Only Father Paton’s frown suggested that he was assessing how much the corpse was going to cost the ecclesiastical purse.
Baring their heads, the men took the body up and put it in the cart. With everybody walking beside it, leading their horses, they crossed the bridge to Godstow nunnery.
FOUR
G odstow Abbey with its surrounding grounds and fields was actually a large island formed by curves of the Thames’s upper reaches and tributaries. Although the porter who unbarred its gates to the travelers was a man, as were the groom and ostler who saw to their horses, it was an island ruled by women.
If asked, its twenty-four nuns and their female pensioners would have insisted that it was the Lord God who had called them to abandon the world, but their air of contentment suggested that the Lord’s wish had coincided exactly with their own. Some were widows with money who’d heard God’s call at their husband’s graveside and hurried to answer it at Godstow before they could be married off again. Some were maidens who, glimpsing the husbands selected for them, had been overwhelmed by a sudden vocation for chastity and had taken their dowries with them into the convent instead. Here they could administer a sizable, growing fiefdom efficiently and with a liberal hand—and they could do it without male interference.
The only men over them were Saint Benedict, to whose rule they were subject and who was dead these six hundred and fifty years; the Pope, who was a long way away; the Archbishop of Canterbury, often ditto; and an investigative archdeacon who, because they kept their books and their behavior in scrupulous order, could make no complaint of them.
Oh, and the Bishop of Saint Albans.
So rich was Godstow that it possessed two churches. One, tucked away against the abbey’s western wall, was small and acted as the nuns’ private chapel. The other, much larger, stood on the east, near the road, and had been built to provide a place of worship for the people of the surrounding villages.
In effect, the abbey was a village in itself, in which the holy sisters had their own precincts, and it was to these that the travelers were taken by the porter. A maid carrying a yoke squeaked at the sight of them and then curtsied, spilling some milk from the buckets. The porter’s lantern shone on passageways and courtyards, the sudden, sculptured pillars of a cloister where the shutters of the porter’s windows opened to show white-coiffed heads like pale poppies whispering, “Bishop, the bishop,” along the row.
Rowley Picot, so big, so full of energy and intent, so loudly male, was a cockerel erupting into a placid coop of hens that had been managing happily without him.
They were met by the prioress, still pinning her veil in place, and begged to wait in the chapter house where the abbess would attend them. In the meantime, please to take refreshment. Had the ladies any requirements? And the baby, such a fine little fellow, what might be done for him? The beauty of the chapter house relied on the sweep of unadorned wooden crucks and arches. Candles lit a tiled floor strewn with fresh rushes and were reflected back in the sheen of a long table and chairs. Besides the scent of apple logs in the brazier, there was a smell of sanctity and beeswax— and now, thanks to Ward, the stink of unsavory dog.
Rowley strode the room, irritated by the wait, but, for the first time since the journey began, Adelia fed young Allie in the tranquillity the baby deserved. Its connection with Rosamund Clifford had made her afraid that the abbey would be disorderly, the nuns lax and no better than they should be. She still had bad memories of Saint Radegund’s in Cambridge, the only other religious English sisterhood she’d encountered until now—a troubled place where, eventually, a participant in child killing had been unmasked.
Here at Godstow the atmosphere spoke of safety, tidiness, discipline, everything in its place.
She began to doze, lulled by the soporific mutterings of Father Paton as he chalked the reckonings onto his slate book. “To cheese and ale on the journey ... to provender for the horses ...”
A nudge from Gyltha got her to her feet. A small, very old nun, leaning on an ivory-topped walking stick, had come in. Rowley extended his hand; the nun bent creakily over it to kiss the episcopal ring on his finger. Everybody bowed.
The abbess sat herself at the head of the board, took trouble to lean her stick against her chair, clasped her hands, and listened.
