the porters at every college I have ever known, clearly Barnes was a keen collector of news and gossip.

  ‘Indeed I did. As you know, I am a bookseller.’ I did not think I had ever told him this, but I was sure that he would have found it out for himself. ‘I am by way of doing a little business with her in the matter of making illuminated holy books.’

  The porter’s curiosity satisfied, I gave the dog a final pat. I saw that she was well fed and cared for, and wore a collar of soft blue leather, which was slightly marred by the ends of brass studs from which bells had been broken off.

  ‘The collar is damaged,’ I observed.

  He shrugged. ‘Sister Mercy said that the little bells created a disturbance in the quiet of the enclave, and had the
m removed. Not that I ever noticed it myself.’

  I made no answer to this. All the time I had been here the enclave had been filled with the sound of hammering and sawing from some building work, out of sight. Bursts of whistling could be heard from the same direction. Twice an abbey servant had trundled a wheelbarrow loaded with vegetables noisily across the cobbles to the kitchen. In the cloisters, someone was tuning a musical instrument, which was persistently off key. There was no great sense of quietness here at present, although compared with the streets of Oxford, it was peaceful indeed.

  I could understand how, for some, life in these beautiful surroundings could be very pleasant. The sturdy, comely buildings, surrounding an exquisite little church. The river flowing softly by, bringing that refreshment to the spirit that only moving water can do. The fine old trees about the perimeter, and the rich farmland with its well-grown fields of wheat and barley, the fat cattle in the water meadow. If you sought tranquillity, you would find it here, in this community of kindly women.

  Turning away to the gate, I bade John Barnes farewell. He set the little dog on the ground again and leaned his shoulder against the gatepost.

  ‘They gave her a beating, you know,’ he said softly.

  Startled, I said, ‘The little dog?’

  ‘Nay, not the dog. Sister Benedicta. She finished her lesson early and went paddling in the river against the heat of the day. They beat her for it.’ He shook his head and withdrew into the gatehouse.

  As I unhitched Rufus and swung myself into the saddle, I was too stunned to think. Emma Thorgold had been beaten for paddling in the river? I knew that discipline was firm amongst the nuns, but I had not known that it was violent.

  I looked back just once as I rode away. The small white dog was sitting in the middle of the open gate, watching me.

  * * *

  She saw him, the bookseller from Oxford, who had brought word that her cousin William had been murdered. Nicholas Elyot, a widower, with two small children. Coming out of the laundry, with a basket of wet linen balanced against her hip, she saw him speak to John Barnes, and fondle Jocosa, before leaving through the gate. Something John said to him had startled him.

  They had met three times now. That first, terrible day, when all that she had feared for William had been confirmed. He had been kind to her, Master Elyot. Although she was stunned with grief by the confirmation of what she had dreaded, she had found herself warming to him, blurting out her resentment at being confined here. William she had loved as much as she would have loved a brother, had God ever seen fit to give her one. For this man, this barely known bookseller from Oxford, she had felt the stirrings of something else. She wanted to say, ‘Rescue me! Take me away from this place where they keep me imprisoned and where I can scarcely breathe. Take me away from pious hypocrites like Ursula and vindictive bullies like Sister Mercy.’

  But he was a stranger. She had choked the words back, unspoken. Though when they both noticed their identically ink-stained hands, it seemed almost like an omen. What folly! She shook her head impatiently as she crossed the court.

  The second time, they had hardly spoken. His daughter was in danger and she must give him the Psalter to buy the child back. Two children, he said he had, but he was a widower. He looked too young to be a widower, but that was more folly, for the Death had made widows and widowers younger even than he.

  And when he came at last to tell her that the child was safe, the book restored, and William’s murderers in hold, she had found herself pouring out her own life to him in the few minutes they had alone before Sister Clemence arrived. She blushed now to think of it, as she elbowed open the gate into the garden. What had she been thinking of? That he cared a farthing for her pathetic confidences? That he could somehow rescue her, if he even understood her need to escape? And now that she knew she was bound here by means of the agreement signed by her stepfather, it was useless even to think of him, the bookseller. Surely he would not break the law for her, a stranger?

  She set the heavy basket on the ground and began to spread the wet shifts and table linen on the lavender hedge to dry. The load of garments washed that morning would already have dried in the sun. She would take them back to be folded and laid in the press.

  He had stroked Jocosa as though he was fond of dogs.

  But she must stop thinking of him, this Nicholas Elyot. What had he been doing here? Certainly he had not come to see her. What other business might he have at Godstow?

