Lilies for Love (21 page)

There was no sign of Ursel in the refectory or anywhere around the cloister. Janna made a conscious effort to slow her footsteps as she went outside to search in the garden. She didn't want to attract any attention, nor did she want to add the Sin of Running to her crimes. But Ursel was not there, or in the physic garden, or the orchard beyond. There was only one place Janna hadn't looked. She had never been into the church on her own, and was reluctant to go there now. Vespers was over and the nuns would be having their supper. She was already late for the meal; she didn't want to be held to account also for the Sin of Trespass.

The church door was open, inviting her in. Janna's hesitant steps took her over the threshold. The air smelled dusty and old, and perfumed with stale incense. Flickering candles cast a ghostly glow, while her shadow leaped high and dark against their light. She set down the candle and walked into the choir stalls, but there was no Ursel sitting in her usual seat, nor anyone else there either. A stifled sob came to her ears, and she kept very still, turning her head to locate the direction of the sound. She thought it came from the Lady Chapel or perhaps the small chapel that housed the shrine of St Edith, and so she tiptoed quietly into the east arm of the crucifix-shaped church.

A figure lay spreadeagled on the floor in front of St Edith's shrine, racked with sobs but trying her best to stifle them. Janna could make out a few choked gasps: 'N-n-not worthy, oh God, not worthy . . .' followed by a cry of agony: 'Oh God, I do . . . do believe in you. Pl-please, please g-give me the gift of faith. Help me, S-St Edith, help me!' The nun's eyes were blind with tears; her voice desolate with grief.

Janna's first impulse was to run to her, to take her in her arms and comfort her, but she knew that this was not the comfort Ursel sought. Aghast at witnessing such despair, wanting to help yet feeling powerless in the face of such anguish, she hesitated. Should she run for the abbess? The thought was dismissed almost instantly. Ursel needed more comfort than that cold and calculating heart could provide. Who, then, could she find to talk to Ursel, to give her the ease she sought? Sister Anne? Sister Grace?

Janna touched the box inside her sleeve. Perhaps, after all, she had the means to alleviate some of Ursel's despair. Even so, she hesitated to interrupt the nun's desperate communion with the saint. She tiptoed quietly away, just a few paces, so that when Ursel felt strong enough to rise and face her life once more, she would be able to intercept and talk to her without letting the nun know that her misery had been witnessed.

It seemed that hours passed. Judging from the sounds of distress that Janna could hear even from a distance, Ursel was neither aware of the time, or of how very cold it was in the church. Janna shivered, and huddled into her habit, wishing she had thought to fetch her cloak before going in search of the scribe. Ursel's sobbing, interspersed with prayers and entreaties to St Edith, indicated a crisis of faith that Janna could not understand. She knew she would be unable to provide counsel, and wondered again if she should fetch someone to intervene. She cast about for anyone close to Ursel, someone who cared enough to help her through this catastrophe, but could think of no-one. In fact, she couldn't remember ever seeing Ursel talk or laugh with anyone, not even in those few periods during the day when conversation was permitted. Perhaps the nuns were too in awe of her great gift? Or, Janna thought, more likely Ursel's stutter turned any conversation with her into a trial. Even she had not sought out Ursel when questioning the other nuns about her mother; the realisation made her flinch with shame.

And she was slowly freezing to death. Janna jumped up, hugged herself, then squatted up and down on the spot to get the blood flowing freely once more. She began to pace about in a vain effort to warm herself. In spite of her care to walk quietly, her boots clattered on the stone flagging. She became aware that the sobbing had stopped, along with the murmurs of distress. Suddenly afraid that Ursel had crept out without her noticing, she hastened to the small shrine.

Ursel was there, standing at the entrance. Her face and eyes were red and swollen with grief. 'You g-gave me a fright. I . . . I thought I was alone here.' Her voice was muffled, thick with tears.

'Forgive me, Sister. I didn't mean to startle you, but I'm glad to find you here.' Janna was quite happy to pretend she'd only just arrived. 'I've been looking for you, for I have something to show you.' From her sleeve, she drew out the wooden box and held it out to Sister Ursel.

Ursel frowned, her face hardening with suspicion. 'Where . . . where did you get that?' she asked sternly.

'Look inside.' Janna opened the box, wanting Ursel to see the contents before she answered the question. 'Please,' she added.

Sister Ursel did as she was told. She saw the sheet of parchment. 'Oh!' she breathed. 'Oh!' She snatched up the sheet and carefully unfolded it. With reverence, she smoothed the creases, then held it under the light from the cresset candles to examine it more carefully. She exhaled in relief when she saw that her work was undamaged. She rounded on Janna.