Much of Godstow’s felicity, Adelia realized within minutes, was due to this tiny woman. Mother Edyve had the disinterested calm of elderly people who had seen everything and were now watching it come around for the second time. This young bishop—a stripling compared to her—could not discompose her, though he arrived with a Saracen, two women, a baby, and an unprepossessing dog among his train, telling her that he had found a murdered man outside her gates.
Even the fact that the bishop wished to conceal the corpse in her icehouse was met calmly. “Thus you hope to find the killer?” she asked.
“Killersss, Abbess,” the bishop hissed impatiently. Once again, he went over the evidence found by Dr. Mansur and his assistant.
Adelia thought that Mother Edyve had probably grasped it the first time; she was merely giving herself time to consider. The wrinkly lidded eyes embedded into a face like creased calfskin closed as she listened, her veined hands reflected in the high polish of the table.
Rowley ended with, “We are assured that there are people who wish the young man’s death and name to be broadcast; when there is only silence, they may return to find out why.”
“A trap, then.” It was said without emphasis.
“A trap is necessary to see justice done,” Rowley persisted, “and only you to know about it, Abbess.”
He is asking a great deal of her, Adelia thought. To conceal a body unmourned and unburied is surely against the law and certainly unChristian.
On the other hand, according to what Rowley had told her, this old woman had kept both her convent and her nuns inviolate during thirteen years of civil war, much of it waged in this very area, a feat suggesting that the rules of men, and even God’s, must have been tinkered with somewhere along the line.
Mother Edyve opened her eyes. “I can tell you this, my lord: The bridge is ours. It is our convent’s duty to maintain its structure and its peace and, by extension therefore, to catch those who commit murder on it.”
“You agree, then?” Rowley was taken aback; he’d expected resistance.
“However,” the abbess said, still distantly, as if he hadn’t spoken, “you will need the assistance of my daughter prioress.” Sliding it along her belt from under her scapular, Mother Edyve produced the largest chatelaine Adelia had ever seen; it was a wonder it didn’t weigh her to the floor. Among the massive keys attached to it was a small bell. She rang it.
The prioress who had first greeted them came in. “Yes, Mother?”
Now that she could compare them, Adelia saw that Sister Havis had the same flat face and the same calfskin, though slightly less crinkled, complexion as the abbess. “Daughter prioress,” then, was not a pious euphemism; Edyve had brought her child with her to Godstow when she took the veil.
“Our lord bishop has with him a consignment for our icehouse, Sister Havis. It will be stored there secretly during Lauds.” A key was detached from the great iron ring and handed over. “There shall be no mention of it to any soul until further notice.”
“Yes, Mother.” Sister Havis bowed to her bishop, then to her mother, and left. No surprise. No questions. Godstow’s icehouse, Adelia decided, must have stored more than sides of beef in its time. Treasure? Escapers? Situated as it was between the town of Wallingford, which had held out for Queen Matilda, and Oxford Castle, where King Stephen’s flag had flown, there might well have been a need to hide both.
Allie was wriggling, and Gyltha, who was holding her, looked interrogatively at Adelia and then at the floor.
Adelia nodded, clean enough. Allie was put down to crawl, an exercise she was refusing to perform, preferring to hitch herself along on her backside. Wearily, the dog Ward disposed himse
lf so that his ears could be pulled.
Rowley wasn’t even thanking the abbess for her cooperation; he had moved on to a matter more important to him. “And now, madam, what of Rosamund Clifford?”
“Yes, the Lady Rosamund.” It was spoken as distantly as ever, but Mother Edyve’s hands tightened slightly. “They are saying it was the queen poisoned her.”
“I was afraid they would.”
“And I am afraid it may precipitate war.”
There was a silence. Abbess and bishop were in accord now, as if they shared a foul secret. Once again, trampling horsemen milled around the memories of those who had known civil war, emitting to Adelia a turbulence so strong that she wanted to pick up her baby. Instead, she kept an eye on her in case the child made for the brazier.
“Has her corpse arrived?” Rowley asked abruptly.
“No.”
