The Nun's Tale (7 page)

Joanna sighed. ‘I did not take it all. Even so, I have returned it. Now I may die and rest in peace. So you must not tend me.’

Not tend her? ‘Nonsense, child.’ Prudentia spoke with a brusqueness she did not feel. Joanna’s eyes were so dark, so intense, her skin so pale, the voice so certain. ‘I am the infirmaress here. It is my duty to nurse you.’

‘You must not. I was brought back to return the relic. I have done so. Now I must return to the grave.’

Prudentia crossed herself and whispered a prayer for patience. ‘Perhaps you would just fold back the mantle so I can wash your neck and face, child.’ She looked round for the girl with the water and cloth. The infirmary door was just closing silently. Lazy child.

Katie scurried from the infirmary to the garden, where the cloths were spread over the lavender to dry. While gathering some up, she told the laundress what she had heard.

Dame Isobel spun round, interrupted in mid-sentence by a timid knock on the door. ‘Come in!’

Dame Alice, the sub-prioress, poked her head in. ‘Reverend Mother, forgive the intrusion, but I pray you come to the infirmary.’

Isobel did not like the wide-eyed expression on the usually staid sub-prioress. ‘Is Joanna giving you trouble?’

‘Not Joanna. The others.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Please, Reverend Mother. It is best that you come at once.’

Dame Isobel excused herself and hurried out, exasperated. Dame Alice might have waited. Ravenser and Louth were going to the archbishop as soon as they left here. What would they say about such an interruption? But Isobel said nothing, just moved as quickly as her sandalled feet and significant bulk allowed. As Isobel and Alice approached the infirmary door, one of the novices tiptoed out, crossing herself as she closed the door behind her.

‘Jocelin, what are you doing away from the kitchen?’ Isobel demanded.

The novice bowed to Dame Isobel. ‘I took but a moment. Dame Margaret said I might.’ She bowed her head and hurried away before Isobel could ask more.

Isobel opened the door. Dame Margaret, the cook, knelt beside Joanna’s cot, praying.

Joanna lay quietly, her eyes closed.

‘Dame Margaret! Rise and come with me.’ Isobel turned to the infirmaress. ‘How did this happen? You were to tell no one of Joanna’s presence.’

‘I told no one, Reverend Mother. I believe it was Katie. I sent her to the garden for cloths and shortly Dame Felice was in here.’

Isobel should have guessed. The laundress was an unholy gossip. ‘And she of course stopped in the kitchen.’

Prudentia looked to Margaret, who nodded.

‘Dame Margaret, return to the kitchen and tell anyone who asks that Joanna’s mantle is made of Yorkshire wool,
new
wool, and
cannot
be what she claims.’ Isobel glanced over at Joanna and caught her listening with a hostile glint in her eyes. So be it. Isobel would not have all the sisters of St Clement’s hysterical.

But Margaret did not rise. Instead, she pushed back one of her sleeves and thrust her bare arm toward Isobel. ‘Marry, look you, Reverend Mother. The skin is clear.’

Isobel looked at the proffered arm. It looked reddened from scrubbing, but free of any blemish. ‘So it is. Why do you show me this?’

‘It was
not
clear before I touched the mantle. Our Lady’s mantle has worked a miracle, Reverend Mother. My rash is gone.’ Margaret bent low over the mantle once more, her hands pressed together in prayer. ‘Sweet Mother of Heaven, thou hast healed me, thy humble servant.’

‘You see?’ the sub-prioress whispered. ‘When word of this miracle spreads . . .’ She shook her head, her eyes wide, mouth pinched.

Sweet Mary in Heaven, why have you done this to me
? Isobel took a deep breath. ‘Prudentia, did you examine Margaret’s arm before she touched the mantle?’

The infirmaress looked confused. ‘No. I never thought –’

‘Have you ever seen this rash of which Margaret believes she has suddenly been cured?’

Prudentia’s wrinkled face lit up. ‘Oh, yes, Reverend Mother. Many times.’

Isobel closed her eyes, clutched her hands beneath her scapular, thinking fast. She was no longer so firm in her disbelief. Perhaps it
was
Our Lady’s mantle. But she must preserve the peace of the convent. ‘Dame Margaret, I order you to keep silent about this.’

