Then he took Rosalind by the hand and they both went round the corner of the cloisters. That left Lisa and me sitting on the bench. Though it seemed quiet being left with the snarler, I thought, don’t be sorry, Tom. Because even though Jocelyn was schooled and clever this still didn’t feel righteous, while the last thing I wanted was to get into trouble with God when I was trying to get my poor beastie up to heaven. But then it didn’t go like I’d supposed. We sat for a little while side by side, looking out at the cloisters, but then Lisa let out a sigh, picked up the cask of mead and took a great swig. Next she murmured something in French that sounded almost like a curse and she turned to me, put her hands round my neck and gave me such a kiss I swear I feared my eyes might pop. I tried not to answer it but if anything that made her more eager. She got my hand and put it through her gear, so I could feel the softness of her beneath, which had me trembling, and then she was pulling at my hose. Till I thought, perhaps Jocelyn’s right. Perhaps God does think it’s rightful. If he didn’t then why would he make it so very sweet? So I kissed her back and before I knew it we were on the ground just in our unders, lying on her habit and my clothes to keep us off the cold stone, though I hardly noticed the chill, what with her fingers on my thing and mine on hers.
I suppose God was testing me. If he was I hadn’t done very well. And now I had my reward. All of a sudden the quiet was broken and a voice cried out, ‘I won’t do it, d’you hear.’ Lisa and me both stopped still. Now the voice came again. ‘Get your hands off me,’ and then there was a kind of howl. As it was spoken in English I knew it was one of our party and it sounded like Helena, though I found it hard to believe it could be, seeing as I’d hardly heard her speak let alone howl. I wondered who she didn’t want touching her? Was there some monk hidden away in this place? She’ll have woken the whole convent, I thought, which cooled me right down. I tried to roll away from Lisa, though she wasn’t troubled and wouldn’t let go of my fellow. Then I heard a sort of clapping noise, of bare feet running. I looked up and it seemed like I’d been right about the voice after all, as there was Helena, flitting along the far end of the cloisters. Her long black hair was wild around her face and I know it’s foolish but all I could think was, what a dear seemly creature she is.
She stopped and stood shivering, holding her arms round herself against the cold. Don’t look round, I thought. Please, sweet Helena, don’t look round. I heard her mumbling to herself, as if she was going on with her disputation with whoever it had been. Now she seemed like she was wondering if she should go back to where she’d come from and she took a couple of steps. That’s right, I thought, hardly daring to breathe, back you go, as I felt Lisa give my fellow a little squeeze. It might’ve gone well after all except that just then there was a low moan from round the corner, which must’ve been Jocelyn’s Rosalind. Helena stopped and looked over. Don’t ask me why but I tried to smile. For a moment she squinted, trying to see what was what through the gloom, next she stared and then she let out a scream.
That’ll have them all out here, I thought. Lisa and me got into quite a dance. I jumped up, hiding my fellow with my hands, and then I was on one leg, pulling up my hose, while Lisa was trying to get her habit, which she couldn’t because it was caught under my foot, till she tugged it so hard that I was back on the ground again. From round the corner I heard cursing and then breaking glass, which would be the goblet going over. And then there were more footsteps. Here came Mary who had a gleaming face like she’d been crying. At first she only saw Helena but then she followed her stare and her eyes opened wide. By then I’d got my hose on though not my tunic. Lisa scampered off with her habit wrapped round her middle just as Constance and Joan showed themselves. Joan smirked and Constance gave us a black look, especially Jocelyn, who was coming round the corner of the cloisters that very moment, just about dressed though his bare feet told his story. He raised his hands like he was giving up in a fight, and with a funny little laugh he said, ‘It’s not like you think.’ As if that would help? It didn’t persuade the four nuns who turned up next. One wailed and the others laughed. And then, last of all, here came the prioress.
