by Nerys Jones
‘Godiva should never have gone naked through town,’ shouted one of the tavern girls. ‘It were too rude, and she a lady.’
Another girl pushed forward, shaking her fist furiously. ‘She should have defied the king!’ she screamed. ‘Told him to fuck off and stuff his penance up his bald arse. She be a coward and she shamed herself.’
‘Yes,’ shouted several new men’s voices, drunk despite the early hour. ‘Fuck off, king! Fuck yourself, Neddy!’ Then others took up the refrain. ‘Fuck off, priests! Fuck off, monks! Fuck off, Lovric! Shame! Shame! Shame!’
Then someone pointed at Agatha. ‘Away with you, you manor rat,’ he shouted. ‘Out!’
It was the old community war chant against the Vikings and they all took it up now with abandon, heedless of the fact that no one had seen a Viking for decades.
‘Out! Out! Out!’
A boy kicked Agatha on her ankle and a tavern girl spat on her as she fell to the ground. Agatha scrambled to her feet and pushed the girl so violently that she fell back amongst her friends, winded and surprised at the counter-attack.
‘I won’t listen to you no more,’ Agatha screamed, pressing her hands to her ears. ‘Cowards you be, and traitors. Mistress stood up for you at the worst of times, but you can’t stand by her for a short while until she gets better. Plague on you all! I hope you starve to death. You didn’t deserve no help. Mistress should have taken her money and gone away and let the king’s men take all you have for heregeld. You ain’t worth a farthing, none of you. You men be no stronger than lambs’ cocks, and you women be . . .’
‘Enough of that,’ said the tinsmith, stern and conciliatory at the same time. ‘You be a young woman now, Agatha, not a girl, and you must see more than one side of things. Coventry be likely to die. If that happens everyone here will suffer. But you manor folk will never suffer as long as you live. If Godiva goes away, she will take you with her. Even if she dies she will make provision for you in her will and you will go to serve with other noble families. But we are not servants, miss. We are mere tenants. She don’t owe us more than fairness in setting the rent we pay on her property. If the property decays, we must move on. We be free men and women, and we be on our own. That’s all there is to it. You can’t blame folk for worrying about that.’
Agatha looked him up and down, then nodded imperceptibly.
The tinsmith took her arm and turned to face the crowd. ‘She don’t mean no harm,’ he said. ‘She be upset, like we all be upset. Reckon we should go with her to the priory. When she talks to them monks we could add our voices. We ain’t never been heard up there, by the town cross. Who says we follow Agatha to the priory?’
There was a roar of approval, and Agatha, horrified, now realized that as quickly as a leaf turns over in the wind, she had become their heroine. She bit her lip remorsefully, recalling her mother’s admonition: beware the wish that comes true. Her eyes met those of Bertha, who shrugged slightly: things were out of their hands now.
The crowd surged forward up the hill, and once more the chant of ‘Out, Out, Out’ rang forth, menacing, primitive and mean. Agatha, who walked so quickly she left them all behind, stopped to catch her breath and look back. There, following behind her, came her mother and Gwen, surrounded by the town crier and the innkeeper, the tanner and his wife and their son Tom, the cobbler, the crier, the wood-turner, the tavern girls and a gang of drunks, the tinsmith and Mrs Smith, Frith the baker, and the candlestick-maker and his desperate wife. And from the doors of the houses people were pouring out to join this kernel of protestors, all of them now converging on the priory, ready to call for justice from the lords of the Church. Agatha felt a rivulet of cold sweat trickle down her back. For such things they torture you, to find out the names of your fellow ringleaders. Then they would make charges of witchcraft or heresy, which she would never understand well enough to deny, for the talk would all be in Latin, and then they would burn her alive or flay her, or whatever they do to rebels.
A rebel – Godiva had accused her of being one when she objected to the penance. Her mistress, who was so often accused of ignoring things, had found in Agatha’s soul something she herself knew nothing about: mutiny. And it had come to pass, for here she was, the obvious ringleader in a peasants’ revolt.