Margaret raised her head, her eyes dazed. ‘But, Reverend Mother, others might be cured.’

Isobel drew herself up to her full height. ‘Remember your vow of obedience, Dame Margaret.’

The cook bowed her head. ‘Yes, Reverend Mother.’

Isobel turned to the infirmaress and the sub-prioress. ‘Not a word of this to anyone.’ They nodded and voiced their promise in unison.

Isobel did not for a moment believe she could stem the tide of rumour, but perhaps she could slow it to a manageable trickle.

Thoresby stood in the garden of his palace at Bishopthorpe, enjoying the mild morning and the company of his gardener. He liked Simon’s quiet doggedness, the simple joy the gardener took in his accomplishments. This morning the talk was of lady’s mantle, the beauty of the dewdrops caught in the furled, fan-shaped leaves, how the drops would dry as the leaves opened.

‘Mistress Wilton would collect the dew early in the day for her remedies. Apothecaries hold it in high regard.’

‘The dew? Why? What is its virtue?’

Simon sat back on his heels, took off his battered straw hat, and wiped his brow with a clean rag. ‘They say ’tis changed to the water of life as it sits in the leaves. A remedy is all the better for it.’

‘The plant grows wild in the Dales. The women dry it, but I never knew what use they made of it.’

‘Mistress Wilton says the plant dries and binds. Stops a wound from bleeding and seeping. And she told me the proper name for it, the one clerics use.
Leontopodium.’
Simon pronounced the Latin carefully, with obvious pride.

‘Lion’s foot?’

Simon nodded. ‘For its spreading root leaves. ’Tis why Mistress Wilton believes in thinning the clumps. Gives them room to spread. I considered it a long while.’

Thoresby envied the man his pleasant concerns. ‘And what have you decided? Will you be thinning these?’

‘Oh, aye. You’ll not find me wasting good advice. Mistress Wilton learned from the best of gardeners, Your Grace. Master Nicholas Wilton. Was never a man knew as much about gardens as Master Nicholas.’ Simon slipped his hat back on and bent to his work.

Nicholas Wilton had been dead for two years. Thoresby had not known him well. But Lucie Wilton’s present husband, Owen Archer, was much on Thoresby’s mind. He awaited Archer’s return; he was just the person to look into this abysmal situation.

Thoresby could not complain of Archer’s absence. He had been pleased when John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, had requested Archer’s help in preparing men for the expedition to be led by Edward, the Black Prince, to restore Don Pedro of Castile to his throne. The previous winter the French had helped Don Pedro’s bastard brother, Enrique de Trastamare, usurp the throne of Castile and banish Don Pedro from the kingdom. King Edward and the Black Prince had vowed to restore Pedro, King by right of birth, and Edward’s third son, John of Gaunt, was to aid his elder brother in this venture.

Assisting the Prince and Lancaster suited Thoresby, as he wanted their support in his efforts to rid the royal household of their father’s new mistress, the upstart Alice Perrers. And Archer had been glad to oblige, welcoming the chance to spend time with his old friends, Lief and Gaspare.

But this uproar at St Clement’s Nunnery – it was just the type of business Archer sorted out well.

‘I was set against liking her new husband,’ Simon the gardener was saying. ‘Looks like a knave with that patch and his soldierly ways.’ He had loaded a handcart with dirt and lady’s mantle. With a grunt he began to move away.

Thoresby followed. ‘Archer’s appearance does work against him.’ He had been surprised when he had first encountered Archer in the old Duke’s entourage, but Henry of Grosmont had been a keen judge of men, and Thoresby had never doubted that Archer must be a quick-witted, resourceful, trustworthy spy. ‘But his looks, patch and all, appeal to the ladies.’

Simon shrugged. ‘I’ll never understand it, but my wife says ’tis true. Captain Archer’s a good man, no matter his looks. He’s made Mistress Wilton laugh again. ’Tis a blessed sight to see a pretty woman laugh.’ Simon stopped in front of a freshly dug bed. Picking up the slips, he set them aside on the grass, then dumped the soil into the bed. He knelt down and began to place the plants at regular intervals. ‘I expect this is the first of many children.’

