Кэндис Робб - The Nun’s Tale

Slowly she groped her way back to North Bar and began again. It was now mid-afternoon and clouds gathered overhead, deepening the gloom of the narrow streets. The air had grown heavy, pressing on Joanna’s chest. Her head pounded. It felt as if she had been walking for an eternity. At last the heavens opened, but instead of a refreshing shower the rain thundered down, turning the streets to rivers of mud. Joanna would not allow herself to stop and take shelter. She must not leave a trail. Her habit clung to her. Her veil slapped against her face. She fought for each step, pulling her feet out of the sucking mud. She wept for her lost medal, but trudged on. She had not come so far to be drowned by a summer storm.

At last, as the rain turned to a gentle shower, Joanna recognised the way. Round a corner, and there. The house with the whitewashed door. Will Longford’s house.

A skinny serving girl answered, stared at Joanna’s bedraggled clothes. “Surely you’ve taken the wrong turning, Sister. This be no place for nuns.”

Joanna tried to adjust her sagging wimple and veil. “I would speak with Master Longford. I’ve business with him.”

The girl scratched her cheek with a chapped hand. “Business? I warn you, there’s but one sort of business the master has with women, and afternoon’s not the time for it. Nor does he endanger his immortal soul with brides of Christ.” She glanced behind her nervously.

Joanna reached out and grabbed the girl’s apron, pulling her forward. The look of shock on the girl’s face was rewarding. “Tell your master that I’ve a treasure to trade.”

The girl nodded. “I meant only to warn you.”

Joanna let her go.

“What name shall I give the master?”

“Dame Joanna Calverley of Leeds.”

The girl scuttled away.

Shortly, the doorway darkened. Will Longford was a huge, hirsute man, his coarse black hair now streaked with white, his scarred jaw covered by a white beard – he had aged in six years. He wore a chemise that brushed the ground, but Joanna knew what it hid: a wooden peg that had replaced his left leg. Arms folded across his chest, Longford leaned against the doorjamb, formidable even when one knew he was crippled.

“You are a Calverley? From Leeds?” He did not so much speak as growl. His dark eyes glittered with hostility.

“I accompanied my brother Hugh when he sold you the arm of St Sebastian six years back.”

The dark eyes narrowed. “Ah. The little sister.” Longford scratched his beard and studied her face. “St Sebastian. His arm, you say?” He grinned. “Have you come to offer me more of Sebastian? His other arm, perhaps?”

Joanna stood up straighter. She did not like the emphasis on little sister, or the nasty grin. “I offer you something more sacred still. The milk of the Virgin. From St Clement’s in York.”

“The milk of – God’s blood, what’s the bastard up to?” Longford looked her up and down. “You are a nun of St Clement’s?”

“I am. This has naught to do with Hugh.”

Longford stepped forward, peered up and down the street. “Your kind are wont to travel in groups. How do you come to be alone?”

Joanna’s knees knocked together from cold and weariness. “Might I come within and get dry by your fire?”

Longford grunted and stood aside. “Come within before the Lord God drowns you.”

He closed the door behind her. “How fares your brother Hugh?”

“I have had no news of him in six years. But I hope to find him.”

“Ah.” Longford scratched his beard again. “I remember something about you. What was it? You were off to learn housewifery from your aunt. You were betrothed then.” He touched her veil. “I thought your betrothed was a mortal husband, not our Lord God.”

Joanna stepped backwards, discomfited by the man’s nearness. “I changed my mind.”

“Hm. I reckon you do not represent St Clement’s in offering this relic. You’ve had another change of mind, eh?”

Joanna hesitated. It seemed too soon to come to this point. But she had little choice. “I have stolen the relic. I need funds to travel. I mean to find my brother Hugh.”

Longford raised an eyebrow. “Do you now?”

He gestured for her to sit by the fire. “Wine, Maddy,” he yelled. He sat back and nodded at Joanna’s muddy habit. “You’ll never get warm in those damp clothes. Maddy will loan you something dry.” He grinned at her.

Joanna thanked him. But his grin did not have a comforting effect.

It had been a year of deluges, and August was no drier. John Thoresby stared gloomily out of the window at the muddy Ouse rushing along the lower garden, the heavy rain pommelling the flowers so that they floated limply in the water pooling in the beds. Of the palaces that had come to Thoresby as Archbishop of York, Bishopthorpe was his favourite. But this summer it was more ark than palace; the roof leaked in almost every room and the water level had risen to threaten the undercroft. Thoresby had rushed back to Bishopthorpe to preside over the Lammas Fair, looking forward to a rest from the endless politics of the royal wedding which had kept him at Windsor. He had been anxious to doff his Lord Chancellor’s chain for a few months, get back to the business of God. But the rain had done its best to ruin the fair and he felt imprisoned in this great, leaking palace… and no one had good news for him, including the two men sitting by the fire.

One was his nephew, Richard de Ravenser, provost of Beverley Minster. Prominent bones, deep-set eyes, strong chin, a face that might be handsome with more flesh. It was as if Thoresby gazed at his own reflection with years erased. Did his sister look so like him? Or had she stared at him too intently when she carried Richard?

Ravenser’s news was an administrative headache. A nun of St Clement’s, York, had run away and the prioress had not reported the incident. An irresponsible prioress could cause continuous problems.

Across from Thoresby’s mirror image sat a dark-haired, broad-shouldered man with a patch over his left eye. Owen Archer had spent July searching for the murderers of a mercer whose body had been found in the minster liberty. He reported no luck – discouraging news, because if Archer could not find the guilty parties, they would not be found.

But Ravenser and Archer were not to blame for their news. Thoresby resolved to put aside his gloom as best he could. “Come, gentlemen, it is time to join the other guests for dinner.”

Owen gave Thoresby a questioning look. “You are certain you wish me to dine with your friends, Your Grace?”

Thoresby sniffed. “Not friends, Archer. We travelled together from Windsor. Nicholas de Louth and William of Wykeham are canons of Beverley, returning with Richard to satisfy their terms of residency. I could hardly refuse them hospitality when their provost is my nephew.”

Ravenser bowed to his uncle. “I am grateful for this, Your Grace. I know that Wykeham is hardly a welcome guest in your house.”

Thoresby lifted his Lord Chancellor’s chain and let it drop against his chest. “The man who seeks to relieve me of this weight? Perhaps I should thank him for it. But I confess I smile at him with my teeth clenched. I have got the habit of power.”

Nicholas de Louth and William of Wykeham stood near the hearth in the great hall, warming their feet by the fire, their insides with wine. Both men lived mostly at court, Nicholas de Louth as a clerk in the service of Prince Edward, William of Wykeham as Keeper of the Privy Seal and King Edward’s chief architect. Louth, a fleshy man, elegantly dressed, chatted amiably with Wykeham. The latter did not call attention to his appearance, but dressed soberly, in shades of grey and brown, and had no marks of distinction save his unusual height. He was soft-spoken, with an earnest intentness about his eyes that might pass for intelligence.