‘Quiet, all of you!’ she shouted as the crowd milled about her. ‘I promised my mother she could have the first rant against the priory. Who wants to speak after her?’
Most of the hands in the crowd shot up at once. Agatha felt at a loss.
‘Mother first, and then we’ll just have to see,’ she said.
‘First of all,’ Bertha shouted at the priory gate, ‘we are not satisfied with paying tithes and having monks lock us out of their services. Second of all, we are not satisfied with seeing all manner of bad living amidst the priests of this parish and none held to count . . .’
She was wagging her finger as fiercely as ever, but affecting a manner of proper speaking that leached all the usual acid out of her words.
‘Pipe down, Bertha,’ someone shouted. ‘Call a spade a spade or shut up. Them priests be arse-boys, all of them, and get no punishment. But our lady be made to shame herself. We want vengeance.’
‘Vengeance!’ the cry went up, raggedy at first, but soon in unison like a big wave crashing, drawing breath, then crashing back again. ‘Vengeance! Vengeance!’
Agatha panicked, seeing the crowd lathering itself up for a riot. The priory would never open its doors now.
But just then, incredibly, a door swung slowly open. A monk stood before them, holding up a cross.
‘Peace be upon you, brothers and sisters in Christ,’ he said softly.
‘And upon you,’ they answered automatically with one voice as though in church.
Gwen nudged Agatha. ‘That’s the exorcist, Brother Michael.’
Anxiously, Agatha looked round at the faces in the crowd. But none of them seemed to know who Brother Michael was and what he did.
‘Your complaints are well known,’ he said disarmingly. ‘But this is not the place or the manner for discussion of these grievances. One matter, however, can be redressed at once. The girl Agatha, who is she?’
Agatha, terrified, stepped forward.
‘This money is tainted,’ he said, holding up Bret’s coin bag. ‘It cannot be donated to a consecrated house. The prior did wrong in taking it. Keep it, or give it to the poor.’
Agatha reluctantly took back Bret’s bag of money. A murmur of approval passed through the crowd.
‘Now, what else can I do to help you?’ the monk asked them.
Someone shouted out ‘arse-boys’, but the tinsmith took the wind out of his mouth with an elbow jab to his stomach.
‘Agatha has a request,’ he said, pushing her back to the front of the crowd.
‘But I need to speak to you in private,’ Agatha whispered.
The monk signalled the crowd to be silent and asked them to wait patiently while he conferred with her inside the priory. Murmuring and intrigued, the crowd settled down to gossip quietly and wait to see what would happen next.
As soon as the door was shut behind her, Agatha started explaining her mission frantically. But at the first mention of nuns from Evesham, the monk, sighing, stopped her.
‘When Prior Edwin was taken away to the bishop’s court, some of us made a search of his papers. They were full of unopened letters. One was from the Abbess of Evesham, stating that she was in ill health and sending her deputy, Sister Ethelfled, to care for Godiva during the penance. It seems that someone substituted herself while the abbess was unable to intervene. I have a pretty good idea who this might be. Stout? Carries a little whip? I will send monks with you to the manor at once.’
‘Please, will you come too? There be talk of demons.’
‘Yes. I’d better come too and bring our herbalist.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes.’
He disappeared into the interior, leaving Agatha astonished at the new be
nevolence and potency of the priory. This Benedictine reform that she had heard the earl and Godiva talk about was surely a blessed thing if it took away the prior and produced good deeds like this morning’s surprise at St Mary’s.
She looked round and for the first time absorbed the grace of the lines of the priory’s pillars and windows, the peace of the shadowy interior and the familiar sacred scent of incense. This is what Godiva had loved so dearly in her priory. This is what she had sought when she wandered off on that fateful day into Winchester cathedral. This – Agatha sought a word, and virtue came to her mind – this gracious virtue was still there in this and any other church, a possibility shimmering behind the veil that men smeared with their greedy hands. Her eyes wandered towards the painting of the Virgin that Godiva had spent hours contemplating. Agatha had never prayed in church beside her mistress and now she imagined what it had been like to be Godiva, a mere few weeks ago when all was well and she came here often. Perhaps that good life could return. Perhaps she should pray for it, though no one had properly taught her how.