“I thought it had been arranged; it was to be carried here for burial.” He was accusatory, the abbess’s fault. Whereas, thought Adelia, any other bishop would have commended a convent that refused to inter a notorious woman in its ground.
Mother Edyve looked down the side of her chair. Allie was trying to pull herself up by one of its legs. Adelia rose to go and remove her but the abbess held her back with an admonishing finger, then, without a change of expression, took the little bell from her chatelaine and passed it down.
You know babies, Adelia thought, comforted.
“Our foundation is indebted to the Lady Rosamund for many past kindnesses.” Mother Edyve’s voice tweeted like a distant bird. “We owe her body burial and all the services for her soul. It was arranged, yet her housekeeper, Dakers, refuses to release the corpse to us.”
“Why not?”
“I cannot say, but without her consent, it is difficult to amend the situation.”
“In the name of God, why not?”
Something, and it might have been a gleam of amusement, disturbed the immobility of the abbess’s face for half a second. From the floor by her chair came a tinkling as Allie investigated her new toy. “I believe you visited Wormhold Tower during the lady’s illness, my lord?”
“You know I did. Your prioress ... Sister Havis fetched me from Oxford to do so.”
“And both of you were led through the labyrinth surrounding the tower?”
“Some crackbrained female met us at the entrance to it, yes.” Rowley’s fingers tapped on the table; he hadn’t sat down since entering the room.
“Dame Dakers.” Again, the suggestion of amusement like the merest breath on a pond. “I understand she will admit nobody since her mistress died. She adored her. My lord, I fear without she guides you through the labyrinth, there is no way of gaining the tower.”
“I’ll gain it. By God, I’ll gain it. No body shall remain unburied whilst I am bishop here ...” He stopped, and then he laughed; he’d brought one through the gates with him.
It is his saving grace, Adelia thought as she melted and smiled with him, to see the incongruity of things. She watched him apologize to the abbess for his manner and thank her for her amiability—until she saw that the nun’s pale old eyes had turned and were watching her watching him.
The abbess returned to the subject. “Dame Dakers’s attachment to her mistress was”—the adjective was carefully considered—“formidable. The unfortunate servant responsible for bringing in the fatal mushrooms has fled from the tower in fear of her life and has sought sanctuary with us.”
“She’s here? Good. I want to question her.” He corrected himself. “With your permission, madam, I should like to question her.”
The abbess inclined her head.
“And if I may trespass on your kindness a little more,” Rowley went on, “I would leave some of my party here while Dr. Mansur and his assistant accompany me to Wormhold Tower and see what may be done. As I say, the good doctor here has investigative abilities that can enable us ...”
Not yet. Not today. For God’s sake, Rowley, we’ve traveled hard.
Adelia coughed and caught Gyltha’s eye. Gyltha nudged Mansur, who stood next to her. Mansur looked round at them both, then spoke in English and for the first time. “Your doctor advise rest first.” He added, “My lord.”
“Rest be damned,” Rowley said, but he looked toward Adelia, who must go with him when he went, or why was she here?
She shook her head. We need rest, Rowley. You need it.
The abbess’s eyes had followed the exchange and, if it had told her nothing else, though it probably had, she’d learned enough to know the matter was settled. “When you have disposed of the unfortunate gentleman’s body, Sister Havis will see to your accommodation,” she said.
It was still very dark and very cold. The nuns were chanting Lauds in their chapel, and every-body else with a duty to do was performing it within the complex of buildings, out of sight of the main gates, where a covered carriage containing a dead man had been left just inside them.
Walt and the men-at-arms were guarding it. They stood, stamping and slapping their arms to keep warm, stolidly ignoring the inquisition of the convent porter, who was leaning out of a bottom window in the gatehouse. Sister Havis told him sharply to withdraw his head, close the shutters, and mind his own business. “Keep thy silence, Fitchet.”
“Don’t I?” Fitchet was aggrieved. “Don’t I always keep it?” The shutters slammed.
