Wages of Sin (12 page)

Still, all credit to her, she recovered swiftly, thought Jane with grudging admiration. Pasting a smile on her face, Mother Ursula dropped a low curtsey. ‘Welcome, Master Horner,' she said, though the words must have been sour on her tongue. ‘Our humble guest quarters are yours until your inventory is complete. Please make yourselves at home.'

Master Horner smiled. ‘Oh, we shall, madam, have no fear of that. And here we shall remain until we have reckoned up every last item, to the last grain of corn in your granary.' Turning, he began to bark orders at his men. They dismounted, and three of them produced quills, ink and parchment from the dusty bags that hung from the pommels.

Mother Ursula gasped. ‘Surely you do not mean to begin at once?' She remembered herself, and forced another smile. ‘You must be weary from your journey. Come. A glass of wine and some refreshment before you start your task?'

Master Horner's expression became icy. ‘I think not, mistress,' he said curtly. He raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘I have found that less - honest - houses have used the time to try and hide their treasures. I would not wish to put temptation in your path.'

Jane never knew what prompted her next action - the foresight that had warned her of the fate of Mistress Boleyn, or sheer madness. Scurrying back to her work she seized the filthy wash cloth and wrung it out. Glancing over her shoulder to check she was still alone, she hurried towards the altar. What should she take? It must be small enough to hide, but valuable enough to be worth risking her neck for.

Heart beating, she crossed herself and offered a quick prayer for forgiveness, before grabbing the tiny jewel-studded reliquary, that was said to contain the finger bone of their patroness, Saint Ursula - from whom Ursula had taken her name. A gold filigree cross with a huge ruby at its centre was next, followed by a magnificent gold-chased chalice. Wrapping them in the slimy cloth, she bundled them under her shift and fled through the side door.

Thankfully the gardens were deserted. Head down she scuttled towards the pigsty, heart pounding. Climbing over the low wall she nudged aside the grunting animals that rushed to her, demanding food, and made her way to the darkest corner at the back of the sty. Ignoring the stench, she dug a hole in the soft muck, threw in her bundle, covered it up and stamped down the surface.

She nodded in satisfaction. There! In the sea of trampled earth no one would ever know the ground had been disturbed. Just pray to God the pigs didn't root her treasure out again!

By the time the first clerk entered the chapel, quill and paper in hand, she was back on her knees, scrubbing industriously. Apart from a fastidious wrinkling of his nostrils as he passed, he ignored her. He was still writing as she gathered up her brush and bucket and tiptoed away.

The next few days were uncomfortable, to say the least. Meals were eaten in resentful silence. Master Horner's men were everywhere with their poking and prying, turning out even the most remote, spider-infested corners of the convent, noting down every detail.

‘Wouldn't surprise me if they
was
counting every grain of corn,' grumbled the cook, irritated beyond belief by an unwelcome scrivener under her feet while she was trying to prepare the meals. ‘Here you, wash them plates again,' she ordered Jane. ‘That nosy parker's stirred up the dust something dreadful. Wass the point of it all, thass what I want to know. My great-grammer told me about some old king - wossisname?' She wrinkled her brow in thought, then brightened again. ‘William, thass it! Him that came over from Normandy. He did the very same thing with the land. Put it down in some old book or other.' She shook her head over the stupidity of kings. ‘Now what difference did that make to the price of corn? None!' She glared at the unfortunate clerk, thumped her dough vigorously and dismissed the whole subject with a snort of derision.

Eventually it was over. Bearing their parchments, now covered with lists of everything from the bed linen down to the very last horn spoon, they clattered out of the courtyard again, leaving peace and quiet in their wake.

Until Mother Ursula discovered the missing treasures.

‘Scurvy rogues,' she raved, clenching her fists in furious impotence. ‘Using His Majesty's orders to line their own greasy pockets.' Her eyes narrowed and she lost her veneer of gentility, spitting on the ground like a cheated peasant. ‘Well, God's curse upon the thief. May a thousand devils plague him as he rots in hell.'