She pretended she was Godiva and went to kneel before the painting. But no words came to her untutored mind other than the opening lines of Ave Maria. The rest she had forgotten over the last few weeks for lack of use. A pang of familiar bitterness passed through her. She felt deprived, as though a secret healing existed, but it was only made available to some, and not to poor young women like herself. She emptied her mind of words and let her eyes dwell on the painting. It didn’t look like a real woman, she thought. The image was stiff and the proportions wrong, but the colours glowed and the face suggested the infinite love of a mother for her infant. If God is love, as the priests preach, then we only ever know Him through our mothers. But not mine, Agatha thought, suddenly tearful. Then it occurred to her: my real mother is Godiva. And she is mother to this priory and to the manor and to the town. And she who had been forbearing, generous, forgiving and caring had been wronged so deeply it had pierced her heart and sickened her to the point of death.
‘Oh God!’ she shouted out aloud at the Christ child in His mother’s arms, ‘I don’t know how to pray. I only know that you should do something. Help us now, or go away forever and let me forget about you.’
For the rest of her life Agatha was to believe that miracles can happen, for what took place next was what she least expected. A noise caused her to turn, thinking that Brother Michael had come back. But there was neither monk, nor herbalist, nor exorcist behind her. Instead, there emerged from the shadows the huge figure of a warrior, looming and threatening, and coming straight at her.
‘Oh, great God help me,’ she whispered.
‘Get up, Agatha, and come with me,’ said the warrior. ‘You have much to tell me, I believe, about my wife.’
Half an hour later Agatha reappeared before the waiting crowd. With her was Brother Michael and Brother David, the herbalist. Clever Agatha, Gwen thought. Good girl. But Agatha had a strange, tight look on her face – not at all like one who knew she had been clever. Something is up, thought Gwen. Dear Mary, let it not be more trouble.
The crowd dispersed in a mood of satisfaction as the monks and the manor women walked silently out of town and towards Cheylesmore. Already one or two residents were out before their doors sweeping up their patch of the lane, and every so often someone called out, ‘God bless’ and ‘Praise be’.
Once they rounded the bend in the lane, Brother Michael stopped and embraced Gwen, saluting her improved health.
‘I never thought I’d see you walk to town again,’ he said.
‘Nor I. As for mistress, I know she thought I’d just go downhill and end up demented.’
‘Has she had madness on her mind, then?’ asked the herbalist.
‘Now you mention it, I think she has.’
‘And she was yearning for a deep, long sleep, almost like death,’ Agatha added. ‘She frightened me when we went swimming a little while ago. She stayed under the water too long and said it was beautiful down there amongst the weeds. Even then I thought she wasn’t quite right, but I thought she was coming down with a cold, no more than that.’
They talked on, about all the events of that summer, and soon the gate to the manor yard appeared before them.
‘Godiva was exhausted and in low spirits, even before the penance,’ said Brother Michael. ‘Afterwards she went into shock.’
‘Don’t you believe in Satan then?’ asked Bertha.
‘Yes, but he is no more busy interfering with mortals than is the Lord. His visits are very rare.’
Charity and Mercy spotted Agatha and the others as soon as they entered the yard.
‘You were right as always, Sister Mary,’ said Charity. ‘They did go for help to the priory.’
‘But, alas, they got it,’ said Mercy blandly.
‘What?’ the nun gasped. ‘Hurry, make this chamber tidy and see that Godiva looks tidy, too. Pull the covers right up to her chin. Take out the chamber pot and rinse it. Get to it!’
The novices flew around the upper part of the manor house, putting everything in order. The nun, meanwhile, quickly hid her book of spells against the Devil, which, though widely used, was not approved by her abbess. She hid her little whip as well.
Moments later a loud banging on the manor-house door announced the presence of Sister Mary’s rivals for authority. She let them wait a while before she slowly descended the stairs with maximum gravitas and dignity.