So I found there were worse places than our outhouse after all, as the seven of us tried to find shelter from the drizzle under a hedgerow by the road. Of course Joan made all the foul jokes she could. Constance said not a word but just looked at us like we were a set of filthy dirts. The only ones who didn’t seem disgusted were Mary and Helena, as they were too busy with their own squabbling. Most of it I couldn’t catch as it was French and murmured too, but Mary grew so warm once that she said out loud in English, ‘I beg you, you’ll be safe,’ and Helena answered, ‘I won’t do it, d’you hear?’ Safe from what? I thought. Though mostly I was thinking, I’m sorry, Sammy. I just hope I haven’t ruined your chances of getting to paradise. Or I was thinking, what will my dear angel Dame Lucy think of me now?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Matilda Froome
Once I was foolish and proud and all I thought of was to be the best. If I was playing a game of tables with my brother I had to win, which I usually did, and if I lost I’d be crabbed all day. If I was dancing or singing I had to dance or sing better than any of the other girls. For gowns I had to have the finest, so when I walked through the town I’d turn every head, while I never cared if folk said I was vain and sluttish or showing off my shape. And when I married I had to marry the ablest, handsomest man in all Bishop’s Lynn, which was Roger, or so I thought.
Of course all the while God was shaking his head and getting ready to pull me back down, as was only right. My father lent Roger money to get started as a trader in sheep hides but he soon showed himself an idle fool with no talent for the craft. He thought he was clever buying the cheapest hides to send overseas but he wasn’t clever when they arrived rotten and full of fleas, and his name grew so blemished that hardly a German or Fleming would buy from him again. Nor was he clever at picking ships. He lost a whole bulksworth of pitch and fish when the Holy Ghost went down on her way back from Hamburg. Which Lynn folk laughed at, saying what fool would risk his goods in a leaky old bucket like the Holy Ghost? Even his seemliness didn’t last and within months of our wedding he was eating and drinking himself old.
Never mind, I thought, in my haughty foolishness. Just because you’ve married a dotard doesn’t mean your whole life is spoiled. So I started a business of my own as a brewster. Just you watch, folk of Lynn, I thought. One sip of Matilda Froome’s ale and you’ll know it’s the tastiest in all Norfolk. But God tutted his tongue and pulled me down again. However much I tried, my ale always came out sour. After a few months I gave up brewing and I had to watch as my neighbours smirked at my misfortune.
But the worst way my pride threw me into the dirt was with my own children. When I first fell pregnant I was full of joy. It’ll be a boy, I thought, and he’ll grow up handsome and wise. He’ll be the richest trader in Lynn and everyone will look at me with wonder for being his mother. As things turned out he was a boy and he would grow up handsome enough, and rich too, but I never cared. A few months after he was born the strangest thing befell me. Now it happened that one morning many years before my lifetime, as I heard, the moon passed in front of the sun, hiding its dazzle completely, and for a short while day became night, you could see the stars, and foolish people were filled of fear and wondered if the last days had come. And so it was with me. I swear it was as if the fiend set himself between my mind’s eye and the face of God, so I couldn’t see his wise, loving visage any more. All of a moment everything in the world seemed hateful to me. I slandered my father and mother and brother, I slandered Roger and I even slandered God. As to my baby, he was like nothing to me and seemed only a doll that would give me no peace. Wildness took me and I’d shout and gibber for hours. Finally I had a fancy to murder myself and, having no knife to do it, I ripped at my skin with my fingernails close by my heart so it bled and bled, and I bit my hand so hard that the mark is still there to this day.