Jane's lip curled in a cynical smile as she remembered Father Peter's sweating face, twisted with lust as he thrust his rampant member between her reluctant lips. Mother Ursula's curse held no fears for her. Trapped in this godforsaken place, she was in hell already.

 

 

 

The brief flurry of excitement was soon over and forgotten and Jane's life sank back into its usual dreary routine. Day followed miserable day and she felt as if her youth was slipping away. She would be nineteen soon, almost an old maid.

Head bent over the greasy plates, she thought wistfully of Ralph. If he had lived she would be married now, mistress of her own household, and probably a mother by this time. Instead she was incarcerated in this glorified gaol, treated worse than any kitchen slut.

Light footsteps made her start, the plate she was holding slipping from her fingers with a clatter. ‘Wh-what do you want?' she stuttered, regarding Mother Ursula with frightened eyes. She bit her lip and cringed inwardly, terrified that her question would be regarded as insolence and bring another punishment down on her head.

‘Why, only your spiritual welfare, my daughter,' gushed Mother Ursula, seeming to delight in Jane's obvious fear. ‘How long have you been here now?'

Jane remained silent. It seemed an eternity. Shut away from the world, she had lost all track of time.

It didn't matter. Mother Ursula had the answer at her fingertips. ‘Six months,' she smiled. ‘And still a novice. I have been remiss in my duties. It is time you made your final vows and joined our little community properly.'

Jane swayed, her eyes closing in horror at the thought. Once she had taken those vows she would be shut away in this place, subject to Mother Ursula's perverted whims, forever. She envisioned her future and a sob caught in her throat. No hope. No love. Nothing but an endless stretch of empty days, broken only by moments of pain and terror. It was unbearable. She'd rather be dead!

Her lips tightened. She refused to give the bitch the satisfaction of seeing her beg. Pulling herself together she forced a smile back into Mother Ursula's taunting eyes. ‘But Reverend Mother,' she said smoothly, ‘I am unworthy of the honour you do me.' She lowered her head humbly. ‘You must give me more time. You have said yourself that I am proud and wilful. How can I become a holy sister when I am stained with sin? It would rest heavy on my conscience if I came to God when I am still so full of wickedness.'

Mother Ursula's voice was gentle, belying the wickedness beneath. ‘Fear not, my child,' she replied softly, her narrow tongue flicking lasciviously over her lips, as she eyed Jane the way a snake eyes a plump rabbit. ‘Your sins may be many, but I warrant they will be well purged before you take your vows.' She chuckled softly and the blood froze in Jane's veins. ‘Sister Michael and I will see to that.'

‘Wh-what do you mean?' stammered Jane.

‘Why, if the devil is in you, then he must be beaten out, must he not?' said Mother Ursula ‘You will hold your vigil in the chapel the night after next,' she ordered. Her tongue flickered over her lips again. ‘Sister Michael and I will accompany you, and by the time it is over your sins will be washed away - in blood. Don't think I didn't see the way Father Peter rejected me in favour of you, pushing me aside so he could pleasure himself in your pretty mouth. Well, when I have finished with you no man will look at you twice. When you limp down the aisle to make your final vows, you'll be glad of that nun's habit to hide your scars.'

Jane stared after her in horror, her knees threatening to give way. There had been murder in those pale grey eyes. Murder - and a cold, gloating enjoyment at the prospect. She swallowed, and her mind flew unbidden to the day she had walked in the graveyard beside the church, idly noting the inscriptions on the gravestones and wondering why so many nuns died young, when they were well-housed and fed compared to many another.

At the time she had shrugged it off and thought no more about it. Life was precarious at the best of times, when the plague or sweating sickness could carry off whole families in a matter of days - but now she shivered as a darker thought struck her. How many other young girls, like herself, had entered this evil building and disappeared forever? The grave was a dark forbidding place capable of concealing many a sin. She swallowed again, her mouth dry with nameless fear.