'Did you take this page? And d-did you steal this box?' she demanded angrily. Even through her dismay, Janna noted that the nun hardly stammered at all.

'No, Sister, I did not!' In spite of knowing that she'd had no choice in the matter, Janna still felt a sense of shame. 'I found the missing page inside the box – and yes, I stole the box but I didn't take your piece of parchment. Not this page, nor any others that have gone missing in the past.'

Sister Ursel's eyes went round with horror. 'You st-stole the box?' she said slowly. 'Why are you telling me this? You should c-confess your misdeeds to our M-Mother.'

'I wanted to speak to you first. Yes, I know I was wrong to go poking about in everyone's possessions, but I was sure that whoever was responsible for stealing pages of your manuscript must have hidden them somewhere until she was ready for them to be "found" later on. I couldn't bear it if another page was defaced and spoiled as the last one was, and so I took a chance and made a search.'

Ursel shot Janna a glance of pure amazement. 'You c-cared enough about my work to dis . . . dishonour your soul?'

'No dishonour to
my
soul. The dishonour belongs to the one who has been acting against you in this way. I don't know who it is – although I have my suspicions! But I took the box because the writing will tell us who the owner is.' Janna tapped the inscription on the silver band. 'See? I cannot read the name inscribed here, but I know you can.'

'
Laudate Dominum
.' Sister Ursel said the words aloud. 'That means "Praise the L-Lord", Sister Johanna.'

'Oh.' Janna felt thoroughly deflated as she faced the scribe. 'I'm sorry. I took it thinking it would tell us who has been acting against you in this way.'

'But it does,' Sister Ursel said slowly. 'This b-box belongs to Sister Catherine.'

'Not Sister Philippa?'

'No.' Ursel looked surprised. 'Why . . . why would you think that?'

'Because . . .' But Janna was too ashamed of her suspicions to go on. 'How do you know it belongs to Sister Catherine?' she asked.

'Because I . . . I once saw her showing it to s-several of our sisters. She is very p-proud of it, but . . . but of course she is not meant to have any p-personal p-property so she k-keeps it hidden under her mattress – or s-so she said.'

'And that's where I found it, and with this sheet of parchment inside.'

Sister Ursel's face reflected her shock.

'Why would Sister Catherine do such a thing?' Janna asked.

'Perhaps . . . b-because of my mouse and her dog?' Sister Ursel cast her eyes heavenwards as if seeking the answer there. 'Everyone, at s-some time or another, has c-complained about Sister Catherine's dog. And for m-many different reasons, b-but I s-suspect she blames me for drawing attention to each in-incident. The d-dog used to bark whenever I came near, you s-see. It could smell Chester, but in making its p-presence known it was impimpossible for Mother Abbess to ignore its existence. And so . . . so she would remonstrate with Sister Catherine. And . . . and I suppose that's why Catherine t-took vengeance on me and on Chester.' She gazed sadly at the parchment in her hands. 'I . . . I found his . . . his remains in the cloister late this afternoon,' she said. 'S-Sister Catherine and her dog were close by. There was b-blood on his muzzle! I . . . I could see the triumph in Catherine's eyes, and I realised then how much she . . . she h-h-hates me!' Her voice shook. Her eyes were glassy with tears. She squeezed them shut and blotted the tears away with her hand. 'It is a j-judgment on me, for my lack of faith,' she whispered.

Janna remembered the incident in church, and the incident in the cloisters. She wished, now, that she'd paid more attention at the time. Two nuns who both loved their pets, but only one in trouble for it. How the injustice of it must have festered in Catherine's mind to drive her to such lengths.

'This is surely nothing to do with God, and everything to do with Sister Catherine,' she said. 'You have the parchment safe. What will you do about Sister Catherine?'

'Nothing.'

'Nothing?'
Janna couldn't believe her ears.

Ursel shook her head. Her face was creased with worry as she thought about it. 'I . . . I'll have to give the box b-back to her. I could tell her that I . . . I know she took the pages from me, and was r-responsible for their d-destruction. As for . . . for Chester – I . . . I d-don't know how he managed to escape, but I am sure Catherine could have prevented her d-dog from killing him, if she'd only h-had the will to do so. But b-blaming her cannot bring Chester back to life, while the . . . the fact that he is gone m-means she cannot hold me responsible in the future for . . . for any trouble caused by her animal. S-so I think I'll j-just tell her I'll say no more ab-about it.'

'You could also tell her that if any more pages are taken, you'll accuse her openly in chapter and tell the abbess what she's done,' Janna said sharply. 'Tell her that you have a witness to back your story.'