‘Children? Whose children?’

‘Captain Archer and Mistress Wilton, Your Grace. They’ve been kind to Tildy and Jasper. It’s good they’re beginning their own family.’

‘I had not realised.’

Simon shrugged. ‘Well, you were down at Windsor and up in the Dales so much of the winter, weren’t you?’ He bent over the bed again, pressing mounds of earth around the new plants.

Thoresby did not like this piece of news. He did not like that Archer had not told him. ‘If I had known Mistress Wilton was with child, I would not have sent Archer away.’

Simon squinted up at the archbishop. ‘He’ll be back soon enough, won’t he?’

‘And gone again.’

Simon shrugged. ‘Back by Michaelmas?’

‘Long before that.’

Simon nodded. ‘Then ’tis a good thing. Come close to her time, the captain will be a help to Mistress Wilton, but before that he’d be fussing over her and she’d be pushing him away.’ Simon, the father of five, spoke from experience.

‘Odd that Archer said nothing,’ Thoresby muttered. He looked up at the angle of the sun. ‘I must take my leave of you now, Simon. I have some unpleasant business to attend to.’

‘God go with you, Your Grace.’

‘And with you, Simon.’

Thoresby had already spoken with his nephew and Nicholas de Louth, knew of the horsemen and Dame Joanna’s odd behaviour. He knew too that Dame Isobel had declared the nun to be Joanna.

Nicholas de Louth had certainly proved a bungling fool. How could he have left Longford’s maid in such a vulnerable position? The man had not the wits for his post.

Louth had hung his head. ‘You are right to blame me, Your Grace.’

‘You are not my concern, Sir Nicholas. Whether Dame Joanna Calverley should be accepted back into the convent of St Clement’s and whether her disappearance and return are indicative of an incompetent prioress – those are my concerns. Why should a nun steal a relic, run away, arrange a false burial, then return a year later, seeking to restore herself to the convent? And how are the deaths of Longford’s cook and maid related to Dame Joanna’s misadventure?’ Thoresby had turned away from Louth’s pouty penitence in disgust. He had expected more from someone favoured by the Black Prince. Perhaps it explained Louth’s being here instead of in Gascony with his lord.

Ravenser had entered the conversation with an uneasy clearing of his throat. ‘There is more, Uncle.’

‘What else?’

‘Someone gave Joanna a blue mantle which she believes is the mantle of the Blessed Virgin Mary.’

Sweet Heaven. ‘I suppose the sisters of St Clement’s are kneeling to her?’

Ravenser winced. ‘There was a stir. And the cook believes she has been cured of a rash.’

‘Deus juva me.’

‘But the Reverend Mother has everything under control.’

‘I dare say. Just as she has a tight rein on all of her charges.’

Now Thoresby must speak with the annoying woman herself.

Dame Isobel entered his chambers much subdued. Shadows underlined her pale eyes.
‘Benedicte,
Your Grace.’ She handed Thoresby a letter bearing the anchor seal of St Clement’s. ‘Joanna has signed this, Your Grace. She recants her sins and submits to her penance.’

Thoresby made the sign of the cross over Isobel and motioned her to be seated. ‘I understand you have identified the woman as Joanna Calverley of Leeds.’ He tapped the letter against his left palm.

‘I have, Your Grace.’ Isobel did not meet Thoresby’s eyes, but focused on his hands and the letter.

Thoresby noticed, and put down the document. No need to look discomfited. ‘And you are satisfied that she returned and signed this willingly?’

‘Joanna was most anxious to return, Your Grace.’

‘And when she signed it, was she Our Lady risen from the dead or Joanna Calverley?’

Isobel’s pale eyebrows dipped in a puzzled frown. ‘She has not claimed to be the Blessed Virgin, Your Grace, just a virgin.’

‘And is that true?’

Dame Isobel blushed. ‘I think not, Your Grace. She has said things to Dame Prudentia that suggest . . . a loss of innocence.’

‘And God chose to bring this lying Magdalene back from the dead?’

‘Your Grace, there is no logic to her delusion.’

‘Ah. So you agree she is deluded?’

Isobel looked surprised. ‘Of course.’

‘But she was lucid enough to write this letter and understand what it contained?’