Кэндис Робб - The Nun’s Tale

Candace Robb (b. 1950) studied for a PhD in Medieval and Anglo-Saxon literature and has continued to read and research medieval history and literature ever since. Her novels grew out of a fascination with the city of York and the tumultuous fourteenth century. She is published in twelve countries and ten languages.

I thank Lynne Drew for being an insightful editor with inexhaustible patience and a sense of humour; Jeremy Goldberg and Pat Cullum for fielding questions about everyday life in the fourteenth century; Karen Wuthrich for reading the manuscript with a critical eye; Christie Andersen for a delightfully dramatic reading of the galleys; Charlie Robb for taking on a plethora of supporting jobs, including outline doctor and mapmaker; and Jacqui Weberding for navigating the North.

Additional thanks to the talented professionals who smooth the way: Evan Marshall, Patrick Walsh, Victoria Hipps, Rebecca Salt, Clare Allanson and Joe Myers.

bedstraw: a plant of the genus Galium

corody: a pension or allowance provided by a religious house permitting the holder to retire into the house as a boarder; purchased for cash or by a donation of land or property

fulling mill: a mill that cleanses, shrinks and thickens (fulls) cloth by means of water and pestles or stampers

houppelande: men’s attire; a flowing gown, often floor-length and slit up to thigh level to ease walking, but sometimes knee-length; sleeves large and open

Lady Chapel: a chapel dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary, usually situated at the east end of the church

leman: mistress

liberty: an area of the city not subject to royal administration; for example, the Liberty of St Peter is the area surrounding the minster which comes under the archbishop’s jurisdiction

mazer: a large wooden cup

minster: a large church or cathedral; the cathedral of St Peter in York is referred to as York Minster

nones: the fifth of the seven canonical hours, or the ninth hour after sunrise

pandemain: the finest quality white bread, made from flour sifted two or three times

Petercorn: income supporting St Leonard’s hospital, dependent on the harvest (Peter’s corn)

prime: the first of the seven canonical hours, or sunrise

routiers: see Author’s Note

sext: noon

solar: private room on upper level of house

trencher: a thick slice of brown bread a few days old with a slight hollow in the centre, used as a platter

June 1365

Joanna hoisted her pack and trudged through North Bar, entering Beverley as the bells of the great Church of St John rang out. She had been walking since sunrise; the sun was now overhead and the coarse weave of her habit chafed at her clammy skin. The city’s streets curved snakelike along the Beck and Walkerbeck, and as she walked Joanna glimpsed the fast-flowing streams through the houses. She imagined shedding her clothes and sinking into the cool, rushing water as she and her brother Hugh had done as children in the river near their house.

It was a damp, cloying heat. Though this day was sunny and hot, it had been a summer of torrential rains and the dirt streets were waterlogged. Where the sun shone down between the houses, steam rose up, creating a fog that blurred Joanna’s vision. She found the dreamlike effect disorienting. The houses shimmered; lines dipped and spun. She clutched her Mary Magdalene medal and whispered prayers as she walked.

Laughter and the merry sound of singing tempted her as she passed a tavern. She yearned to enter and wash down the road’s dust with strong ale, but she must not call attention to herself in such a way, a nun travelling alone.

Not far past the tavern she spied a churchyard with a shaded well. Surely this was a safe refuge. Joanna slipped through the open gate and set her pack down under a shading oak that thrust a root up through the mud. Glancing round to check that she was unwatched, she shed her veil, her wimple, her gorget, folding them neatly on her pack, then unclasped the Mary Magdalene medal and set it on top. She drew a bucket of cool water, cupped her hands to drink, then splashed her face, head and neck.

A sound made her turn. A boy in tattered clothes held the medal and chain in the air above Joanna’s pack. Joanna shouted. The little thief went running.

Damnable cur! Grabbing up her skirts, Joanna took off after the thief. “Give me the medal, you Devil’s spawn. A curse on your mother and all your kin!” She threw herself at the boy, tackling him to the ground. He kicked her in the face and wriggled out of her grasp, throwing the chain at her as he took off.

Pushing herself up onto her knees, her habit now heavy with mud, Joanna crawled awkwardly over to the silvery treasure. Sweet Heaven, no! She found an empty chain, no medal. Her heart pounding, she crawled round in the mud and weeds, searching for her precious Magdalene medal. Her brother Hugh had given it to her on another journey to Beverley six years before, and Joanna treasured the medal. It was all she had from her beloved brother. And the cur had taken it. Tears of anger and frustration blinded her. She gave herself up to weeping.

“My child, what troubles you?” A priest stood over Joanna, his expression one of curious concern.

Her hand went to her bare head. “ Benedicte , Father.”

“What has happened here, my child?”

“I have been travelling since dawn and your well tempted me. I thought you would not begrudge me water.” She smiled into his kind eyes.

“Of course you are welcome to drink. I see that you wear the habit of a Benedictine. Where are your companions? Surely you do not travel alone.”

Joanna scrambled to her feet. “I strayed from my companions. I must hurry to catch them.” She could not allow him to accompany her or she would be discovered.

He gestured toward her wet, soiled skirt. “Why were you sitting in the mud?”

She glanced down at her habit, dismayed. She tried to brush off the mud, but succeeded only in smearing it. “’Twas nothing, Father. God bless you.” She fumbled for her head coverings.

“Perhaps you should come within to dry off. If you tell me where your companions are headed, I could send someone after them with news of you.”

Joanna picked up her pack. “No need, Father. Thank you for the water. God go with you.” She fled through the gate and on down the street, taking no notice of her surroundings, reprimanding herself for such stupidity. A wall suddenly stopped her, and she stared round, confused. Sweet Jesu, she had lost her way. She fought back tears, weary, frustrated, frightened. The medal was lost, there was nothing to protect her. She breathed deeply, trying to still her panic. She must find her way. She must reach Will Longford’s house before dark.