“He does,” Sister Havis said. “Mostly.” Holding the lantern high, she stalked ahead of them through the snow.
Walt led the horses after her, the bishop, Oswald, and Aelwyn marching beside him, with Adelia and Mansur above them on the cart’s driving seat.
Rowley, aware now that he had tired her, would have left Adelia in the room that had been prepared for her and Gyltha and the baby in the guesthouse, but this dead young man was her responsibility. However good the reason, his body was being treated disgracefully at her behest; she must accord it what respect she could.
They were following the wall that ringed the convent’s extensive buildings and gardens to where it ran into the woods in which, on the other side, lay the dead man’s dead horse.
The rush of water that they’d heard from on the bridge became loud; they were close to the river, either the Thames itself or a fast stream running into it that gushed up even colder air. The noise became tremendous.
Mansur pointed; he and Adelia were seated high enough on the cart to see over the wall and, when trees allowed, across the water itself. There was their bridge and, on its far side, a water mill.
The Arab was saying something—she couldn’t hear him—perhaps that the mill had been in darkness when they’d stood on the bridge so that they hadn’t noticed it. Now light came through tiny windows set in its tower, and its great wheel was being turned by the race.
They’d pulled up. Sister Havis had stopped at a large stone hut built flush with the wall on this side and was unlocking its door.
The nun’s lantern showed the inside of the hut to be empty apart from a ladder and a few tools. The floor was slabbed with stone, but most of its space was taken up by a great curve of iron set with handles, like the lid of an immense pot.
Sister Havis stood back. “It will need two to lift it.” She had the same emotionless voice as her mother.
Aelwyn and Oswald exerted themselves to raise the lid, displaying the blackness of a hole and releasing a chill that was palpable even in the air of the hut, and with it a smell of straw and frozen meat.
The bishop had taken the lantern from the prioress and was down on his knees by the side of the hole. “Who built this?”
“We do not know, my lord. We discovered it and maintain it. Mother Abbess believes it was here long before our foundation.”
“The Romans, I wonder?” Rowley was intrigued. The ladder was carried over and put in place so that he could descend. His voice came up with an echo, still asking questions, Sister Havis answering them with detachment.
Yes, its position so far from the convent butc
hery was inconvenient, but presumably its builders had placed it here to be close to a part of the river that was embanked so that the chamber would suffer no erosion while yet benefiting from the cooling proximity of running water.
Yes, the convent still pickled and salted most of its animals after the Michaelmas slaughter, since even Godstow could not provide feed for them all during the winter, but freezing some carcasses enabled its people to have occasional fresh meat into the spring, or later.
Yes, of course, the mill pond over the way needed a very cold winter to turn to ice, but all winters were cold these days and the last freeze had been exceptional, providing them with sufficient frozen blocks to last until summer. Yes, his lordship would see a drain that took away any melted water.
“Marvelous.”
Adelia coughed with intent. Rowley’s head appeared. “What?”
“The obsequies, my lord.” “Oh, of course.”
The body was lain on the slabs.
Rigor mortis had passed off, Adelia was interested to see, but that would be from the comparative warmth provided by the wrapping of straw and the shelter of the cart; down in that freezing hole, it would return.
The sure, strong voice of the Bishop of Saint Albans filled the hut. “Domine, Iesu Christe, Rex gloriae ... Free the souls of all faithful departed from infernal punishment and the deep pit ... nor let them fall into darkness, but may the sign-bearer Saint Michael lead them into the holy light which you promised ...”
Adelia silently added her own requiem prayer: And may those who love you forgive me for what we do.
She went down the pit ahead of the body, joining Oswald and the bishop. A dreadful place, like the inside of an enormous brick egg insulated throughout by thick, netted straw over which more netting held the ice blocks. On their hooks, butchered sides of beef, lamb, venison, and pig, whitened by frost, hung so close together that she could not pass through without brushing her shoulders against them.
She found a space and straightened, to have her cap caught in the talons of game birds hanging from their own gallows.
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