Кэндис Робб - The Nun’s Tale

Louth glanced at the provost, back to the nun. “You had a vision?”

The eyes filled with tears, the head drooped backward against Louth’s arm. “I must return,” she whimpered, her eyes fluttering shut.

“Dame Joanna?” Louth whispered.

Joanna muttered something incoherent.

Louth lay her back down on the benches, looked up at Ravenser. “What do you think?”

Ravenser frowned down at the nun, pursed his lips, shook his head. “I do not like such things – Our Lady’s mantle… Rising from the dead…”

They both gazed down at the woman, dirty, ravaged by hunger.

“She is lovely, even in this condition,” Louth said with a sigh.

Ravenser glanced up, surprised by the comment. “A peculiar thing to be thinking.”

Louth shrugged. “She touches something in me. Her delicacy. Her desperation.” He shook himself and stood up straight.

“We shall take her to Nunburton Abbey,” Ravenser said. “There she can be tended and watched.”

Maddy looked from one to the other. “She is truly alive?”

Ravenser smiled. “Yes, Maddy, truly alive. Now tell me, did you actually see her dead?”

Maddy thought, shook her head.

“But you prepared her for burial?”

“No. I was at market. I came back and she was wrapped in a shroud.”

Ravenser glanced at Louth, then back to Maddy. “Dame Joanna died while you were out?”

Maddy stared down at her feet, tears welling in her eyes. “It was so sad. I wouldn’t’ve gone if I’d seen she was worsening.”

Louth did not like this new information. “You thought she was improving?”

Maddy nodded. “She’d been up and dining with them.”

“Longford and Jaro?”

Maddy nodded. “And their two visitors.”

Visitors. All this time Maddy had mentioned only Will Longford and his man Jaro. But then Louth had been interested only in Longford. “I will send for you tomorrow, Maddy. You must tell me everything you remember about Dame Joanna’s days in this house.”

“But who’s to watch the house while I’m gone, Sir?”

“I will set a watch, Maddy. I am more anxious than ever to find your master.”

Richard de Ravenser left Dame Joanna, still in a faint, in the competent hands of his housekeeper and rode out to the Abbey of Nunburton. The abbess returned with him and took charge of Joanna. It occurred to Ravenser as he watched the litter and escort depart that he should write to his uncle, the archbishop, who had shown an interest in the nun’s story last summer. But what could Ravenser report? Perhaps he should wait until he and Louth had talked to Maddy again.

Maddy did not like being alone in the house. She had heard Dame Joanna say she had risen from the dead, no matter that Sir Nicholas said it was untrue. Maddy knew the stench of the grave – its odour lingered in the rooms. And the way Dame Joanna had wept – that was not a holy vision. More like the dead returning to haunt the living.

Maddy distracted herself with fantasies about John, Sir Nicholas’s squire. So courteous and handsome, so richly dressed. Maddy imagined lying in John’s arms, close to his heart, as Dame Joanna had. John had shown such tender concern for Joanna, cradling her gently in his arms. Oh, that it had been Maddy! She went to market for a blue mantle, found a large shawl that sufficed. Back at the house, she draped the blue shawl round her and danced about the hall. In her imagination John came in, found her a breathtaking vision. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her up to the master’s bedchamber.

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.