Ursel nodded. 'I . . . I can't thank you enough for t-taking this risk on my behalf, Johanna. I . . . thought that G-G-God had abandoned me. This p-page . . . M-my w-work . . .'

'I know.' Janna smiled at her. 'I know how much it means to you.'

'And if there's anything . . . anything I can d-do to . . .?'

'No, I'm glad to have been of help.' Janna looked at the parchment in Ursel's hand, at the careful writing and the small illustration beside it: a line drawing of a nun on her knees, with a beautifully decorated cross in her hands and a golden halo around her head.

Here was the answer to all her prayers! Janna marvelled at her stupidity, her slowness in seeing the blindingly obvious.

'Actually, there is something you could do for me, Sister Ursel,' she said carefully. 'I cannot read, and my future depends on my learning how to do so. Will you teach me?'

She held her breath, waiting for the same curt refusal she'd received from Sister Grace and the chantress. But Ursel's mouth curved up into a smile. She positively beamed with happiness. 'No-one's ever asked me to . . . to do anything for them before,' she exclaimed. 'I . . . I'd be happy to share my knowledge with you, Johanna.'

Janna closed her eyes, and breathed out a silent 'thank you', knowing that here in this church, if nowhere else, God would be listening, and must surely give His blessing to her search for the truth.

T
HE DAYS PASSED
swiftly; there were barely enough daylight hours for Janna to accomplish all that she wanted to do. She'd told Sister Anne that Sister Ursel had consented to teach her how to read, and had begged time off from her duties. Sister Anne had agreed to give her a few hours off in the afternoon whenever she could be spared, but had warned Janna that she expected her help in the infirmary at all other times. With the abbey shivering through the long, hard winter, Janna was kept busy physicking coughs and colds, the aches of rheumatics, and sundry other complaints suffered by the convent of nuns.

She knew that Sister Anne was entrusting her to do more and more, and felt a growing sense of confidence and enjoyment as she went about her work. But her favourite times were spent in company with Sister Ursel. The scribe had begged a wax tablet and a metal stylus from Sister Grace, and had told Janna she would learn to read and write through copying from a reader, the
Disticha Catonis
.

'But I don't understand Latin!' Janna cried in dismay.

Sister Ursel looked a little taken aback. 'That is how the oblates and novices are taught,' she said dubiously.

'I'd much rather learn how to read the Saxon language.' Janna suddenly recollected that the letter was from her father. 'But Norman French would be even better,' she said quickly.

'You speak our language?' Sister Ursel sounded amazed.

'Yes. Yes, I do.' It was the first time Janna had admitted to it since she'd come to the abbey.

'Of course. I . . . I remember now. Your mother spoke to me in the language of the Normans.'

Janna froze into stillness. 'My . . . my mother? You spoke to her when she came here?' She remembered now that Ursel was the only one she hadn't interrogated, and mentally gave herself a swift kick. The answer had been here all the time!

'Yes, I spoke to her. Why, is it important?' Ursel had picked up the tablet to write on it, to show Janna the letters of the alphabet. Now she put down the stylus, intrigued by the urgency in Janna's tone.

'Did she tell you anything about herself? Where she came from?'

'She said she . . . she'd come from Ambresberie. Why? Did you not know that, Johanna?'

Mute with shock, Janna shook her head. Ursel's bewilderment increased. 'She was a nun at the abbey there. Their infirmarian, or s-so she said. But . . . but she told me she'd learned her knowledge of herbs and her sk-skills with healing from her mother. Surely you knew that?'

'No.' Stricken, Janna stared at Ursel. 'Why did she confide in you and no-one else? She never said anything to me!' Her eyes burned. She knew she was about to cry, and blinked furiously.

'Perhaps she was ashamed? She was p-pregnant when she came here, you know. She begged the abbess for shelter – not that Abbess H-Hawise showed her any sympathy, or even any C-Christian charity! In fact, she told your mother not to . . . to talk to anyone while she was here. P-perhaps she thought her disgrace was contagious! She . . . she sent her away just as soon as she could.' Perhaps regretting her waspish tone, Ursel's voice softened. 'As to why your mother confided in me, she c-came to ask if I could show her how to write a name. Your name, Johanna. "In c-case I have a little girl," she said.'

Janna closed her eyes. 'I think she named me after my father. John. Did she say anything to you about him, about who he is and where he comes from?'

'No. That is all I know. I'm sorry, Johanna.'

'She taught me how to write my name.' Janna took the tablet from Ursel and scratched the letters onto the wax tablet. 'See?' She held it out. 'That's all I know how to write.'