For several moments everyone sized each other up. Sister Mary noticed that the two brothers from the priory were ordinary monks and that she therefore had superior standing in holy orders. However, she was not in her own precinct, and they were men. She had better be careful. Agatha noticed that Sister Mary had replaced her whip with a cross.
Sister Mary, hoping to take charge of the situation, spoke first. ‘You three,’ she said to Agatha, Bertha and Gwen, ‘get out. Now.’
Bertha opened her mouth, but Agatha nudged her into silence.
Alone with the monks, the nun now called on the novices to stand at either side of her. ‘Well,’ she began, ‘what is the meaning of this intrusion? No authority has informed me of the need for a visitation from the priory.’
‘If exorcism has taken place here, you have acted beyond your station, sister. There is an allegation against you, and we have come to investigate.’
‘Nonsense,’ the nun said confidently. ‘I am perfectly capable of dealing with evil spirits. That is my role in Evesham. Is it not, my daughters?’
‘She casts out spirits, sir,’ said Charity.
‘They go howling away, so it is said,’ added Mercy.
‘But you are not the exorcist at Evesham,’ Brother Michael persisted. ‘His name is Peter of Little Stow. I know him. We studied and trained together in Exeter. Where did you train?’
A lie quickly sprang to her lips, but Sister Mary did not want to give the novices evidence to use against her in future. ‘That is none of your business,’ she replied angrily. ‘It is not right that you come here and challenge me, after all the good work I have done for the poor soul who lies up there, ravaged by the forces of darkness.’
‘Whatever you have done, your abbess did not authorize it. There is a letter from her in the priory. It states that Sister Ethelfled was on her way here from Evesham. Now show us to the sick-bed.’
No one moved. Then Brother Michael pushed the nun and the novices aside and took the stairs two at a time.
Inside the darkened room he could barely make out the figure of a woman, lying under layers of bedding despite the mild summer weather. She was motionless and so pale against the white linen sheets that she seemed drained of blood. The herbalist felt her pulse and temperature. The exorcist opened the shutters, one after the other, and then started to open the windows to let in air.
‘What do you think you are doing?’ Sister Mary fumed. ‘This woman has been in a high fever all night. She must be kept warm.’
‘What did you give her?’ as
ked the herbalist, holding Godiva’s wrist and then letting it drop lifelessly onto the sheets.
‘Feverfew tea, of course. What else?’
‘Yes, what else? She has been unconscious for hours.’
‘Well, of course, I had to sedate her in the night. She was calling on Beelzebub and the Green Man, and Freya, too.’
‘You overdosed her on Set-wall. Valerian. You might have killed her.’
‘And you are lying when you say she called out the names of devils,’ said the exorcist. ‘Those who are genuinely possessed are strong and hearty. She would have thrown your tea in your face and ripped up your book of spells.’
‘What book?’ asked the nun defiantly.
‘That little, well-thumbed thing, on the table over there. I’ve seen it many times before now.’
Sister Mary stared in horror at the table. Someone had removed the cloth that she had flung over the book in haste when the monks arrived. She turned to accuse the novices, but the two girls stood mutely staring at their feet.
‘That has nothing to do with me,’ the nun protested.
‘Rubbish, no one in this room can read apart from you, me and Brother Michael. You can’t read yet, can you, girls?’ he asked the novices. They shook their heads.
‘I’ve heard enough,’ Brother Michael said, pulling back the bedclothes.
In the strong daylight the exorcist could see that Godiva was unkempt. No one had seen to her hair or washed her skin for a while, and the smell of old sweat was growing offensive. He pulled back an eyelid and saw that the inner lid was pale and yellowish, suggesting some reaction by her liver. Her pulse was steady, but weak, and her temperature seemed low. Other than that there was nothing remarkable about her condition. No marks of the Devil, no bestial growling in her throat, nothing at all, just weakness and drowsiness from an excess of the roots of the pink and white flowers that had driven her into unconsciousness.
‘I should examine her body for signs,’ he said, and started to turn her over.
‘No!’ shrieked the nun. ‘That is indecent! I forbid it.’