Bernard Knight - Fear in the Forest

‘It never leaked from my lips!’ protested Thomas, his eyes widening.

‘No, no, of course not! But Dame Madge knew straight away the age of the unborn babe — and she must have inadvertently let it slip to Matilda de Wolfe. The dame would have no reason to know it was so significant.’

Realisation began to dawn on the little clerk. ‘Then Matilda worked out for herself that her husband could not be the father?’

Nesta looked furtively across at the door to make sure that John was not barging in again. ‘Yes. She came to me ten days ago and told me that she was now aware that John was not responsible. She was very gruff at first, and I think she wanted to insult me. But when she saw how poorly I was, she began to attend to me — and since, has been kindness itself.’

Thomas gaped at this unusual vision of Matilda, as the woman had never made any secret of the fact that she despised him as a misshapen rapist and renegade priest.

‘But surely she will tell him that she knows the babe was not his?’

Nesta gave a little shrug. ‘I just don’t know, dear Thomas. She has it in her power to wound him badly, as he was so proud of the prospect of becoming a father, even to a bastard.’

The clerk clutched her hand in reassurance. ‘The truth will never come from me, whatever happens elsewhere.’

John stalked about, looking for his wife, but failed to find her. When he reached the door into the West Range, he found Dame Madge waiting for him. She imperiously beckoned him inside and tapped on the door of the parlour, where they found the prioress sitting at her table. Dame Margaret was not one to beat about the bush.

‘Sir John, you have several times asked to speak to your wife about her intentions. Well, now we can put your mind at rest. Matilda wishes to leave our care and return home to her wifely duties.’

De Wolfe’s senses had received a battering during the past ten minutes and this final piece of news needed some assimilation.

‘Coming home?’ he croaked. ‘You mean, this very minute?’

The prioress shook her head, an amused smile on her plump face. ‘Not quite, Crowner. But within a day or so, no doubt.’

John rubbed his chin in agitation. ‘But why has she decided to leave? I thought she was firmly set upon taking the veil.’

Dame Margaret looked across at her colleague with a wry smile.

‘We both thought from the outset that your wife’s taking refuge here was more an act of protest and indignation than true devotion. There’s no doubt that she is a deeply religious woman, but the simplicity of life here could never be to her taste. She has made her point now and has said that, grateful as she is to us, she cannot see her future within these confining walls.’

John needed time to know whether he was glad or sorry. The prospect of divorce or annulment had already been quashed and his daydreams about running off to Wales with Nesta to start a new life were not really a practical option. He had come to hate his empty house and his lonely table and secretly missed Matilda’s pugnacious presence, much as it often infuriated him. He was confused and uncertain whether he was devastated or relieved.

‘May I talk to her now?’ was all he could think of saying.

The Prioress raised her hands, palms up. ‘It depends on whether she yet wishes to speak to you. That is her choice, but Dame Madge will seek her out and ask her. Is there anything else, Sir John?’

‘Just one matter, Dame Margaret,’ he said in a low voice. ‘The child — my only child. What happened to it?’

The nun’s eyes flicked across to Dame Madge and for a moment she looked uneasy.

‘It was buried in our cemetery, Crowner. Though it was tiny, it was still one of God’s flock and was laid to rest with due ceremony.’

‘May I just see the place, please?’

‘Dame Madge will show you the spot.’

Again an uneasy glance passed between them before the raw-boned nun showed him out and took him around the back of the new church dedicated to Becket, another penitent gesture by one of Thomas’s killers. Here there was a small cemetery plot, with a dozen plain crosses marking the resting places of the sisters who had passed away during the past thirty-eight years since the priory had been founded.

Dame Madge led him across to the far corner, almost against the boundary wall. Here a tiny mound of fresh earth, no larger than a mole-hill, was surmounted by a little wooden cross small enough to lie on the palm of his hand. At its foot lay a posy of daisies and buttercups, plucked from the surrounding pasture.

‘There it is, Sir John,’ said the dame gently. ‘I’ll leave you in peace.’

She walked away, and John stood staring down at the dimple of reddish earth, his thoughts rolling forward to what might have been.

He heard a footstep behind him and, turning, saw his wife. She still wore a white apron, soiled with salve from his mistress’s throat. Coming near, she stood alongside him, but avoided any contact. He turned back to the tiny grave and stared down at it. Suddenly his throat seemed to tighten and his sight blurred with moisture.

‘There’s part of me under that soil, Matilda,’ he said, with a break in his voice.

‘Yes, John. But come away now. I’ll be home before long.’

She took his arm and steered him back across the grass.