Кэндис Робб - The Nun’s Tale

“Then what ails you?” Lief asked, exasperated.

Lief would never change. Life was very simple to him, a handful of absolutes.

“What if she dies in childbed? What if the child dies? What will a child think of me, scarred as I am? Will I frighten it?”

“Good God, man, you do think too much. It’s ever been your problem. You have all the best in life – strength, honour, a beautiful wife, and soon the fruit of your union. Any other man would be puffed up with pride and giddy with joy.”

Owen rubbed his scar beneath the patch. It was difficult to explain. “Lucie had a child once, a boy, Martin. He died before he could walk. Plague.”

“Ah.” Lief nodded over his energetic whittling. “So she’s gloomy and fretful, eh?”

Owen shook his head. “No. That is not Lucie’s way. She is determined that all will go well. But it is not up to us, is it? It’s God’s game in the end.”

Lief paused, studied his friend’s face. “Here’s another piece of philosophy, then. It’s no use worrying about what might happen. God’s will is unknowable to the likes of us.”

How true. And how maddening. If ever there were something Owen would give all to control… “You are right. And you were right before when you guessed it was Thoresby making me worry. Before you sat down, I’d been wondering about the nun who ran away. She or someone else went to great lengths to make it look like she’d died. A man called Longford was involved – but was he her friend, her lover or her enemy? Why is Longford’s man buried in the nun’s grave, his neck broken? Why was his maid murdered? Why was she wearing a blue shawl like the nun’s?”

Lief shook his head. “Is that what you do for the chancellor? Make up questions?”

Owen laughed. “It amounts to that, indeed. But that was not my point. I was showing you how I must think to do Thoresby’s work. Of course I’m worrying about all that could go wrong with Lucie. I’ve trained myself to do that.”

“No wonder you hate him.”

Owen shrugged. “I don’t know that I do hate him.”

Lief glanced over at Owen. “God’s blood, but you are a hard one to figure. Well, think about hating the archbishop for a while and give your family a rest, eh?” He handed Owen the carving, a featureless figure in an archbishop’s robes.

Owen laughed, slapped Lief on the back. “Good advice, my philosophical friend. And a clever reminder.” He picked up the letter and rose from the stone ledge, stretching. “I should go back. Gaspare will think I’ve already ridden off to do battle for Thoresby’s new cause.”

Lief nodded, already absorbed in another piece of wood. “I’ll join you later.”

Owen stopped in the kitchen to inform Thoresby’s messenger that he would start out for York on the morrow with his men.

St Clement’s Nunnery was a small claustral establishment compared with St Mary’s Abbey, but the setting was pleasant, nestled among gardens, orchards, meadows, and small arable and pasture closes, separated from the west bank of the Ouse by a common. A Benedictine house, St Clement’s had the customary church and chapter house, cloister, guest house, and even a staithe on the Ouse. The priory’s church was the parish church of the residents of Clementhorpe; beneath its stones were buried not only nuns and their servants, but parishioners, and the nunnery was often remembered in the parishioners’ wills. As prioress, Isobel de Percy strove to instil in the sisters, boarders, and their domestics the importance of the community’s respect. Even the smallest scandal might convince potential benefactors to take their largesse elsewhere.

This present situation distressed the prioress. She was not fool enough to think Joanna Calverley’s story would not spread among the people of York, but hoped in time Joanna’s notoriety would fade. Isobel intended to keep close watch on Joanna from now on.

She had given orders to be notified at once when the party from Beverley arrived. She meant to settle Joanna without fuss and with only the essential people knowing. As soon as word came, Isobel hurried to the gate to escort the company into the priory. She would announce the prodigal’s return at the evening meal; it would cause an unpleasant stir, she had no doubt, but the sisters must be told. She would savour these last few hours of peace. As Sir Richard de Ravenser and Sir Nicholas de Louth took seats in the prioress’s parlour, the sub-prioress and the infirmaress hurried in to help Dame Joanna to the infirmary.

Isobel entertained Louth and Ravenser with the priory’s best cider. Louth graciously praised the cider, the pleasant aspect of the lancet windows that looked out on the orchards stretching down to the river, the fragrant breeze. He told her what he could of Dame Joanna, how they had found her at Will Longford’s, how little they could glean from her responses, her claim that she wore the mantle of the Blessed Virgin Mary, which had allowed her to rise from the dead, and her confession that she had stolen some of the Virgin’s milk from the priory church.

Ravenser presented her with the stolen relic. “Beyond these facts, there is little we can offer you, Reverend Mother. The infirmaress at Nunburton wrote this down for you,” he handed her a letter. “It is everything that she noted about Dame Joanna’s condition when she arrived.”

Dame Isobel liked least the part about the Virgin’s mantle. “Does she speak freely about the mantle? Will anyone tending her be likely to hear this claim?”

Ravenser sipped his cider. “I do not think you can keep her silent on the matter. She does not like anyone touching the mantle. But as it covers her, it is difficult to avoid. At Nunburton she reportedly became quite upset when the infirmaress touched it. With loud voice she did protest. I think it impossible to keep it secret for long.”

Dame Isobel debated whether to excuse herself and go and warn Dame Prudentia, the infirmaress. But her rushing down the hall might call too much attention to the infirmary. She tucked her hands beneath her scapular and paced. “Joanna has ever been a difficult charge. I pray God I am able to cope with this. St Clement’s is so small. Word of her delusion will spread quickly.” She paused, searched their faces as she asked, “It is a delusion?”

Ravenser smiled reassuringly. “We are as certain as we can be, Reverend Mother. The abbess of Nunburton noted that the wool appeared to be Yorkshire wool, and certainly not of an age for it to have been owned by Our Lady. In truth, is it likely that such a thing would be bestowed on this troubled child?”

Although Isobel recognised Ravenser’s attempt to reassure in his smile, she heard uncertainty in his words. “The Lord’s purpose is not always clear to us, Sir Richard.” Still, the Yorkshire wool relieved Isobel. It was a good sign.

And yet – such a relic would bring pilgrims from far and wide, with generous donations to the priory’s empty coffers. Might this be a blessing? Should she consider that? Might the archbishop wish St Clement’s to become a popular pilgrimage site?

But the peace of the priory would be gone for ever. Isobel sighed. “I am to speak with His Grace the Archbishop tomorrow morning,” she said. “I shall ask for his guidance in handling Dame Joanna. It would seem wise to coax her into accepting that she is in error, that the mantle is merely a piece of clothing.”

In the infirmary, Dame Prudentia sat on a stool beside Joanna’s cot wondering what devils made the child so contrary. She studied the young woman’s quiet face, the skin so pale that her freckles stood out starkly, even on her closed eyelids. Prudentia knew Joanna from before, remembered the startling eyes, the brilliant green they could be when the child was at peace – which was not often. She had never seen eyes so changeable as Joanna’s. But then she had such narrow experience, knowing only the thirteen or so sisters typically housed at St Clement’s, their servants and boarders. Perhaps some wise man had already discovered the meaning of such changeable eyes. Would Prudentia understand Joanna better if she knew more about the body and its workings?