But out of this lowest of times came my sweetest joy. After I scratched and bit myself Roger and his servitors bound me with rope, tight so I could hardly move even a finger, and they put me in the warehouse where I couldn’t trouble them with my noise. I’d been there for a few days when one morning, as I waited for Roger and the thralls to come and loosen my ropes, and let me go to the latrine and break my fast like usual, I felt a great peace settle upon me. I heard a beautiful melody and smelt a smell that was sweet like a fine scent, and I saw little white things flying about that I didn’t know what they were. Then a man came in and sat down beside me, young and handsome, and he looked at me with such love that I knew it was You. ‘Don’t fret,’ You said. ‘You’ve done well, Matilda, my poor dear creature. I’m proud of you. You’ve denied my foe, the fiend, who tried to coax you to his side. You’ve shown your righteousness. Now you’ll feel my love, that I promise.’ Then You quietly slipped away.
From that day, in my mind’s eye I’ve been your poor dear creature. Now I see my road, your poor dear creature thought, and I swear your creature laughed out loud at all the foolish pride she’d had till then. When Roger came with the thralls she prevailed on him to unbind her, telling him she was at peace now and wouldn’t gibber or bite herself. Though he almost bound her up again a few days later when she started giving away her fine gowns. Yet that wasn’t because she was demoniac but because she wanted to live plainly, just like You’d told her she should. She’d made a vow, which she spoke out loud many times, ‘From this day onwards all I seek is to show You honour.’
Not that it was easy. As well as being a poor trader, another thing about Roger was that he had no forbearance. When your creature had just been with child and was still stretched and sore from her labour and drained like an empty cup, she’d see him looking at her with his little famished eyes, like he was numbering in his head how much longer he’d have to wait. Sure enough, on the very first night after she’d been churched, and when she finally felt clean in God’s eyes, he’d close the curtains round the bed and creep over so he could dirty her again. Worse, it always seemed to take straight away. Some females waited for years, or never got barnished in their whole lives, but not your poor dear creature. From the birth of her first hardly a month passed without her feeling sick and waddling about with a full belly or getting sudden hungers for things she never wanted usually, like a bowlful of parsley or to chew on a mutton bone. Then there’d be another pair of greedy little lips sucking at her paps, and another set of lungs to fill our small house with noise so it seemed more like a tavern than a home.
And yet, even with all these troubles reining her back, your poor dear creature kept to her vow. She honoured You by wearing a hair shirt, even if it gave the babies rashy legs when they suckled. And when You came to her in her bodily eye as she prayed, and You told her what to do, she did it right away. If You commanded her, ‘My dear creature, come to see me at the church of my beloved Saint Margaret,’ then up she’d get that very moment and go. And if Roger shouted to her, ‘Where d’you think you’re going now, Matilda? What about the children?’ she’d answer in a merry voice, ‘Ostrid can look after them,’ as Ostrid was your creature’s foot maid, whom she paid from her own purse. Or she’d tell him to call his mother to help. And of course the bigger ones could watch over the little ones. And if there was a suckling among them, as there almost always was, your creature would tell him to send for Agnes, or whoever was hiring herself as wet nurse at the time.
Then off your dear creature would go to Saint Margaret’s as she felt like that dear church was her true home. Each Friday she’d wake up in the dark womb of the night like a nun, and she’d go there and kneel at the altar from matins right through to noon, praying to You. And every day she’d go there not once but three times to seek out Friar Alan and make her confession. Even though Friar Alan said she didn’t rightly need to go more than once a week, seeing as she had no new sins to tell him. Because, he said, it was no offence to God if Roger had planted his seed again seeing as we were lawfully married. Nor, Friar Alan said, did your creature need to tell him where Roger had put his hasty little hands, or where he’d kissed her, or about his mouth, which he didn’t keep well so it smelt like pond water. But she told it all to him anyway out of love for You. And she knew it was right because afterwards she’d see You in her bodily eye, smiling at her and giving her your blessing.