  What she must turn her mind to, now, was her plan of escape. She could look for help nowhere else. There was so little time. And that document the abbess held seemed to secure her here for ever. She knew that if a novice was determined not to take final vows, however persuasive the arguments urging her to profess, it was possible for her to leave. Somehow, that document made things different for her. What was uncertain was her own position in law, given to God as an oblate, though against her will. If only she could consult a man of law! But that was impossible.

  At least working in the laundry, exhausting though it was in the summer heat, had given her the opportunity to steal a pair of hose and one of the rough brown cottes provided for the lay servants. These she had hidden in the thickest part of this very hedge. Her sandals were adequate, though not normal wear for a lay person. She would not need a cloak as long as the weather remained fine. Dressed in the cheap cotte, she could pass for a peasant.

  What she still required was a covering for her head. Although unmarried peasant girls left their hair uncovered, her own shorn pate would give her away at once as a renegade nun. Either she must find a dull head cloth, brown or grey – anything but her Benedictine black and white – or she must steal a boy’s cap. Could she pass for a boy? It might be safer. Yet once she reached Oxford, if she did indeed reach Oxford, she must turn girl again, to find suitable employment. The cotte she had stolen could pass for either man’s or woman’s wear, though it was somewhat short for a woman.

  Once all the wet linen was spread out to dry, she folded the dry morning’s washing and laid it in the basket. It was remarkable how much washing the abbey accumulated, for the laundry dealt not only with the household linen and the clothing of both religious and lay sisters, but also the garments of the schoolgirls and all the servants and farm labourers. Emma had never counted them, but there must be at least a hundred people attached to the abbey. Who would miss one unwilling postulant amongst so many? Why keep her here at all?

  Back in the linen room next to the laundry, she had laid all the folded washing in the clothes press and was screwing down the head to flatten all and remove any creases, when Sister Ursula arrived, wearing her usual smirk signifying that she knew something to Emma’s disadvantage.

  ‘The Reverend Mother has sent for you, Sister Benedicta. Again. Is there to be no end to your sinful behaviour?’

  Emma ignored the attempt to goad her into an angry response, but merely carried the empty wicker basket back into the laundry, where two of the lay sisters were draining the water out of the huge stone tubs into the channel which emptied into the river. She knew that she looked flushed and dishevelled after a day working in the laundry, but there was no time to tidy herself if the abbess wanted to see her now. She straightened her wimple and veil as best she could and rolled down her sleeves, which had been drawn up to save them a soaking. Ursula stood in the doorway, blocking it, but Emma pushed past her and made her way across the court to the abbess’s lodging.

  She knocked quietly but not timidly on the study door, and to the abbess’s ‘Come’, she entered, dipped her head modestly, and stood with her hands clasped before her waist.

  ‘Ah, Sister Benedicta.’

  Emma stole a glance through her lowered lashes. Abbess de Streteley was regarding her thoughtfully, with an expression Emma could not read.

  ‘I have had a visitor today,’ the abbess said, ‘who came with a business proposal which involves you.’

  Emma found that her heart was suddenly beating more
quickly. Had her stepfather sent someone with word that he withdrew his gift of an oblate? Unlikely. There had been no sign of a visitor to the abbey. Except one. Nicholas Elyot. A business proposal?

  ‘You will remember the . . . gentleman who brought you word of your cousin’s death.’ It seemed Agnes de Streteley, born of a distinguished Norman family, was not quite sure whether Nicholas was a gentleman or not. ‘Master Elyot.’ That was better. He had been an Oxford scholar, if not quite a gentleman. ‘It seems that he has a shop in Oxford. He sells books.’ She sounded as though she did not quite understand this matter of selling, although Emma knew very well that the abbess managed Godstow’s finances with consummate skill.

  There was a pause, as though something was expected of her.

  ‘I remember Master Elyot, Reverend Mother. He was kind enough to bring me word that my cousin’s killers had been captured.’

  ‘Very true. Well, it seems he is interested in selling any illuminated books we might produce here at Godstow, holy works, for his devout clients. It was he who purchased that book of hours you made.’

  Now Emma’s heart truly leapt, and she was forced to keep her face lowered, so that the abbess might not see her look of joy. My book of hours! She thought. He has seen, he has bought, my book of hours. He will love my creatures playing in the margins, and sometimes escaping into the Bible scenes themselves. I know it! Did he recognise Jocosa? Oh, I hope he studied it before he sold it. He knew that I made it, he told me that, but I did not know he bought it. I never even knew what became of it, after it was sent to the binder.

  She had hardly been paying any heed to what the abbess was saying, but now she picked up the thread. Nicholas Elyot wanted her to make another book of hours, which he would sell to the profit of the abbey.