Candace Robb - The Nun's Tale

At sunset, Maddy’s dance was interrupted by the creak of the hall door. She had not yet latched it for the night, nor had she fastened the shutters. The grey twilight was the only illumination in the hall. She held her breath, listening. She heard nothing more, but she sensed someone in the shadows.

‘Who is there?’

No answer, but now she could hear breathing, quick and excited.

‘This is Master Longford’s house.’ Maddy tried to sound stern. ‘You cannot just walk in off the street.’

The intruder laughed, a sharp cackle of a laugh that echoed weirdly in the darkening hall.

Maddy crept towards the door that led out to the kitchen. She could run into the street if she could only get there first. Her way brought her into the silvery light from one of the open windows. She pulled the shawl tighter and hurried.

Someone grabbed at the shawl, pulled her backwards. Maddy screamed, fumbled with the knot she’d made to fasten the shawl beneath her chin. An arm squeezed her waist. ‘So slender,’ a voice hissed in her ear. The man stank of onions and sweat. This was nothing like Maddy’s imaginings. She gave up on the knot, tried to pull free of his grasp. His other arm came round her neck, then eased, feeling the knot. He yanked the shawl down off her head, twisted it so the knot pressed into her throat. Her screams were choked into desperate coughs. Maddy’s eyes hurt from the pressure in her head. She could not breathe. Her legs gave out. The knot pressed in, tighter, tighter. Sweet Jesu, it had been but an innocent fantasy. .

Louth showed Sir Thomas, the vicar of St Mary’s, into his parlour. He hoped to learn more about the events surrounding Dame Joanna’s time in Beverley. The priest seemed a likely informant, having given Joanna the last rites and buried her; but past experience with Sir Thomas prepared Louth for a difficult time. The man was devoted to his own self-preservation, nothing more.

‘Longford’s servant mentioned two visitors, Sir Thomas. Did Longford have any companions other than Jaro at Dame Joanna’s grave?’

The priest frowned down at his muddy boots. ‘Two men.’ He raised his dull eyes to Louth. ‘Yes. I remember them.’

‘Had you ever seen them before?’

The priest shook his head.

‘Describe them to me.’

‘I am afraid I can be of little help.’ Sir Thomas mopped his forehead with a large handkerchief. ‘My eyes have failed me of late.’

Louth thought the blank stare bespoke a slothful nature rather than failing eyesight. Would he not squint more in an effort to focus? Louth sighed. He had a critical, uncharitable streak for which he continually did penance. ‘Tell me what you can, Sir Thomas. Anything will be most appreciated.’

The priest’s face contorted in a childish fashion as he bit the inside of his mouth. Louth averted his eyes.

‘Longford is a dangerous man, Sir Nicholas. Much feared in Beverley.’

‘All I ask is that you tell me what you recall,’ Louth said with increasing impatience.

The priest mopped his forehead again as he glanced round the room. ‘One was tall, fair-haired. He spoke like a foreigner. A Dane. Perhaps a Norseman. The other was of average height, sturdy build but not overly muscular. Thinning hair. Gentle spoken.’

‘Were they referred to by name in your presence?’

Sir Thomas shook his head. Too quickly for Louth’s taste. The other questions had not been answered with such speed.

‘You gave Dame Joanna the last rites. Did you believe she was dead?’

‘Oh no. No. Longford said she was dying. And she did seem weak and pale. Her hands were cold, her forehead, too, as I recall.’

‘You buried her in haste. Why was that?’

The priest squirmed under the intent regard. ‘It was to be temporary, until her family came for her. We worried it might be plague, you see.’

‘Who suggested plague?’

The priest chewed the inside of his mouth and thought. ‘Jaro. ’Twas he suggested it. Said the body stank of plague and he would not have her in his kitchen. You cannot know how I prayed over it.’

Louth had no trouble believing that the priest had prayed — but for his own health, not for guidance.

‘Has there been any. . disturbance — around her grave?’

The priest looked nervous. ‘What sort of disturbance?’

Louth pressed his fingers together and closed his eyes, calming himself. ‘Does the grave look as if it has been untouched since the so-called funeral of Dame Joanna?’

Sir Thomas took a deep breath. ‘I tell no tales, but since I heard of her return, I went to look, and, I must say, something has been at the grave in the past year. Though not so recently as Dame Joanna’s resurrection. Then again, would a body disturb the earth as it rose from the grave? Seems to me — ’

‘She did not rise from the dead,’ Louth said sternly.

‘No. No, of course not.’ The priest blotted his forehead.

‘Did Dame Joanna wear a blue mantle when you attended her?’

‘Our Lady’s mantle? Alas, no. I did not have the good fortune to touch it.’

Louth sighed. ‘Yes. Thank you, Sir Thomas.’ He rose with the priest, escorted him out and called for his squire. ‘Come, John, let us visit little Maddy and ask her about the two men.’

John knocked on the whitewashed door of Longford’s house. It swung open. He glanced back at Louth, puzzled. Louth nodded. They drew their daggers. John stepped inside and Louth followed. The afternoon sun poured through the unshuttered windows, illuminating overturned chairs and benches. An oil lamp lay on the floor next to a scorched chair. The house was silent but for a bird that took fright at their entrance.

‘Maddy?’ Louth whispered. He cleared his throat, repeated her name loudly. No answer. He moved slowly toward the door that led to the kitchen, stepped through, stopped with a sense of dread at the bloodstains in the courtyard, an uneven trail that connected the hall with the kitchen. He opened the kitchen door. ‘Sweet Heaven.’ Cooking pots lay scattered on the stone floor; the remains of a stew coagulated in a pot over the pale embers of the cooking fire; wine pooled on a trestle table, dripped onto the floor. ‘Maddy?’ A curtain was drawn across an alcove. Probably Jaro’s pallet. John reached it first, pulled back the curtain, turned away with a strangled cry.

Louth crossed himself and joined his squire. Maddy lay on the wide pallet, coins on her eyes, her hands folded neatly on her breast, fully clothed, draped in a blue shawl. But the swollen face, split lip, the blood on her skirt and hands, and most of all the ugly dark bruise on her throat made it plain that Maddy’s death had not been peaceful, much as someone had carefully arranged her afterwards. Poor little Maddy. Louth fell to his knees and wept.

Louth’s round, usually ruddy face was pale the next morning, his eyes shadowed. Ravenser invited him out into his garden, where the sun might draw the chill of death from his bones.

‘What have they done with Maddy’s body?’ Louth asked.

‘I have claimed it. The bailiff and the coroner will deliver her to me.’

Louth leaned forward to touch Ravenser’s hand. ‘God bless you, Richard. Pray, let me bear the expense of her burial.’

Ravenser withdrew his hand, discomfited by the canon’s emotion. ‘Why should you bear the expense?’

‘In Heaven’s name, it is my fault that she is dead. What was I thinking to leave her there alone?’

Ravenser bowed his head to hide his agreement. ‘Did you notice the blue shawl, how like Dame Joanna’s it is?’ Best to engage Louth in searching for answers. The peacock would have made note of the bright shawl.

‘The blue shawl.’ Louth nodded. ‘Yes, I did see it.’