After a time your creature realized that it wasn’t enough to please You by living proudlessly and cleansing her own soul. All the world must be made clean for You. So on market days she’d stand beside the town hall and warn people that they must live with You in their hearts. And when Friar Alan said Saint Paul had written that it was against God’s laws for women to preach, she told him that she wasn’t preaching but was only recounting the bliss of your visits to her soul, which he had no answer to. Never mind if it was cold or raining or if a gale was blowing, your creature would go about the town to drive the lost sheep in Bishop’s Lynn back onto the path of righteousness. If she spied a young couple hiding in an alleyway, kissing and touching each other, your creature would call out to them in a gentle voice, ‘Cousins, stop your lustfulness. Not in sweet Jesus’ town.’ If she saw two drunks fighting she’d tell them, ‘Friends, stop your anger, which is displeasing to God’s eyes.’ And if she saw one who had a fat belly and a double chin, she’d tell her, ‘Leticia’ – because one like that was Leticia Stiles, who used to be so sharp at your creature back when your creature was foolish and proud, and which sharpness your creature was glad of now for having set her on the right path, so she longed to help her in return – ‘Leticia, my dear cousin, can’t you see that you’ll be far more lovesome in God’s eyes if you stop your gluttony?’
Some saw the holiness that dwelt in your creature. Old Betty, who lived in a shed near the churchyard, and who some folk said was lunatic though she was wiser in her soul than they were, would smile and curtsey whenever your creature walked by. But most of them, sorry to say, were blinder than moles and they’d tell her, ‘Who do you think you are? The Archbishop of Canterbury?’ They’d call her foul names and jeer when she went by, which was hard to bear. But then You would come to your poor dear creature in her prayers and tell her, ‘Don’t listen to them, Matilda. The devil has covered their eyes so they see not. Remember, my poor dear creature, that the more you’re forsaken the more I feel love for you.’ And your creature’s spirits soared with joy once again.
Now it happened that another thing that drew your creature to Saint Margaret’s was to listen when Friar Alan read out a saint’s life for the day, as she found them beautiful to hear and most of all she loved the female saints of recent times. There was one from Sweden named Truda who, when she was first married, entreated her husband that they should live chastely like a brother and sister, and she got him to give his accord. So she remained pure and undirtied and she spent her days righteously, kissing lepers and going on pilgrimages all across Christendom, and when her husband died, which he did young, poor sweet man, she founded a new order of sisters whom she went to live with, far away from all men. Another from Flanders, whose name was Sipper, had a vision of You on the cross on that terrible day, and afterwards felt your suffering so sharply that she’d often weep and sob at her remembrance.
Imagine your creature’s amazement when, one Friday morning as she knelt at the altar of Saint Margaret’s, doing her vigil, she saw You in a vision, just like Saint Sipper had done. You’d been taken from the cross and were pale and lifeless on the ground as a mob of hateful Jews bayed at you in their strange tongue. Then your creature heard your sweet voice call to her, ‘Don’t be sad, sweet Matilda. Be full of joy. You are so dear to me that I have given you this vision as clear as if you were there yourself, and clearer and nearer even than I gave it to any other saint.’ And your poor dear creature knew it was so.
But these wonders weren’t finished even still. Later that same day when your creature was walking back to Sai
nt Margaret’s to make her second confession of the day to Friar Alan, she recollected the vision she’d had of You, and a sorrow filled her that was so strong that there in the street she broke into loud weeping, just like Saint Sipper did. Thomas Wilson the fishmonger, hearing her, shouted out, ‘What’s wrong, Matilda? Has something happened to one of your poor little babes?’ and she told him, ‘No, far worse. I’m remembering our saviour’s day of torment,’ and, being blind like the rest of them, he didn’t understand and gave her a sour look. From that day on she’d often break into weeping, sometimes once in a week and sometimes many times in a single day, and she might weep for five hours without stopping, which was more than even Saint Sipper had. If she saw a suffering soul, like a dog with a hurt leg or a horse being whipped, her tears would start. And with time her sorrow came to seize her in another way, too, and without any warning a mighty roar would rise up through her and spring out from her mouth, so loud that it made people jump or shriek, especially if they’d never heard her do it before.
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