'Then let us make haste to remedy that. You already know how to write an "A". Let's b-begin at the beginning of the alphabet.' Ursel's voice was kind as she encouraged Janna to put her grief behind her and make a start.

Sister Eadgyth? Or Sister someone else? Janna put the question to Sister Ursel, but she didn't know the answer. 'I have also seen this name written down. Can you tell me what it is, please, Sister?' Janna wrote the name that was burned into her memory, the name at the bottom of her mother's letter.

'John. That says "John",' Ursel confirmed.

John. Who loved Eadgyth just as she loved him. Or did he? Janna found that her mother was never far from her thoughts while she was with the nun. The letter seemed to burn a hole in her purse. She longed to bring it out, to ask the sister to read it, but was afraid that the truth it revealed would so shock Ursel that her lessons would come to an end. More than ever now, Janna determined not to leave the abbey until she could both read and write.

Ursel had shown all the letters of the alphabet to Janna, and had made her learn the sounds of them. They sat together in the scriptorium during their lessons, for it was too cold to sit out in the cloister. Ursel continued her painstaking illuminations while Janna practised writing and sounding the letters, and attempted to read the simple words that the scribe wrote on the tablet for her to decipher. But the work progressed too slowly for Janna's patience. Although she sometimes brought out the letter and studied it when no-one was about to see her, most of the words stayed tantalisingly out of her reach. The few she could read were too scattered for her to make much sense of them other than to learn that they seemed to be written in the Saxon language after all. But she was too proud to tell Ursel that she'd changed her mind, and so, laboriously, she sounded out the letters and tried to match the words she could read with their Saxon equivalent. The one thing she was quite sure of now was that the letter had indeed come from her father.

There was something else she could ask Ursel for help with, and one day she plucked up enough courage to show her the brooch she'd found buried under their cot in her mother's secret hiding place. 'Can you read the inscription, please, Sister?' she asked.

'
Amor vincit omnia
,' the nun obliged.

'What does that mean?'

'It's Latin. It means "love conquers all". It's a b-beautiful brooch, Johanna. Where did you get it?'

'It belonged to my mother.'

'A gift from your f-f–?'

'My father?' Janna closed her eyes. 'I don't know,' she whispered. 'I just don't know.'

Ursel's difficulty with the word 'father' reminded Janna of the nun's speech impediment. She realised then that, in their conversations, Ursel hardly stuttered at all. It was when she did the readings during the meals. It was when she spoke of God. And 'father'. Janna remembered the nun's anguish at the shrine of St Edith, how she had prayed for faith. Was a lack of faith at the heart of her difficulty with speech?

She reminded herself that it was none of her business. 'What brought you here to the abbey, Sister Ursel?' she heard herself asking.

'I wanted to serve God.' The nun was absorbed in colouring several very small flowers and answered without thinking. She looked up then, and flushed a deep and painful red. 'Th-that is, my family p-paid a d-dower for me to be here, to be r-r-rid of me.'

'Surely not!' Janna was shocked.

The nun grimaced unhappily. 'My . . . my f-f-father died when I was quite young, and my mother m-married again, and had s-several more children. My s-sister was the beauty of the family. My . . . my mother knew she could find a husband for her, and my b-brothers were provided for by my . . . my stepf-f-father. I d-didn't belong in the new f-family. And so . . . so I decided to s-serve God.'

'So you're here because you wanted to come?' Janna asked gently.

'Y-Yes.' Ursel raised her eyes to Janna. They were suspiciously bright. 'I . . . I s-saw the abbey as a p-place of refuge, you s-see. I was . . . was clumsy. I f-forgot things, I muddled everything up. My family got impatient with . . . with me. They s-said I was g-good for nothing, a . . . a nuisance, so they told me to . . . to go and be a n-nuisance at the abbey, instead.'

'But you letter so beautifully! Surely they admired your talent?' Janna was amazed at their blindness.

'They . . . they didn't know. S-Sister Grace and Sister Maria t-taught me my letters and . . . and once I p-picked up a pen and b-began to draw, I knew that this was . . . was where my heart belonged!'

Janna heard the passion in Ursel's voice. 'You are so clever,' she said. 'You write and draw so beautifully. Surely it is a gift from God, and a blessing that you came here.'

'Do . . . do you think so?' Ursel's eyes grew round as she contemplated Janna's words. It seemed she'd never considered her talent in this way before.

'Of course!' Janna said emphatically.

'But I . . . I feel so un-unworthy.'

'Your work is wonderful. Surely you must know that?'

Sister Ursel bowed her head. 'I do my b-best,' she whispered.