 

The night that followed was not a pleasant one. Lying wakeful on her narrow cot, she stared into the darkness as the minutes ticked away, carrying her closer to her unknown fate. Even when she finally fell into a leaden sleep, it was only to be tormented by dreams filled with blood and pain.

Next day she woke dull and heavy-headed. She dragged herself through the day with a feeling of sick apprehension lodged in the pit of her stomach, and at meals in the refectory she pushed away her plate untouched, sickened at the thought of food. If Mother Ursula had intended her to suffer with her threat of terrible punishment, she could not have done a better job.

Another sleepless night followed the first. Time was running out and her feverish brain could come up with no escape from what was to come, no matter how often she went over her predicament. One last day and then she must face her vigil - and Mother Ursula. Bitterly, she remembered thinking that she'd rather be dead than spend her life here. It seemed as though that wish might yet be granted.

She shuddered beneath the threadbare sheet, her skin dimpling into gooseflesh despite the heavy closeness of the cell. There was a storm coming; she could feel the thunder gathering in the air. As if her thought had called it up, the first dull rumble split the skies. She could feel the vibration even through the thick walls.

She sat up, sudden excitement coursing through her. That wasn't thunder, it was the sound of hooves!

Scarcely daring to believe it in case she had been mistaken, she held her breath and listened. She had been right. It was hoof beats - and they were getting closer! Flinging a swift grateful prayer towards heaven she leaped from her cot, dragged on her shift and, still binding her hair, ran barefoot along the passage.

As she reached the outside door the first peal of thunder broke. A flash of lightning split the dawn sky and heavy raindrops spattered down. Within seconds Jane's shift was soaking wet, clinging to her body in transparent folds. Lost in relief and exultation, she didn't even notice.

The other nuns were gathering too, muttering amongst themselves as they peered through the downpour at the approaching horsemen. Jane stared in amazement. No wonder she had mistaken the sound of their hooves for thunder. There were at least twenty of them and they must have ridden all night to get here. What on earth had brought such a company to this remote and unimportant convent?

That question was obviously uppermost in Mother Ursula's mind, too. Still in her night rail, she pushed her way through the chattering sisters and stood in the centre of the courtyard, arms folded as the leading horseman drew to a halt scant inches in front of her, spattering her with mud. His followers gathered behind him, silent except for the jingle of reins and the panting of their sweating horses.

Jane stared at him. He was without doubt the ugliest man she had ever seen. One eye had been lost in some battle, the empty socket covered by a black velvet patch that could not conceal the puckered flesh around it. The other eye glinted a wicked blue. Heavy lines bracketed a mouth slack with dissolution, and although his doublet was made of rich velvet and his cloak lined with silk, both were stained with travel. There was a brooding threat about him that made her shiver just to look at him.

Ursula was unimpressed. ‘Who are you?' she demanded, her voice shrill with anger. ‘To come breaking the peace of this holy place at such an ungodly hour?'

‘Sir Edmund Spence at your service, my lady,' he replied, sweeping off his hat in a mocking bow. He looked round greedily. ‘But this is no longer a holy place. This belongs to me now.' He stared coldly down at Mother Ursula. ‘So you may pack your possessions and go. You are trespassing.'

The colour drained from Mother Ursula's face. ‘That is impossible,' she hissed. ‘This land belongs to God. No man can own it.'

He shook his head. ‘This man can, courtesy of His Sovereign Majesty, King Henry VIII, Head of the Church - and I have the deeds to prove it!' His lips tightened. ‘Now take your gaggle of prattling geese and shift yourselves, before I am tempted to do it for you.'

‘We will not go,' said Mother Ursula coldly. ‘Here we are and here we shall remain - under the Lord's protection.'

‘The Lord's protection is a pretty chancy thing to rely on,' he said. ‘And you cannot say you were not warned.' He turned in the saddle and grinned at his followers. ‘Right, boys. Here's a fine covey of partridges to be flushed out. Let's show them what happens to trespassers on Sir Edmund Spence's lands.'