'You are
not
unworthy. You are truly blessed. Your illumination of the life of St Edith will live on through the centuries, a testament to your faith and to your great gift. It will still be here long after we're all dead and forgotten.'

'I . . . I never thought of that!' Ursel raised shining eyes to Janna. It was the first time Janna had ever seen the nun look truly happy.

'You should never feel unworthy. Never!'

Ursel picked up her pen and dipped it into a pot of colour. As she bent once more to her task, Janna heard her humming softly under her breath. She smiled, and went back to carefully copying what Ursel had written on her tablet.
'Le chat va a la chasse.'
She tried to read the phrase, and then translate it into Saxon. The cat goes hunting? Janna smiled. She had made a start. She was on her way.

Agnes continued to lie heavily on Janna's conscience. She'd grown much quieter, and seldom sought out Janna's company. When they did meet, Janna still tried to interest her friend in learning about herbs and their properties, but her task was made difficult because the garden lay bare and lifeless in the bitter winter cold, and there was little to see or do there. Nor had Sister Anne consented to have Agnes working in the infirmary, so Janna couldn't show her how to make up medicaments either.

But the convent had much to think and talk about for there was startling news from the north, brought by one of the few travellers still abroad. 'Earl Ranulf of Chester and his brother, William of Roumare, captured and held Lincoln castle after tricking the castellan into admitting their wives,' the traveller told them. 'But King Stephen mustered his army and chased up there to lay siege against them.' The traveller had stopped to talk to the almoner in the outer court, but as word spread of the news he brought, a crowd began to gather around him.

'Earl Ranulf managed to escape with some of his men. He went first to Chester to muster his own vassals along with his Welsh allies, and he also called on Robert of Gloucestre to support him, promising fealty to the empress in return.' The traveller rocked back on his heels to survey his rapt audience. He was greatly enjoying the attention.

'Earl Robert was delighted at the chance to make an important new ally for the empress,' he explained. 'As half-brother to Matilda, he gives her claim to the throne his full support. Besides, his own daughter is married to Ranulf of Chester, so everyone in his family is happy with the new alliance. The two earls joined forces, mustered their troops and chased up to Lincoln to do battle against the king. It seems that all the signs were against Stephen from the start.'

The traveller lowered his voice in hushed awe. ''Tis said that before the battle, he attended a Mass on the feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin. He offered a candle to Bishop Alexander but, when he put it into the bishop's hands, it broke into pieces. Everyone said this served as a warning to the king that he would be crushed, but worse was to follow. In the bishop's presence the pyx above the altar, which contained the consecrated bread, the holy Body of Christ, fell down when the chain snapped. 'Tis said this was the sign of the king's downfall, and so it came to pass, for the battle was lost.

'The king said it was a judgment from God for his arrest of the Bishops of Ely and Lincoln, and his mistreatment of Bishop Roger of Sarisberie, but he also blamed the many barons who deserted him on the battlefield. Even so, 'tis said the king showed great courage, for although everything seemed against him he still continued fighting, laying about him with a two-headed axe until it broke. Finally, he was struck down by a stone and taken captive, along with several of his followers. He was taken to Gloucestre first, but is now in Bristou, held captive by Robert, Earl of Gloucestre.'

A stunned silence greeted the traveller's words. 'The empress has had a meeting with the king's brother, Bishop Henry of Blois, who is the papal legate,' the traveller continued with relish. 'I've heard that Bishop Henry has submitted the city of Winchestre to her control, including the royal treasury. Some of the bishops have already sworn their fealty; others will follow. It seems that, for the first time ever, England will have a queen on the throne.'

The traveller looked about him, pleased at the effect of his words on the nuns. They were speechless. Not so the abbess, who swooped down on him like a black crow, full of wrath that she was the last to hear such important news. After dismissing the sisters with sharp words and an admonition to remember always the vow of silence, she then took him away, presumably to break the vow of silence with an interrogation of her own.

But that was not the last of the excitement. Word came shortly afterwards that the bishops had received the empress, and had given her the title 'Lady of England', which she would hold until her coronation. All had pledged their support, with one exception: Theobald, Archbishop of Canterberye. He and the empress planned to meet at Wiltune shortly before Easter, for the empress wished to visit the abbey where her mother had spent part of her childhood.

As soon as word of the impending visit arrived, there was a great fuss and bother. Everyone was pressed into cleaning and tidying the abbey and its grounds. Messages flew back and forth. There was no question, now, whose side the abbey was on. Perhaps it was the memory of the empress's mother, held dear among those few nuns old enough to remember her, or perhaps it was that the cause of the king now seemed utterly defeated.